Eric Flint's Blog, page 280

Into The Maelstrom – Snippet 33

Into The Maelstrom – Snippet 33

“The lookout point is directly reached by cutting overland to avoid the last loop of the river. I don’t want to risk taking the boat too close to the Gate. The currents can be fair scary.”

The boatman handed Allenson a shotgun and a couple of cartridges.

“The young gentleman and I can carry the hamper between us if you wouldn’t mind holding Bessy here.”

“You are expecting trouble?” Allenson asked, taking the weapon.

“Oh, no sar. The last dragon ’round here was killed years ago. Bessy is just in case, you understand.”

Allenson nodded.

The boatman led them between the trees. One advantage of an evergreen wood is that the ground under the canopy is clear so they made good progress. The path turned into a delineated animal trail, the sort of place a predator might well wait for prey. Allenson surreptitiously checked the shotgun cartridges.

The boatman saw him and smiled.

The roaring sound grew steadily louder as they walked so the nature of the Channel Gate was not entirely a surprise. Nevertheless, its scale still impressed. A rock outcrop to the left obscured the view. It ended abruptly at the river bank and Allenson got his first look at the Gate.

The party stood on a rocky outcrop above a sheer drop into a black pool. Vertical cliffs of splintered rock curved around to the left to form a natural theatre. The river poured through the cliffs where it had cut a deep channel. It fell into the pool making the continuous roar of sound. A single natural tower of rock guarded the right hand side of the waterfall. The pool in its turn emptied through a sharp V-shaped channel nearby. The land flattened down-channel and was carpeted in coniferous trees. Similar forests grew thickly on the top of the plateau from which the river originated.

“We call the tower the Old Man of the Gate,” the boatman said, pointing to the tower.

The tower leaned outwards from where water had undermined the base. Deep vertical cracks split it from top to bottom. Allenson thought that it would not be many years before it fell. When it did the rubble would damn the river until the pool filled sufficiently to burst through.  The likely result would be a tidal wave sweeping downstream to inundate the banks and low lying islands such as the community of Sark.

He opened his mouth to ask the guide whether the Sarklanders were aware of the potential hazard but thought better of it. What could they do even if they were aware? Setting up an early warning system and building flood barriers around the village was potentially possible but he doubted they had the resources to buy in the technology. The Sarklanders would just have to take their chances like everyone else in a dangerous galaxy.

The waterfall threw up copious amounts of spray so there was a permanent rainbow over the dark pool. Its colors danced in time to the chaotic patterns of the surging water. Waves flowed out across the pool from the fall to reflect off the steep banks, clashing in a battleground of intersecting foam.

“How deep is it?” Allenson asked, putting his mouth close to the boatman’s ear.

“Terrible deep, sar, and there’s a vicious undertow. Sometimes when a tree goes over the Gate it stays trapped for days. It gets pushed under at the waterfall coming up near an edge to be pulled to the fall and shoved down again.”

Allenson nodded.

The party sat on a carpet of dried conifer needles and lunched from the hamper. The noise was worth enduring to enjoy the view. Todd threw a pine cone into the pool to test the currents. It just disappeared into the foam. The scale of the place fooled the eye.

“It is so very, very beautiful,” Todd said.

“I suppose so,” Allenson replied, “and a source of near limitless free hydroelectric power. One day we’ll clear the trees and turn this place into a great production center for the Cutter Stream. Imagine the wealth this waterfall will create.”

He nodded towards the top of the plateau.

“A major industrial city will rise there. No doubt the factory owners will build villas on those downstream slopes.”

“No doubt.” Todd sighed. “But it seems almost a crime to destroy such a beautiful wilderness for mere gain.”

Allenson looked at him in puzzlement, suddenly aware that his nephew was in many ways more Brasilian than Manzanitan.

“There’s plenty of wilderness. The Hinterlands are full of little else.”

The guide interrupted the conversation by standing and brushing pine needles from the seat of his trousers.

“If you’ve finished, gentlemen, we ought to be getting back.”

#

Another day, another world, another hotel room – this time located in Port Trent. The trip from Sark was swift which was just as well. They endured more long lectures from Buller on the military art interspersed with rants about unfair preferment of Brasilian chinless wonders.

Port Trent was big, the biggest commercial port this side of the Bight except for Port Brasilia, an isolated world way down to the galactic south beyond the Cutter Stream. Port Brasilia’s wealth depended partly on its early discovery. Mostly its prosperity depended on vast natural reservoirs of an expensive to manufacture organic ridiculously useful as a biochemical precursor to a vast array of valuable compounds. In short, Port Brasilia provided another raw material source albeit one more valuable to Brasilia than all the Cutter Stream colonies together.

Streams of small craft moving up and down The Great North Road flagged the commercial importance of Port Trent was obvious long before they arrived.

Allenson chose an unpretentious hotel close to the commercial dock. It mostly catered for ship’s officers and business men. Buller selected a far grander establishment in the villa zone. Allenson could not help but wonder who would be picking up Buller’s tab this time. He reproved himself for a lack of charity.

Allenson’s data pad pulsed with messages as soon as they phased in on the controlled approach to one of Port Trent’s frame parks. He received adverts for various products and forms of entertainment. They included women guaranteed to be friendly and welcoming to strangers, exotic but safe recreational drugs and gambling games that were impossible to lose. He set the pad’s discriminator to go through and discard the lot. That left only an invitation to the luncheon reception being held in his honor the following day.

#

Allenson donned his full dress uniform for the reception with Boswell’s able assistance. Port Trent boasted a considerable extent of properly paved streets rather than the stabilized earth more commonly found in ‘Stream urban zones. People and goods moved around the city in fat-wheeled, battery-powered buggies. These were so commonplace that their electric whine was the sound which woke him that morning.

The buggies popularity also meant the main thoroughfares choked with slowly moving traffic. Allenson was familiar with the concept of a traffic jam but the reality was an unwelcome novelty. The weather was fair and his hotel close to the Commercial Exchange building at which the reception was to be held so he elected to walk along the Front with Todd and take the sea air.

Their uniforms marked them out and they received curious glances from others on the streets. A few insisted on shaking Allenson’s hand and declaring their support for an independent Cutter Stream or otherwise indicated approval by smiles and gestures. Most simply stared, expressions carefully neutral. Few showed overt hostility, the worst being a man who spat on the ground as they passed. Todd took a step forwards fist raised. Allenson held his nephew back while the man faded into an alley.

A dozen or so Continuum ships floated in the deep-water harbor. Some were tied up to jetties for convenient loading or unloading of cargo while others were moored to buoys out from the shore. Small water craft plied backwards and forwards. Todd and Allenson passed one jetty that served exclusively as a dock for pleasure craft. Tiered cabins and frame pads overloaded the plushest examples. Allenson wondered how seaworthy the boats were. Maybe they were purely floating brandy-palaces.

Some had racing lines that served no conceivable purpose other than to display their owners’ wealth. Allenson suspected that many rarely left the dockside. It was a normal business day in Port Trent so few of the boats were occupied except for servants carrying out basic maintenance.

“A great deal of wealth to leave floating around,” Todd said, noting Allenson’s interest.

“And I suspect a number of the owners may not entirely be supportive of our political aims,” Allenson replied ruefully.

 

Phoenix In Shadow – Chapter 10

Phoenix In Shadow – Chapter 10

Chapter 10.

The crumbling path stretched up, up, between slopes dotted with trees that were touched with a stronger, somehow virulent green, and then vanished into shadow cast by the mountains about.

“Rivendream Pass,” the Wanderer said quietly. “This is as far as my magic can take us, as close to your mystery as I can go without travelling with you.”

“So, will you?” Poplock asked. “Because that would be really useful, even if you’re only half of what they say you are.”

He felt Tobimar jerk slightly under him at the casual question and could see Kyri shoot an outraged glance at him from beneath her helm. The two still held the Wanderer in some awe, and Poplock was being rather informal.

The Wanderer merely chuckled. “Sorry, Poplock. I can’t go much farther; I’ve got other places that need me, and as I said, I can’t tell you what’s going on. Going with you, with what I know, that would be potentially worse.”

He raised the rune-covered staff and pointed. “The only good thing about Rivendream is that it’s not a tricky maze. It’s the one decent, halfway level path through the Khalal range, and if you stick with the reasonably easy pathways, you will most certainly emerge in Moonshade Hollow. No getting lost, as can happen crossing through mountains in other places.”

He turned back to the group and looked at them. Looks more serious than usual. “I can’t even give you much more advice, let alone direct aid. Kyri… just remember, this is part of the mission you follow for Myrionar. While this is also Tobimar’s quest, much of what is to come is yours as well, part of your own journey, and a terribly important one.

“Tobimar, I can only tell you this: you are, indeed, the true descendant of the Lords of the Sky, of their rulers. That much have your people remembered and kept true and pure. You were chosen by the turn of a card that represents Terian himself; I cannot watch over you… but he may.”

Finally he looked at Poplock. “I don’t underestimate you, Poplock, but be careful.” He reached inside his clothing and took out a strange ivory colored cylinder with strange writing on it below an outline of a sailing ship; the cylinder – a container of some sort – rattled. He unscrewed the top and poured many somethings that glittered into his hand, selected one, and poured the rest back, putting the container away. “Take this.”

Poplock reached out and took the sparkling object. Ooh, it’s a crystal. Shiny, natural facets… not quite so sparkly as diamond, though. Water-clear, though with a few black inclusions – not perfect. Six-sided, double termination… “Quartz crystal? No offense, but I’ve got –”

“– none like that one, my amphibious friend. That crystal I mined, with my own hands, and have carried with me ever since first I came to this world.”

Poplock almost dropped the sparkling stone. “You… this is from Zaralandar – what you and Xavier call Earth?”

“It is indeed. One such as yourself might do many things with that. Save it. Think on it. Use it when you are certain. But it carries with it some of the essence of my world – some of my essence, in fact, for as I said I dug it from the stone by hand, broke the stone from the earth and split it with hand-forged steel wedges and a sledgehammer. My sweat – and maybe a little blood – was shed getting that very nice crystal out of its stone. It’s a part of me. That by itself makes it unique.”

The little Toad bowed as deeply as his anatomy permitted. “I’ll be very careful with it. And I’ll think real hard on what I can use it for.”

“Good.” He bowed to all of them, a dramatic gesture with a flare of his cloak. “I hope we shall meet again… when you return.”

He took three strides… and vanished.

Poplock shook his head. “Makes it look so easy. Well, let’s get moving, right?”

“Right,” Kyri agreed, and Tobimar nodded, hitching his pack up and making sure it was settled properly. “No point in waiting.”

For a while as they moved farther up and into Rivendream pass, Poplock studied the crystal. There was something strange about it, an aura that interacted strangely with his attempts to divine something about it. Finally, though, he put it away carefully into his pack. Figuring that thing out will take more than an hour riding on someone’s shoulder. Quartz has its own virtues, but a crystal from the Wanderer? That’s gonna be something special.

Rivendream Pass continued up – a relatively steep incline at first, but one that abated after a mile or so. The air was somewhat cooler here, and Poplock noticed something. “Look at those trees.”

“What?” Tobimar paused and looked. “You’re right. Different, not what we’re used to at all. I think, from something I read in Skysand’s library, that this one’s an oak.”

“It is,” agreed Kyri. “Lythos taught me to identify the higher-slopes trees. That’s a maple, over there, and the dark-barked one over by that rock is santki.” She frowned. “But all of them look…”

“Wrong. Yeah, I noticed,” Poplock agreed darkly. “Branches growing at funny angles. Leaves not quite right. Trunks not really straight.”

Tobimar stiffened. “And listen.”

Poplock sat up and listened – and looked, no point in not looking.

