JESSAN - A TALE OF WIZARDRY Chapter 24
Copyright 2007 Trewin Greenaway All Rights Reserved
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CHAPTER 24
Immediately, I sat cross-legged on the deck, closed my eyes, and launched myself into the psychic depths, attempting to discern what power had seized control of the Tejj. Whatever I confronted, it was not the One Who Cannot Be Named. If this were His doing, He would be waiting for me to enter this space, like an assassin hiding behind the door. The master of this force, however, made no effort to confront me and, indeed, proved skilled at moving his power away from my grasp. This made it impossible for me to counteract it. In the realm of the real, furthermore, I utterly failed to summon a counter current to stop the boat or at least slow its progress. It was as if an invisible hand had reached out, seized hold of the Tejj, and was now dragging it into the harbor. I told as much to Orien, who nodded, sighed, and said, "Well then, we'll just have to wait and see." Cytheria had been built into the side of the great curve of the standing half of the volcano. It rose in several tiers, or as rows of seats in an amphitheater. The setting sun had filled the city with golden light, and the sight of it, house rising above house, roof above roof, each perching on the slope directly behind the other, took the breath away. The walls of the buildings washed in different hues of sepia, ocher, and amber, roofed with curved terra-cotta tiles. At a distance, it appeared as if the city had just been abandoned, but as we sailed closer we could see increasing signs of ruin--here, a caved-in roof; there, a swath of windows without frames; there, again, a fa™ade toppled over onto the street, revealing a honeycomb of shadowy rooms with sagging floors. As we grew closer to the long quay at the end of the harbor, we began to sail among other sailing boats, some with sails furled, other with their sails spread, idly flapping in the breeze. As our craft uncannily steered its way between them, our wake sent each gently bobbing up and down as we passed it. But, although no cables held them fast, none of them shifted even an arm's length from where they were before. Then a harsh grating cry shattered the eerie silence. A skalgür rose up, spreading out its huge naked wings, from one of the roofs of the highest house. Then another appeared, and another, until we could see dozens of the creatures. Like a ragged chorus, they lifted their heads, opened their long, cruel beaks and shrieked, a great, discordant din that echoed back and forth from all sides of the harbor. Then, one by one, they launched themselves into the air. At first they soared and wheeled high above us. But with each pass, they dropped lower and lower, until they were swooping down right over our heads, their beady eyes alert for the chance to strike. Alfrund had ripped away one of the posts that supported the hutch and clutched it between his hands. "Once they attack," he said to Orien, "there are too many for us to keep at bay. Do something now." Orien nodded gloomily. "In for a pippin, in for a pie," he muttered, and lifted his staff. He spoke three words of command and a loud crack, like a stick being broken, sounded above us. One of the skalgür suddenly crumpled, its body as shattered as if it had flown straight into a wall. It plummeted into the bay, shrieking as it fell, and vanished in the water without a trace. Orien did this again, twice, until the skalgür, suddenly silent as ghosts, rose into the air and soared out to sea. "That should wake the dead," Orien said, "if our immanent arrival hasn't already done so." He lowered his staff as the silence fell heavily around us again. The Tejj was sailing directly to the great stone quay that formed a half circle at the end of the harbor. Beyond it was a great paved plaza, where once merchants had gathered from around the world. On the far side of it stood several imposing stone buildings that once formed the heart of the city. Orien gestured with his staff at one of them that stood by itself to one side. "Hezzakal's tower," he said. It rose high and narrow, with nothing but slits for windows until the very top, where a large one looked out over the bay. "Quite a view from there," Alfrund said, looking up. Then he touched Orien's shoulder and pointed to another building that stood out from all the others. "What building is that, though?" he asked. "And why does it look so familiar?" I looked at it myself with wonder. A flight of wide stone steps led up to a portico about three stories high, supported by several great pillars. The building itself was a massive edifice of stone upon which rested a high dome, into which, just below where it began to curve inwards, were set a