by Brett
Davidson
In the blazing hall there were hanging banners darker
than black and
brighter than white. Beneath them, there were people in robes
that flickered in stark moiré patterns between these two
extremes with each movement and rustle. Standing out in the
embroidered purple of his own order, the Monstruwacan Expediter Pallin
ex Asphodelos found the effect trying on his eyes, but endured it for
the sake of the ceremony.
As he should, with himself being its subject. The Master
Logomachist of
the order that was inducting him to brevet-adjunct rank stood forth.
"What good is principle if it is not virtue?" he asked
rhetorically,
making the fine distinction in the last word between jagged abstraction
and the practical contribution to the strength of the Last Redoubt.
"What worth is virtue if it is not strength? What worth is strength if
it is solitary?"
The assembly answered with silence, as every one knew
the answers
already.
The litany continued. "What is one without its other?
What are their
numbers, where are their centres? Where lies the line between them? How
stark the division, be it a gulf or a plain, be it wide or narrow?"
Again, silent agreement.
"Do we know or do we decide?
"Where lies the line?
"Do we make a cut?"
Pallin stepped forward.
The Master Logomachist held out a pair of gloves.
One was fuligin
and one was argent. Custom held that neither was to be worn without the
other: away from the warmth of living human flesh, they would
eventually disintegrate. It was fortunate then that he had lost a leg
and not an arm Out in the Land all those years ago, Pallin thought
sardonically. Strangely, the prosthesis ached, perhaps in anticipation
of his coming expedition.
********************************
It was some time after the ceremony that Pallin was able
to retire to
his apartments in Augyre Siege. As was his preference, he lived alone
with only mechanical servants, and as was also his preference he had a
filtered window that looked out across the black Night Land. He stood
before it now, his hands clasped inside their contrasting gloves behind
his back. The view before him might have been a great circular mirror
of polished obsidian, with only his own reflection clear, save for a
few dim lights at the edges of the visible spectrum glimmering here and
there.
His friend Hecane, intimate, confidant, and never quite
lover, often
joked that he could not pass a mirror without looking into it,
especially not a dark one. He smiled, and observed himself. His
features were angular and supposedly aristocratic, his face was white,
his hair whiter still, his eyes as black as the glass that reflected
them.
All said that he had ambition, ideals and ability, that
he was destined
to rule one day. This expedition would surely prove it and advance him
one more step nearer the centre of the Monstruwacan hegemony. Ah, but
should he? Tyrants became tyrants by confusing themselves with their
offices. What he desired was elsewhere... and yet he would climb those
offices as he would a staircase to his goal... whatever that might be.
The man who looked back at him seemed to emerge out of
the darkness
itself, not this glass, not the metal of this great pyramid that was
the Last Redoubt of Humanity.
He turned to the examination of the map that was laid
across his desk.
A couple of taps at its corner and pressure by a fingertip at the
centre brought it into magnified focus while a quick sweep of his hand
deleted extraneous features. Left behind were two structures: the Last
Redoubt and the older human-made but supposedly long-abandoned fastness
of the Dark Palace. They were stark and artificial things amidst the
fields of chaos.
A map was hardly necessary for navigation when both
structures were
within direct sight of one another, but it was the ancient traces of
the connections between the two that concerned Pallin. The map compiled
the reports of human expeditions into the Land over the recent era -
recent in this case being within the last three hundred thousand years.
Back and forth across the dunes and ravines and around the volcanic
vents and spatial flaws, thin lines of jale meandered out and in from
the square-and-circle of the Redoubt, a delicate spider’s web of
exploration and venture. Here and there the paths thickened and knotted
about some curiosity or other: the ruins of a city, an upwelling of the
Earth-Current, the bones of a slain Titan. It was hard not to see the
Redoubt as a spider at the centre of a web of trails, snaring and the
many threats and challenges of the Land, wrapping them with strands of
inquiry and sucking sustenance from them.
But as the map made clear to his trained eye, the Last
Redoubt was not
the sole master of the web. The greatest mass creates the greatest
tension in a web and therefore the effect of the mass of cognition in
the Redoubt should be plain and simple - but the pattern of the web was
not simple and the Dark Palace had created its own counter-tension. It
was tugging, ever so subtly, at the Redoubt’s web.