At first he didn’t get what Tobimar was pointing out. There were the faint sounds of movement that you hear in any forest – little creatures, occasionally a larger one…

… But…

… but they were somehow not right, as well. Poplock couldn’t clear the mud off it, so to speak, but he could just tell that nothing in this place was quite the way it should be. Reflexively he let his tongue snap out and snag a passing fly, and suddenly he found himself gagging, spitting the mangled insect back out. “Ack! Uggh! That was vile.”

“You couldn’t eat an insect?” Tobimar studied him with growing concern. “I’ve never seen anything you wouldn’t eat.”

“You haven’t seen enough, then. But that was in a special class all by itself.”

“Poisonous?”

“Don’t think so… not exactly, anyway. But… lemme catch another. Without eating it, this time.”

He managed to snag another fly, but transferred it to his front paws instead of his mouth. Kyri came over to watch. “Umm… Not the fat, sleek shape I expect. Narrower. Faster, maybe. But more importantly…” he mumbled a few words, took a look at the thing. In his eyes, the insect dimmed, a pattern of dark lines rippling around it. “Dark, dark magic influencing it. Don’t know how eating it would affect me. Not going to try it to find out.”

Kyri’s face went grim. “That means we don’t dare eat anything we catch here. Or we have to find some way to purify it that we can afford to use.”

Tobimar nodded slowly. “A good thing we did pack a lot of provisions.”

“Even so…” Poplock frowned. “There’s a lot of Moonshade Hollow on the other side, isn’t there?”

“You’re right.” Concern deepened on both the humans’ faces. “If we take too long, we could easily run out.”

“Depending on how long it takes to get through the pass, it could be not long after we get there,” agreed Poplock.

Tobimar nodded again. “Well… we can think about possible solutions as we continue. We’ve got a few more hours until nighttime, I’d like to move on.”

“Yes. We’ve got to get going,” agreed Kyri.

But she slid Flamewing from its sheath, and Tobimar drew his new, shining blades as well. Poplock didn’t draw Steelthorn, but he did make sure it, his clockwork crossbow, and a few other things were close to hand.

This isn’t going to be fun at all.

 

Into The Maelstrom – Snippet 32

Into The Maelstrom – Snippet 32

Chapter 10 – Trent

The barge made a further stop at a small agricultural and logging community called Sark. It could have made Port Trent in one jump by running along the smooth passage of the Great North Road. Buller pointed this out at some length. Todd was insistent that Allenson needed a day or two’s rest after his accident before throwing himself into the maelstrom of Trent politics. Allenson did not argue the point

Sark’s landing beacon guided them to a small guest house located on a spit of land turned into a cluster of small islands. A meandering river burst its bank sometime in the past and cut off an oxbow. No doubt at some time in the future the old channel would silt up completely creating a lake. For now Sark was scattered over what were known as the Channel Islands.

The guest house was simply furnished but comfortable. Allenson retired immediately and slept the sleep of the completely exhausted. He met up with Todd for a substantial breakfast of locally caught smoked fish washed down by café, real coffee being unobtainable.

“Where’s Buller and Redley?” Allenson asked.

“Still getting their beauty sleep,” Todd grinned. “We went onto a local bar, the local bar, after you retired for the evening.”

Allenson pointed his fork at Todd before noticing he had speared a piece of fish with it.

“I see. So how come you’re awake?”

Allenson pushed the fish into his mouth. It had a peppery flavor that was not unpleasant. He wondered whether the taste was a property of the fish or the wood they used to smoke it.

“Genosurgery can only do so much, uncle. Neither Buller nor Redley are young men.”

Allenson winced. “No need to rub it in, nephew.”

Todd gave a sly grin.

“And I took the precaution of taking a detox pill before going out.”

They applied themselves to eating. Eventually, Allenson pushed the remains of the fish away quite beaten by the liberality of the house’s hospitality. He broke what was left of his bread in half and consumed a piece.

“You were right,” Allenson said. “I feel much refreshed after a decent night’s sleep. We can go on to Trent after we collect the old soaks.”

Todd spluttered into his café.

“That’s no way to talk about two senior officers of our new nation.”

Allenson sighed.

“I doubt whether the Assembly on Paxton has got around to declaring independence yet so there’s probably no new nation. They’re no doubt still debating what color the flag should be. We are, I’m afraid, not only an army without professional soldiers but an army without a state – a somewhat original position for a Captain-General to be in.”

“About leaving today,” Todd said, carefully not looking at Allenson.

“Yeees,” Allenson replied.

“We’re not,” Todd rushed out. “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“You don’t think it’s a good idea?” Allenson asked, using a tone to remind his nephew who was the general and who the aide.

“I have hired a couple of men to sit in the barge and pedal to boost up our charge so we have a decent safety margin. Boswell’s keeping an eye on them for me. I don’t want us to have to pedal into Port Trent, uncle. It’s undignified. Buller and Redley would be useless so it would come down to you, me and Boswell.”

“So what am I supposed to do all day?” Allenson asked.

“Ah, I’ve thought of that. Apparently, there is a spectacular water feature upstream so I’ve also hired a boat to go and look at it. Our hostess is preparing a picnic hamper as we speak.”

“You think of everything,” Allenson said, not sure if he was amused or annoyed – or both at the same time.

#

Allenson paraded, no other word sufficed, through the tiny village down to the small quay on the river bank. Men wished to be recorded shaking his hand. Even more embarrassingly, women wished to be recorded kissing his cheek, if he was lucky, or his lips if he was not. One plucky matron of a certain age with arms like tree trunks hauled him down to her level before sticking her tongue down his throat. She retreated to sustained cheers from her peers.

“For pity’s sake get me out of here,” Allenson whispered to Todd, all the while waving and smiling until his cheek muscles ached.

Todd cleared a way through the enthusiastic villagers to their awaiting fishing boat. Flat bottomed and open, a tube drive clamped to the transom propelled the boat.  The boatman touched his forehead upon Allenson’s arrival.

He and Todd clambered in, Todd resting his legs on the hamper. The boatman unhitched the rope at the stern, threw it in and jumped in after it. The boat rocked alarmingly. Allenson gripped the sides while maintaining his politician’s rictus of a grin. He hoped none of his admiring public noticed his mounting alarm. He was not keen on another ducking after Icecube.

The boatman started the engine on the end of the tube drive by vigorously pulling on a cord until it fired. The clatter suggested some sort of long-stroke single cylinder piston motor. The crowd backed away. The reason became clear when the boatman lowered the end of the drive tube until it was partly submerged. It blew air, throwing up a spray of water and mud in a wide arc as he conned the light craft away from the bank. The water must have been scant centimeters deep.

Once they moved out into deeper water the boatman lowered the tube until it pumped only water. It was then far more efficient. He throttled back the motor, reducing the noise considerably. Allenson was intrigued by the novel device.

“What do you use as a power source?” he asked, turning his head to communicate with the boatman at the stern.

“Ethanol, Sar General. We distil it from the fermentation of a native high sugar vegetable root. Makes decent fuel – and a fair tonk too if you don’t mind your gums shrinking.”

Allenson made a mental note to stick to plum brandy or beer while on Sark. The river was slow-flowing so they made fast progress upstream but the waterway was so meandering that they travelled three kilometers for every kilometer closer to their destination. The banks on either side were flat. Crops grew down to the water with small huts scattered about. No doubt the local farmers used them to store tools or even sleep in over busy periods. These signs of habitation gradually became rarer as they went upstream until they disappeared altogether.

The sunshine was warm but not unpleasantly hot. Sark had a most agreeable climate for, whatever season it was. He had an impulse to look it up on his datapad but couldn’t be bothered. After all, it hardly mattered.

He shut his eyes and half dozed, lulled by the rocking of the boat and the gentle play of warm air on his face.

“General,” Todd said, touching him lightly on the arm to get his attention. He nodded towards the boatman.

Allenson realized that the man had been speaking.

“My apologies, master. What did you say?”

“Over there, sar, razor fish.”

A shoal of narrow silver fish leapt into the air, tails thrusting vigorously but pointlessly.  The fish provided a graphic lesson in the uselessness of power without traction. They measured about twenty centimeters long including the long narrow snout and forked tail. The water around the shoal boiled white, throwing a fine mist into the air. Sunlight glittered of the creature’s metallic scales and filtered through the water to create an ever changing iridescent pattern of transient rainbows.

Larger torpedo shapes prowled under the water around the edge of the shoal. The silver fish jumped not for pleasure but in panic.

Refreshed and wide awake Allenson looked around. Trees like pines with dark green needle-like leaves grew in clumps on the bank. The further they went the more the trees replaced grassland until they lined the banks turning the waterway into a corridor.

After another half an hour or so the boatman cut the power and drifted the boat into the left hand bank. A couple of felled trees served as a makeshift dockside. The boatman jumped out with a mooring rope line that he tied to a convenient branch. He pulled the craft flat alongside the shore and held it so Allenson and Todd could alight safely.

Now the motor was quiet Allenson heard a dull rumble in the distance. Otherwise the countryside was utterly silent except for the boat tapping gently at the wooden dock.

 

Phoenix In Shadow – Chapter 09

Phoenix In Shadow – Chapter 09

Chapter 9.

“All went well, then?”

The light-destroying figure in the mirror-scroll smiled. “Exactly as we expected, yes,” Kerlamion said in the eerie deep, howling tones of tortured air. “Condor is on his way back to you even now.”

It nodded, smiling; despite the human form, anyone watching would have known there was something desperately wrong from that smile alone. “Excellent, my King. I will keep an eye out for him; it would not do for him to meet up with anyone else along the way who might reveal some unfortunate facts.”

“Even so. But enough of your private projects.”

“My apologies, Majesty. If I can only be assured of the one other –”

“Yes. I have given the directions. Balinshar is not entirely pleased, but you have assured me of the necessity, and so what you requested you shall have. Now, of the other matters…?”

Very good. Very good indeed. With the Black City now arrived and all wars progressing, Kerlamion had been delegating more of the details of remote operations to it, trusting the humanoid yet inhuman figure with completing the plan which, admittedly, had been more its than Kerlamion’s.  This did unfortunately demand rather more of its time than it had expected, especially with the promising and extremely capable Thornfalcon now regrettably out of the picture. “Aegeia is in complete chaos now; I expect the endgame of that little farce to play out in, oh, the next few months. The Academy appears to be out of the picture, or so I am assured by Kurilidis and, indeed, no communications other than Kuri’s have been forthcoming, so I’m reasonably confident that the job has been done.”

It gave a sigh and shook its head. “There has unfortunately been some sort of … disruption in Skysand; forces that we were unaware of. Shangvaldi thinks she can still prevail with the additional resources granted her, but I am, regrettably, dubious. Whenever someone starts in on that ‘everything’s under control, I just need a little help’ approach…”

Kerlamion frowned and nodded slowly. “But if they are delayed even a few months…”

“Yes, that’s how I view it. Even if Skysand recovers fully, it will take them months to get any of their forces anywhere that matters, and by then the battles should be decided. Same for Balgoltha and his debacle. All he needs to do is keep the Artan busy for even the fourth part of a year and his failure need not be fatal.” Though depending on how things are going at that point, it may well be fatal for Balgoltha in any case. That one’s been dodging the consequences for failure since the Fall, and I think his time’s just about up.

“So. What of our greatest adversaries?”

“The Empire of the Mountain, I am afraid, cannot be prevented from mobilizing, though they, like the Dragon-King’s State, must keep some of their forces busy bottling up our puppets in Dalthunia. News of the emergence of the Black City will reach Zarathanton soon enough; in the Empire, well, it will be heard there as well in very short time, if the Archmage has not sensed it on his own.”

“No matter. We have anticipated this, and their armies will be ineffectual by the time they reach us. But –”

“– yes, Majesty, I was just getting to that. Of Khoros… I must candidly say I cannot find him. I did not expect to, honestly; he is… very good at evading detection. The Wanderer is in fact on the move as well, but I cannot say precisely where he is, either; you know how hard he is to track. Nonetheless, he will tend to be both more straightforward and more cautious. I would expect him to choose some group or location to aid and travel there directly. Khoros is undoubtedly playing the puppetmaster as usual, and thus his hand may be felt anywhere, even if his actual location is far distant.” He shrugged. “Our plans attempt to take him into account; his, presumably, attempt to do the same for us.”

