The God rode
through the northern gates into the ruined city. The sound of the hateful bell
was almost unbearable in his ears, but he would soon silence that. It had taken
a little time to cajole his white army into the city; they were craven cowards
but they would share in his triumph, whether they liked it or not. The kinaam who cowered outside the walls
could stay where they were, as far as he was concerned, until the time came to
complete the final destruction of the city and the expurgation of all traces of
that foul elf-maiden spirit and her cronies.
He saw no sign of life, which was disappointing. He had expected at
least some sort of fight. He no longer believed that there were any hidden
secrets in the city. And what if there were? He was the God – what could
possibly stand in his way? Was he not beyond the mortal and so beyond mortal
fears? Ophia’s mechanical toys were as nothing compared to his control of the
very fabric of the universe. He now had
the cloak that the Archwitch Bea had fashioned for him, guaranteed to withstand
all of the serpent goddess’s feeble magic. A final victory against her would be
so sweet. And after that, why not the great wall to the west? It would surely
be equally flimsy. His rule of sun and
sky would spread everywhere.
For now he could imagine the sure destruction of his foes here and then
a return to Ortia, to pick up the survivors. He thought of the exquisite
pleasure of that young elf maiden and a thousand of her subjects sacrificed in
his Sun Temple, the sky blue knives of his priests bleeding each elf dry and
then He would drop his mask and cloak and feed from their arteries uncloaked,
and grow ever stronger on the blood of the dying. He anticipated the moment
with passionate intensity.
So, first snuff out the bell and then destroy everyone who dared to
oppose his hegemony. It was all so simple and then all of this was His. He
should have dared this deed centuries ago, but now it was the right time. The
Triumph of the Sun God was rising upon the World.
***
John issued
some instructions. He sent Hardacre back to the Bell Tower to help the
ringers. Potentilla he ordered back to
the Vault to guard Kath, as best she could, and with a command to warn her when
the rest of them had fallen, so that she could try to activate the automaton as
a last resort. That left Rem and him.
‘You’re a tracker, yes, Rem?’
Rem nodded.
‘I’m not as good as Captain Viola, but good enough’
‘Let’s see what’s going on’ said John
They scouted north with Rem leading until they came across the advanced
guard of human warriors. They were fanning out through the city very slowly,
with expressions of pain on their face and many with their hands covering their
ears. Most of them stumbled every few steps as if walking were suddenly
unaccountably difficult.
John and Rem hid from them behind a ruined wall.
‘They really don’t like the bell, do they’ whispered John.
‘Bell acts against all those not hurt by tainted curse’ Rem whispered
back, ‘it turns death magic back on itself. Quiena cruel elf god, but
clever’
John looked up and down Rem.
‘Does it affect you at all?’ John asked, without any trace of
accusation in his voice.
Rem considered this for a moment, puzzled. But then John’s meaning
became clear.
‘Curse on my kind gone many ages ago…’ he explained. ‘But yes bell does
affect me. I fear its power, but do not feel it’
John considered this.
‘Yes, I see exactly what you mean’ he said, ‘it is beyond what most
would deem acceptable, but I think that we may yet be very thankful for it’
They hid very easily behind a boulder that sat between the white
warriors and the Tower. No-one would come anywhere near them.
‘I think I should give them a fright’ said John, with his voice still
very quiet, ‘what do you think?’
‘Do no unnecessary hurt, even to these… things,’ insisted Rem.
‘I don’t plan to hurt them – they’re far more useful alive and spooked’
John mumbled under his breath and then traced out a rectangle with his
index finger in the air, as if drawing on an invisible map. Then he shouted ‘fferra’ very loudly.
Across an oblong area of rubble, which covered where almost all of the
white warriors were standing, the air began to crystallise and the ground froze
solid. The acolytes, already terrified, found that their boots were suddenly
stuck to the ground. General panic ensued – about half of the soldiers pulled
their boots free of the ice and ran, slipping and sliding back to the city
walls. The other half, far more foolish, struggled out of their boots and tried
to escape with no footwear. These ones immediately stuck to the ice again, but
this time it was their flesh that they had to lose to escape. Howls of pain echoed
across the city as they fled, their feet torn and bleeding.
