The Riddler's Gift: First Tale of the Lifesong (The Tale of the Lifesong)

by Greg Hamerton

  Anger burst through her petrified stupor, and she lunged for Zarost, her hands claws. He caught her by the wrists.

  “The people must be saved!” he said.

  The echo of her own words rang with truth. The accusation brought her to an abrupt halt. Her terror had kept her from her task. It was not easy to admit that Zarost was right, but as she found the clarity of her Ring again, it became clear that he was. She had been paralysed by fear. The battle against the Darkmaster had left her drained, vulnerable. The panic of the crowd had infected her.

  She swung her lyre around from her back on its strap. The second stanza, the song of death. She turned to the sky.

  The moment she sang her first note, three Morgloth swerved to converge on their company. The Swords were close to the edge of the crowd, the panicked people fought to stay within their weak defence. Tabitha raised her voice to its limit to even hear herself above the roaring, wailing noise of the crowd.

  A Sword screamed as another Morgloth struck. Tabitha sang, and her throat burned with the strain. Her eyes stung with sudden tears. She couldn’t hear the notes she plucked, but she could feel them as her awareness widened, and the power of the Lifesong flooded her. More glossy wings veered to find her sound, and struck at the edge of the mass of people, aiming inwards. The wailing of the crowd became a piercing howl, as the Morgloth focused their attack.

  Not the wailing of the crowd. She recognised the sound even as she sang—the Shiver note. The few Swords she could see had whistles between their lips, and they blew wild, shrieking notes. Yzell had made his instruments well, and at last the men had remembered them. Those Morgloth close enough to the Swords, crashed to the ground, momentarily stunned.

  Tabitha reached deeper into the Lifesong, drawing the ancient power through the channel of her awareness. The clear essence swirled through the crowd, disturbed and restless, as her will gathered within it.

  Garyll fought like a wild man, his sword holding the Shiver note in a continual howl, broken by regular impacts. His men survived, but as soon as one Morgloth was downed, two appeared in its place, drawn ever faster by Tabitha’s song. The crippled Morgloth rose as soon as the whistlers drew breath. Tabitha realised that even Garyll’s possessed fighting was not going to be enough. The ragged ring of Swords surrounding her would not stand against the assault for much longer.

  She tried to hold all of the Morgloth in mind as she brought the stanza of death to a close. Her throat was raw, and her notes strained to find their mark. The clear essence shimmered through the air, wrapped itself around her targets. As her voice broke on the final note, she knew she had not reached them all, but it was the best she could do.

  The power of the Lifesong was released through the clear essence. Forty Morgloth screeched. Their black bodies imploded, collapsing as if crushed in a mighty hand. In an instant, they became the raw substance of the universe. Flesh and life was transformed to clear essence. The wizard of Eyri had pronounced their doom.

  Tabitha had only a heartbeat to consider her spell’s effect, and wonder at the power which had flowed through her.

  “Another one!” shouted a Sword, to her right. A giant beast shadowed the sky, an ugly brute who was bigger than any demons they had faced. Hunger, power and a terrible kind of awareness radiated from the dread eyes above the massive jaw. The wind shrieked over glossy skin as it swooped upon the company. The Swords braced themselves, and drew breath for their whistles. Garyll swung his sword, a weary circle, barely bringing the Shiver note from the blade.

  But the giant Morgloth did not strike as the others had. It shot over their heads, brushing them only with the wind of its passing. It landed heavily in a clear space beyond the company, a tower of feral strength, poised beyond the range of attack. There was a calculating look to its eye. On its back, a figure clung, in the tattered remains of a blood-coloured robe. The figure’s head was obscured by the mass of the giant Morgloth’s neck.

  Another Morgloth dived from the sky.

  It swept over the company as well, and took a place beside the giant Morgloth, facing them. It gave a quick turn of its head to one side, as if it sought confirmation from the bigger leader.

  Another Morgloth swooped to the ground, then another. They landed rapidly, and more came to encircle the crowd. The company had thinned, but not because any citizens had run; the dead lay strewn like boulders around the failing pool of humanity. A terrible fatalism settled on Tabitha’s shoulders. There were nearly twenty Morgloth, all told. All stood beyond the immediate range of the Swords and their whistles. Tabitha did not waste her voice, she knew there was no time to complete the full death-stanza again, and her throat burned too painfully to trust it.