“And the Gods?”

“The Cycle of the Dragon is not in their favor, as we hoped. Elbon Nomicon sleeps now, and will not be easily roused; so, too, for many of the others of the Sixteen, and of those awake, several were not incarnate on Zarathan when your bargains were struck, so they cannot face you directly.” He debated momentarily with himself on whether to reveal some details, decided that it was wise to continue to appear as honest as possible. “The Mortal God, on the other hand… there are signs of his activity. I have sensed something of his essence in several locations, and you are of course aware of the Skysand Prince.”

Kerlamion’s eyes narrowed. “Yes. But if he follows the path you expect, that should… eliminate the problem entirely, yes?”

“It should indeed. As you have agreed to my one request, I am confident things will proceed according to plan. Myrionar continues to weaken; the other gods will react as we expect, but the pact limits them. Only the Golden-Eyed and the Reclaimed Temple remain unknown factors in those realms, but while they are definitely in opposition to us, they are also not terribly powerful.”

“Acceptable. I expect you to continue to direct events outside of the Black City; my attention will be focused here.”

“As you direct, so it shall be, Majesty.”

The communications scroll went blank, back to silver-on-gold. It leaned back and chuckled quietly. Ah, the excitement of beginning the real game at last. It had not – precisely – lied to the King of All Hells, but the way in which it had reported certain facts, deductions, and expectations was certainly misleading. For example, while indeed there had been no new communications other than those of Kurildis from the isolated valley of the Academy, it had also been a significant time since Kurildis had communicated at all. Kurildis always did seem a bit overconfident; when planning an assault on the institution that trains Adventurers, one would be wise to remember what Adventurers are best known for doing.

The fact was that while the figure did not in any way oppose Kerlamion, Its goals were not those of the King of All Hells, and it was important that Kerlamion not grasp exactly what It intended, until it was far too late to change the outcome.

Time to set the rest in motion. It touched the scroll, spoke several words in the demonic tongue with which the scroll had been forged, and saw the silver fade to cloudy gray. You had best answer, my friend.

“You interrupt me again? Speak, then, but quickly. I have little time to spare for distractions, and my other patrons demand enough as it is.” The voice was sharp, yet despite the annoyance it was also dispassionate, cold and measured in words and timbre in a way that the inhuman figure found extremely comforting. Here is someone who will be unswayed by any considerations other than his own.

“My apologies. But I have excellent news. I promised you an assistant, and have found one that I believe will meet even your… extremely demanding requirements. One who also has knowledge that touches on your specialty.”

The voice was suddenly a touch warmer. “Really? One who could understand my work?”

“I believe so. At least as well as I understand it.”

“Hmph. Well, you understand it better than any other I have met, vastly more than these idiots I currently work for. If it were not for the challenge and the resources –”

“I understand. But truly, would you give that up?”

“Never!” the voice snapped. “This has brought me close indeed; even with their demands and distractions I have made great progress.” A hesitation, then, “And… I will thank you for assisting me to find this place. They do, at least, appreciate what I can do for them, even if they place far too much importance on the trivialities.” The unseen speaker’s tone warmed again. “So when may I expect my new assistant?”

“In a few days. I am arranging the transport. Also… you may expect the key you have been seeking soon, perhaps in a month or three. I cannot control this, you understand, but I have every reason to believe it to be true.”

“Excellent. Excellent! I must begin preparations for the unlocking. Thank you for this news.”

The scroll cleared abruptly, making the figure laugh and shake its head. Unable to even bother with the niceties. I doubt he will remember, or care, to mention this to his main employers. Well, he will play his part nonetheless, and I can attend to his minor lapse of courtesy.

Once more a gesture and a few words and the mirror turned to gray, and then showed the person he had expected.

“Ermirinovas, how kind of you to answer my call.”

“How could I refuse, Viedra,” she asked, with a brilliant flash of a smile, “given how rarely you have called of late. Besides, Kalshae is currently … occupied.”

“Our King has given me… many assignments in the past centuries. But I have not forgotten you. What news of you and your sisters? How goes your extraction operation? Has my little referral to you given you assistance?”

“He is arrogant and insolent and one day I will likely kill him, but yes, he has achieved much. More power have we gained than I had imagined possible, especially given the circumstances. But there are… side effects.” She grimaced and gestured at herself.

“Well, yes, a pity – though there are those who would find the effect quite pleasing. Still, given what you are working with, there are many dangers from the… waste products, so to speak.”

“And not just in appearance. I have lost at least three of our own people to… well, you can guess.” Her face fell for a moment.

“Sentiment? I hope you are not –”

The face hardened immediately. “Certainly not. But the waste and loss of capable labor are extremely regrettable. Unfortunately, the last and greatest source has proven difficult to extract.”

“You may expect the key to that extraction soon enough; I informed our mutual friend of it just ere I called you.”

“Oh, wonderful!” Lit up with such anticipation, she was quite lovely, the humanoid figure thought with wry amusement. “And then –”

“Then I believe you shall achieve what you seek, indeed. I hope you will remember me fondly.”

“If we succeed?” She laughed, and though the sound was light and airy, something within and behind that laugh could have sent chills down an ordinary man’s spine. “Oh, then, Viedra, I will perhaps have my own offer to you of something even our King cannot give.”

“Indeed? Then I wish you all luck, indeed. I am sending a new aide to assist in the project, and he will also carry details of what to expect and my advice on how to handle the matter.”

“You really should call more often, Viedra, if all such calls would be so hopeful!”

It chuckled, and the lights about the room flickered. “You are too kind, Ermirinovas. But I must go; much to do, much to arrange.”

The scroll blank again, it nodded, a satisfied smile on its face. Ermirinovas was powerful, even by demonic standards – one of Kerlamion’s second-generation children, rumored to be spawn of Kerlamion and one of the Elderwyrm. But like so many demons, she wanted more – enough to carve out her own realm, either within the Hells, or on Zarathan itself. Her current project – if it succeeded, and nothing went terribly amiss – might give her both. That would be amusing, and for other projects It was contemplating, could be useful as well.

To make that happen, of course, required arranging one more thing.  He waved and spoke to the scroll once more, and this time the scroll cleared to show a face – one proud and handsome yet twisted, horned and gray of face, muscled like a warrior but with the wisdom of ages in the hate-filled eyes, one of those that exemplified the word demon. “Ah, Balinshar, how good of you to answer.”

“Viedraverion.” The Demon’s voice echoed tightly-leashed anger. “So you have managed to kiss your Father’s … feet enough to get him to order one of my finest servants into your hands, have you?”

“Oh, very good, his Majesty has already told you.” It smiled broadly at Balinshar, not rising to the bait in the least. You, yourself, are of much less account than you wish, Balinshar, and think yourself of greater power than you are. You are not half so interesting as your favorite servant. “Send the boy through, then. I have many things to do today.”

“I look forward to the day when you stumble, Viedra,” Balinshar hissed. “On that day many of us will compete for your soul, if the King of All Hells does not take it himself.”

“Yes, yes, I’m sure. Send the boy through.” It stood and held the scroll up sideways, left it hanging in midair. “Or must I call Father for more… encouragement?”

The answer was a rather pedestrian insult, but then Balinshar had never been terribly creative. A major flaw of most demons, really. “Very well.”

At Balinshar’s gesture a tall, slender figure moved forward hesitantly. “My lord?”

“Do not be afraid, Tashriel,” It said. “I have a unique task for you.”

Still looking nervous, the figure – appearing to be a human youth in his late teens or very early twenties, with long white hair and a face whose sharp-carven features reminded It strongly of someone else – stepped forward, and in a blaze of light emerged before It.

The being then passed Its hand over the scroll, returning it to inert blankness, and smiled. It saw the young man shiver slightly. At this range, the yellow eyes revealed some inhuman blood within Tashriel, but he still looked mostly like a young man.

How very deceptive. Even the shiver is deceptive; he would be a most formidable opponent if he chose to be. “Tashriel, I have need of your unique knowledge – your most ancient unique knowledge.”

His eyes went wide. “My lord… I am forbidden to –”

“Tsk, tsk, Tashriel. The King of All Hells himself has assigned you to me, for this very express reason. I assure you, in this case I have pressing need for the talents you learned… in A’Atla’Alandar.”

There was still a trace of uncertainty, but much more of excitement and anticipation in the eyes of the boy-who-was-not-a-boy. “Truly, Lord Viedraverion?”

“Truly, Tashriel. I have a… most fascinating assignment for you. One that you will carry out as honestly and humbly as if it were truly what you wished, and have to act otherwise only if the enterprise fails. And in that case…”

As It explained, the yellow eyes began to dance with excitement, and It knew that success was assured.

Come, Phoenix and your friends. All will be ready when you arrive.

 

Into The Maelstrom – Snippet 31

Into The Maelstrom – Snippet 31

The harpoon head expanded like an opening parachute. The power reel went into reverse, hauling in the cable until it twanged taut. The pilot increased power and the turbofans screamed. By brute force the vehicle pulled the head of the monster around to point towards the shore.

The spirotrich dived and the reel spun out more cable to prevent the car being dragged under. When the monster broached the cable ran back in to take up the slack. The pilot played the beast like a fish on the end of a rod and line. All the time he fought to keep the spirotrich moving towards the edge of the ice sheet.

The crisis came when the spirotrich tried to dive under the ice. The pilot gave the rotors all the power he had to keep the beast’s head up. The cable twanged under the strain, shaking off water which fell towards the sea in a fine spray.  The beast crashed head first onto the ice sheet which submerged and split under the impact. The monster twisted left and right, trying to roll back into the sea.

The car lurched without warning. Allenson was thrown against the side. The gunner crashed into his back, flipping him clean out of the compartment.

Allenson hung one handed from the rail. He clawed desperately with the other to find something, anything, to grab hold of. The gunner stared down at him, frozen, not attempting to help. The moment of time lasted ten thousand years. Todd hauled the gunner out of the way and reached down to Allenson.

The car gave another lurch and Allenson’s hand slipped. He had one quick glimpse of Todd’s horrified expression before he fell backwards into empty space.

He hit the cable with his shoulders and bounced off. He made a wild grab that missed but managed to get one arm around the line then the other. Initially he fell freely, the cable sliding easily through his hug. Increasingly as he dropped the cable curved, wrenching at his arms. He went into the water feet first. The shock of the chill liquid against his unprotected face made him gasp and nearly inhale but the sudden slack gave him a chance to get his hands firmly on the cable.

Allenson clutched the cable with all his strength when it dragged him under. He held his breath until the line tightened, pulling him up towards the light. He shot right out of the sea like a rabbit out of a burrow as the car fought against the weight of the spirotrich. The cable hurled him into the air until it twanged straight. He lost his grip, fired like an arrow from a bow.

Sky and sea rotated in an orange blue blur until he fell with a squelch into something mushy. He struggled in a sticky mix of goo and fibres, spitting foul-tasting muck out of his mouth. He just about managed to stand upright buried to his waist when the spirotrich lurched. He lost his footing and got another protoplasmic ducking. It was like trying to wade through blancmange. He partly crawled, partly slid, and partly swam.  Another heave and he was out of the monster, rolling and falling. He hit something hard that knocked the breath from his body.

Allenson tried to stand but slipped onto his bottom. He discovered that spirotrich goo on ice gave an almost frictionless surface. The spirotrich rolled away from him. Allenson scooted inland as fast as he could in case the creature reversed its roll. He slid on his bum until he reached a place where the ice had broken and refrozen giving some purchase for his feet on the roughened surface.

