by Danie Ware
Behind it, others were moving. They came close, began to spread out. Jayr stood like a tower. Penya lay like death.
And the Kas hungered.
Unassailable, Jayr snorted at them. “I’m not afraid of you. Whatever you are. Get any closer, you’ll lose an eye.”
“Ah, little warrior.” The creature leaning over Ress crouched down and touched Penya where she lay, its smile merciless. “You can’t threaten what you don’t understand.” Around it, they closed in tighter, their hunger smothering all light. “We need the time – we’re almost free!”
“The time comes again.”
“Every desire sated – we’ve been promised!”
Ress watched as Penya shrivelled, aged, and was dust.
He shuddered in horror, wrapped his hands over his mouth.
Then there was another creature somehow behind them. Its bone-thin hands closed on his shoulders. Hands were reaching for Jayr too, greedy and clawing – the creatures were everywhere, draining the strength right out of their skin.
No time.
Ress felt his bones shrivel, felt his skin dry and crack, felt his hair thin and wisp away.
And the creature’s voice was soft, sensual, on the creasing skin of his face. “Our time comes at last, little man. Samiel no longer cares, the Gods have forgotten us. No more exile, no more starvation. We will be free.
“And then we will rage across the sky.”
9: ANSWERS
FHAVEON
The streets of the Lord city fell downwards into desolation.
In many places the roadways stood empty, bereft of life and hope, torn to devastation by the stone creatures that had ripped from the walls, and by the fighting that had come in the wake of Phylos’s rise to power. Garbage blew though empty marketplaces; the fountains stood silent, their water fouled, the crystal trees dark, their branches broken.
At the city’s outermost limits, Death was looting the corpses.
Uncaring of his surroundings, the figure of Death was smaller than you might have expected, and lacking the traditional cadaver beneath his black wool cloak. He had no scythe – instead, he bore a single terhnwood blade that glistened at its edge.
It seemed though, the Grim Reaper’s luck had upped and done a runner.
“Chrissakes, the vultures’ve been through here. These guys’re picked cleaner than a Saturday night pisshead.”
“Then perhaps we should leave?”
Death had a companion. A tall man, austere, clad head to foot in peculiar black garb with a hood over his head and his face covered. His voice held an odd thrum of subdued power, like the strings of an instrument.
The smaller figure cackled. “Yeah, right. Like we don’t know what’s waitin’ for us – we’ve seen it already.” He moved onto the next fallen corpse, this one a woman, her throat slit and gaping and crusted, her skin bloated and pale.
“We need numbers, deployment.” The thrum grew louder, a hint of annoyance. “You can line your pouches another time.”
“Sure as fuck can’t line ’em out here.” The woman’s belt was empty: anything she’d been carrying had long gone. Besides, something had been eating her and she was starting to really stink. “Okay, okay, we’re outta here – though I gotta question before we go.” Under the cowl, Death’s eyes and teeth were black as nightmare. “If I’m Death, now, then which one’re you? You ain’t exactly Famine and you sure as shit ain’t War – reckon you’re Pestilence’s little brother, Annoying Personal Itch.”
The cloaked figure turned back to the empty roadway, his grin unholy. “Okay, let’s get this over with.”
Carefully, they moved onwards though the lower streets of the broken city.
Down here, the roads were dark. There were no rocklights remaining, and the moons didn’t penetrate the rough patchwork of roofs. Leaving the Bard at ground level, Ecko went carefully up the side of a building and began to run the rooftops, his cloak moving with him, though sodden with rainwater and heavier than the one he’d lost.
Heavier, his mottled ass – the damn thing was clumsy as a drunken teen, but it wasn’t like he’d gotten a choice.
Up here, the moons made his progress awkward – their cross-hatching meant that no side of a roof was completely in shadow – but hell, this shit was like being at home. There were chimneys to crouch beside, flat roofs to race along, sloping tiles to make him slip, narrow gaps over alleyways that must be leapt. There were occasional flashes of native wildlife; crumbling walls that powdered under his feet; unexpected washing lines, now empty, that nearly took his head clean off like some cartoon piano wire…
But he saw the second one – thank fuck! – and ran low and fast, keeping one eye on the faint blur of ground-level warmth that was the Bard.
