Utterbol and Beyond the Infinite.
Valerius.
Within Alle of Creation, there is Nothing for which the Magvs cannot release by the proper Indvcements.
Heat, that was to be expected here: omnipresent, the searing, scorching heat pressing down, pushing in, groaning, ravenous for fuel. And the lights: the bleary, blurring jets of flame, shooting bright flaring white within the pulsing yellows, and blinding reds and blues and greens of fires, eternal fires. That also was to be expected. But these smells—the acrid smoke of whole forests burning, ashes and oaks and birches, the smokes of whole worlds afire, whole worlds burning down to feed the insatiable forges here that never gutter or die. I had not dreamt of the smells. Nor the tastes, these bitter charcoal tastes of soot, burning motes flittering on the tropic airs like clouds of searing gnats. And the sounds: the rhythmic soughing sighing of the continuous bellows, the breathing of this world; and the ringings, the constant clanging, clattering, echoing in my ears, of hammers, countless hammers rising and falling and rising and falling and beating against innumerable anvils.
I holde the Balance of Alle Things in my Svmmoning.
I float along these fiery avenues, past soaring towers of iron, past endless forges, columns of live flame, lakes of fire, drawing ever closer to that which I seek. Had I flesh in this place, in but a moment the skin would blister, blacken, crack apart and peel away while the fat beneath smokes and melts down, the marrow within my bones boiling and the bones cracking, then flaming up, to be consumed in a moment like mere kindling, lapped up and devoured, utterly, by this hungry world, gulped down to feed the insatiable fires. Thus do witches die.
Inuariablie the Magvs mvst needs presvme compleat & perfect masterie ouer euerie sitvation
I am here. I cannot read the glyphs upon the portal, though I know well enough what they must proclaim. Within the threshold I pass, into the cyclopean hall, to stand before its master. The spirit of fire rises, flames lapping the edges of his form, a great hammer in his coppery hand, and approaches.
“By what power do you come within these work-halls?” asks the spirit.
“O Lord of the Thirty-First Smithy,” says I, “I am come hither under the auspices of your lord, the Wonder-Maker in his palace of steel. I am come under the sign of the hammer, and I bring tinder for your forges. And I am come knowing your secret name, which I shall not utter in this place.”
“Speak on,” says the spirit.
“I come not for a boon, O mighty craftsman,” says I, “Whose works are without flaw. I come here with a warning, out of respect for the past services that you have rendered me. Do you recall the magician Hecatesseus, whose workroom provided so many fine materials to fill your storeroom? He is said to be dead, but I think otherwise. I would not be surprised if he sought you out, perhaps to reclaim that metallic shell he had constructed.”
“He will have come too late,” says the spirit, “For though his handiwork was insultingly crude and pitiful, the materials in which he worked were much too fine to allow to remain locked up within such hideous rubbish. That trash has long since been melted down and reforged into forms more worthy of such fine metal.”
“And, great master, just what metal do you speak of? I fear my poor, inexperienced eyes could not recognize its like.”
“That was orichalcum, a sovereign alloy with many marvelous properties, the secret of its smelting known only to a precious few, such that even in this place it is considered rare and wonderful.”
“And this… orichalcum… does it have any weaknesses?”
“None,” says the spirit. “It is a blend of many metals, having the strengths of all and none of the weaknesses.”
“Indeed,” says I, “then I am much relieved to know that Hecatesseus will not be able to recover his handiwork. But on the other hand, I fear he may attempt to extract some measure of vengeance unto you.”
“Ha!” laughs the spirit, throwing back his head. “In these halls? Let him come.”
“I did not mean to suggest that your Magnificence could come to any harm within this most fabulous Smithy. I meant only to say that Hecatesseus is probably more of a danger to himself than anything, and that if you should see him, please tell him I know he is alive, and would like him to contact me.”
“If I see him,” says the spirit, “I will do so. Though he has been very busy, and his doings are known even to those of us who dwell in such far realms as these. For he has dispatched many emissaries across the countless unseen worlds, seeking knowledge.”
“Indeed?” says I. “What sort of knowledge could he desire?”
“The fool seeks a means to awaken a dragon,” says the spirit. “To bring down vengeance upon his enemies and former friends, alike. As if such a one could hope to control a dragon? He will destroy himself, along with everything else within range of the dragon’s flight.”
Valerius’s eyes open, and the magician in black rises up from the couch on which he had lain.
“Father,” says Helena, approaching, “You have slept long, and deep.”
“The evening star has risen and has fallen in the west,” says Hermia, stepping beside her sister.
“Did you gaze upon the face of the fiery spirit?” asks Helena.
“Did he provide the wisdom that you sought?” asks Hermia.