The car swooped over him. The downdraft from its rotors became a howling gale that bowled him over once again. God he was going to have some spectacular bruises by morning. The car sank down and landed. Todd was over the side before the rotors stopped turning.

“Uncle Allen, are you okay.”

Allenson sat up and spat again, trying to clean the oily taste of spirotrich blubber from his mouth.

“I’ll live.”

He started shaking.

“You’re cold.”

“Water got in my suit,” Allenson replied defensively.

Actually the water inside the insulated survival suit was warm, heated by his body. He shook with shock, not cold.

Todd assisted Allenson to his feet and helped him back to the car.

“Right, let’s get you back to the station.”

Allenson noticed he had drawn his ion pistol, which seemed a strange thing to do under the circumstances.

“It’s all right, nephew, I’m not a complete invalid,” Allenson snapped as Todd tried to help him up the steps.

“Of course not, uncle,” Todd replied, hovering close as Allenson climbed.

Todd followed him into the larger rear compartment of the car and addressed the hunt captain.

“Get this thing back to the station immediately so we can get the general checked over.”

“But we haven’t cut our way into the spirotrich to check for ambrein yet,” said the hunt master.

Todd pointed the pistol at the master.

“Fine, if any of you feckers want to get out on the ice that’s up to you but this car is heading back right now. Am I making myself clear?”

He was.

#

Allenson’s injuries turned out to be superficial and were soon fixed by the paramedic. The station had a decent medical facility as accidents were not uncommon given the crews’ line of work. He valued the hot shower after treatment rather more than the medical aid. After he had dressed in clean clothes Todd insisted that they go out onto the landing pad to look over the barge.  Redley and Buller remained in the bar.

Boswell sat stoically on the barge in a survival suit watching the Icecube riggers charge their cells.

“Everything in order, Boswell?” Todd asked.

“Yes, sar,” the unflappable servant replied. “We’ll be finished within an hour or two.”

“Very good.”

Todd steered Allenson past the barge to where they could not be overheard.

“Something bothering you?” Allenson asked, mildly, although he was a little irritated at being treated like cargo.

“Yes, something’s bothering me. Those bastards tried to kill you back there.”

“Oh come on,” Allenson replied. “Surely it was an accident. Why would these people have designs on my life?”

“Because you’re about to upset the order of things and they’ve a nice little business here provided matters stay as they are. If the revolutionaries get in power they could all be out of a job.”

Allenson thought for a moment and then shook his head.

“No one could have set up an assassination plot. No one knew we would come here. Hell, I didn’t know myself until a few hours before we arrived.”

“Oh, I agree. This wasn’t a conspiracy, just a bit of freelance initiative on the part of the local Icecube management.”

“You’re beginning to sound like Hawthorn.”

“Colonel Hawthorn talks a deal of sense. If I hadn’t been there what do you bet you’d have never got off that ice sheet alive? They didn’t turn to pick you up until I pulled my pistol.”

Allenson stared at him unable to grasp that anyone would think that him important enough to assassinate. The suggestion was preposterous but then he remembered the car’s crewman looking down at him impassively while he hung by one hand.

Maybe Hawthorn had a point.

 

Phoenix In Shadow – Chapter 08

Phoenix In Shadow – Chapter 08

Chapter 8.

“What, young Prince? You thought my skills suited only to metalwork?” The Spiritsmith was dipping a pearlescent cloth into some other liquid that shimmered like moonlight.

Kyri saw Tobimar give a wry smile. “I suppose I did assume that, yes. Clearly I was mistaken.”

“When making armor, can one neglect the padding, the straps, the parts that make it truly wearable and secure? And if these be weak, will they not define the weakness of the armor?” The Spiritsmith’s voice, she noted, was not angry or sarcastic, merely instructive, as he watched closely the way the cloth swirled and coiled without even the slightest touch from his hand. “And many are the forms of armor; I know them all, from woven bamboo and leather to chain and scale, solid plate and metal cloth, all the forms and types that have ever been imagined, these I know, as I know all weapons, forge all weapons, here, whether they be blades of metal or mauls of kerva wood, nets woven of shadow and light or a bow to call down the stars.”

“And a good thing, too,” said Poplock from a different corner of the forge. The little Toad was sitting on an anvil, surrounded by hundreds of tiny gears, springs, levers, and other less identifiable components; he was hammering on some new piece of metal even as he spoke. “If you were always working metal, I wouldn’t be able to use your anvil.”

“Ha! True enough, my friend. But for one such as yourself, who has already taught himself much of the craft of metal and the way of machines, I am glad to lend you the use of the forge and what materials you find; even building your largest creations will take but little of what I have.”

Kyri was glad to hear that cheerful tone in the Spiritsmith’s voice again. For the first few days after the Black City had arrived, it had seemed he might not emerge from his shock. But on the fifth day, he had strode out from his private chambers and slammed his massive fist on the table so hard it had cracked the solid stone. “Enough!” he had said. “Terrible the days upon us, and worse to come; but that calls me to action such as I have not had in ages gone, and you are the first who need me.”

She saw Tobimar look to another part of the workshop, where two new swords sat within a glowing pit that glowed with soft golden radiance; they were nearly ready, according to the Spiritsmith.

“So,” she said, “what exactly is that stuff?”

“This?” the massive Sauran said, indicating the swirling material in the vat. “Woven from the webs of the stormsnare, the great spiders of the Khalals. One of the strongest of cloths, and capable of holding strongly to great virtues of power.”

“Stormsnares? You mean the Charahil, the Winds that Walk?” Tobimar said in surprise. “I’ve never encountered anyone who successfully took any of their webs; those who claimed to be hunting them… never returned.”

“Hunting them? How barbarous. The Charahil are wise and ancient as a people, and nothing like the Doomlocks and other monstrous spider-kin. I killed none for these webs; rather, I trade with them, and gain much from the exchange.”

Kyri smiled, remembering a similar question about a vat of Dragon’s blood. “Do you get all your materials voluntarily?”

The Spiritsmith bared his immense bladed teeth in a grin. “Not nearly all, no. Just those that I can. Demon blood and bone and hide, these are not given willingly, to name one obvious example. Many indeed are the monstrous creatures whose bodies yield materials peculiarly appropriate for my work, and most of them will not donate of themselves so freely either.”

He reached in and pulled the stormsnare fabric from the vat; the liquid seemed to bead and run off as though the cloth was waxed… but there was now a new moonlight sheen to the material. “Excellent. This will be a fine foundation for your new armor, Tobimar.”

“I don’t want to impose –”

“There is no imposition,” the massive scaled smith replied, spreading the cloth wide on a granite table. “Soon enough I will have to travel elsewhere – for surely my King and kinsman Toron will have need of my skills now. But you three will be traveling into the heart of much of this evil, and I will ensure that you are all three well protected.” He managed a wry smile. “Khoros knew this would happen, and thus your presence here is as clear a command to me as though he were here to give it.”

“Not to pressure you… but how long until the swords and the armor are done?”

“Your swords… another day and a half. Most of that, however, is infusing the various powers and assuring that they are permanently affixed to the blade in their essence. I expect that I shall complete this armor in that time. It is not, of course, nearly able to match the Raiment of a Justiciar in most aspects, but it will protect you far better than your current equipment and will have certain virtues of its own… as well as being exceedingly light and not bulky, so as not to interfere with your style of combat.”

Kyri nodded. “You mean unlike my style, which is generally more to hit things harder until they break.”

Both Tobimar and the Spiritsmith gave a snort of laughter. “You do yourself something of a disservice, Phoenix Justiciar,” the Sauran smith said, “but yes, in essence. You have more need of mighty defenses and slightly less of movement – though as you are already aware your Raiment impedes you very little.”

“Yes,” Kyri agreed. “For its bulk it is very light, yet strong.” She remembered other things she’d felt in battle. “And has that peculiar trait of my sword, as well.”

“Peculiar… ah, indeed. You mean the fact that its lightness is only perceived by yourself, but that it retains all its mass to resist blows as the metal from which it is forged.”

“I’d noticed that,” said Tobimar, “though more its opposite, with Thornfalcon.”

“Yes, the lighter blades of the Justiciars are forged with the ability to strike and withstand blows as though they were much greater than they are,” agreed the Spiritsmith. He began to mark the cloth – delineating a pattern for the armor purely by eye, it seemed to Kyri. There were no templates, nothing to show Tobimar’s measurements and ensure its fit, yet she was certain that when the Spiritsmith was done the new armor would fit Tobimar as though it were a second skin.

“So in two days or so, you will be ready to depart,” he said, picking up the earlier thread of conversation. “You may make free with my supplies for that journey; I myself will be departing shortly after.”

“Departing?” Kyri repeated, bemusedly. “I remember you saying something about that earlier, but honestly I thought you lived here always!”

“In the normal way of things, I do,” the huge Sauran agreed, going over and checking the swords sitting in their shining pit. “But the Black City has come to Zarathan, and I know that my King will be mobilizing all he can muster to confront the armies that will – beyond doubt – soon march from those gates. I will go to them, that they can have my aid; perhaps I, who have walked the world far longer even than they, can help them find other allies, even call the Great Dragons themselves to awaken – if they can, for the cycle turns, and not in our favor, I think.” He looked distant. “So I have gone to them before, I can sense, even though the faded memories of the Chaoswars past. When the great wars have begun, then I must heed the call of those who need my arms and armor to stave off the darkness that ever threatens to fall.”

Tobimar nodded. “Of course, that makes sense. So we’ll be heading for Moonshade Hollow while you head for Zarathanton.” He shook his head. “I just wish we knew more about the place, but Kyri says no one knows anything about it – that even Rivendream Pass isn’t known much past its entrance, and there’s a lot of miles of the pass to go through.”

Kyri nodded, looking into the nonexistent distance. “Rumors in Evanwyl say that the Hollow’s really a pretty big place, ringed with mountains, and in the middle there’s supposed to be Darkmoon Lake, but… that’s rumor. No one’s ever confirmed anything except that there’s really dangerous things that like to come out of Rivendream Pass.”

“There is one who may know something of the Hollow, and perhaps even of its past,” responded the Spiritsmith, returning to the table with the cloth laid out upon it. “Knowing that you would wish such counsel, yet have little enough time left to waste in travel, I have called to him, in the hope that he will come here, rather than force you to journey thence. And I believe he shall.”

To say she was startled was putting it mildly; everyone who had ever journeyed into Rivendream pass had either never returned, or retreated to safety after going no farther than a few miles. And its past was before the last Chaoswar, which meant that no one should be able to recall anything of it clearly. “Who, sir?”

“That would be me,” said a voice from behind them, at the entrance to the forge.

Kyri whirled.

Standing in the entry, holding a staff nearly covered with glittering runes and bound with black metal, blond hair flowing to his shoulders, with strange blocky armor that reminded her of that which young Ingram had worn and a black cloak slung over his shoulders, was a figure out of legend, a picture from a storybook.

“The Wanderer,” Kyrie breathed, feeling a thrill of awe through her.

Tobimar was also staring in disbelief, and even the usually relaxed Poplock’s eyes were wider.

He bowed low before them. “I suspect that my reputation exceeds me, but I am, indeed, Erik Arisia, the Wanderer.”

Kyri found herself opening her mouth, and knew she was about to start absolutely babbling questions. No! she told herself sternly. The last thing he needs is someone asking him questions about his old adventures – whether he really had struck down the great dragon Frostreaver with a single blow of his staff, or outwitted one of the Nine Kings of Night by simply accepting his soul within, or whether he and Larani Darkwood had…

“I… Sir, I had never expected… you came here?”

He laughed – a very human and ordinary laugh, and suddenly she didn’t see a legend, just a young-appearing man of about twenty-five to thirty, leaning on a staff and amused by her stuttering question. “Relax, Kyri. I know I’ve got quite a rep, but don’t be overawed. And yes, I came here instead of lurking in my stronghold waiting to mess with you on the way in. When the old lizard makes that kind of request I figure he’s got a good reason for it.”