Bastard had insulated clothing. He was difficult to see – and Ecko knew full well he was getting a kick out of it.
Shithead.
Hell, since when had Ecko ever had to do a stealth run in fucking company for chrissakes?
Frankly, he was more than tempted to piss off and leave the Bard behind – insulated clothing or no – but he remembered about his freedom of choice and all that “friends” shit and he held himself back, skittering low across another roof.
As he came to its far side, he found an empty plaza and a now-abandoned barricade, a place where some sorta showdown must’ve taken place. Scanning, Ecko had a peculiar frisson, realised something that was needling him…
When they’d come through Fhaveon, the battle-torn streets of the city had been scattered with people. Less than he’d expected, true, but they’d been there like he could tick the boxes – the homeless, bereft, lost, injured, aggressive… A population dispossessed and looking for answers, food and opportunity.
Now, the streets were empty; there was almost no one left.
He had a nasty fucking feeling the stuff he’d told Rhan was truer than he’d realised.
* * *
Amethea stood upon the dusty remnant of an elaborate mosaic, craning her neck to see the wonders that arched over her.
Behind her, great double doors stood open, letting in the breathing winter cold. Debris was scattered under a huge doorway, carven into an elaborate and abstract design. Ahead of her, the rising building was exquisite, wrought with detail – it had might to reave her of both words and motion. She was here bearing messages, but she’d stopped as if she had no courage to go further.
Her breath rose in a soft grey coil, her soul escaping for a closer look.
This was the Great Cathedral of Fhaveon, Samiel’s heart upon the world, his eyes and love. Once, as a lowly ’prentice, she’d dreamed of coming here.
Now, she came as it was dying.
The thought made her shiver, rubbing her arms. Despite the echoing beauty, the place felt empty, cold with more than the wind from outside. And she had the oddest sensation of fatality – as if she was also here looking for something.
Answers? Direction? The manifest presence of the Gods?
Her own faith had been shredded by Maugrim – she remembered each word like a cut: You’re no saint, little priestess. In your heart you’re just like I am…
She snorted, striving to drive the memory back, but the open doorway seemed to pull both thought and sound inward and swallow them whole – so she followed, out into the great building ahead of her.
A blaze of stained windows and a huge dome of decorated roof – all the colours and dances of the Gods.
Forgiveness?
In the Great Cathedral of Fhaveon, the mosaic floor was worn into grooves, the damage of generations. About the angled walls, silent statues stood faceless. Rising over them, the huge coloured glass of the windows scattered the sunset light like gemstones, tumbling over the floor.
Ten walls, ten angles, ten statues, ten windows. Ten equal sides like the days of the halfcycle, and all of them rising into a single rocklight that hung at the dome’s apex, a pattern carved into its surface like Kartian scarring. It splashed walls and
floor with a soft mottle.
Absolution?
She rubbed her cricked shoulders with a rueful hand. If there had been seats for the faithful, they’d long gone now, weapons or firewood. The central dais was unoccupied, bereft of promise or leadership. Dust drifted from where she’d walked. The statue nearest to her seemed to be nothing but voluminous cloak; above it, the tenth window – or the first one – was blank. This was the window that faced north, and it glittered in myriad shades of yellow and grey.
For no reason, her chillflesh prickled again.
Saint and Goddess, stop it!
She could still hear the after-echoes of the dying city – yet the Cathedral seemed to stand above it all, silent and uncaring. She found herself almost angry – this building, this wonder, this heart of Fhaveon, this presence of Samiel, this – whatever it was supposed to be! – had its gaze on the Gods as if the people were no longer its problem. If Amethea ever went home to her teacher Vilsara in Xenok, she could tell the tale of the Great Cathedral, oh yes, standing remote at the time of crisis, lifeless and deserted by all…
Well, maybe not quite.