  They faced their end.

  “Are we tired of dying yet?” a voice shouted across the distance.

  It was a mocking familiar voice. The speaker leered from behind the Morgloth’s neck. The burned scalp and cruel face was unmistakable.

  Kirjath Arkell. He appeared to be badly wasted.

  “Send me the girl. I want the thief of the Ring to die first.”

  “Arkell!” shouted Garyll. “You’ll pass through my sword first.”

  “I’m not Arkell any more.”

  The circle of Morgloth flapped their wings in unison, ducking and weaving their ghastly heads. A sharp screech from the giant leader brought instant order again. The deep, black eyes watched the prey.

  “Then who are you?” Garyll shouted.

  “I am the Gatekeeper! I shall live forever!”

  The Morgloth screeched then, a horrific, tearing sound. Kirjath stared blankly from the Morgloth’s back.

  “Creator save us!” whispered Zarost, suddenly close to Tabitha again. “I think they’re trying to laugh. He’s an open gateway.”

  “What do you mean?” Tabitha asked, her eyes never leaving the giant Morgloth and its passenger.

  “Arkell is their gatekeeper. Unless he is killed, it shall remain open, and there will be no end to their feeding. And I think he has lost his mind. They control him.”

  Garyll broke from the tight rank of Swords, running for the beast.

  “Garyll! That’s suicide!” she cried out.

  Tabitha caught movement on the far side of Kirjath and the giant Morgloth. A tattered, dirty-red robe. A woman with close-cropped hair. A dagger glinted in her hand. She approached Kirjath from his blind side, but she was not going to reach him in time. Already the Morgloths to either side of the giant had caught the movement, and were turning to face the threat.

  The dagger needed just a moment to reach Arkell. The woman wore a white orb, and Tabitha knew suddenly who it was. Hosanna, the Gifter who had suffered so grossly under Arkell’s hand. She was sure the blade would find its mark, if given the chance.

  Tabitha sang out, and ran for the Morgloth. The Shiver took effect, and for a few moments, the great Morgloth and its companions were immobile.

  The tender parts in her throat exploded in pain. Her vocal cords were already raw and pushed beyond their limit from singing above the roar of the crowd. Her note wavered into something between a screech and a shriek. The giant Morgloth crouched.

  Garyll reached the giant, but it blocked his advance. He struck once, twice, and then Tabitha’s voice broke completely. She could taste blood in her mouth. She could make no sound. Garyll was raked clear by one huge talon. He flew through the air. The Morgloth reared, huge and hideous before Tabitha.

  Through its legs, Tabitha saw the woman backing away. There was blood on her hands. Then Kirjath fell from the back of the giant Morgloth.

  He tumbled on the stone, then sprang at Hosanna like a spider. Instead of retreating, Hosanna met his charge with her dagger raised. Arkell doubled over, but his body-weight took her down. They wrestled desperately on the ground, then Hosanna’s blade flashed wetly behind his back. She struck, once, twice, then twisted the handle hard.

  Kirjath flailed his arms, then clawed at her face, but still she held him in the fatal embrace
. Hosanna jerked the knife one last time. Arkell’s head dropped. When she rolled his body away, he dropped to the stone, as slack as a bag of sand. He was dead.

  The howl that issued from the giant Morgloth was deafening. It launched straight upwards. A lesser Morgloth took to the air with a screech, abandoning the crowds with a frantic flutter of wings. All around the street, Morgloth screeched, and lurched into the air. They wheeled, and flew east.

  “They must go back through their closing gateway, or die,” said Zarost.

  The Morgloth were leaving. It seemed that they might be spared their death. But in a terrible moment, Tabitha felt a returning presence. The sky became the black wings of the giant Morgloth, its talons outstretched, its intent clear. Garyll cried out a warning, but he was too far away to save her. The giant Morgloth would kill one last time before it left this world, she knew. There was no time to run.

