The eaters of time, p.66
The Eaters of Time, page 66
Methias shook his head, murmuring, “Aye, and if beef were blue…”
Here and now, the Crown will be little more than a glorified weaver’s lamp. Still, that instant of hesitation may buy me enough time if I use it at a critical moment. Worth remembering in a pinch. In the meantime, War Cry will serve me better than any weave work I’ve held in reserve.
Thinking of time, he reckoned he’d bought Pallith and Ibhroth enough to reach the conduit. He just needed to keep the enemy focused on him long enough for that conduit to go dormant. Then he could slip the noose the goblins were preparing for him. He still had the power to effect an escape. That was something. He could even bring along a handful of stragglers, if he found any.
The hunger had ebbed away, which was also something. Still, he had an idea this brief respite was a matter of circumstance. Other than the goblins and the thing Pallith had named Rakshasa, there was nobody near.
Nobody that wakes my hunger, at least. Oh, I can still feel it. But it’s quiet for the moment. There’s more to this than the physical sensations of hunger or thirst, though. There’s a… a sound to it. It’s as if I’m hearing the river of my own blood as it races along.
His thoughts were cast aside by an influx of new ones. He saw himself kneeling before that one-eyed goblin archer again, but this time it was as if he were a supplicant, not a criminal awaiting sentence. As the next image faded into existence, he found himself flooded with a sense of boundless well-being. This one showed him standing beside the goblin. Fighting beside him. It promised combat in concert, carrying with it a feeling of utter liberation. There would be no question of misunderstanding, let alone mistrust. He and the Nebelblut would act in perfect harmony.
The Rakshasa grinned, his fangs on full display. “I think it best to give you a fair presentation, Methias. You do prefer Methias, do you not? I shouldn’t wonder. Galganus Methias Arthod? Galganus? This is too haughty a name for a man such as you.”
Methias ignored him, though he couldn’t help but wonder how the creature had known his given name. He was rewarded for his silence with another vision. Again he saw himself stood beside that same Nebelblut. An instant later, it faded, giving way to a goblin a bit taller than he himself was. Next came a massive blue creature stood in the goblin’s place, followed by a slender, well-muscled being of dusky gold. Each of these had one commonality… a single blinded eye. The final image showed Methias—tall and fell—stood alone. He was bathed in a light so brilliant it defied the very notion of color. Figures swam somewhere behind him, but they were hidden by—protected by—the light.
My light, he thought and smiled.
“There. Do you see, Methias? Do you understand the path we can lay before you? All that we can accomplish together? You and I stood here at this moment? On the very evening of the Keening? It is surely a sign of providence.”
He did understand. Or at least thought he did.
“The Nebelblut shift through these forms? They eat shadow and gain power from it.” Methias knew that idea should horrify him. It did horrify him, albeit in a distant sort of way. “You—or perhaps just the one-eyed archer—are asking for my…” He shook his head. “What? What is it you expect me to do?”
It was a struggle to think with any sort of clarity. At first, he’d thought his mind was racing, but that wasn’t accurate. His mind was crawling. The hunger hadn’t so much quieted as moved. He felt it baking into his brain… numbing him… lulling him. It whispered and moaned, singing of early autumn. Of sweet rain and wicked wind, and the desperate desire to roll over, burrow beneath the blankets, and just give in.
“It is a simple enough matter. And of course I will explain.” The Rakshasa’s voice was full of reasonable, clear-headed honesty. “We want to have you with us, Methias. We want to take your future away from the traitor and his false King… to swell your ranks with our own… to grant you strength and knowledge in a far more tangible way than any other can hope to offer.” There was anger. Yes. But that anger was directed at the king and whoever the traitor was. “He must be stopped. You know this already. He creates treachery, corrupts all things, and seeks to remake the world to match his own avaricious vision. I would not willingly live in a world made by one such as he. And so we are aligned, you and I.” The rakshasa paused, bowing his head to underscore his next words. “Yet the road we must take to stop him is paved with sacrifices. Nothing worth accomplishing comes without sacrifice. Isn’t that so?”
