Date: Thu, 06 Sep 2007 08:59:06 -0700
From: Trewin Greenaway <trewingreenaway@cronnex.com>
Subject: A TALE OF WIZARDRY (Jessan Chapter 24)

JESSAN - A TALE OF WIZARDRY Chapter 24

Copyright 2007 Trewin Greenaway All Rights Reserved


To learn more about me and the genesis of this tale, visit my website
http://www.cronnex.com/ . And, if you're enjoying the story, do let me
know!

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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."