How? he asked himself. How... and who? The analysts who
had compiled
the map had asked the wrong questions and no answers could be
seen. The solution lay out in the Land, within the Palace itself.
With one more tap the map deactivated and furled itself
for storage. It
was time to feed and water his pets.
The terrarium was pentagonal and lit with a light that
was the colour
of embers. On a bed of stony black soil there rose several
mounds rather like clumps of moss. Each bore what looked like tiny
luminescent flowers, which were of distinct colours which were
generally specific to each mound. On one, the flowers were mostly - but
not exclusively - red; on another, most - and again not all - were
blue. Sometimes the flowers sprouted legs and would creep from one moss
to another in concerted formations to lay siege about an opposing
moss-mound.
Sometimes the miniature armies of flowers would triumph
over the
defenses of a besieged moss, and install themselves in their new base,
proliferating and converting their new home. Complicating these sieges
and takeovers there were more subtle infiltrations by solitary flowers,
and sometimes they would attempt to take over a mound piecemeal... and
sometimes their own colour would change to match that of their new
host’s. Oddly, after prolonged infiltrations in which the newcomers
seemed to adapt, the entire complement of flowers would sometimes
change colour - and not always to the hue of the infiltrators. Was this
adaptation, war or mating? It was hard to say.
What was certain that while each moss-heap and its
retinue attempted
constantly to conquer absolute any competitor, no moss-heap and its
dependent flowers could live for long without another.
So many details were known and yet so much actual
understanding
depended upon paradigms that might be utterly inappropriate. Still, the
very fact that such variant interpretations were possible fascinated
Pallin, and he believed that an analysis of his own attitudes at one
remove would reveal much about his own unconscious biases in human
affairs.
It might reveal something of his own interpretation of
the relationship
between the Night Land and the Last Redoubt too.
Their webs, its webs, our webs...
He directed a delicate spray of honeyed water over each
of the mosses
in turn and watched the flowers tremble and gape in apparent
appreciation. It was too easy to confuse the reflection of one’s own
mind upon a surface with the true substance within, he reminded himself
- and yet in human beings, so lovers said, that reflection became in
the end utterly real.
So do we love the Night Land in our way? He asked
himself. Do the Great
Watchers love us and will there in the end be not a fall of the Last
Redoubt, but a consummation?
He smiled, because he preferred to think that this might
be a joke and
returned to a drier strategic contemplation of the terrarium. It seemed
this month that red had the upper hand over blue, though yellow was
making inroads into red territory and the once seriously diminished
violet colony was rapidly resurging. That in itself was most
interesting.
********************************
Watch Captain Vyrkin was possessive of his men. There
was a certain
intimacy and trust that had grown with them. This was a necessity in
the Land where each had to function as smoothly as a cog in a machine,
meshing with the expectations of a comrade and the anticipated needs of
the next instant without a word or even a glance needing to be shared.
But that pragmatic interaction inevitably became emotional, and the
imminent accommodation of a Monstruwacan observer within their party
threatened to disrupt the more subtle but equally crucial moral bond of
his men. Vyrkin was not happy.
The Monstruwacan entered the Watch compound in his own
good time, the
shadow of his accumulated fame falling before him. "So say, he was one
of us, so say none can read his mind, so say he was Out before, so say
he slew monsters - and men..."
"And all these rumours are true."
Pallin ex Asphodelos was a lean man, only in his middle
years of a
century or more, but he was not aging well. There was a bitter tang in
his studied elegance and an air of disappointment about him, which
seemed incongruous in light of exalted rank and fame.
One does not become a Monstruwacan Expediter without
ambition, and
ambition by its nature, is never satisfied, Vyrkin thought to himself.
Pallin presented the baton containing the petition
countersigned by the
Seneschal of the Barbican. "You will be assured that all forms have
been observed," he said.
Vyrkin bowed and took the baton, examined it and handed
it back. "I
accept your commission, exalted ser."
Pallin gave his wry smile. "I am honoured by your
indulgence," he
replied.
Business proceeded swiftly thereafter, as it must.