series of large, round windows, paned with glass. The dome itself was covered with gold leaf that blazed brightly as beacon in the sun. Apart from Sondaram, I had never seen anything as magnificent--or, Sondaram included, anything so huge. Orien nodded. "It should look familiar. It is sister to the great Scriptoria of Lorithar, and once held a collection of manuscripts even more extensive and precious." He shook his head and sighed. "Although, toward the end of the Cytherians' trading days, it is rumored, everything within it was sold. I wonder what, if anything, that great building holds now." Despite the radiance of the dome, around us, far below it, the dark was spreading. Even as Wendma and Hestal together hurled themselves against the tiller to turn the Tejj and keep it from ramming the quay head on, shadow passed over us and swept on across the plaza. By the time we had secured the lines to heavy metal bollards sunk into the quayside, dark was creeping up the face of the building. As it did so, a figure robed in black shuffled out its great doorway and down the stairs. It hobbled across the plaza toward us at such a slow pace that Alfrund said, impatiently, "Let us go meet the thing. Night will have arrived before it reaches us here." When it saw we were coming to it, the figure stopped and waited, leaning on a long plain wooden staff. A hood covered its head completely, but as we approached, a withered hand, shrunken as a talon, reached from a sleeve of the robe and threw the fabric back. The face that emerged was neither alive nor dead, but in some horrible place in between. It was the face of someone whose life had dripped out so slowly that all the living tissue, rather than decomposing, had dried and tightened and hardened, until it resembled a skeleton tightly bound in leather made of its own skin, beneath which its muscles moved like knotted strands of rope. The eyes, however, were gone, replaced with two glass globes in which some milky liquid moved. And when the mouth opened, the teeth were black and the tongue a mere flapping piece of hide. It slowly looked at each one of us, then pointed first at me and then at Orien. "You and you come with me," it hissed. "The others remain here." "We'll stay together, if you please," answered Orien, evenly but without discourtesy. However, the being--for I can't call it a man--had already turned and begun hobbling back. It merely waved an impatient arm, to urge us on. And so we followed in a tight cluster, across the plaza and then up the wide steps and through the portico into the great building itself. Orien took my arm and pulled me with him to the front of the party and gestured to the others to stay a few steps behind. We passed across a grand foyer, the light dying around us with every step. When we entered the room beyond, at first it seemed as if we had stepped into the blackest night. As my eyes adjusted to the dim light still filtering down from those high, round windows, I looked about me and gasped. The room in which we stood was itself circular, merging without a break with the interior of the dome. Up around it ran a single gallery like the thread of a screw, and as far as the eye could see, it was filled with hundreds of beings exactly like the one who had come and guided us in. Although I could barely perceive them in the dim light, I could sense them shifting uneasily, as if standing gave them pain. The sound they made as they did so was like the rustling of leaves, only harsher and more ominous. Something closed on my arm. It was the hand of our guide. I immediately tried to shake it off, for its touch was cold and dry and painful. But the creature clutched me tenaciously and dragged me forward across the vast floor to a huge block of black marble that stood in the center of the room. He then jerked me to a halt and croaked loudly, "Bow down and make homage to the greatest of all wizards, creator king of Cytheria, and he who feeds us life though we are dead. Behold Hezzakal, paltry ones, and tremble before your doom." The thing then threw me forward onto my knees. I prostrated myself and then began slowly lifting up my head, so that I could at least see this wizard before he took my life. I had to lift it higher and then higher still, before I saw his face peering down at me. He sat on a great throne cast of solid gold and thickly encrusted with precious stones. Unlike his messenger (and my image of wizards), Hezzakal was massive in build, his muscles thick as cables. His skin, too, was black and leathery, but had a soft and supple look, glistening with what must have been the rarest and costliest of lotions. His head was covered with a nimbus of white hair, each strand as thin as a thread in a spider's web, kept out of his face by a crown, a thin