There was something familiar – yet alien – about the way he spoke. Tobimar’s eyes narrowed. “Forgive me, sir… but you sound almost like…”

“… like your friend Xavier? Yes, he and I share something of the same background.”

“So it is true! You came here from the sister world too!”

“Most of what they say about me is true,” he agreed. “And most of it is false, and most of it’s also exaggeration and confusion. Some of that’s my doing, a lot of it’s just the way things get repeated.”

“How did you know my name?” she asked after a moment, trying to figure out if he was just being obscure or meant something by all that. “Oh, wait. The Spiritsmith –”

“Didn’t have to tell me. Evanwyl’s not very far from the Broken Hills, and once you started raising something of a ruckus I made sure I know who was who over there.”

A thought struck her. “Do you know how to find the Retreat?”

The Wanderer chuckled. “Know how? Well, sort of. I could probably do it myself, if I wanted to. But I can’t tell you how to do it. I have … a kind of unique position with respect to godly magics, something I can’t lend to you. And I’ve got some other work to do, now that I’ve been pulled out of my shell.” He tilted his head, then nodded. “But I think – when the time comes, which isn’t yet – you’ll find a way in yourself.”

“What do you know about this whole situation?” Poplock asked.

 

“That’s a nice generic question,” the Wanderer said with a grin. “I know quite a bit about parts of it – a lot of parts you won’t care about. But I can tell you something interesting about Moonshade Hollow. Not details – I haven’t actually been very far inside and that once was a while back – but there is something in there – a god, a mystical ward, something – that suppresses or at least affects the operation of various mystical powers. I think that applies to godly powers, even.”

Tobimar frowned. “So Kyri’s powers… won’t work?”

“I don’t think it’s quite that bad, but my guess is that they’ll be more limited. Moonshade Hollow isn’t the only place like that – Elyvias, for instance. If Moonshade Hollow is like Elyvias, you probably will find a lot more, oh, gadgetry – magic placed into items in one way or another. Summoners and Gemcallers will be a lot more common than your standard wizard like me.”

“Ha! You, a standard wizard,” said Poplock. “That’s funny.”

The Wanderer acknowledged that with a laugh. “Okay, fair enough. I use a lot of standard wizardly tricks, though, and those were pretty damped down in both Elyvias and Moonshade Hollow.”

“What about Rivendream Pass?”

The Wanderer grimaced as he wandered up and glanced into the pit where Tobimar’s swords were sitting. “Oh, that’s as nasty as you think it is. Moonshade Hollow’s definitely got something of really dark nature in it, and the Pass is like a crack in a tank of something nasty; the nasty stuff flows along it until it dries out. And when it dries out it hardens. In this case, that means you keep getting monsters showing up. It’s a dangerous route, but about the only one you can take.”

“Toron said you might know something of the Hollow’s past?” Tobimar asked.

The Wanderer turned and looked at Tobimar quietly for a moment; Kyri was suddenly struck by the intensity of both mens’ blue eyes, eyes that were as nearly identical as hers and Xavier’s. “I am not immune to the effects of the Chaoswars,” he said finally. “But I am… more resistant, I suppose you could say, than others. So I do know a bit. I remember Heavenbridge Way, and that it was a green and pleasant place, a fine journey with a great road that ran from one side to the other, to end in the realm of the Lords of the Sky.” He nodded to Tobimar. “A land that was called Silavarian, which in the ancient Dragon’s tongue means, roughly, the Land of the Eight-Starred Sky.” Tobimar heard the Spiritsmith repeat the name, as though recognizing something of distant memory. The Wanderer went on, “Or maybe of the Sky of Eight Stars on the Land – it’s clearly a contraction of some sort and figuring out the missing pieces isn’t easy.”

“Silavarian,” repeated Poplock. “That could become ‘Silverun’ very easy.”

“Very,” agreed Tobimar. “Anything else?”

“Some. Though both Evanwyl and Silavarian were small, they both had power and influence considerably greater than their size. Myrionar was at its peak of power then, worshipped by many across the continent, and Evanwyl was the center of the faith. And the Lords of the Sky…” he grinned again. “There was a good reason for that name. They had either discovered a secret, or developed a technique, which allowed them to make airships, that traded across the continent, and by the end were well on their way to helping to unite most of the countries – not under one flag, but in trade and better understanding. Powerful enough to travel without concern of attack by any save a Dragon in the air, swift, much more reliable and less able to be interfered with than teleportation or other such spells, the airships of the Lords were the bedrock of trade and diplomatic communications.”

Kyri felt cold and knew Tobimar had the same thoughts. “And that’s why it was singled out by the Demons in the Chaoswar.”

The Wanderer was grave. “I would guess so, yes. With the usual disruption by the forces unleashed in a Chaoswar, only the Lords’ ships could have maintained any sort of cohesion between countries. They had to be taken down. The fact that – according to strong rumor – they were blessed of Terian and held the Seven and the One merely made them a greater target.”

Kyri saw Tobimar nod, at once more solemn and more confident. Of course. This is what he and his people have been searching for, and now the Wanderer’s finally confirmed everything he hoped to believe.

Then Poplock said, “So… what are you hiding?”

The Wanderer raised an eyebrow. “How do you mean?”

“You’re good at ducking and weaving, but so am I.” The little toad squinted at him narrowly. “You didn’t answer my question, really. Just diverted off into talking about what you knew about the Hollow, but I didn’t ask about that, I asked what you knew about the situation. And I think you know a lot. You’re the guy they say the gods tread lightly around, that’s not bound by destiny, that’s faced down Dragons and devised weapons against demons, that’s tricked one of the Nine Kings with a handful of sand and his own pure will. You’re living a hop or two from Evanwyl. I think you know what’s going on.”

Kyri turned to look at the Wanderer, who was smiling bemusedly at Poplock. “Cogent and well stated, little Toad. I don’t know everything that’s going on. But I do know a lot more about it than you do. And I’m not going to be able to tell you much.”

“Why not?” Kyri demanded. “Do you like playing games with people? That’s not what the stories say!”

Now there was no sign of a smile on the Wanderer’s face; instead there lines of worry, of pain that had not been visible before. “No, I don’t. It is not that I don’t want to tell you, Kyri, Tobimar… Poplock. It’s that I cannot. I dare not.” His gaze caught hers. “Recall the words that Myrionar spoke to you, the night It called you to its aid: ‘What I know would be too dangerous for you now, and there is still much hidden from me‘, yes?”

She was stunned. Only five people other than herself had she ever told of that particular speech: Aunt Victoria, Toron, Tobimar, Poplock, and Xavier Ross. “How do you know that?”

“Because Myrionar told me,” he answered, and his voice was cold iron. “And those words are just as true now. There are truths you cannot – you must not – know.”

Tobimar’s fists clenched. “So. You, like Khoros… perhaps even with Khoros… are playing a chessmaster, using us like pieces on your board, pushing us to perform some set of acts you need done.”

“Yes… and no,” he said quietly. “Your wills are your own. In fact, they must be your own. It is just that there are things you must do in your own way, without direction or control. In fact, if I were to attempt to direct you, to tell you everything I know, or part of it, I would likely destroy everything we all hope to accomplish. Even though I know that there will be points at which not knowing something could get you all killed, and that, too, will destroy everything we hope to accomplish.”

Kyri stared at him, anger, concern, and confusion making a nauseating mix in her gut. “What do you mean?” She made a leap of intuition. “A prophecy. You have a prophecy.”

For a moment, that smile returned, sharp and lopsided, too knowing yet edged with sadness. “Not… precisely. Though, perhaps, close enough for your purposes.”

“A prophecy we cannot be told?”

He sighed, turned away, looked at the cold fire on the other side of the room. “Telling… can change the actions of others. Sometimes knowing can be worse than not knowing.”

“Explain that,” Poplock said after a moment.

The Wanderer rubbed his neck. “Hmm. How to put it… All right. Imagine that I had dropped by Pondsparkle a little before you guys hit your panic mode. I come in, let you know what’s going on, maybe give you some assistance in getting that group shut down. Then what happens?”

Poplock scratched his head. “Well…”

“Poplock doesn’t leave his hometown,” Tobimar said slowly. “Or at least he doesn’t leave it at the same time. So he’s not there in the Temple when I’m cornered.”

Kyri felt a dull ache of grim understanding and continued for him. “So the two of them never meet, and aren’t there at the murder of the Sauran King. And don’t join with Xavier. So nobody’s there to distract Thornfalcon…”

The Wanderer nodded slowly. “I don’t like the term ‘playing’ in this circumstance… but at the same time, it’s appropriate. We – including you – are playing a game of bluffs, of shadow-moves and strategies and tactics that interact with each other on a thousand layers. Even an apparent disaster may lead to victory, but if someone KNOWS about that apparent disaster, they may choose the apparently better path, and lead us to real disaster. It’s bad enough that I know all of this!” The Wanderer slammed his staff down in frustration, an impact that echoed throughout the forge. “Do you think I don’t want to just set things right? Hell, it’s what I came here for. It’s my job.” He looked up, into a sky beyond the stone above. “But we don’t know everything, especially about our adversary, and one wrong word… could ruin it all.”

Kyri closed her eyes. She thought she could – vaguely – understand what the Wanderer was trying to get across, and it was terrifying, and frustrating, at the same time. But… “Wanderer, can you tell me one thing?”

He looked at her steadily. “I don’t know. Depends on the one thing. But ask.”

She looked at her two friends, then took a breath. “Did Myrionar tell me truly otherwise? If … we have faith in this, will we come through? Can I truly have full measure of justice and vengeance, can I find the true enemy behind everything and take them down? Can we all survive this?”

He looked at her steadily, his expression now so carefully controlled it gave away nothing. “I can answer that. You can come through. You can survive. But there is no certainty that you will, and much will depend on your choices – all of your choices. We don’t know all the details; Khoros doesn’t tell anyone everything – sometimes I wonder if he tells himself everything – Myrionar hasn’t revealed everything It knows to me, I’ve got secrets I can’t tell them, and of course our opposite numbers do their level best to tell us nothing at all. I can’t warn you, even if I wanted to, of many specifics. A lot of this really, truly is on your shoulders, not just a set of moves plotted out in advance. I honestly do not know exactly what waits for you in Moonshade Hollow… just that you three, and only you three, can face it and emerge to victory.

“And that is all I can tell you.”

Kyri felt for a moment that she might burst from the frustration, but then took a breath. Let it go.

Tobimar looked little different, and she saw him do something very similar. “Well… I thank you for what you could tell us, sir,” he said. “You did, in fact, tell us some things that will be very useful. Being warned that our powers will be limited in the Hollow… it’s sure a lot better to know that ahead of time.”

The Wanderer nodded, then smiled again. “Another minor correction… I didn’t say that all your powers would. Unless I miss my guess, your abilities should be very little affected, as yours – and your friend Xavier’s – are not, precisely, magical in origin, nor from some outside source like the gods.”

“But I’d better prep and load up now,” Poplock said wryly, looking at his stuff spread out over the anvil, “because I’m starting out behind and now my brand-new magic’s going to have a brand-new handicap.”

 

Into The Maelstrom – Snippet 30

Into The Maelstrom – Snippet 30

“Room for a little’un,” Todd said, cheerfully, planting his back firmly against the rear bulkhead with the air of a man who would brook no argument on the matter.

The gunner gave up and sat down behind the harpoon. Allenson leaned over from the co-gunner’s seat to put his head close to Todd’s.

“What are you playing at, nephew?” he asked.

“Colonel Hawthorn gave me strict instructions to remain at your side at all times, uncle.”

“Colonel Hawthorn is an old woman with a paranoiac streak.”

Todd folded his arms indicating that he was immovable on the subject.

“Nevertheless, he was most insistent and I would not wish to disappoint him.”

Allenson gave up.