Rem smiled grimly. John shrugged.
‘Well, I should have promised that I’d only spare the clever ones. As
you can see, there’s not much you can do about the congenitally stupid’
John gestured for Rem to wait and after a minute or so the ground
warmed up enough for them to walk across it. It was then they saw Whitecloak,
on his horse, angrily addressing the retreating acolytes. He looked unbelievably tall and strong.
Rem gave out an involuntary hiss.
‘It is him’ he said, ‘now he thinks that his moment has come. We must stop him’
John gulped and his flesh crawled horribly. He had experienced this
before – the taint of Tlaxacan death magic emanated a palpable aura, like an
unbearably fetid smell that would never leave one’s nose. Rem’s request sounded like an exceptionally
tall order.
‘I don’t think I can do that, sadly’ he whispered, ‘but I’m sure that I
can slow him down’
Rem nodded grimly.
‘Between us we may achieve something’
John thought about this for a moment.
‘No, this is my job – you need to go to the vault and help in any way
you can there’
Rem shook his head.
‘I will not flinch from this confrontation. My lord would want me to
stand firm’
‘No – that makes little sense. If he can crush me then he can probably
crush you at the same time. Better to give him his flies to swat one at a time’
Rem thought about this and then nodded.
‘Hardacre right to trust you – you seem a wise man’
John grinned, despite his rising
anxiety.
‘Do I? Well, what I’m about to do may well make you change your mind… ’
Rem stood up and began to creep back towards the vault. He spoke no
more to John but looked back at him with his judging slate grey eyes. He had
given his approval.
John took a deep breath and stepped out into the scorching
sunlight. He walked slowly but without
hesitation to where Whitecloak was still haranguing his troops. He wondered how
many times in the past he had been at this point, the sickening point of final
confrontation, and whether he would live to do it again.
‘Are you in charge of these fools?’ he shouted
Whitecloak wheeled on his steed and immediately saw him. He stopped for
a second and then his voice boomed out.
‘I know you, Ismay of Kinspit – you are a witch and an apostate!’
‘That’s flattering’ said John, ‘I never realised that I was quite so
famous’
Whitecloak spurred his horse on towards him. John waited as long as he
could and then clicked his fingers, murmuring ‘adfeilia’. The mighty white stallion, far too big to withstand a
tipping spell, lurched forward and Whitecloak fell over its bucking head. He
landed with a thump.
‘No applause?’ sighed John, ‘it scarcely seemed worth performing
without an audience ’
He stared down at Whitecloak who was struggling on the floor. The God’s
horse galloped off wildly.
‘I’m amazed that you didn’t see that coming’ he said, ‘you might well
be a deity but your horse, although admittedly very grand, clearly isn’t as
holy as you are’
Whitecloak jumped to his feet. His pure white cloak was sullied with
dust and soot from the rubble. He brushed his hands briefly over the garment –
it instantly cleaned itself.
‘So, this is the behaviour of
the renowned leader of our most powerful coven’ he snarled, ‘it is no wonder
that you rule nothing and have achieved nothing.’
John made no reply. Instead he leant backwards, dropped his hands palm
outwards towards Whitecloak and shouted ‘chwthwm’
in an extraordinarily loud voice. A mighty gale rushed forward from his hands.
Loose debris all around John began
to fly out towards his foe. A barrage of bricks, stones and metal caromed into
the god. He doubled over as he absorbed
the energy from the collisions – it was clear that he was discomfited but not
really hurt.
That’s a few more seconds, though thought John.
Whitecloak waved his hand back and forth to clear a way through to his
enemy. John had a good look at him for the first time. He appeared to be
nothing more than a mask and a vast cloak, but both pulsed with a white light
that blanched every surface that it touched.
‘Why are you in disguise, oh mighty god of twisted slaves?’ he asked
Whitecloak approached him.
‘This is no disguise, witch lord’ he replied, ‘this is my shield.