“The spirit did as I bade, but his words were not sweet to my ears,” says Valerius. “This Popinjay… I fear I may have to destroy him ere all is done. Mark this lesson well, my dearest ones—to have power without wisdom is far, far worse than to have no power at all. Hecatesseus seeks to rouse a force that he cannot understand, much less control. Where is my staff?”
The Guest House at Upchurch, X May, Pentian Year Nine Hundred and Sixteen. Prime.
Vandoren, Purer Grundy, Dominic, Valerius.
The minstrel, Vandoren, leans back in his chair while his faerie-made psaltery, Plucksome, plays a light, playful tune.
“You three have quite a little scriptorium going here,” says Vandoren, gesturing to the table filled with parchment scrolls, some nearly rolled and set aside, some laid out flat with stones, their surfaces glistening with wet ink that marks out prayers in neat Tynan letters, or else signifies strange, arcane characters and diagrams.
“Indeed,” says Purer. “I have inscribed several powerful prayers to the Five, calling on several different saints and angels to help and guide us. One of these prayers will carry us back to the Chapel at St. Welman’s in Heremac, while the other will carry us to the Chapel of St. Iseltis at Clowes. I have a prayer here to call up a heavenly feast, and one to hedge out enemies. And then these two scrolls? Powerful curses, to smite unbelievers with fire and with plagues.”
“And I have prepared some magick formulae,” says Dominic, “to invoke a blast of fire, and a chain of terrible lightning.”
“And I have readied an incantation of transportation,” says Valerius, as Noxumbra looks on from his shoulder. “As well as these gauntlets.” And here the magician in black gestures to two pair of heavy, leather gloves, peppered with iron studs. “These shall grant the wearer great strength.”
“I see,” says Vandoren, raising an eyebrow. “Several of our fighting friends would appreciate such a handsel.”
“And I have been brewing potions, of course,” says Purer. “Many healing draughts, for we seem to use them up faster than I can distill them.”
“And this is to say nothing of the items we recovered from Busirane and Typhon,” says Dominic. “Very valuable, they are.”
“Yes,” says Valerius, “Though it is a great pity we were unable to reach Typhon’s tent before the miserable rucks stole everything of value there. I should have liked to have examined his quarters myself before the ransacking. Mayhap he had even more enchanted items back there, or perhaps a book of spells?”
“I wondered that also, master,” says Dominic, “though he was certainly carrying enough on his person. Magicked leather armor, an enchanted short sword, a ring with a protective charm—and, of course, his wand.”
“What does the wand do?” asks Purer, his eyes lighting up.
“With but a gesture, like so,” says Dominic, “and the utterance of a single word, the wand hurls an enchanted bolt that strikes, unerringly, its target.”
“How wonderful,” says Purer, “though I am more interested in some of the items taken from Busirane. What should we do with Golgath, his enchanted ruckblade? Or his harness? I have never seen mail so fine. And Busirane’s cloak also has a protective charm as well. But those horrible strings of human teeth, I suspect, will be wanted by no man of ours, except maybe Valerius.”
“We shall see about those teeth,” says Valerius, with a shrug. “I have already claimed the leather armor, bows, and enchanted arrows we took from the ruckish assassins. These items are much too small for any of us, though they should suit Helena and Hermia just fine. I have persuaded the somewhat reluctant Mendelor to instruct the girls on archery.”
Vandoren laughs. “He says they needed precious little of his training. Though the girls swore it was the first time they had ever held a bow, within but a few hours they were hitting their targets dead center, as if they had been born with bows in their hands.
“But friends,” says the minstrel, leaning forward, the smile fading from his lips, “I have not come here to gloat over our stockpiles of wondrous items. I seek sage counsel regarding my friend Bracy at Langdale Hall. Having had Geraldine’s enchantment over me broken, I cannot get it out of my mind that I must do something to save my friend and drive out the evil residing there. If necessary, I will even try to enlist the woodsman and Witcheswoe in this quest to end the fiend’s dark hold over Langdale Hall, once a peaceful place, now fallen into corruption, the women driven off and the remaining men, enslaved to a sorceress.”
Canglen Cathedral, XVII May, Before Prime.
Sir Dunstan, Chancellor to His Grace the Bishop Martin of Canglen; Vandoren.
The echoing cathedral is dark and still save for the flickering lights of the votive candles and the whispered prayers of a few devoted worshippers. Vandoren gazes up at the shadowed ceiling that soars high above him and his father.
“My son, all of Pentiandom rejoices at your great victory at Utterbol,” says Sir Dunstan. “Why, Bishop Martin himself ordered the bells of the cathedral to be rung once we heard that Busirane and Typhon were dead, and then we immediately sent word to Tierce and Pope Augustine. This deed is one great step forward in the deliverance of the Frounter out of its ruckish bondage. For the first time in a long, long while the common folk have begun to dare hope that King Tereus and his host will truly be driven off once and for all.”
“The same feeling is spreading over the free lands of Kirke,” says Vandoren. “The people have taken heart by the bravery of Mendelor.”
