A Darkness at Sethanon (50 page)

Pug said, “It
would prove refreshing. I’ve thought of a dozen things to do,
if I were outside the field of this trap. Ryath has tried to take me
outside and we’ve failed. And I can’t think of a thing to
do from the inside to fight our flight back through time.”

“The
trick, dear Pug, is not to fight the flight backward through time but
to accelerate it. We must travel faster and faster, moving at rates
undreamed of.”

Tomas said, “To
what ends? We move back further from the conflict. What do we gain?”

“Think,
Milamber of the Assembly,” Macros said, using Pug’s
Tsurani name. “If we go back far enough . . .”

Pug said nothing
for a while, then understanding began to dawn. “We go back to
the beginning of time.”

“And
before . . . when time had no meaning.”

Pug said, “Is
this possible?”

Macros shrugged.
“I don’t know, but as I can’t think of anything
else to try, I’m willing. I’ll need your help. I have the
knowledge but not the power.”

Pug said, “Tell
me what to do.”

Macros motioned
for him to sit, and sat opposite him. Tomas stood behind his friend,
observing with interest. Macros reached out and placed his hands upon
Pug’s head. “Let my knowledge come into you.”

Pug felt his
mind fill with images . . .

. . . and the
universe as he knows it shudders. Only once before has he known this
sense of panoramic awareness, that time he stood upon the Tower of
Testing when he entered the ranks of the Great Ones. A more mature,
more knowledgeable observer watches this time and understands so much
more of what he sees: the symmetry, the order, the stunning
magnificence that spin about him, all tied together in some plan
beyond his ability to perceive. He stands in awe.

He casts his
awareness about and again is astonished at the wonders of the
universe about him. Now he again swims between the stars, again
perceiving the mystic lines of force that bind together all things in
the universe. He detects a tugging on those lines, and sees something
striving to enter this universe from another. It is foul, a cancerous
thing that threatens the order of all that is. It is a darkness, a
blotting out. It is the Enemy. But it is weak and cautious. He
ponders its nature as it falls away from his understanding. He is
moving backward in time.

He observes the
Garden. He can see himself sitting before the sorcerer, his boyhood
friend behind. He knows what he must do. The flow of time about the
Garden is stately, moving at rhythms matching the normal rhythm of
space and time about him, but reciprocal in flow; for each passing
second, a second in the Garden flows backward.

He reaches out,
his mind finding the key to the timeflow, as real to the touch of his
spirit being as a stone to his hand. He caresses it and feels the
beat of the universe, the secret of the illusory dimension. He sees
and he knows. He understands and manipulates that flow, and now for
each second of passing time in the universe, two seconds pass in the
Garden. He feels a calm joy, for he has just accomplished something
that only recently he would have judged beyond the ability of any
mortal magician. He puts aside his pride and concentrates on the task
at hand. Again he manipulates, and for each true second, four now
flow about Tomas, Macros, and himself. Again, and again, and again he
duplicates his feat, and now for each hour that the universe ages,
they flee backward more than a day. Again, and it is two days, then
four, then more than a week. Thrice more, and they move at better
than a month for each true hour. Again, again, and again, and soon
they pass a year for each hour. He pauses and sends forth his
awareness.

His mind soars
across the cosmos like an eagle upon the wing, speeding between stars
like the mighty bird of prey gliding past the peaks of the Grey
Towers. He spies the hot and green-tinted star that is so familiar to
him and for a brief instant understands. He is upon Kelewan,
discovering the lost lore of the eldar. A year and more back in time
have they moved. As fast as the time to think, he returns his
consciousness to his personal here and now.

Again he
manipulates the time flow, and now it is two years per hour, then
four, eight, sixteen. Again he pauses and regards the universe.