  She spread her arms wide, took a last breath of everything. Her eyes met Garyll’s, across the space, across the last moment, across the divide between life and death. He ran with his sword raised, but he would be too late.

  “The oath be damned!” someone cursed nearby, and a hand touched the back of her neck.

  The giant Morgloth fell upon Tabitha. His huge form enveloped her, his roared fury crushed her. The pain was absolute. Stormhaven ended in a sudden flash.

  She must have died in that moment, for a terrible force wrenched her apart, as if she had been stretched in an instant to cover the whole universe.

  “Infinity,” someone whispered.

  * * *

  It was strangely painless, to be dead. It was mostly dark, and full of stars. She lost all sense of who she was. There was no up, nor down, no breathing, no being, only the flickering currents of the Lifesong, which ran through all of her. There was no Tabitha Serannon, only clear essence.

  47. A WIZARD’S END

  “Death does strange things to people.”—Zarost

  The world turned fast around Garyll Glavenor, where he knelt on the slick stone. His eyes were filled with the sweat and blood of battle, and yet he saw the same scene clearly, over and over again. The giant Morgloth dived on Tabitha. Its wings enveloped both her and the bald young man who tried in vain to pull her away. Garyll screamed his rage at the beast as he jumped astride its back and struck Felltang deep into the glossy neck. The giant only tossed its head back to give a chilling screech. The suddenness of its launch threw Garyll from its back.

  Then he watched the beast lurch away through the air, carrying its final prize. A coloured cloak flapped in its talons. The bald man had worn that. The thickness of the Morgloth’s curled legs hid the rest of its prey.

  It had taken them both. The force of its strike left cracked flagstones where they had stood. Tabitha’s lyre lay abandoned on the stone—there was nothing else. She had been so close he could almost have kissed her outstretched arms. The Morgloth had not even left him the body to mourn. Tabitha Serannon was gone.

  It was ended. The scattering people in the forecourt were a blur, a noisome rush of yammering wounded folk and twittering survivors.

  Some time later, carts came to bear the dead away. He ignored the hands which shook his shoulders. The death-wains could find him later. His eyes smarted as he saw the giant Morgloth dive down again.

  Wetness coursed down his cheeks. Sweat and blood, he told himself. A distant group of fool heralds trumpeted the victory call. They were wrong; it was utter, crushing defeat. The Dark may have been ended, the Morgloth might have fled, the King might live to continue his rule, but Eyri had lost Tabitha Serannon.

  All of his sacrifice had been in vain. He should have just defied the Darkmaster, and died in the torture chambers in Ravenscroft.

  Tabitha. Sweet Tabitha. She had done things with the essence he had never thought possible. She had saved him from killing his own King. She had sung like Ethea, and worked true magic upon the Morgloth. She was a wonder.

  She was dead.

  It must end. He had made the pact. First the Darkmaster’s death, then his own. His betrayal was too deep to be forgiven. While the Morgloth threatened Tabitha, there had been reason to postpone the moment of judgement.

  Now there was nothing, save that he felt it would be fitting if he died at night. The sun oozed towards the western horizon. The stained blades of his battle-gauntlet held a dark red. He wondered if his own blood would stain them darker. If the slash was deep enough through his throat, he wouldn’t have to see.

  * * *

  Everything was made of threads. Darkness woven through short strands of light. Light wrapped around darkness. No, not threads, rather strings of vibration, places of music, or songs without words. Or a liquid, like clear essence, yet taking many forms wherever the currents converged. If this was Death, it was an impossible dimension. She was stretched across the firmament. The legends of the Passage of the Soul were all wrong; nothing could have prepared her for this. To be nowhere, yet everything. To be made of nothing, yet be all the essence of the Universe.

  More than anything, she felt wide, immense beyond her greatest fantasies of freedom. It was weird to have no boundary, in any direction. Direction didn’t even exist here. She drifted with the currents between the stars, going neither fast, nor slow. She was in a great place of silence, and yet there was sound, if she thought of listening.

  “T-a-b-i-t-h-a.”

  A song, or a single voice, or a hundred; she struggled to identify the source. There were stars, millions of stars, and even more space between them, yet she could see them all. She knew them all.