“I should well imagine,” says Dunstan. “For it is a story most wondrous. A simple woodsman, slaying the most feared champion of the rucks? It is like a tale from scripture, and His Grace even spoke of this exemplary deed in his Easter homily. The Diocese is preparing to issue a proclamation of appreciation to Sir Durell and Sir Hamral for their service and the service of their men. And are we to understand that your good knight, Sir Hamral, is soon to be a father?”
“That is true,” says Vandoren. “His wife, Isabelle, is great with child, as they say, and is expected to give birth soon. The women in Upchurch are all convinced that the baby is to be a son.”
“Then we should be all the more blessed,” says Dunstan, smiling.
“Quite,” says Vandoren. “But father, I have come to discuss other matters with you, as well. We have recently heard some strange stories come from the siege at Heremac. Have you and His Grace also heard such things?”
“We have indeed received some most curious reports,” says Dunstan. “It would seem that King Tereus was so distraught over the deaths of his two sons that he has withdrawn all his armies from Heremac, moved them across the river to the other side of the Corin, where he has taken to his tent to grieve in utter silence. All his armies tremble, awaiting his emergence from this mourning. And in the meantime, his troops have been ordered to slaughter ninety-nine slaves for each of his dead sons. And thus, scores of poor Pentian wretches have been martyred by these animals, cruelly put to the sword and their bodies thrown into the Corin.”
“We have heard tell of these same atrocities at Upchurch,” says Vandoren.
“But that is not all,” says Dunstan. “It would seem that Grand Master Alan of Belfort, head of the Seeker Order, believes that he has been granted a vision from the Five Themselves. For many nights in a row he has dreamt of leading the Seekers across the Corin to one last, great battle, wherein he triumphs over Tereus, shattering the ruckish armies and freeing his city. Alan is convinced of the truth of his dream, though His Grace is… considerably less certain. We have attempted to urge Alan to wait before acting, in order to give time for the coming crusaders to arrive.”
“And how far off are they?” asks Vandoren.
“Even as we speak,” says Dunstan, “The very first troops are already starting to pass through the gates of Canglen. Many great lords from Weredrice are on the march and expected to arrive here in scant weeks. We believe this will be the mightiest host Penitandom has ever raised, a final crusade to far surpass the earlier ones that came before.”
“Not a moment too soon,” says Vandoren.
“Yes, and for other reasons as well,” says Dunstan. “For we have of late seen terrible deeds done within this very city, blackguard deeds that no ruck-man can be held responsible for, though it saddens me greatly to say so.”
“What villainy is this, father?” asks Vandoren.
“Do you recall the babe Agnes?” says Dunstan. “Of course you do—for she is not one easily forgotten, is she? For seven years now this wondrous girl has been entrusted into the protection of the Diocese, where we have raised her with the utmost care and love and kept her safe from all harm. But alas! A week ago, in the middle of the night, several men—we know not how many, other than it was several—broke into the Bishop’s own residence, and sought to carry her off into the night, for what fell purpose we cannot imagine. Fivethanks that her bodyguard, Sir Thomas Shore, and his men were able to repel these wicked invaders. But Tom was badly wounded in the attack, and two of his men murdered. Blood, blood in His Grace’s own apartments, if you can imagine such impiety.”
“And these would-be kidnappers?” asks Vandoren.
“Gone, all gone,” says Dunstan, “Without a trace, leaving behind no clew as to their identifies, their purpose, or their master. We have tripled the guard around Agnes, but greatly do I fear another attempt…”
The Guest House at Upchurch, XXI May. Midnight.
Valerius, Helena, Hermia.
“A Magus must always be open to the employment of means other than magick in order to meet his desired ends,” says Valerius, addressing his two young charges, who look on wide-eyed, their round red faces captivated with interest. “All workings of the art come with a price, and one should always be reluctant to pay such a price needlessly. If one may reach one’s goal without uttering a single incantation, all the better. For the shrewd and timely manipulation of purely mundane instruments can be every bit as effective as the most puissant spell.
“As an example, I am inclined to urge Nestor to gather every Pentian ruck-man he can roust and then march on the Yron Citie, converting and killing as many heathen rucks as he can. This undertaking would prove most beneficial to our goals in at least three ways: Primus, it gives King Tereus yet one more thing to worry about. Secundus, ruck-men killing more ruck-men can, naturally, only mean less ruck-men in total. Which leads us, inevitably, to, tertius, for when the war is over we shall not have to worry about the most uncomfortable matter of having an entire army of Pentian rucks living just next door.”
“That is most astute, father,” says Helena, smiling. “But what of…”
And here the girl stops, for she notices that the magician in black is no longer paying her any heed, his gaze instead fixed upon the bookshelf across the room. The girls, recognizing this familiar gesture, fall silent.