The frame lifted and phased almost immediately into the Continuum. After a short jump it semi-dephased low over a flat grey landscape of an ice sheet. Low rounded rocks thrust through the ice behind them, rising to jagged peaks inland.

“Can you hear me, general?”

The hunt captain’s voice sounded in Allenson’s helmet.

“Loud and clear,” Allenson replied in the time-honored response.

“The rocks mark the edge of the continent. We’ll move out to the edge of the ice sheet to look for plankton blooming in the mineral rich upwelling currents. That’s where we’ll find spirotrichs.”

The ice sheet started to crack and break up in the heavy swell a few hundred meters from the rocks. According to Allenson’s pad, the world ocean ran right around Icecube’s equator so there was nothing to stop the waves building into massive proportions. After a couple of hundred meters more the sea was ice free except for chopped up fragments.

Like most people, Allenson had noticed over the years that solid water, ice, was lighter than its liquid phase. Icecubes floated in a cocktail but he had never considered the ramifications of this peculiar property before. It occurred to him that if ice sank then Icecube’s ocean would soon be solid with a thin veneer of water on top. Life would never get past the bacterial phase. Presumably the same was true of Old Earth and many other worlds.

The craft turned parallel to the ice edge. It cruised slowly along snaking out to sea and back. The gunner undid his seatbelt and stood up to look over the side so Allenson did likewise. All he saw was heaving grey sea and fragments of ice. It occurred to him that he had no idea what a spirotrich looked like. He checked in his datapad for a picture without success. Recorded data were more concerned with the economics of spirotrich ambrein than the organisms themselves.

He ran a general search on spectacular plankton feeding organisms. The pad came up with an extinct air breathing fish on Old Earth called a whale. Apparently this was the largest animal ever to evolve on humanity’s home world. Intrigued he wondered how a species with such a large biomass and fast metabolism could feed on tiny one celled organisms.

The answer when he found it was blindingly obvious. The food chain was all about productivity rather than biomass. Plankton had staggeringly fast turnover rates with massive productivity compared to the population of the whales that fed on them.

He also discovered that evolution on Icecube had failed to produce anything resembling a mollusk or vertebrate so presumably spirotrichs couldn’t be all that large. He prepared himself for disappointment.

The gunner shifted suddenly bumping into Allenson in the crowded compartment. The man shaded his eyes and looked down at the ice sheet. The craft descended and moved shoreward. The blades in the turbines started up one by one, rotors whining as they came up to speed, causing the craft to vibrate. The craft fully phased into reality while in the air. Color bled into the landscape and Allenson noticed that the sea had an orange tinge.

The pilot handled the transition well from frame field to true flight with only a slight drop and wobble as he adjusted the rotors. These could swivel to provide horizontal thrust in any direction but tilted blades had to bite that bit harder to maintain lift. This required more power from the engines causing the noise to rise to a scream that made talking difficult.

Allenson had only ever been in an air car once before as a child. He’d been persuaded to ride in a modern copy of an antique vehicle giving rides at fairs. Todd whooped in pleasure but it was safe to say Allenson had not enjoyed the experience.

The car lurched into a tightly banked turn to the left. Allenson’s stomach made a counter rotation to the right.

He put his pad away and examined the bare ice but saw nothing of note. He looked quizzically at Todd who shrugged. Noticing the exchange the gunner pointed to where there was a moving darkness on the ice. Allenson thought it a cloud shadow but now he looked again something moved under the sheet.

The shadow passed the ice edge and a bulge of water formed under the waves causing the tops to break away in wind-blown spray speckled with orange. The harpooner noticed his puzzled expression.

“The plankton are orange,” the gunner said putting his head close to Allenson’s ear.

The spirotrich broke surface. Allenson found that he was not disappointed at all. The beast was massive, perhaps a hundred meters long, an orange-tinged, semi-transparent, cone-shaped worm with a long trailing tail. There were no fins that he could see and the open end of the cone was at the front. Waves of spirals descended into the mouth of the cone turning rapidly counter clockwise such that the spirotrich rotated slowly in the opposite direction. It was a surreal sight, almost hypnotic.

The car moved closer until the individual meter-long cilia that gave the illusion of waves could be seen beating. The cilia pushed water down the gullet and out through slits near the tail. The system served for both jet-propulsion and filter feeding. There was no sign of a brain or central nervous system, indeed, little evidence of organs within the vast body at all. It seemed to be mostly jelly. Spirotrichs were huge, dumb, simple beasts.

Plankton accumulated in dense orange sacks near the water exit slits before some process pushed the material through the jelly towards the head. The plankton lent the whole organism its orange-brown shade. Modified cilia around the mouth of the cone projected outwards. No doubt they carried sense organs like simple eyes and chemo-receptors.

The gunner pulled down a large red-handled lever at the base of the harpoon gun. He took hold of the double handed trigger grip and swung the gun left-right, up-down to check the gimbals moved freely. The spirotrich submerged and the car moved ahead to intercept at its next broach. The gunner pointed the weapon down over the starboard bow, clearly expecting the pilot to position the target on that flank. Allenson was intrigued to find out how the gun would work. It wasn’t going to kill the spirotrich with a single shot. How do you “harpoon” a mass of jelly?

The spirotrich broke through the surface of the water again and fell back in a great splash of foam. The gunner fired. The electrical flash around the muzzle burned green lines on Allenson’s retina. He leaned out over the side to watch. Cable spun out of a power reel with a loud whine that sounded even over the turbofans. It was the sort of nail down a blackboard noise that made your teeth curl. The harpoon struck true about a third of the way down the spirotrich’s body, slicing easily into the jelly.

 

Polychrome – Chapter 30

Ryk has decided that this will be the last snippet.

Polychrome – Chapter 30

Chapter 30.

Polychrome stood with a jerky haste uncharacteristic of her, and Iris looked at his daughter with a raised eyebrow.

“Well!” she said, a bright and brittle smile on her face. “I… don’t think we should be prying into any private life of our hero!” She gestured to close the viewing pool as she walked quickly away. “I… I really should be practicing. Nimbus says I need more training!” The doors of the Rainbow Throneroom closed behind her.

I do not know whether to be relieved, or worried. Or furious. It was not usual for the Lord of the Rainbow to be indecisive. He turned back to the Pool, which despite Polychrome’s gesture had remained open; Iris Mirabilis intended to see the truth for himself. Did I mis-read the Prophecy? Is he something other than I thought? Less constant, or weaker, or simply with a weakness all too common for Men?

The beautiful Princess of Pingaree was leaning close to Erik Medon, and one of his hands was slowly reaching out, touching the night-blackness of her hair, so different from the golden sunshine of Iris’ daughter.

And in that moment the hand pulled back, Erik rolled to his feet, and backed off, muttering a curse from his own land.

Zenga looked shocked, and not a little disappointed, even hurt. “Lord Erik –”

“Sorry. Sorry, Zenga. And believe me, part of me will be and already is telling me how stupid stupid stupid I’m being… but I can’t. I just… can’t. I… you’re beautiful. There’s nothing wrong with you at all, I mean, you’re like any fantasy a guy like me might have…” he trailed off. “Damn, that doesn’t sound good either. I…”

Iris felt a chill stealing back over his heart. No relief. No reprieve.

Zenga rose slowly and looked at him, hurt and disappointment giving way to real concern. She could see that whatever was bothering the older man was not some random impulse or anything having to do with her. “Are you all right?”

Erik laughed hollowly. “No, I’m stupid, that’s what I am. I’m here in the wilds of Faerie with a talented, smart, beautiful princess who can match me stride-for-stride and who’s just told me that she likes me enough to make a play for me that even I can’t miss, and I go throw it in her face for… for what? Some fantasy that’s impossible even here?”

Gradually, Zenga’s expression changed from concern to a sort of tragic amusement. She giggled and then clapped both her hands over her mouth, but that still didn’t stop the giggles.

Iris watched as Erik’s face registered hurt puzzlement. “Hey, come on, this isn’t all that funny to me!”

“I… I’m sorry, Lord Erik, but…” another unladylike guffaw came from her, “… oh, by the Pearls themselves, you poor man. You’ve fallen in love with the Daughter of the Rainbow!”

Erik stood frozen in position for several seconds before he finally bowed his head. “It’s that obvious.”

“With what you said… yes.” The Pingarese Princess brushed strands out of hair from her eyes, pearl-and-gold bracelets chiming slightly.

“I don’t see what’s so funny about it, though.”

“It’s not really…” Zenga seemed to be struggling to figure out a way to explain it. “It’s just that… Erik, a Faerie Princess like her, a true Faerie, they can’t fall in love with a mortal.”

“What? Then how is it there’s so many mostly-mortal, part-faerie types out there?”

“All right… it’s only almost impossible. It’s happened, oh, three or four times. But love among the true Faeries… it’s almost instinct. Usually they don’t meet anyone they love, though they can have lots of friends – I’ve heard Polychrome herself does. When they find the right person, if there is a right person, they’ll be drawn to them by a… resonance, a tie between them. And it’s almost always another Faerie. Even that doesn’t always work out,” she continued. “One of the stories in the library is about Infiernos and Undine – a Fire Faerie who fell in love with a Water Faerie.”

Iris saw that penetrate despite Erik’s personal upset. “Oh, ouch. Neither one’s realm or even personal essence compatible.”

Zenga nodded. “It’s a tragedy. I don’t like reading those much.”

Erik gazed up into the night sky. It seemed for a moment that he was looking straight at Iris, and the Rainbow Lord felt a pang of guilt. “Yeah. A tragedy. I wish I could be sensible about this… but I can’t. I was with her for a year, Zenga. She saw me as I came here, and she brought me to Faerie, and she never said a single word to let me know how disappointed she must have been at first. And she spent I don’t know how long helping me. And…” he shook his head. “I dunno. I just know I can’t accept even a marriage of convenience with someone if every time I see them or touch them I see someone else. If all I can see is her.”

Zenga was looking at him sympathetically, but he turned away. “That’s the truth, you see. I tried to tell her father… but I chickened out. The truth? I’m not going to go out there and get myself killed just because of Oz, even because of my childhood dreams. I’m going to do it for her, because Polychrome is all of my dreams in a single one, and dying to protect her is worth it all, every bit of it, and maybe it’s better that way because I don’t know how I’d live after I go back to my life without her.”

Iris did close the pool that time, because he had truly seen enough. A part of me hoped, indeed, that he was untrue. That he could be swayed, and many men would have been. But I was told differently, and truly here is my proof.

And no one but myself to blame in any case. Who gave her tasks that kept her in close contact with the mortal? Who encouraged her and advised her in her work with him? No, King of the Rainbows, this is as much your doing as that of any prophecy…

…because you knew, full well, what kind of motive your daughter would be for such a man. You have turned him into a fell and dangerous weapon, one that is driven by the sole purpose of preserving your daughter’s life.

And that, of course, was the key. She would insist on being present at the battle, and risking her life against forces more than capable of killing her. No better protection could he give her than people whose motive to save her life was even greater than his own, and who were – in the cold light of policy and reason – far more dispensable than either his daughter or himself.

He was not sure how long he sat there brooding when the door opened. “My lord King,” Nimbus said quietly. “Might I speak with you?”

“What is it, Captain?”

“I am wondering exactly what has possessed your daughter, sir, that has caused her to injure seven of my men in practice so severely that they have all gone to the healers?”

“What?”

At his startled expression, Nimbus gave a small wry smile. “I would presume it has something to do with the Hero because she was muttering various disjointed things under her breath. But for whatever reason, she became quite the menace this afternoon.”

“Hmm. Yes.” As I had feared. There is no escaping the ending. “She witnessed the Princess of Pingaree make an… offer of close alliance to Erik Medon.”

Nimbus’ eyebrows vanished into his helmet. “So. And by her reaction we know her heart. I would have hoped Lord Medon be more constant, or at least more considered.”