Nothing can penetrate it, not even this magical trickery. I and my artificer
have worked on the design for almost a millennium; it is now immune to anything
created by that… female. I am totally invulnerable!’
John looked carefully at the cloak. Every time the bell clanged a small
number of threads pinged loose. He was certain that his enemy had not yet
noticed it. Such clever stuff this Dwarven Magic.
‘And the mask is to hide your hideous face from us, the more handsome
races, I’m guessing. I have heard rumours of the terrible ugliness of your true
appearance’
Whitecloak put his hand up to his mask.
‘The God is beautiful. He is
woven pure from the energy of sunlight and sky’
Whitecloak pointed at John and gestured with his hand for him to him to
walk towards him. John felt an almost uncontrollable compulsion to do as he was
bidden. He stood ostentatiously stock still.
‘Oh, did you want me to come closer?’ he asked innocently, knowing
though that the magical cost of resisting was immense, ‘it’s usually considered
a bit more polite to say ‘please’
Whitecloak gestured more powerfully with his hand but still John didn’t
move. Whitecloak tried the command one more time and then lowered his hand.
John could have sworn that he shook his head.
‘How did you do that?’
‘I’m stubborn’
John took two rapid steps backwards and whispered ‘chymyla’. Then he breathed out for as long as he could bear. A
cloud of very thick, dark, smoky, mist enveloped Whitecloak.
John ran as fast as he could towards the Bell Tower, stopping only when
he had got past the ring of old and new corpses. He fully realised that he
couldn’t keep expending so much energy indefinitely. Soon he’d be reduced to
party magic.
‘Stupid trickery’ roared Whitecloak, appearing rapidly out of the mist,
‘what do you hope to achieve?’
John waved and shouted.
‘Come over here – you can hear the bell far more clearly from this
spot’
Whitecloak began to move stiffly
in John’s direction. Every movement forward seemed to make him wince.
‘Don’t you like the Bell, oh totally invulnerable and extraordinarily
powerful one?’
‘How dare you mock your God!’ screamed Whitecloak, ‘you are nothing but
a barbarous witchling’.
His cloak pulsed and John was instantly lifted a hundred feet into the
air. He balanced on the empty space for an agonising second and then began his
plummet to the ground.
‘Shit!’ thought John. He lifted his arms out and yelped, ‘lithra’. A thick furry skin grew between
the fingers of both hands and his hips. He’d never mastered this spell. He half
fell and half glided down to ground level, smashing his face against a rock as
he landed.
Whitecloak laughed.
‘I can taste it already. Witch blood! How I crave it!’
John was winded and for a few seconds was unable to either speak or
stand up. ‘One more thing to try’ he thought, groggily. He croaked an almost
soundless ‘gwrthladd’ and then fell
back down on to side, completely spent. He looked out blearily at Whitecloak.
‘I shall take you to Huatlacan and you will be the greatest of all my
sacrifices: you, the proconsul and all of her subjects! And I shall grow yet
more majestic, bathed in the blood of all my bested enemies ’
Whitecloak lifted his hand and this time John seemed unable to resist.
‘First, I shall blind you, as you are so concerned about my appearance’
A thin white shaft of light sped across the rubble and bathed John’s
eyes. He blinked, moaned, and then closed them.
‘Second, I shall lame you, as you seem so intent on running away from
me’
Another shaft of light struck John’s legs below the knees. He lay
still.
‘Third I shall deprive you of the gift of speech, as you say so much
and know so little’
The white light played on John’s lips and his half-completed scream
died in his mouth.
‘Excellent’ gloated Whitecloak, ‘you turned out to be just as weak as
any other mortal. I shall get my followers to pick you up later’
John lay completely still, indistinguishable from one of the dead.
Whitecloak stepped just inside the dead zone, raised his hand, and
began to fire pure white bolts of light against the side of the Tower. Every
bolt caused a green-blue explosion. But equally, every remaining peal stripped
away more threads from his withering cloak.
Fred pulled
hard at the bell as Hardacre and Viola watched what was going on below. They
hadn’t been able to work out exactly what has happened to John, because he was
out of their line of sight, but they knew that it was very bad.