“I wonder,” murmurs Valerius, absently rising from his stool. He shuffles to the shelf, removes a single book, and returns, placing it on his desk. It is a small, square book bound in brown leather.
“Could it really be?” says Valerius, to no one in particular. Then he throws open the book, awakening Noxumbra, who had been sleeping in the rafters. The raven rises with a caw, fluttering about the room before landing on the table. Soundlessly, the two girls creep closer to stand over their master’s shoulder.
The open pages of the book are filled with lines and lines of small black characters that seem to slowly shift and blur, refusing to resolve into focus. Valerius leans in, peering intently at the book. Without looking away for even a moment, he reaches out and grasps a candle, burning low near at hand. With one swift gesture, without once blinking or moving his eyes, Valerius brings the candle up above the book, points the wick downward, and presses the flame toward the page below. Drops of wax fall and plop on the book. As the candle draws closer, the black characters begin to flutter and blur even more rapidly, each individual mark twisting and squirming on the page.
Valerius exhales deeply.
“Of course,” says the magician in black. “There was no alien language to be learnt. There was no code to be deciphered, and there never was. No charm to be broken, no spell that hindered the reading of this book. Why, this is not even writing, at least not as men understand it.”
“What is it?” asks Hermia.
“What do you see, father?” asks Helena.
“Look closer, girls. Look carefully at each of these characters, these tiny little marks on the page.”
“Why… they are alive!” squeals Hermia, with considerable excitement.
“Indeed,” says Valerius, pressing the candle even closer. “Though alive is perhaps not quite the right word. Each one of these little black marks? Each is a bound, diminutive spirit of the infernal realms. See, daughters, their little limbs flailing against the candle’s flame? Each one of these imps makes a letter. Their tiny bodies twist and turn to form the shape. See this stroke—the upraised arm makes an ascender, the descender is a leg, this cross is a little arm, bent so, and the bowed head forms a flourish.”
“But they are so tiny,” whispers Helena.
“These are the least ranked of all imps, representing but the most passing and trifling of the innumerable sins that fill up each one of our days in this world of flesh. This figure here, perhaps, was once an idle, lustful thought of a parson for a parishoner’s wife, while this one may have been a girl’s single, envious glance toward her neighbor’s new bowl, and this here might have a husband’s single unkind word to his beloved wife. Hand me that knife, the one of cold iron, right there.”
The girls stare at him blankly.
“I am sorry, girls,” says Valerius, finally looking away from the book. “Perhaps that knife of silver, instead. Yes, that one.”
The magician in black takes the blade handed to him by Hermia, and carefully, slowly, points the gleaming tip of the knife down against one small, black letter. A tiny, distant cry sounds in response, and Valerius quickly pulls the knife-point back, nodding and rubbing his chin. Then he takes the knife in one hand and the candle in the other, holding both implements high above the page, and speaks.
“Imps of the book, I command you by fire, I induce you by silver, resolve yourselves, reveal your secrets to me.”
The black figures on the page twitch and shake, then settle down into clear, neat letters of easily read Tynan script. Valerius nods in satisfaction, moving his finger across a single line, then turning the page. He scans the text again, turns the page, glances at its content, and flips the page.
“This is it, daughters,” he says, softly, continuing to page through the book. “For it could be no other. You gaze upon Androntitus’s folly, the very tool that proved the undoing of that foolish Tynan Adept. This book here? This is the book that destroyed Larium, that great city which drowned beneath the waves so long ago. This must be what the Grand Magus carried with him out of the Empire, brought into the north, and eventually into the libraries at Abbermark.
“It was but fragments, half-understood and incomplete lines copied from this very book, that proved the ruin of those Bergenian dabblers, that led to their corruption and inevitable destruction. And the faint echoes of that original destruction were what undid the Vavasor, and certainly even now seek to be my own downfall.”
“What is it, father?” asks Helena, her eyes bright.
“Yes, father, what secrets do you read?” asks Hermia.
“This, daughters,” says Valerius, suddenly closing the book shut, “this is a roster… a compendium of names, as well as a set of instructions. The names of certain powerful, infernal spirits, and the means by which they may be called, and the ways in which they may be bound to service. Some of this material I have already seen, but only some, the mere shards and fragments clumsily passed down by many fools over many years. I have seen but the least and weakest names contained within this book—the names of many lesser minions of the Lord of Iron Rod and Staff. But here may also be read the names of three of his most powerful servants, three dark princes: the Lion, the Winged Wolf, and the Avenger.
“But there are details here on other spirits, as well, spirits inimical to the Lord of Iron Rod and Staff, powers such as Hacumuli, the infernal spirit that was bound deep beneath Lorn Abbey. And then… in the dark heart of this book, is the one name that destroyed Androntitus and brought down doom on all of lost Larium. It is the very name of Hacamuli’s master… the name of… the Enormitie.”