“He was. Polychrome left at a poorly-timed moment.”

“Ah. The comedy does write itself, I suppose.” Nimbus was silent for a time. “So what do you intend to do about this, Sire?”

Iris sighed and shook his head slowly. “I am afraid… nothing.” He glanced, with a combination of resentment and pity, at the Pink Bear. “I have attempted all the resistance that I dare. The Prophecy seems unaffected.

“So it must play out as it was foretold… and if the best happens and Oz is freed, still will I be mourning in that hour.”

 

Into The Maelstrom – Snippet 29

Into The Maelstrom – Snippet 29

Chapter 9 – Icecube

A full whiteout blizzard obscured the landing ground by Station Forty-Three. They would never have found the place without the automatics. The station itself was an ellipsoid dome half buried in ice and snow. Two open-topped torpedo-shaped frames rather larger than the barge were already parked outside on solid skids shaped like ventral fins.

A repellor field switched on across the pad once Boswell shut down the barge’s frame field. This held off the snow and offered a degree of relief from the biting wind. Even so the chill factor was way down below zero. The travelers wasted no time in making a run for the tunnel that ran out from the dome to the pad. Allenson had brought a heavy coat for inclement weather but this was ridiculous.

The tunnel was empty but a door slid aside when they reached the end to give access to the dome. Inside a stocky man met the party. He had several days’ growth of untidy facial hair under a peaked cap.

“Good evening,” Allenson said, holding out his hand. “My name is …”

“I know who you are, General Allenson,” the man said curtly, ignoring the hand. “The automatics announced you. What I don’t know is why you’re here.”

Buller snorted in amusement.

“So you’re not welcome everywhere, eh, Allenson?”

Buller had not taken Allenson’s lionization by the Arcadians well. Of course, neither had Allenson himself but for a rather different reason.

“I’d hoped for some hospitality for the night and a recharge for my barge’s fuel cells,” Allenson replied, somewhat nettled by the man’s incivility. “Obviously I expect to pay my way.”

“You and your party are welcome to the use of the guest room,” the man said, unbending slightly. “You can buy meals in the staff canteen.”

“And my barge?”

“Won’t be recharged tonight,” the man said with a certain relish. “You may have noticed there’s a little bit of a blow on. The repellor field interferes with the charger.”

“Tomorrow, then.”

“Of course, right after we’ve recharged our own cars.”

The guest room boasted but Spartan accommodation in the form of bunk beds but it was at least warm. A functional staff canteen provided basic meals that suited Allenson but caused a degree of moaning and gnashing of teeth from Buller and Redley. They also took exception that Allenson invited Boswell to eat at the same table as the gentlemen. Allenson was pleased to note that Todd kept his own council on the matter.

None of the staff or employees in the canteen showed overt hostility but there was a definite coolness towards Allenson’s party that had nothing to do with Icecube’s climate. He retired early to his bunk and spent some time on his datapad checking through the news on Icecube’s open access net. He found nothing that he didn’t already know beyond the fact that the station was a private venture by a Brasilian perfume company. He fell asleep before finding out why a perfume company would want a station on a Hinterlands snowball world.

Buller skipped breakfast the next day. After he’d eaten Allenson tracked down the unshaven manager whose name, he discovered, was Whitbee.

This morning Whitbee was all smiles, oozing what he no doubt fondly considered to be charm.

“How pleasant to see you, General Allenson. I trust you slept well?”

Allenson had slept tolerably well despite being woken in the early hours by Buller staggering into the room much the worse from a drinking session with some of the riggers. He gave an appropriate response.

Whitbee clasped his hands to his breast and put on an expression of pious rectitude.

“I regret I have some bad news, General.”

“Oh?”

“Our charger has broken down. I’m sure a mechanic will quickly rectify the problem but there’ll be a short delay before you can be on your way.”

“I see,” Allenson replied.

“We did get one of our cars recharged and the storm has passed so we’ll be sending out a hunt. I thought you might wish to accompany them to pass the time?”

“What do you hunt?” Allenson asked, intrigued.

“Spirotrich.”

Allenson looked blank. Whitbee hastened to explain.

“Spectacular marine organisms that filter feed on the plankton swarming around the edge of the ice sheets. The plankton congregate at the surface so we harpoon spirotrichs when they come up after them. The beasts themselves are valueless but they secrete fecal pellets in their digestive tract that are rich in a complex alcohol called ambrein. It’s prized for stabilizing perfumery so is valuable stuff back home. Terran women in particular will pay exotic prices for ambrein-based perfume.”

“And the chemical can’t be cheaply replicated in an industrial process?”

Whitbee shrugged.

“Sure, but the top perfumiers swear that the artificial compound is too pure and lacks the necessary complex organic contaminants that give natural ambrein its unique qualities.”

Allenson suspected that natural ambrein based perfumes were simply another way for the ultra-rich to display their status through luxury unobtainable to the merely wealthy. Not that it mattered. Wealth display was a valuable way to recycle money back down the social system in a form that didn’t alarm the aristocracy. Redistribution of wealth without revolution was always a tricky issue in human society. Any system that had fat cats competing for the privilege of throwing cash at the proles was to be encouraged.

“I believe I would find the hunt fascinating. Thank you, Master Whitbee.”

“We’ll lend you a spare survival suit. I’m sure we have one somewhere that will fit you,” Whitbee said measuring up Allenson’s sizable frame with his eyes. “It gets pretty cold over the ocean.”

The dresser finally located a suit that more or less fitted after a search in the deeper recesses of his lockers. Suitably clad, Allenson headed out to one of the cars. The air was still and clear. You could see right up to where the blue sky was so dark it was almost black.

The car had the usual retracted frame pylons but what was unusual were the heavy turbofans mounted in pairs at the bow and stern. They must be incredibly power-hungry and Allenson could not for the life of him see what use they could be. No doubt all would be revealed.

Technicians prepared the craft. They pulled covers off the open crew area to reveal a large harpoon gun on three hundred and sixty degree gimbals in the bow.

Allenson introduced himself to the hunt captain.

“I hope I won’t be in the way.”

“Not at all, general, Master Whitbee has made the necessary arrangements. I’ve arranged for you to ride up front with the gunner where you’ll get a good view.”

Allenson climbed up a ladder affixed to the bow to enter the small front compartment partly filled with the harpoon gun. The only other crewman stationed there was the gunner.  The captain and the other two crew members rode at the rear where the flight controls were located. The crew compartments were separated by bulky fuel cells so it was not possible to move between the two in flight.

The crew completed the final checks. They just switched on the drive when Todd hurtled out of the tunnel, still zipping up a survival suit. The captain stood up to wave him away but Todd ignored the man. He hauled himself into the crowded front compartment as the pylons extended and the field formed.

“There’s only room for two up here. You’ll have to get off,” the gunner said, moving to intercept Todd who brushed him aside.

 

Phoenix In Shadow – Chapter 07

Phoenix In Shadow – Chapter 07

Chapter 7.

Aran stumbled, fell to his knees, remained in that position, unmoving, for long moments, waiting for his head to clear. I’ve been … driving myself hard. Far too hard.

A part of him tried to force him to lunge back to his feet, but now he knew that much of that was anger at himself, rage and guilt. “Sit still,” he told himself, and sat down. He was near his destination, though he saw nothing to indicate that a path to the Hells lay here, in the tangled jungle of the land that was, itself, called Hell; but if there was, he would not be wise to come before Kerlamion exhausted, weary of mind and body both.

He forced himself to sit, to eat of his rations, to drink water. But even sitting still, in the quiet greenery, he was tense, trying to watch everywhere, for he had learned all too well in the last weeks that danger could be anywhere.

This place deserved its name, he felt. He had spent years as a Justiciar of Myrionar – or, as he was now being honest with himself, as a false Justiciar empowered by what was almost certainly a great demon, perhaps drawing power directly from the King of All Hells himself. But though his true nature as a Justiciar had been dark, he had in fact spent much of his life as a defender of Evanwyl, protecting it because Myrionar, the so-called patron of Evanwyl, was too weak, or too uncaring, or both, to do so.

In that time he had faced many enemies – bandits and murderers and other ordinary people turned against their own kind, yes, but also many worse things. The blade-legged doomlock spiders, monstrous creatures which could lash out with cutting forelegs to drag you, slashed and bleeding, to their deadly venomous fangs, or who might first entangle you in paralyzing webs before closing in; graverisen, fearsome shambling undead things that seemed slow, clumsy, until they would suddenly scent the living and rush upon them with terrifying speed, rending men limb from limb and feasting on their entrails; flame-ants, dwelling within the earth and carrying the fires of the interior with them, swarming and consuming everything they touched like a conflagration; even, once, something for which he had no name, an armored monstrosity the length of a dozen wagons that came ravening out of Rivendream Pass, with a mouth like a cavern of blades and claws that cut stone like grass, and healing so swiftly that wounds closed even as the blade passed through the flesh.

But such things were the ordinary here. All his powers had been needed, every day, as he made his way through the twisted, hideous contradictory terrain of the Circle of Hell. He could not imagine how the true Hells could be much worse than this place, where he had seen a floating black cloud, like a thunderhead come to earth, turn and pursue a creature, rend it apart with screaming wind and crackling bolt, leave a shriveled, desiccated, scattered corpse behind; where a great stone had suddenly moved, become a hunger-howling mass of granite which he had to trick into a fall and shattering hundreds of feet below; where a lovely flower had suddenly bent down towards him, opening a maw that dripped corrosive sap upon him that even left a scar on his nigh-invulnerable armor.

He had often thought of turning back; but now, he knew, there was nowhere for him to go back to. The false Justiciars knew he had been sent on a special mission; if he returned without that power he sought, they would know his will and courage had failed, and worse he had given up on the oath so fiercely and publicly sworn to their … patron. And before he left he had been told, by that same patron, that Thornfalcon’s fall had torn the veil of secrecy, and because of that he knew that Evanwyl itself was now no longer his home. He could never walk the streets again as Condor. There was little he knew of the lands beyond, and he didn’t know how he could have made his way through the lands elsewhere, even if their patron allowed him such a simple escape.

And even if he would have, he now held himself in utter contempt, unworthy to return until he truly redeemed himself. Whatever the excuses of rage, of revulsion and terror and denial, he had himself betrayed his father, Shrike. Oh, he had excuses – shock, white-hot anger, unthinking escape from a horror he had never imagined – but the last comment of their patron as he departed had struck deep and reminded him of how Condor was as guilty as the one he sought. “You have little time and a long distance to cover,” their patron had said, smiling falsely from beneath blonde hair and blue eyes, “so make haste. Worry not; we shall tend to Shrike’s body and hold a funeral in your absence.”

I who was so furious at this … Phoenix for leaving my father to rot… I did the same thing in my anger and need to find vengeance.

There were even brief moments he wondered if he deserved to find vengeance. I’ve helped murder people. Should I seek vengeance if there are those out there who would seek the same on me?

The worst of those, of course, would be Kyri Vantage. Condor faced that truth. He’d helped kill her parents – even though it had been Shrike who struck the killing blows. And he’d known what was going to happen to her brother, even though – in all honesty – he couldn’t have done anything about it. He wondered how she was. Maybe she’s found some peace in faraway Zarathanton. I hope so. As long as she’s alive, I know there’s a bright spot out there, somewhere.

He rose and dusted himself off, finally, feeling much more himself. Food, drink and rest; a soldier, or a Justiciar, needs these to keep going. He’d neglected himself from shock, pain, guilt, and desperation, and that could have gotten him killed.

I have to be almost there. Their patron’s directions had been clear and simple – follow specific landmarks that, despite his fears, had been easy to spot, and even in thick jungle he’d been able to find spots to verify his heading often enough to not get lost.

But he had no idea of what to look for after he got there.