  “T-a-b-i-t-h-a.”

  The voice came from all over her, within her, or without.

  “Where am I?” she tried to ask, yet had no voice to speak with.

  “Everywhere,” came the answer, resonant, as much a part of the stars as she was.

  “Zarost!” she thought, recognising his presence, but not seeing his body anywhere.

  “At last, you find your wit,” came the answer.

  “Where are you?”

  “Everywhere.” Another voice, the same voice, at the same time, but from another place. “This is infinity.” Zarost was all around her. “Now you must learn how to get back.”

  “I’m not dead?”

  “No,” Zarost answered, with the impossible laughter which spread like ripples on a pond, around her, within her. “I hope not, or I’ve broken my oath to the Gyre for nothing.”

  “But where? What happened?”

  “There will be time, when your skill has grown enough, to learn of the Transference. For now, think of where you wish to be. I cannot guide you to a place you cannot hold in mind.”

  A place. Stormhaven. She felt herself surge through the dimension of bewilderment which she had become.

  “Is it—over?”

  “It is never over, for a wizard. No, it has just begun.”

  “The Morgloth—?”

  “You did well, Wizard Serannon. They have left, and the sun shines again in Eyri. But in one place, there is enough darkness to drown in.”

  “Where is it so dark?”

  “A man grieves for your death more than he needs to.”

  Garyll.

  “Find him in your mind, if you wish to save him. See the place clearly, and you shall return there.”

  His presence faded, as if he had been pulled away by something.

  Then she was alone amongst the stars, and it felt like she was falling.

  * * *

  Twardy Zarost found his own destination in the crossing-point of infinity. He wished he didn’t have to visit the Chambers of the Gyre, but the wizards needed him, and he needed the wizards. The Writhe was still bearing down on Eyri, he suspected. They had said seven days, and six had passed. It must be drawing close; they would have little time to devise a counter-spell, but Zarost had not been idle since the meeting. He had a plan, something to feed to the worm which it would not like to eat, no, not at all.

  He anticipated his empty pla
ce on the stonewood bench. All seven wizards would notice him at once, seated as they would be around the pool in their centre. He released his intent gently to arrive as slowly as he could manage, but he appeared with a jolt which made the Cosmologer jump nonetheless.

  The atmosphere within the chambers of the Gyre was as welcoming as ever, which was to say, not at all. An unsavoury smell filled the air, an almost acrid odour of something unwashed, something like old bacon. Yes, like a lightning-struck boar. They had been using too much magic, the ozone scent of burned auric essence lingered around all of them.

  “You’re too late!” the Cosmologer accused from her place opposite him. “Too late, too late, too late!” She looked frightful, her skin had an unhealthy pallor to it and blue veins showed at her temples. Her hair looked as dead as the summer sedge-grasses of Rostkaan. Zarost hurriedly took them all in. The Warlock glared at him with bloodshot eyes. The Mentalist’s hair, usually a radiant shock, lay down upon his shoulders in clumps. The Senior looked beyond the time of his own death—he sat with his head down, his back hunched, clutching onto a staff set between his knees as if that were the only thing preventing him from falling. He wore the sensitive magesilk vestment of old Moral kingdom, a garment which altered colour to reflect the vitality of its bearer. It clung to him like a shroud, almost as transparent as it would be if it were merely hanging over a chair. The greying Spiritist had a haunted look about her too; she didn’t see him, she saw something else. And the Lorewarden! The Lorewarden was comatose, his head thrown back against a pillar, his jaw slack. The Mystery watched him with a steady gaze, but her presence was no more than a thin shimmer around her and she was shaking with small erratic jerks, an affliction which Zarost recognised as extreme fatigue.

  “My time was well spent in Eyri,” he answered the Cosmologer’s initial challenge.

  “You believe your time more valuable than ours?” she snapped.

  Zarost turned away from her to address the Warlock. “The Seeker was in the centre of a war.”

  The Warlock kept on glaring at him, his eyebrows forming a threatening V. “She should have stood or fallen with what she had learned,” the Warlock replied at last. “A battle was no reason to linger. We needed you here, Riddler, and you knew it. You have been a fool.”