It was so. But there was something else here. It dragged at his mind, trying to get him to turn away. He had the vague sense that he’d forgotten… what? He’d no idea.
But… tears of the Mountain, he has a plan. A plan to put a stop to the King of the Dead… Zarec wept! To be a part of someone else’s plan again. To have someone else—someone who knew more than he—tell him what was to be done…
His mind shifted focus to the others… those who were supposedly fighting against the King of the Dead alongside him. He’d been the only one of their original company who seemed even vaguely interested in learning about their foe, let alone hammering out a plan to defeat him. That was especially true of Hakim’s brash brother, Hamed. He’d been their leader ever since that black day in Thassak Pass. He knew the man was committed to trying to free Jannon from his jailer. The entire company was, but…
But they’re content with how things are, secure in the knowledge that a solution will simply present itself. We are, after all, chosen, as Hamed keeps reminding us. The dreams prove that. And if we are Chosen, then we will be presented with the means to claim victory.
“Hells be hid! Of all the self-important, lazy…” Methias scowled, but managed to resist the strong desire to clench his fists.
“He is a fool, this Hamed.” The Rakshasa was nodding. “He expects to bumble into a weapon mighty enough to, what, bludgeon the King of the Dead and his generals to death? To hack and slash his way to victory, and kill the dead? To kill Death? The Master of the Bloody Forge?” He shook his head. “A fool is one thing. A willful and dangerous fool is quite another, as you know well, Methias.”
He did know well. His anger faded, replaced by a relief so palpable he nearly laughed. He’s right. Hamed is a fool. His brother Hakim would be well shut of him. Hakim’s wise, even-handed, and nearly as skilled with a blade as his loutish brother.
The Rakshasa spoke in a warm, avuncular tone. “And this Hakim would make for a far better champion in service to your wisdom and honor. Would he not?”
Methias couldn’t help but grin. Perhaps he would. At the least, Hakim’s life wouldn’t be wasted on one of Hamed’s half-formed quests for glory.
Come to that, their healer, Elliata, would be far better served with Hamed gone as well.
She’s somehow managed to hold on to her sense of innocence, despite everything that’s happened. Yet Hamed’s taken advantage of that many times in pursuit of his goals. With him dead, there’s no chance she’ll wake up one day as the arrogant fool’s concubine.
“She and the rest of your band? They would become your champions. Given no need to contend with this Hamed’s childish nature, you would be free to focus on the war. And with the rest of your company stood at your side, you would be far more likely to thwart, or at least slow the King’s advance. Your fledgling realm would become a safe haven for those who suffer under… ah, but I see you have already begun such efforts.” The Rakshasa paused, looking surprised and more than a little pleased.
“Methias! We’re here! We’re with you!” Jastar’s voice, followed by a single low bark of warning.
Methias’s mind was somewhere in the White Vale of Wishes, still dancing and dreaming amidst the rakshasa’s words. It took him a moment to return to the here and now. If Ire’s here, then Tharus must be with him.
“It’s well you both arrived when you did,” said Methias. “It’s right there should be witnesses, I think.”
Was he still smiling? Well, why shouldn’t he be? For so long now, he’d been surrounded only by those who either relied upon him or seemed determined to fight him at every turn. The realization that he was not alone in this war had been such a relief. The Rakshasa had made things so much clearer. It was as if the past five years had been little more than a thin nightmare. And here, now—after throwing open the shudders to a promising new day—was this blessed creature smiling by his bedside. He and his Dereek khnderath could defeat the traitor and his king. Of course they could! Especially with the Rakshasa and the Nebelblut beside them.
“Hells be hid,” Jastar murmured. “Look at the devil’s eyes…”
Ire’s growl was a low, dangerous sound that made even Methias feel afraid.
“It’s alright, Ire. I believe I understand now.” He turned his mind to the remaining two members of what he still thought of as Jannon’s company. Would they fall in beside him, or try to fall upon him? How would they react to Hamed’s death? Would they understand why it’d been necessary?