Curiosity overcame
uncertainty and Pallin was probed with questions. "The Dark Palace,
ser. What do you know of it?" The men were eager in a way that
made fearful anticipation a kind of drunken joy. "They say it was the
Great House, built before the Last Redoubt, that it is a human place
gone strange. We have seen things in there that seem too at home not to
be originally human. You have watched for aeons from your high tower;
what do you see in all your ages and altitude?"
Pallin appeared to ignore the immediate enquiries,
unfurling the map
that he carried and tapping a corner to make it lie flat and rigid.
"Here we are, of course," he said, indicating the circle-and-square of
the Last Redoubt. "Here, the Grey Dunes; here, the Ruined Titan; here,
the Quiet City... and here, here, here, here and here are..."
"The Watchers."
The Monstruwacan nodded. "Yes, the Watchers."
Twenty million
years had passed since the first appearance of these monsters, five
vast things greater than mountains that closed slowly but inexorably on
the Last Redoubt. They were the only things that came near rivaling the
Last Redoubt in scale and strength... and every age the vital Earth
Current that powered the Redoubt ran lower and the cordon of the
Electric Circle dimmed by a minute measure. One day those five would
meet over the cold ruins of the Last Redoubt and the long history of
humanity would be ended. In the meantime the heroes of the Watch made
their proud gestures and they would continue to do so until that final
moment.
If anyone knew otherwise, it was the Monstruwacan, but
that was not his
concern now. He laid his finger on a specific mark indicating the Dark
Palace and the image bloomed as the map magnified its scale. "Fifty
miles to the South South East, and not far therefore from the Great
Watcher of the South," he said. The Palace was revealed in all
its complexity and ambiguity in a basic diagram of black and white and
in overlays of ulfire and jale. As they watched, some details
flicked back and forth between dual states, never quite settling on a
fixed geometry. Nonetheless, the detail was astonishing.
"We’ve seen this, we know this place," one whispered.
"We never knew
that you knew so well..."
Pallin nodded. "Nor I, until my seers spoke to my
librarians. The map
is a composite of observation, record and supposition."
The Dark Palace was clear in its concept, essentially a
complicated
pentagon surrounded by an aureole of earthworks. Within its jagged
wall, as Pallin increased the scale of the map further, distinct
internal zoning could be seen, again organised according to the basic
five-fold symmetry into rhomboids and pentagons.
Pallin continued his exposition. "If your reports are
correct on this
point - and I have no reason to think that they are not - the glacis
surrounding the city is much eroded now and any systems associated with
its maintenance and defence are dead. In that case, we are safe from
any automated defenses there; though not of course any creatures that
may have colonised the ruins. The curtain wall has five gates, four of
which are sealed by design or by breakdown - though one remains fixed
open and we will be entering the Palace there, as you have done often
in your forays. Beyond that..." He raised his gaze to confront the
Captain.
"We have been deeper into the Palace a few times," the
man admitted.
"We have found a few things, a few traces - and I presume that it was
our most recent reports that brought you here?"
"You reports, a few much older records, the occasional
emanation,
suggestions by our eidognostic spieltier-engines. They have all
combined and made a pattern."
"What kind of pattern?"
"A pattern with obscure portions and an implied centre."
"Ah, I see."
The Monstruwacan gave a chilly smile. He could read the
tension, even
if he could not read the thoughts, of the assembled men - and he might
well be capable of reading thoughts too. "I understand that I am an
intruder in a de facto society, a distinct guild... a brotherhood," he
told them carefully. "Let me assure you that I will do my best to
protect you nonetheless." He said this last without irony, and in
a tone of knowing seriousness that would allow no mockery. He bent his
head to the map again, compelling further magnification and pointed at
the very centre of the Dark Palace. "Even and especially here."
********************************
The party went Out into the Night Land after one of the
devastating
katabatic storms that spawned in the frigid highlands and scoured the
deep valley in which the Redoubt had been built. Pallin explained that
it would cull some of the more ‘distracting’ fauna that might otherwise
make their expedition ‘unnecessarily strenuous.’
The landscape that they found beyond the great gate of
the pyramid was
stripped and gaunt. What life could endure there drew is sustenance
from residual volcanism and more obscure sources that had become known
after the death of the sun, and the soil and stone had been sculpted by
the blind winds into low banks and protrusion that resembled the lines
of a desiccated corpse. Here and there a ridge of stone was revealed to
the artificial senses of their visors like a flange of polished bone.