band of gold that widened over his forehead in order to clasp a huge gemstone of pale, brilliant blue. His eyes, as the messenger's, were globes of glass, but within his glowed an intense yellow light. His visage was as impassive as a lizard's and as hard and cruel. When his mouth opened, it revealed a full set of sharply pointed teeth. "I've waited a long time to lay my hands on one of your kind," he hissed at me, the sibilance as sharp and threatening as the snap of a whip. His head turned from me to Orien and his face contorted into a sneer. "Ah, a worm who dabbles with the Powers," he sneered. The yellow eyes flashed as he lifted a hand and pointed at Orien's staff. "You even dare to bring your beggarly stick into my chambers." He flicked a finger and Orien's staff vanished in a flash of light. The mage gave out a cry of pain, and the pungent stench of burnt flesh filled the air--the hand that held it was now a black and twisted claw. "Forgive me, O Mighty Hezzakal," Orien said through teeth clenched in agony, "I meant no disrespect. Your might is legendary; only a fool would think to compare his meager mastery to that of yours. I beseech you to pardon me for even appearing to pretend to do so." Hezzakal stared at him coldly for a moment without responding, and then turned his regard to me. "And you, maggot, do you ask my pardon for stealing the Ystherüd from my very palace?" As he spoke, the yellow flame that flickered in his glass eyes glowed with such intensity that their light illuminated the floor beneath my feet. "O Illustrious Hezzakal," I cried, looking down as if in shame, my mind racing furiously. "I know of what you speak. Your anger is terrible in its righteousness. Yes, it was one of my kind who stole it from you, a curse be on Him." I now raised my head and met his eyes. "However, hear me, Great One. I am here in Cytheria to give you the means to seize it back. He who stole it from you is our enemy as well, and we hate him as much as you." Hezzakal stared at me in silence, his eyes pulsing with light, his face clenched in a rictus of hate. "Tell me then, filth," he said at last. "But do not think it will ease your end." I rose to my feet. "I do not seek mercy," I replied, "I seek revenge. I will do as I say and you will see its truth. But first answer me this. Did He who stole it from you tell you His true name?" Hezzakal shifted uneasily in his throne. "No," he admitted. "He gave me a name, it is true, but I learned afterward that it was that of a soul he had eaten, which is why I could not detect his lie." I nodded. "Yes," I said. "No one is allowed to know His name, for to have it is to possess great power over Him. He has created a great curse that will strike dead any living being that speaks it, or even thinks it." I looked directly into Hezzakal's eyes. "But you, O Mightiest of Wizards...." I let my voice fade away, letting him complete the thought himself. It took him but a brief second to do so. "But I, Hezzakal," he sibilated icily, "am already dead--is that your meaning, you stinking piece of excrement?" His body quivered with rage. "Oh, no, Highest One!" I replied, my voice shaking. "I meant, as is well known, that you have succeeded where all others have failed. You alone are the master of death." Orien stirred beside me. He now grasped my intent. Hezzakal lifted his head and gazed up past the galleries. As he did so, the jittering sound of his minions stopped instantly, and utter silence fell upon the great room. After a time, he lowered his head again, and said to me, "Yes, maggot, I am lord even of death. I have no fear of this thief. Tell me His name." "Alas, I cannot, O Sublime and Puissant Hezzakal," I said. "For I only know half of it. But my companion, the mage Oriel, knows the rest. Let us each tell you one part of it and you will then alone know the whole." The wizard made a gesture of assent and, giving Orien a moment to block his mind, I lifted my voice and said, "Maer." Then, not trusting my own ability to mentally stop my ears, did so with my fingers, instead, as Orien stepped beside me and said the rest of it. Hezzakal looked at us both for a few seconds, then raised his head. I removed my fingers just in time to hear him furiously hiss, "MAERDAS." And again, "MAERDAS." The creatures that crowded the gallery began to chant the name as well, "Maerdas. Maerdas. Maerdas." It echoed around the dome, turning onto itself. "Maerdasmaerdasmaerdasmaerdas." Hezzakal suddenly stiffened as if absorbing a great blow. His body then began to throw itself back and forth upon his throne. His mouth opened and he screamed, a sound so piercingly thin and chilling that it brought my heart to my mouth. But it didn't still the chanting. "Maerdas," the hundreds of leathery voices