The stars
revolve in orderly fashion, hurtling through a cosmos so vast that
their blinding speed appears little more than a crawl. But they move
in odd pattern, their motions inverted, their travels reversed. He
considers and again works upon the time frame. He is now master of
this practice, possessing abilities to dwarf the wildest ambitions of
even the most arrogant member of the Assembly. He is now certain of
his own nature, so much more than he had thought, and he manipulates
the time flow with ease. A wild thought passes through him: this is
to be like a god! Then years of training surge up with the warning:
beware pride! Remember, you are but a mortal, and the first duty is
to serve the Empire. His teachers at the Assembly did their job well.
He ignores the intoxication of his power, rediscovering his wal, the
perfect centre of his being, and again manipulates the time flow. A
year passes in reverse for each second in the true universe. Again
and again he works his skills upon the time trap of the enemy,
accelerating it beyond the expectations of those who fashioned it.
Now a decade passes each second and he knows he lives before the time
of his birth. In the time it takes to draw breath, he has passed back
before the time when Duke Borric’s grandfather invaded Crydee.
He works another pass of time, and now the Kingdom is only half its
future size, with the holdings of Baron von Darkmoor marking its
western boundary. Twice more he accelerates the time factor, and the
nations of his lifetime are little more than villages, peopled by
simpler folks than those who will give rise to nations. Again and
again he works his magic.

Then the
universe rocks. The very fabric of reality is rent. Energies
impossible to fathom explode about him, violent beyond his ability to
apprehend, and he -

Pug opened his
eyes. He felt a strange dislocation about him and for a moment his
vision blurred. Tomas came to stand beside him and said, “Are
you all right?”

Pug blinked and
said, “Something out there . . . changed.”

Tomas looked
skyward. “There’s something happening.”

Macros regarded
the heavens. Odd patterns of energies whirled madly across the
firmament while stars wobbled in the course. “If we watch,
we’ll see things calm down in time. We’re seeing this
from back to front, remember.”

“Seeing
what?” asked Pug.

Tomas answered,
“The Chaos Wars.” There was a haunted look in his eyes,
as if something in what occurred touched him deeply in a place he had
not expected. But his face remained a mask while he watched the mad
skies above.

Macros nodded.
Standing up, he pointed heavenward. “See, even now we are
passing into an epoch before the Chaos Wars, the Days of the Mad
Gods’ Rage, the Time of Star Death, and whatever other
colourful names myth and lore have conjured up for that period.”

Pug closed his
eyes and felt his mind cold and numb, his head throbbing with a dull
ache.

Macros said, “It
appears we are moving at the rate of three, four hundred years a
second in reverse time.” Pug nodded. “So for every three
seconds, about a millennium passes.” He calculated. “That’s
a good start.”

“Start?”
questioned Pug. “How fast need we move?”

“By my
best calculation,
billions
of years. At a thousand years per
second, we’ll get back to the beginning in our lifetime. But
just barely. We need better.”

Pug nodded,
clearly fatigued, but he closed his eyes. Tomas looked skyward. The
stars could now be seen to move, though, given their vast distances,
it was still a slow movement. But even seeing this much motion was
disquieting. Then their movement seemed to accelerate, and soon it
was noticeably faster. Then Pug was again with them.

“I’ve
created a second spell within the structure of the trap. Each minute
the rate will double without my intervention. We’re now moving
at a rate in excess of two thousand years per second. In a minute it
will be four. Then eight, sixteen, and so forth.”

Macros’s
expression was one of approval. “Good. That gives us a few
hours.”

Tomas said, “I
think it’s time for some questions, then.”

Macros smiled,
his dark eyes piercing, as he said, “What you mean is you think
it’s time for some answers.”

Tomas said,
“Yes, that is exactly what I mean. Years ago you coerced me
into betraying the Tsurani peace treaty and on that night you told me
you were the author of my current existence. You said you gave me
all. Everywhere I look, I see signs of your handiwork. I would know
more, Macros.”

Macros sat
again. “Well then, as we have some time to spend, why not? We
are reaching a point in this unfolding drama where knowledge will no
longer hurt you. What would you know?” He looked from Tomas to
Pug.

Pug glanced at
his friend, then looked hard at the sorcerer. “Who are you?”