They gathered themselves by the Electric Circle that
marked the true
division of the Redoubt from the Land. Drifts of black dust lay about
the outer perimeter of the Circle, mixed with the incinerated remnants
of the milliards of generations of creatures that had tried to breach
the cordon. The line glimmered, spitting and flaring if an air current
carried a single mote too near. Far above, the green beacon of the
Final Light shone from atop the Tower of Observation, bright and steady
as it had been and had been for the entire life of the Redoubt.
Pallin craned his neck and looked up towards the light.
The pyramid
that was the portion of the Redoubt visible above ground was a great
metal cliff, too huge, too smoothly impenetrable and too well shrouded
in the darkness of the Night Land to be understood with mere eyes. His
helm compensated for him, sketching and annotating otherwise invisible
details: twelve hundred and thirty levels, it told him in its language
of runes and grids. Eight miles high, five and a quarter square - and
atop, the city of Augyre Siege and the Tower of Observation that had
been his home for almost a century now. Luck allowing, he might live
another century there, steadily accruing age and honour and power and
perhaps at last a little wisdom, but luck was harsh here in the Night
Land, as he knew very well. On an expedition in his youth he had nearly
been killed, and he was not so strong or quick now.
Strange to think, he mused, that he would not leave the
line of sight
of that Tower and that light until he actually entered the Dark Palace
itself, and even there the emerald light would still be glimmering
faintly on the black walls.
Vyrkin approached him. "Missing your high home?" he
asked in a joking
tone.
"No," Pallin replied quietly. "I was thinking that
perhaps I am more
alive here in the land of death."
"Ah, spoken like a Watchman!"
"I was one once. The Land touched me and here again, I
realise that the
touch never left me."
"Ah." Vyrkin was a little uncomfortable at this
intimacy, though
the sentiment was a common one.
They surveyed the horizon constructed for them by their
helm systems.
Glowing symbols marked significant points - the House of Silence, the
Headland, the Thing that Nods. Spaced unevenly about there were five
areas of indistinctness, lacunae where the five great Watchers sat.
Their sight was so terrible, so affecting that no-one could be trusted
to see one without their mind and soma being penetrated and driven mad
or twisted out of all definition of human. Pallin was one of the rare
souls who could survive such an experience, but when he increased the
enhancement of his vision systems the effects that the Watchers had on
the geometry of space about them defeated him and all he could see was
an odd, dark twisting.
"They say that you have seen many strange things,"
Vyrkin said,
breaking his reverie.
"Such as?"
"They say that in your high tower, you have
astronomers... people who
have seen... stars. They say that you have seen the Sun."
"The Sun is dead."
Vyrkin was not put off. "They say that the sky is a
cloud and that you
have climbed past it. Surely that is true? I am a reading man."
Pallin nodded reluctantly. "An expedition scaled the
high cliffs
surrounding this land," he admitted. "We saw the stars, that is true...
in a manner of speaking."
" ‘A manner of speaking’?"
"The Eaters that consumed the sun have consumed the
stars too. What I
saw was a brief glimpse from a time that might have been long ago,
facilitated by a machine not used for an age and not used since. There
are no stars now, Captain. Our Sun is dead. We however are not."
Vyrkin nodded, probably grinning behind his helm. "Ah
indeed, you do
understand us: here we are, here we are now and thus we live."
"So I tell myself."
********************************
The Watcher of the South did become clearer in Pallin’s
sight as they
trekked across the Land. Like its companions, it was vast, and rooted
in foothills of the black dusty soil of the Night Land like a living
mountain. It was still not entirely clear, and he was not sure if such
concepts as shape or form could ever be applied to the species.
Broadly, he could see that it had something like a body, something like
shoulders and haunches, something like a visage. The light that still
glimmered from the fragments of the shattered dome that had stood for
an age in its path washed up over it, giving a deep bronze sheen to its
surface, but that may have been a trick. Measuring the shadows cast, he
could see that the light followed curving paths as it never did in the
clear air farther from the thing. Its whole appearance may have been an
illusion.
And all the while, despite his talent, he felt the
pressure of its
gaze. Sometimes it was a synaesthetic hum, sometimes it was a sense of
fascination and doubt. A man without his training would not have known
that it came from outside and would have thought that it was real fear.