“Good evening. Would you mind shutting the doors? It’s freezing in here.”
Amethea blinked at the rotund, grinning man as if she’d been caught doing something terrible.
“Sorry… ah… yes of course.” She shut the double doors with a boom, turned back to explain, “I was admiring the window.”
“Course you were.” The man wore breeches and tunic and dirty apron, and he carried a brush and an old wooden pail. He was sweating and round-bellied; he had a great barrel of a chest and hands as large and dirty as shovels. “Personally, I think it could do with a bit more colour. As north windows go, it’s rather drab, don’t you think?”
Confused, Amethea fumbled, “Surely… there should be something there?”
The man shrugged, still smiling. “Stands to reason – they say there’s a God for every day of the halfcycle, so that one…”
“Yes, I remember that.” It had been in Vilsara’s early teachings, somewhere lost in the back of her mind. She looked at the faceless statues, then around the rest of the windows. “Then these are our Gods?” She counted them, trying to fit it together.
“So they say.” The man chuckled, a deep roll of humour. “But forgive me, my manners! It’s a strange dusk that brings people to the Cathedral’s doors, though they stand always open.”
“I’m Amethea, once of Xenok,” she said. “I trained with Vilsara—”
“Vilsara!” The round man chuckled louder, a sound so marvellously infectious that she found herself grinning back at him. “How’s the old girl doing?”
“She’s very well.” The response was guarded. She’d no idea who this man was, or why he had the right to ask the question.
“Good, good.” The man wiped his hands on his apron, winked. “Glad to hear it. Now – how can I help you?”
“I was looking for Gorinel, for the Father-Protector? I bear a message.”
For a moment, the man eyed her, then he began to laugh, a bass rumble from his round belly, a sound that lifted the building with a warmth all of its own.
“I suppose I look like the cleaner?”
More baffled than ever, she said, “I was looking for His Reverence. I can come back in the morning?”
Holding up a hand, he said, “Please, ‘Reverence’ isn’t something I’ve ever been any good at. I’m Gorinel – and you, lovely, look very lost. What can I do?”
* * *
Holy shit on a stick…
At Fhaveon’s most extreme northern limit, Ecko now watched, silent.
Below him, the sleeping thing was huge.
In fact, “huge” didn’t fucking cover it. This was the thing he’d seen from the plaza edge high above – and now, close up, it was colossal, like some long, dark monster that’d swallowed an old farmhouse and most of its grounds. It was patchy, dense in the centre and scattered about its edges; in some places it was rigidly structured, in others it sprawled undisciplined. Here and there among the darkness of its bulk there were flickers of flame, faint as if the whole thing was hiding.
It was way, way bigger than Ecko had been expecting.
Watching it, he was crouched upon the sloping roof of a deserted chapel, the building covered in fragments of stone and shell; in many places, the tiles had been ripped free, leaving scars like little mouths. It was a perfect vantage, its tower all sticks and bird shit.
Below him, Ecko heard the Bard catch his breath, and wondered if he could see that far… but the wondering didn’t last long.
The clouds peeled back like a picked scab, the white moon a cold eye, high above them. And the sleeping thing slowly took on its full form.
Ecko repeated like some loopy mantra, Holy shit, holy shit, holy motherfucking shit…
He couldn’t wrap his brain round it.
Monsters that he’d seen from above flanked the thing, ragged musters of nightmare that slept scattered, or prowled its edges. There seemed to be no leaders, no ranks or orders; they wandered loose, guards or guides or both. His telos strained trying to focus on faces – hell, at least on numbers of legs – but it was too far and too dark.
He knew he should go down there, get a closer look. He was wired for this shit, for chrissakes.
But…
Further in, the sleeping thing was made up of tents, dark fabric almost invisible against ruined and overgrown walls. He’d not seen this from his previous vantage – some of them bore symbols, food or medicine; the smaller ones were racked in rows, suitably military and identical. That shit, at least, hadn’t changed.