“I?”
Macros seemed amused by the question. “I’m . . . who am
I?” The question seemed almost rhetorical. “I’ve
had so many names I can’t recall every one.” He sighed in
remembrance. “But the one given at my birth translates into the
King’s Tongue simply as Hawk.” With a smile he said, “My
mother’s people were a little primitive.” He pondered.
“I’m not sure where to begin. Perhaps with the place and
time where I was born.

“On a
distant world, a vast empire once ruled, at its height a match for
Great Kesh and even Tsuranuanni. This empire was undistinguished in
most ways - no artists, philosophers, or leaders of genius, save one
or two who popped up at odd moments over the centuries. But it
endured. And the one noteworthy thing it did was inflict peace upon
its dominion.

“My father
was a merchant, undistinguished in all ways, save he was thrifty, and
held loan papers on many of the most powerful men in his community.
This I tell you so you’ll understand: my father was not someone
about whom great sagas are composed. He was a most unremarkable,
common man.

“Then, in
the land of my father’s birth, another common man appeared, but
one with the ability of spellbinding oratory and an irritating habit
of making people think. He raised questions that made those in power
nervous, for while he was a peaceful man, he gathered followers, and
some of them tended toward the radical and violent. So those who
ruled levelled a false charge against him. He was brought to closed
trial, where no man could raise a voice on his behalf. In the most
extreme and harsh verdict, it was accounted he spoke treason - which
was patently false - and he was ordered executed.

“His
execution was to be public, in the fashion of that time, so many of
the populace were there, including my father. That poor merchant of
few gifts was there with some of his highly placed countrymen, and to
please his rulers - who owed him money - he participated in mocking
and ridiculing the condemned man upon his way to his death.

“For
whatever reason, fate’s whim or the gods’ dry sense of
humour, the condemned man paused in his walk to the place of
execution and faced my father. Of all those about who were tormenting
and berating him, he cast his eyes upon this one simple merchant. It
may have been this man was a magician, or it could simply have been a
dying man’s curse. But out of all there upon the boulevard, he
cursed my father. It was a strange curse, which my father dismissed
as the ravings of a man gone mad with terror.

“But after
the man had died and the years passed, my father noticed he wasn’t
getting any older. His neighbours and business associates were
showing the ravages of the years, but my father looked much as he
always did, a merchant of about forty years.

“When the
differences became pronounced, my father fled his homeland, lest he
be branded a companion of dark powers. He travelled for years. At
first he put his time to good purpose, becoming a fair scholar. Then
he learned the curse for what it really was. A serious accident
occurred, leaving him bedridden for most of a year. He discovered
death was denied him. Should he be wounded unto death, he would heal
eventually.

“He began
to long for the release of death, an end to the endless days. He
returned to his homeland, to seek knowledge of this man who had
cursed him.

“He
discovered that myth now shrouded the truth and that the man now
stood at the centre of religious debate. He was seen by some as a
charlatan, by others as a messenger of the gods, by a few as a god
himself, and by still others as a demon herald of damnation. That
debate conspired to generate some strife within the empire. Religious
wars are never pretty. But one story kept surfacing: that three magic
artifacts associated with the dead man had the power to cure, to
bring peace, and finally, remove curses. As I understand it, they
were a wand, a cloak, and a cup. My father began at once seeking
those artifacts.

“Centuries
passed, and at last my father came to a tiny nation at the frontier
of this empire, where it was supposed the last of the three artifacts
could be found - the other two being counted lost beyond recovery.
The empire was at last dissolving, as all such things do, and this
land was a wild place. Upon reaching that nation, my father was beset
by brigands, who wounded him severely, leaving him for dead. But of
course my father simply lay in mute agony, waiting to heal.

“A woman
found him. Her husband had died in a fishing mishap, leaving her
without resources. My father was of an ancient race, steeped in
culture and history, but my mother’s people, called the People
of the Lizard, were barely more than savages. A widow was to be
shunned, for any who gave to her assumed responsibility for her. So
this woman of nearly nonexistent means nursed my father to health,
then lay with him, for she was without a man of her own and my father
was, by then, an obviously well learned man, and possibly an
important one. The long and short of it was I was conceived.