But then Pallin did feel fear. He would have been a fool
if he did not.
The trick, as he and the Watchmen knew, was to use fear as a sense in
itself and not be mastered by it.
They made camp midway between their origin and
destination. A hot
field-lamp was set up, keeping the ordinary threats of the Land at bay
and allowing the men to open their helms without risking frostbite.
Five stood guard and talk ran around the ring of the seated as they
shared their legends and their hopes. There was in olden times mighty
Andros, they said. He went Out across the Night Land and took back from
the ruins of a fallen fortress the last survivor and his destined
beloved. There were no living Redoubts now, save the very Last and
Greatest Redoubt and they could only ever come and return... Some
confided that they only ever felt alive here in the Night Land.
Then there were the beloveds at home, if it was home. A
face seen in
part through a gap in a veil lifted just momentarily in a draught, a
silhouette in a surreptitiously donated cameo, whispered promises of
assignations, hopes, fantasies and boasts. Women, they said, meaning
ravishment, their great prize. They would receive love and admiration
from ones they would devote their lives to loving and admiring after
they returned and until they went out again. A few passed around cameos
of their lovers, or those they hoped to be their lovers.
And the Monstruwacan watched and listened, volunteering
nothing.
"And you, and you?!" challenged one, Ferox, who could
not stand this
damned arrogant impassivity and ignored his Captain’s angry cutting
gesture.
"I attained my prize and found that I could not keep
it," Pallin
replied quietly, seeming not at all disturbed by the presumption.
Ferox took his apparent mildness as license and thought
to play a game
with the older man. "A few of us risk suppressing the filters on our
helms and look into the lacunae," he boasted. "We think that we, like
your seers, can just perceive the outline of the Watcher. It looms over
the Palace like a gameplayer over a board. Do you think it plays with
us?"
"You forget that the Last Redoubt stands over the Land
in the same
way," Pallin reminded him.
"Still we are pieces. You sit highest - I think that you
play with us,
Monstruwacan."
Pallin said nothing, but a tightening at the corner of
his mouth
indicated that he was suppressing a smile. Vyrkin, who was sitting
nearby, might have noticed and in any case he became noticeably tense
and leaned closer to listen.
Ferox pressed his advantage. "Maybe you are interested
in the Watchers
because you think that they are rivals - not of the Redoubt, but of
you," he said. "Maybe you are curious about the Dark Palace because you
see another shadow of yourself there too. Another would-be master,
another game player."
He might have been struck down at this point, his career
permanently
blighted, and no man would have blamed the Monstruwacan. Pallin did
nothing. "Maybe you are right," he said softly. "Maybe as you test
yourselves in the Land, I come to test my own soul and my own vanity
too."
Vyrkin laughed loudly, silencing Ferox more effectively
than any
rebuke. Pallin dreaded the thought that he might slap him on the back.
He did not like to be touched.
********************************
The Dark Palace could not match a quarter of the height
of the Last
Redoubt, but even then it was vast, intimidating structure that
sprawled massively upon the Night Land. The scarps of its walls seemed
to threaten even the men whose forbears had made it as their home.
The defences of the Palace lacked the neat, powered
elegance of the
Last Redoubt, dating from an age when pneumatechne was an inexact
science and the Earth Current was only crudely applied. As a
consequence, it confronted the Land as a fort would confront an army,
with a sprawling and intricate glacis of trenches and mounds before its
walls. In the Palace’s brief prime it had been impossible to enter this
zone without being herded by the sculpted land into narrow channels and
fields where one would be exposed to overlapping arcs of fire from
ports that themselves remained largely concealed behind peaked
bastions. This was no longer the case; the sculpting of the glacis had
been long eroded and the power of the Palace itself had declined to a
low ebb and no weapons had been seen to operate for many ages.
However, the other, less orderly threats of the Night
Land were still
extant.
The company then felt no substantial fear of the worn
outer labyrinth,
but they were very much on their guard otherwise. There might be no
guns to fire, but many beasts could hide behind its corners and
pneumavores might appear out of any shadow or out of the contaminated
air itself.
Pallin raised his hand before they could approach.