His telos searched in systematic strips – found more.
The sleeping thing had kitchens, latrines. It had corrals, chearl and horses. It had occupied cages of smaller critters, piled high. It had wagons, though he’d no clue what they were carrying – some looked big enough to cart artillery and he didn’t like that shit one bit.
He had to get his ass down there and check them out, find out exactly what the bad guys had to throw at them – hell, some of it probably literally – but he was stuck to the spot like the broken bits of shell had penetrated his feet, nailing him down.
The thing stirred, restless and shifting. Lights flickered; sounds of shouts came across the night. Below Ecko, Roderick muttered something softly.
He continued to scan.
After a moment, he found what he reckoned was the command tent, pitched slap-bang in the middle of the ruined manse. It was a big square thing, decorated with some sort of repeated symbol, and with a pennon that hung limp from a spear. Minions surrounded the tent, cloaked shadows that guarded its flanks. They patrolled silent, stopping to speak, or to study the darkness around them. As the moonlight grew brighter, his telos sharpened and he could see them clearly: their back-bent legs, their bared, tattooed chests, the layers of thonging about their throats. Chrissakes, they looked like Tumnus the Faun all growed up and with a steroid problem – and they were armed to the fucking teeth.
Whatever they were – were they called vialer? – they were the beasties in charge and they didn’t miss a trick.
Holy…
Transfixed now, Ecko couldn’t’ve looked away if a hole had torn though reality and shown him the Bike Lodge, acid-hazing just off of his right shoulder…
Down there, across the darkness and the glittering highlights of yellow and white, down there, in among the ruins and the overgrowth, the flickers of flame grew brighter. In among them was the muted glow of rocklights, and the whole damn thing was shifting now, like some stretching sewer monster, some spreading pool of oil.
Holy shit. Holy shit. Holy…
Ecko made an effort not to breathe the words aloud; he clung hard to the edge of the tower. Jesus H Christ. I was right, Nivvy was right – the big baddie may’ve gone, but his whole fuckin’ army’s all still here.
An’… how the hell did it get this big?
Below him, the Bard wa
s silent with anticipation or fear. Or perhaps he’d had his throat slit.
Down there was not the loose scatter of critters that Ecko had seen from the plaza. What he could see now was the entire force gathered, a manifest fucking host. It was every monster that’d ever crawled out of Amal’s twisted asshole – every centaur, every half-breed, every fucked-up crafting of human flesh that mimicked what Mom had done to his own.
So – what? Was I s’posed to call him “Dad”? Was that the point?
Yeah, Eliza, you’re funny.
Down there was every soldier who’d followed the bad guys’ flag, every damned critter that Kas Vahl Whosit could throw at the dying Varchinde.
But even that wasn’t the end of it.
Ecko continued to scan, strips of extreme moonlit close-up, as much detail as he could get.
And then he realised something that scared him right to the fucking core.
* * *
“Your Reverence,” Amethea said. She’d taken a step back and was lost for the proper etiquette. Faced by the Father-Protector, by the worldly representative of Samiel himself, her memory had baulked – it was refusing everything but her apothecarial code and lectures on herb-tending. Was she supposed to kiss the hem of his embroidered overshirt, his jewellery? He wore neither.
And then, somewhere under that confusion of awe and disbelief, more memories of Maugrim crowded close to surface, unwanted and unwelcome, rising and bobbing like waste. She could hear his words, Get to you, love. The whiners, the needers, the hypochondriacs, the neurotics, the weak-willed and the desperate…
She was a healer. She was supposed to help people, be there for them – she’d been working in Amos, and had felt much better. Useful, needed. Now, with Maugrim haunting her, she realised what she’d come here to find – that feeling of fatalism, the answer she’d come seeking…
Not just purpose.
But faith.
Oh, you’re jesting…
She almost laughed at herself – at her own ludicrous predictability. Standing there, surrounded by nameless and forgotten Gods, Amethea found she was shaking, trying to muster something like denial – Don’t be ridiculous!