Wois may be a fellow caster, but he’s as much a fool as Hamed. He’s knowledgeable, but isn’t half as wise as he pretends to be. Still, he’s at least controllable.
And Naeadne was the key to that control. Though Wois swore his feelings toward the half-elf were no more than close comradery, Methias had marked the way his eye followed her… the way he haunted her steps.
And he grows cold, murmuring when he thinks I don’t hear him. He rankles at the power and wisdom I’ve gained … worrying that Naeadne will rely less and less upon him. And he’s right to worry. As for Naeadne herself? She’ll be simple enough to keep on side. So long as she’s given a cause to fight for, a sense of import, and room to swing Saint Hyrro’s... Hyrro’s...
Methias stopped. For an instant, everything seemed to stop. Ire’s deep growl, the rain, the wind, and the false sense of well-being just … ceased. It was as if his mind had been doused in icy water.
The rakshasa blinked its peaceful, inverted eyes at him as it waited.
I’m a fool, he thought, and bowed his head in contrition. Ire growled and barked…at me. I felt his light and feared it… feared it! Zarec wept! Ire growled at the rakshasa itself! And yet it took Jastar actually calling the creature a devil before I began to suspect. Even then it took the memory of Hyrro’s riddles… Hyrro’s voice before I…
He sighed, shaking his head. When he spoke, his voice was small and resigned.
“You almost had me.”
The creature loosed an inarticulate sound of confusion through its nose. “Mmm?”
“It shames me to admit it, but yes. You almost had me. To find someone who knows the King of the Dead even exists is miracle enough. Haunek and Loegrem leave precious few survivors in their wake.”
The Rakshasa hissed. “Do not speak the traitor’s name, Methias. It is a blackened, curs-ed, unworthy word. Do not sully your mouth with it.”
Methias kicked a loose stone, sending it skittering off to one side. His head was still bowed, and his voice remained small. He resembled nothing so much as a chastened child as he spoke.
“Haunek won’t trouble the world forever, Rakshasa. My company will see to that.”
“As you say. Do as you will with the God Eater. We wish you joy of it. The traitor, however, belongs to us.”
So Loegrem is their enemy. That bears recall for later. For now, though…
“Tharus? Sir Jastar?” Methias kept his voice firm, but otherwise without inflection. “Have we gotten everyone out? Are there any left in Wick other than we four and the enemy?”
“We’re the last I know of, Lord,” Jastar said. By the sound of it, he was adjusting the way his shield rode on his arm.
“Aye,” Tharus said. “They’ve all gone through.” His beard-stubble voice was tight in anticipation.
“Then we’re leaving.”
“No, Methias, no. Do not name me an enemy. We have enemies and to spare. Together, we can bring them all to heel. You cannot turn away from all that I offer… all that we can accomplish together.”
Methias at last lifted his head to meet the creature’s strange eyes. “I can. And I do. Jastar, a hand on my left shoulder. Tharus? My right. Keep your other hand tight to Ire.”
As the men moved to obey, the rakshasa stepped forward. “You misunderstand me, Methias.” The Nebelblut behind him were no longer milling. They were massing. Many of them were holding bows with arrows at the ready. “I did not say you may not turn away. I said that you cannot turn away. You are one of us now. I have but to stretch out my will to claim you. Yet still I would rather you see sense. Will you not reconsider? I assure you, I am only too happy to hear your concerns, and make whatever small adjustments are necessary so that when our swords are drawn, they are drawn as one.”
Methias allowed a sad little smile to play across his face. His voice took on a soft, almost gentle tone. “I did not misunderstand, Rakshasa. It’s just that…”
“What? Tell me, Methias. Let us come to an understanding that we may be about our shared work.”
Methias found the creature’s odd eyes again, resisting the urge to fall into them. “It’s just that I refuse to bend my knee before the hells, no matter their harbinger.”
The creature sighed. “Then you leave me little choice.”