"Hold," he ordered,
and consulted one of the many small devices that he carried secreted in
various pockets and slots in his armour. The men were curious, perhaps
amused, but used to these episodes. Usually there would be a reassuring
blink of green and he would nod to himself and return the device to its
place, but at other times he would stop, as if sensing something the
other men did not feel. Then he would produce one of his instruments
and examine it closely this time, probably frowning behind his visor as
he adjusted a dial and waved it about slowly and carefully. The others
would automatically take up defensive positions about him, each
alternately cursing him for the exposure and daring on second thought
to be grateful for his obscure skill in detecting unknown dangers.
Every time he would finally stop his scans and indicate a new path,
away from that which had seemed easiest.
In truth, he was not so sure of his instruments as the
men might think
him to be. In the first age of human inhabitation of the Great Valley,
before the Sun was quite dead, the major threats had been volcanoes and
the abhuman and inhuman predators spawned in the Darkening, but as the
Sun waned, biological life fell into decline. The survivors had
prolonged their existence with a desperate viciousness, but most, no
matter how fitted to the dark and the cold, had followed the last
sources of light and heat into final and utter extinction. Now, in the
last sleep of the Earth, its nightmares were alive and awake and
hungered according to their own appetites. All about, just at the edge
of the perception of his own senses and his various devices, Pallin
could hear them whispering: signals and signs, entreatments and
deceptions, barely audible to him yet, but becoming gradually clearer.
The men supporting him had had all such sensitivity burned out of them
to enable their regular survival in this place, but he had proved
immune to such a cure, and it was only by other abilities that he had
had his own career as an adventurer... and as he aged, maybe those
skills were not sufficient.
Still, his doubt refined itself into a perverse thrill
and the cold air
felt cleaner and sharper in his lungs than the light-fogged atmosphere
of so many Monstruwacan councils.
********************************
The first man to die met an ordinary death, due to a
moment’s
inattention. He turned to report that a way was clear when he should
not have turned at all, and something like a whip lashed out from a
cove and took him. As one, his comrades raised their flashing diskoi
and lashed at the retreating beast, but it was too late. The giant
cephalopod was slow to move the greater bulk of its body, but its
burrow was well prepared and quickly sealed. Only Pallin heard its
victim’s screams with his night-hearing, and they did not last long.
"Damn you, could you not have plotted the lair of that
thing from the
Tower?" demanded the Captain when they had regrouped.
"No, those beasts are so rare as to be near extinction
and can sleep
for a century under the dust away from the storms and the cold before
being woken by a footstep. We might have seen it a generation ago when
last it sought prey, but no seer and no record is perfect."
The Captain stamped away, cursing. "And that is hardly
the least, nor
the strangest here..."
More fell at the gate of the Palace itself, and this
time it was not
carelessness but malice that killed them.
Pallin sensed the presence of the thing first, but the
Watchmen were
barely slower than him, and instantly drew their diskoi and took
up a defensive formation. In the uncertain light of shadow upon
blackness, sight was more of a disadvantage than a guide; and the Eater
seemed almost to exploit this intentionally, not so much moving as
infiltrating itself through space, like a drop of ink spreading through
water. Standing shoulder to shoulder and with their diskoi extended and
blazing with energy, the Watchmen squinted into the stark
radiating shadows they cast and saw the black on black stain creep
closer.
The Eater was a little like a snowflake, a little like a
crinoid and
most of all like a tree of black lightning. It seemed to buzz and hum
and whine, though these sounds were more felt than heard and seemed to
be an effect of some interference with human senses rather than any
direct emission. A few tendrils lashed out teasingly, only to be
disintegrated and cauterised.
Pallin saw the shifting form of the Eater half-clearly
through the
mediation of his visor and he was more sure of its appearance in his
mind. He could hear it attempt to speak to him, as if it could tell
that one among the men was susceptible to its insinuations. Another
Monstruwacan adept might have been overcome here, without the
sophisticated baffles installed in the Tower of Observation, but Pallin
was a unusual man even among that order and while the thing spun its
webs of thought he regarded it with a cold detachment. It was only form
- hypnotic form, entrancing form, but he saw in his mind’s eye as
fascinating and as unaffecting as the workings of a clock or a colony
of his moss-creatures.