Green sunlight gave way to unfiltered gold, and he stepped from the edge of the jungle to see a plain of waving green and rose grasses – with some rippling movement that was not just wind – before him. The plain stretched several miles before him and to either side; towards the horizon, low, jagged, bare mountains rose abruptly, smoking faintly in the lowering sun. On his right, the plain gave way to a dusty, cracked plain with what appeared to be ancient ruins wavering in the distance through the heat of the day. On his left, the plains reached a river, on the other side of which lay a dark-green forest of pines. He shook his head at the warped and contradictory sights. The monsters are bad enough, but this place is insanity incarnate.

Without warning, shadow seemed to boil up from the ground, flow from the air above, and the ground shuddered. He was suddenly assailed by a feeling of such terrifying foreboding and evil that the darkness he had known all his life seemed light and friendly.

And then there was a concussion, a roar and scream of earth and air rent and crushed, and he was blown from his feet, deafened, battered, cast aside like dust before a storm. He tucked and rolled, but all around him he heard creaks and tearing, rending, ripping sounds as the screaming manic wind blasted the forest flat, sending the boles of mighty trees smashing down around him, shattered limbs battering Condor, trying to crush him even through his Justiciar’s Raiment.

The air was cold now and the sunlight gone, and he smelled chill of ice and the scent of decay of eons, and looked up.

He came to his senses slowly, aware by the stiffness in his limbs and dryness of his mouth that he had been gazing in unbelieving horror for minutes with no thought at all, just absolute disbelief and terror.

Before him loomed the Black Wall as told in some of the oldest tales, polished like an obsidian monolith a thousand feet high and more. But even as tall as it was, still beyond it he could see twisted spires, dark buildings, and far beyond, in the center so far off that it would be beyond the horizon, a tower of pure ebony that rose towards the roof of the sky and faded into… elsewhere.

Now he understood his patron’s knowing smiles, Kerlamion’s laugh. There was no passage here to the Hells.

The Hells had come here, to Zarathan itself.

The forest was deathly silent now. Even the worst monstrosities he had seen would have fled, be cowering in their burrows or still running, flying, swimming through the ground until they dropped of exhaustion.

And then there came a sound: the sound of an incalculably huge lock opening.

Directly before him a gate began to slide open in the impregnable black wall. Sterile, sharp white light poured from within that gate, a light so cold and dead that its touch seemed to leach away color and life. Silhouetted against that light was a black form, round in outline but with hints of much worse.

As Condor’s eyes adjusted to the fell light, he could see the Thing more clearly, and wished he couldn’t. An ovoid, leathery-skinned body was supported by four talons like those of a gargantuan bird of prey, and sported night-black wings like a monstrous bat. A long, flexible, wattled neck held a long head that shone like black bone or perhaps the carapace of an insectoid abomination; the dead-white glowing eyes certainly had the pupilless, faceted look of the eyes of most insects, but the mouth was long and jagged, as though the beaked mouth of a snapping turtle had been crossed with that of a wolf, or perhaps a dragon. The long, slender tail included black, bladed spines.

And then it spoke.

“Condor False-Justiciar, step forward.”

The voice was startling. It was pleasant, gentle, sweet, like that of a young girl – though beneath and behind it, almost beyond the range of hearing, was an undertone that sounded like distant screams. It was the last sort of voice he would have expected from that monstrosity, and it added a crowning touch to the horror.

But I long since left my choices behind. Shakily, he walked towards the monster.

It smiled, a flexing of a face that should be incapable of flexure, another horrifying tiny detail. “Well done. You have arrived precisely as directed. The King of All Hells will be pleased indeed, for to cross the land called Hell is a considerable feat.” It turned and moved a wing down, an ebony ramp. “I am to bring you to the King immediately.”

The wing was frighteningly solid beneath his boots; it did not feel like a leather pinion, but rather a bridge of stone. The creature’s back was softer, dry and flexible as the hide of the elephant Condor had seen once; yet there was something repellent about it, perhaps a faint scent of dry decay, as of a house abandoned in the desert for centuries.

Smell of decay or no, the Demon – for such Aran knew it had to be, and a powerful one indeed, to be sent on a personal errand for the ruler of the Black City – leapt up and arrowed into the now-darkened sky with speed and agility a smaller creature would envy.

Now Aran could see the city from above, and knew his horror had not reached its limits. The Black City stretched from horizon to horizon, a ten-mile circle of blackness – black walls, ebony buildings, night-shadowed streets, all arranged in perfect circular arcs. The city rose slowly, a vast cone-shaped arrangement of structures and roads all converging on the gargantuan castle in the center, itself echoing the design of the whole: a ring of walls, a ring of towers, and in the center a great single keep that rose up and somehow faded away; it hurt his eyes and mind to look at how it went from something that was to something that was not. At intervals along the great outer walls were guard towers, posts with guards and with great engines of destruction that looked like nothing he had ever seen.

Below, demons – monstrous forms of all shapes and sizes – moved busily. Many were marching, drilling – parts of an army so huge that Aran couldn’t grasp it – but many others seemed to be going about their business as though they lived in an ordinary city. Yet even there something seemed wrong, off, as though even in living daily lives there was something terribly twisted and unnatural about them.

The Demon upon which he rode flew straight up one of the great thoroughfares, a road running true as a sword-stroke to the central tower. The gates of the castle were already open, and nothing challenged his mount as it flew directly up to the door of the central keep itself.

“Here you dismount,” it said in its eerily pleasant voice. “None save those granted audience may enter the Tower of the Black Star.”

Condor said nothing; he wanted to save his breath and his courage for the coming confrontation.

The doorway to the Tower was open, yet nothing could be seen within; it was deadly black. Aran glanced back, but knew there was no choice. I made this decision as soon as I demanded I be given the power for my revenge.

He brought the image of his foster father’s face to his mind, drew strength from the anger he felt as he contemplated that face as he had last seen it: glaring open eyes beneath a fragment of Shrike’s own axe, plunged lethally into his forehead.

With a deep breath, one scented with old decay and something sharper but no less deadly, Aran strode through the doorway.

The echoes of his footsteps… changed as he passed into the Tower; they whirled upward in pitch, then dropped so low as to be beyond hearing, chasing themselves in a rumbling, squeaking chorus around the interior. Within a few steps, the darkness lightened, slightly, and now he could see the Throne.

It stood in the center of the Tower, and the Tower was but a single titanic room, an empty, unadorned space of pure black polished stone a quarter-mile across. The black Throne was simple, a cone that rose from the floor, carved out so that Someone could sit in it, and then continuing up, up, out of sight into darkness, impossibly fading, blending into the void above.

And in the throne sat Kerlamionahlmbana, the Black Star of Destruction, a figure hewn from the darkness darker than his surroundings, with only blazing, eerie blue-white light showing where his eyes were. The black figure was itself surrounded by a faint blue-violet aura, and a distant wailing howl emanated from Kerlamion, as though the air itself feared his presence.

Aran, the Condor Justiciar, felt his heart hammering faster than ever before in his life, even more than when he was confronted with his patron and Thornfalcon’s true power. This was the King of All Hells, and no name had ever been spoken with greater fear, save perhaps only that of the Slayer of Gods, the Hunger without End, the King of Wolves, Virigar – and even he, it was said, would not care to casually offend the one who sat upon the Ebon Throne.

Aran knelt and bowed his head.

“Rise and approach, Condor,” the King of All Hells said, and his voice was both rumble and howl, the sound of air or water being sucked into a void, screaming and growling at once.

Aran stood, feeling his knees trembling. I asked for this. I asked for this. I must move forward. Doomed and damned I may be, but at least I must not fail in following my own course. I will not collapse and be shown a coward here, not now.

Somehow he found the courage to stride forward as though at a review, steps rhythmic and steady as a drumbeat, ignoring the eeriness of the echoes and the deadly darkness that loomed ever higher before him.

“Stop,” commanded the King of All Hells, as Condor had come to within fifty feet of the Throne, and Kerlamion rose to his full height, his nigh-invisible head thirty feet above Condor’s own.

Kerlamion looked down upon him, and there was power in that gaze; the mere regard of the Ruler of the Hells was enough to feel as though a leaden blanket had fallen over Aran. But Condor held tight to his pride and purpose, and raised his head to meet that terrible, blank, flaming stare.

Kerlamion chuckled suddenly, and that was perhaps the most horrid thing Aran had ever heard, causing a sick sweat to spring out across his brow; it was a laugh that had humor and understanding in it, yet mixed with malice and hatred, all twisted and warped by the distortion of sound around the King. “So, Condor, called Justiciar, you come seeking power, power to match and outmatch your enemy, the slayer of the father of your heart?”

“Yes, your Majesty.”

He nodded. “Know, then, that this is a great boon you seek; for you wish a power sufficient to withstand the power of a god, and return against it enough power to break that god’s wards on its last champion. Yet,” and suddenly a blaze of howling blue-white showed as Kerlamion smiled, “yet, in truth, it is well within my power to grant you this boon; for I am called “demon”, but I am as much god as Myrionar. Indeed, I am greater by far, and have faced the Light in the Darkness himself, contested power with Elbon Nomicon, and still I hold my throne and none dare oppose me here.”

I must not be utterly cowed. He is volatile – this I know – but he will not respect weakness at all. “This is true, Majesty, yet the boon was already asked, and you bid me here to receive it, not to impress me with your power, which is indeed beyond compare.”

The deadly blazing eyes narrowed, but the tone showed it was with more amusement than annoyance, and Aran permitted himself to relax the slightest bit. “So. I have devoted some small time to contemplating how best to provide that which you have asked. And seeing you, I now see the best – perhaps the only – true choice. Give me your sword.”

Aran’s hand was already complying, even before he realized it. Disobeying him would be almost impossible. The sensation was itself frightening; he had never found himself so unquestioningly obedient to anyone or anything before. He extended the blade to the King of All Hells, hilt-first.

Kerlamion did not bend down; the Justiciar’s blade Skyvault floated up and hung before the burning blue eyes.

Then Kerlamion reached back and drew forth his own Sword. The blade blazed as black as Kerlamion himself, devouring any light that approached. “The Sword of Oblivion, the Consuming Blade,” the King of Demons said. “Greatest of all weapons, before which none may stand.”

To his astonishment, Aran saw that the outline of the Consuming Blade was nearly identical to his own, merely immensely larger. “There is a kinship between us, Aran of Evanwyl,” Kerlamion said, with another touch of that monstrous humor. “We wield similar blades in much the same way, and for much the same purpose of vengeance against those who have wronged us. So to you… I give much the same power.”

There was a rending sound as though something had torn sky and stone, and a tiny shard split from the Blade of the Demon King and dropped slowly. It shimmered with the terrible blue-white fire, and descended until it touched Skyvault –

And Skyvault vanished. In its place was an identical sword, save that the blade was black as night, glinting with the deadly azure-tinted white power. “A piece of my own weapon I give to you. The Demonshard Blade will strengthen you, guide your hand, and deliver absolute force to your blows. Even against the Phoenix Justiciar of Myrionar it will be unstoppable.”

The Demonshard drifted down to Aran’s upraised hand, and as soon as his fingers touched the hilt he felt a surge of strength, of confidence and power such as he could scarcely believe. Even the King of Hell, while still awe-inspiring, seemed less fearsome. Stunned, he raised his head. “I thank you, Majesty. Is there anything that can withstand this weapon?”

The eyes narrowed and that terrible smile drew a line of consuming dead fire across the face of night. “Its source and parent, my own blade, of course. But other than that? Aran Condor, even were Terian himself to come before you, he would be cut, yea, and the wound pain him for ages to come. Once you have left my presence, I do not believe you shall find anything to withstand the Demonshard. Wield it well in our service, Condor, and I shall be well content.”

Slowly, the King of All Hells seated himself. “You may go.”

The confidence of the Demonshard allowed him to bow calmly and turn, striding to the exit.

But inside, he desperately wanted to run. And a part of him thought, perhaps, that he would be much wiser to cast this blade aside, and keep running.