All around them the bell tower was lighting up with giant green-blue
sparks. Each spark made the tower shudder. It was clear that the tower would
not last very much longer, but it was also clear that Whitecloak hated the
sound of the bell.
‘We must keep the bell ringing as long as we can’ Hardacre said,
forcing his fears about John temporarily into the depths of his mind.
Both Viola and Fred nodded in emphatic agreement.
Hardacre sighed loudly; for once not trying to hide his feelings. He
walked over to where Fred stood pulling on the bell. He was no longer smiling
as he rang it, a strange desperate need had replaced the euphoria. It was if
the bell knew that every peal might be its last and that it still had a job to
do.
‘Dr Eccles’ said Hardacre quietly, just audible above the shaking
stonework and the sound of the bell, ’I
agreed to lead this expedition, so the ultimate responsibility lies with
me. You two should go and try to help Mr Ismay, and you should go now’
He gestured to Fred to hand him the rope. Fred glared at him.
‘I’m not bloody moving’
Hardacre stared at him, astonished.
‘You’ll be killed’ insisted Hardacre, ‘it is certain’
Fred shrugged.
‘I’ll do it anyway’ he said, ‘it’s the best possible use of your
resources. This is the most helpful thing I’ve done on this trip so far – I
won’t let you take it away from me’
Hardacre shook his head.
‘No, Dr Eccles, this is not your war’
‘Right then’ boomed Fred, ‘I’ll just go home then’
‘Fred, don’t…’ began Viola, but
then had no idea what to say next.
Fred laughed sourly.
‘I won’t last five minutes out there anyway – so, best you both leave
now’
The tower was shaking terribly, rocking back and forth and holes had
begun to widen in the masonry. In some places it was only Quiena’s green magic
that held the structure in place.
Hardacre knew that they had to go, but was finding it hard to tear his
eyes away from Fred. Viola grabbed his arm and pulled him towards the crumbling
stairs.
‘Ring the Bell hard, Fred’ shouted back Viola, tears forming in her
eyes, ‘ring it for as long as you can, for Ophia’s sake’
Fred smiled at her and nodded.
‘Sod Ophia’ he said.
Neither Hardacre nor Viola could bear to look back as they hurried down
the stairwell. The bell rang on, louder than ever before, but the tower was now
dissolving, layer after layer of green peeling off from the walls. Only the
staircase remained entirely whole.
They spilled out on to the space in front of the tower and raced out
beyond the dead zone. As they looked
back they could see Whitecloak sending bolt after bolt of white energy into the
failing structure, but still the bell rang on.
As they watched Whitecloak bring all of his power to bear on the
destruction of the Tower they realised that now they could see though large
expanses of his cloak. Behind the frayed strips of material they saw the God’s
true form, a humanoid silhouette in deep sky blue, and behind it an unbearable
brightness, like the most implacably scorching August day. They could not look
for very long.
Time seemed to slow and still the bell clanged on. Whitecloak appeared
desperate; flinging his power at the walls again and again and again. Finally
all that was left was a bronze bell sounding high up in empty space. And then
the bell began to fall, glacially slowly at first and then increasingly
rapidly. At just above human head height it exploded, sending shards of green
shrapnel across the cityscape. Both Viola and Hardacre could have sworn that as
the bell shattered they could hear a sharp cry of ‘bugger!’ Then the tower was
gone. The green embers flew through the air and sliced through Whitecloak,
stripping him completely. All that the watchers could see now was a blue
shifting phantom illuminated from inside by a horribly cold white light. It
still seemed to retain something of its approximately humanoid shape, but now
it was impossible to stare at it directly, so great was the power of its
radiance.
‘You are vanquished!’ said the phantom as it fell to the floor. There
was a moment’s stillness. Then, wordlessly, it slowly pulled itself up, no
longer with the pretence that it needed any limbs or body. For a very short
while the light that emanated from it dimmed a little, but then it soon
returned even brighter and even less bearable than before. Then the revealed
Whitecloak was up and sniffing, in search of the machine in the Vault.
No comments:
Post a Comment