A wave of dizzying bliss crashed over Methias. He heard a low, desperate moan that spoke more of pain’s end than pleasure’s echo. A few beats later, he realized the voice was his own. He could feel ethereal fingers probing, questing along the surface of his mind. They were looking for the way in, he had no doubt. And for a moment, he found himself hoping they’d find it. The relief of yielding… of letting someone else take up his burdens, his responsibilities… it was a temptation beyond measure.
A life of ignorance and simple pleasure… a chance to forget every pressure, every responsibility. He understood that the choice was his. He could give in and drown in bliss, or he could turn away.
And if I yield, I forget all of it… all of them.
His mind flashed to… well, not to his friends. He had no friends. Every man, woman, and child in his life either looked upon him with disdain—perhaps a grudging sort of respect—or relied upon him to lead them. There were those he loved, yes. But friends?
He thought of Morakogunn Fellhammer, the realm’s seneschal. Of Farin Irengar, Dereek khn’s general. Of Fyken Presh. Of his Kyria, his Nybrynci, who existed more as a memory now than a woman of flesh and blood. Of Tharus, whom he and the company had rescued from flesh peddlers back when this misery had all started. And finally, he thought of Jannon.
Jannon, who saved me. Jannon, who protected me, taught me, and in the end, made a deal in trade for my very life.
As if he’d summoned it, Jannon’s laughter bubbled to the surface of his mind. Its ghost was brief, soft, and gentle. But it did blot out that sense of bliss, and its false promise of peace, at least for the moment.
“Honesty, Lamlith. You have to be honest with me and with yourself.
Methias nodded, eyes brimming over. “Aye. Ohhh—aye.” He swallowed hard, then raised his bright-fist as if to defend himself from an incoming blow.
“Rakshasa?” His voice was barely more than a rasp.
“Yes, Methias?” In contrast, the creature’s voice was a contented purr.
“Ber, Rakshasa.” His voice grew full and fell as he spoke. “Ber, Maveyn. Ber quer hol ponduu solek.” (Burn, Rakshasa. Burn, Un-light. Burn beneath the bless-ed stars.)
A new brilliance burst into being around Methias’s brow. Bright white stars shone out amidst a twilight-colored band of radiance. In the crown’s gleam, the Rakshasa’s flesh began to bubble and crack. The creature screamed with many voices, trying to withdraw from the circle’s glow.
“Hyrro’s light! You are tainted by Hyrro’s light!” It stumbled backward, falling to the cobbles with one arm raised in feeble defense. “Go! Take your killing-light and go! I curse you and the whore whose gift you bear! Wish warden! Root-cutter! Go!”
The hunger was gone—the temptation, as well. Methias was himself again. He felt a monstrous shame at how close he’d come to giving in, but that would have to wait. Now there was this devil-thing and his Nebelblut to escape from.
I cannot contend with them all. That hasn’t changed. The goblins aren’t reacting to the Crown, so it won’t help me there. But…
He looked down at the Rakshasa. The creature’s hand… both of its hands were… backwards! How had he missed that? Had he seen it, he’d have called upon the Crown of Stars far sooner. Wrists turned round… hands turned round. Wrists turned round… hands turned round. His mind didn’t want to let the oddity go. The sheer physical horror of it threatened to drown him.
No… no, that’s for later, he reminded himself again. I can unravel that later.
He couldn’t breathe in too deeply. The Nebelblut’s stink was too omnipresent. It was stronger, somehow—clawing at his throat. He didn’t dare close his eyes in an attempt to regain focus. Anything could happen while he looked inward. How to reclaim himself?
After what seemed like an age of indecision as the Rakshasa screamed and cursed, Methias bit down on the sides of his tongue. The combination of fresh pain and the flooding warmth in his mouth turned the trick. He would have to remember that for later. For now…
His voice once more took on that full and terrible coldness. “If your beasts attack, I will burn you until there is nothing left of you to stain Skolf’s soil. Keep them at bay and I will spare you. The decision is yours.”
“Curs-ed child of the—”