Unaffecting it might be, but it was still able to
distract, and before
he knew it the Eater had circumvented perspective to bloom in a space
disconcertingly near him and he had to leap backwards gracelessly and
almost collided with one of the other men. His artificial leg sent a
painful twinge to his nervous system, signaling overload.
The initial probings by the single Eater were no more
than probings and
soon a greater host appeared, individual elements seeming to
crystallise out of the darkness itself. The strategy or instinct of the
Eaters seemed plain: the greater crowd of them made a thicket and then
that thicket began to weave itself into a wall and close upon them as a
crescent, soon to make a circle. Pallin could see that the men might
hack away at the cage that was forming about them, but the action would
only attract more Eaters, which seemed to have no concept of individual
preservation - if indeed they were individuals at all and not some
generalised incursion that only manifested as detached extremities in a
common space with human beings. It was obvious that a simple stand
would be doomed and Vyrkin ordered his company to fall back to the wall
of the Palace.
Retreat against the walls may have seemed like a foolish
strategy, but
the residual Earth-Current that coursed through the metal weakened and
confused the Eaters and the geometry of the design was exploited by the
Watchmen. The ensuing battle looked like a dance, its visible aspect
constrained by the demand for speed and co-ordination and the
gyroscopic whirling of the diskoi, but the engagements were thin lines
in time and space drawn close to points of advantage that were also
points of failure. Now and again a man’s steps and leaps brought him to
a place where he could strike and succeed, and now and again, a subtle
misstep placed him a hair’s breath away from where he should have been,
and there in his mistake he died.
An Eater lacked claws and venom and what it did to a
victim was not
quite killing. In preserving its victim in its own matter, the
destruction it wrought was more subtle, more extravagant and more
thorough than death. In one instant its arm was a wisp and in the next
it was a superfluid that ran over and through the body of its victim as
it were another variety of space. The man staggered and twitched
and then his movements took on an awful steadiness and surety. The
Eater knew what he was and it poured itself into him to fit as fully as
wine in a bottle. He stood upright, strained and arched, he flung his
arms out, he danced. Coronae of light at the extremes of the spectrum
flickered about his limbs and he began to sing in verses that sounded
as if they were being torn physically from his bleeding throat. Pallin
felt the echo of whatever was left of his mind diminish and be absorbed
into the darkness of the pneumavore and the stray sensation that it
left to him before it disappeared passed beyond terror into a strange,
sick realm of drunken ecstasy.
Before he could be stopped, another Watchman cried out
the victim's
name and leapt to end his torment with his diskos blazing, but it was
too late, and he was caught too. Again the Eater proliferated in his
flesh, corrupting him and remaking him in its own inhuman image.
It was Ferox who killed them both before they could
release the hungry
spores of still more Eaters.
Vyrkin signaled a division of the company into two
groups and a further
retreat to the shelter of the angled earthworks about the gate of the
Palace. This seemed counter to sense, but the Captain knew the
instincts of his adversaries. The Eaters flocked to one group, but
against the wall of the Dark Palace they could only scatter into the
dividing channels of its enfiladed fortification, and at the apexes of
these channels they met the other Watchmen. The architects of the
Palace had not been sophisticated in their use of the Earth Current,
but they knew of its enervating effect on the pneumavores and the
residues of the power that they had let flow through its walls and
glacis sickened the Eaters who were finally dispatched almost without
further casualties.
Eight men had been unlucky. Five had been intersected by
black strands
and their bodies still twitched like unco-ordinated puppets and had to
be incinerated before they became the beds for new enemies. Three more
had had time to take their own lives before they suffered such a fate.
"A light toll," Vyrkin said to Pallin after he took the
memorial oaths
of his surviving company. "Four were new to the Land, the rest had been
here only once before. You see: we learn."
Pallin nodded.
"I saw you dispatch a few of the things."
Another nod.
"It surprises me that you, an older man already wounded,
survived and
was even able to destroy a few Eaters," Vyrkin added.
"In our Tower, we watch daily. We become skilled in
seeing patterns at
least and I know where and when to place myself in a fray... and you
might have read that in my youth I was once a man of your kind."
The Captain probably smiled behind his visor. "Ah, then
your skills
might make a fit synthesis here so if you taught us..."
"Possibly."
"Yes, possibly." He walked away to inspect the Palace’s
gate.
© Brett
Davidson
10 Jan 2005
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