sibilated, "Maerdas. Maerdas." The whole building shook and blocks of stone plummeted here and there from the great dome, hitting the floor around us with such force that they exploded into gravel. Then, all at once, the force that Hezzakal had summoned was broken. It snapped with a crack as loud as a thunderclap, and, suddenly, the whole great chamber was flooded with a light of many colors. Shakily but triumphant, Hezzakal rose to his feet, holding aloft a great globe from which light radiated with an intensity that equalled that of the sun. It illuminated all the creatures in the gallery, and as it did so, their voices thickened, deepened, gained tone. "Ystherüd," they now chanted loudly. "Ystherüd. Ystherüd." And, even as they did so, their flesh began to twist and swell, like dried beans soaked in water. To my eyes and those of my companions, the result was even more horrifying than their appearance before, but they themselves exulted. "Ystherüd. Ystherüd. Ystherüd"--the word was now chanted so loudly that the sound was deafening. I noticed that in all this Hezzakal had entirely forgotten about us, and I turned to Orien, wondering if we should try to flee. When I did so, I saw that his ruined hand was gesturing at his side, tracing a series of magical signs. He finished these with a final flourish, and looked defiantly up at the wizard. At that moment, Hezzakal's head was thrown back and his arms raised above his head, his hands clutching the Ystherüd between them, letting its light fill the dome above his head. When Orien's spell hit him, his back arched back and he staggered against the throne. The light in his eyes flickered violently, and as it did, he momentarily lost his grip on the Ystherüd. He desperately flailed his arms about, trying to catch it, but he still was too unbalanced by the blow Orien had dealt him. The Ystherüd bounced off the marble pediment on which he stood, and continued its fall, smashing into the stone floor right before our feet, where it shattered into tiny shards. Hezzakal turned to Orien, his face contorting in as many seconds from an expression of disbelief to one of rage to one of utter despair. Then the light went out in his eyes altogether and he collapsed onto the dais. I could feel his power rushing away from his motionless form like water in a millrace. The bodies of his minions and then of Hezzakal himself withered away, then crumbled into dust. And the dust rose in a cloud that swirled up to the top of the dome and passed through the dome itself, leaving behind it a thin, breathless, echoing wail of despair. Still the power ebbed away and a terrible truth dawned on me. Hezzakal's thaumaturgy had not only preserved the inhabitants of Cytheria but the very city itself. Even as we stood there, foolishly gawking, stone was loosening from stone and beam from beam above our heads. I drew every ounce of force I could find within me to shore them back up, if only for a few seconds. "Flee, flee," I gasped, and closed my eyes. The effort had already weakened me so much that I could barely stand. Alfrund snatched me up, then he and the others ran, through the foyer, across the portico, down the flight of stone steps, out onto the relative safety of the plaza outside. Even as they did so, my strength gave out and my power slipped away. At once the building imploded, falling into itself, the great columns cracking, the huge pediment above them splitting into pieces even as it fell. One of these fell onto the plaza and rolled over several times until it came to a stop just before our feet. As it did so, the rumbling about us ceased. The city lay in ruins, hidden in a vast cloud of dust that hovered over huge mounds of rubble. We looked about in amazement. Everything we had seen when we had sailed into the harbor was gone, save for the ghost fleet in the harbor. And these ships, now untethered from Hezzakal's will, began to float out on the ebbing tide, moving slowly, clumsily out to sea. Only the Tejj, moored to the quay, remained. Alfrund drew Orien's attention to the section of the pediment that had tumbled to our feet. Glyphs of some arcane language had been engraved upon it and limned with gilt. "That's the manner in which a prophecy is written," Orien said, "especially if it has been uttered by one of the ten sibyls." He gazed at it for a moment, and continued, "and as given here it's incomplete. It reads 'eluding death is clever, mastering death, divine'--typically gnomic and astute. Hezzakal thought he had attained divinity; we see that he was merely very, very clever. Only the Immortals have mastery over death, and he never had a hope of becoming one of them." He turned away. "Let us return to our boat," he said, "before dusk turns to night and we find ourselves standing in total darkness."