Fall of Light (65 page)

Not a wolf, but a sea lion, fierce and weighty, yet elegant in the water. In the midst of a surging wave, rushing for the crevice, the niche in the stone wall of her coy indifference. The echoes of her yelp will be as music to my soul.

And the swell of her belly! See these hands? They are made to cup such wonder, to stroke and gather in the folds that proffer wealth, like bolts of the softest cloth. Are we not sensual creatures? And do not the rough edges of age, these calluses and brittle nails, bely the tenderness of a loving touch? Or eager lust, for that matter?

The pup sneers, as only pups can, but such haughtiness is flimsy disguise over inexperience. I see through him, indeed, and think nothing of his airs. Youth has that swollen self to contend with, while I am past such conceits. Like an animal I will roll in my pleasures, and make of her a sack of moans.

She thinks us dead. She gasps in the arms of Hanako, no doubt, even at this very moment! Well, what’s another husband to add to the milling herd? It is experience she will long for, before too long, and by the time we find her, well, I see her eyes light up like torches in a cave.

Behind and belly, and now her breasts.

Weight and heft, sweet as bladders of wine, and my hands such a perfect fit beneath each fleshy pronouncement! Why, she could smother a horse with those twin tomes of sensuality! I see the animal dead with a smile on its face – no, a moment, such an image alarms my sensitive self. We shall send the horse back into the field; she can smother something else … think on it later.

We are hunters, and she the quarry. That much is plain. Unencumbered, as far as notions go.

I didn’t even believe in dragons. Slithering myth, seductive legend, scales and forked tongue, wings and whipping tail! An outrageous interruption to our conversation. Eating a skinned bear, no less! Was it so dainty of sensibility as to peel the beast before devouring? How curious! How ignoble for the Lord of Temper!

Dragons! Whence came the wretched thing?

But in rank decay, how mundane. Yet, was it not noble in form? No, it was not. A vile thing, this hoary beast of legend. We shall have to kill every one we come across, if only to appease the symmetry of sweet nature. Such insults must not go unchallenged.

I will take her from behind, and then from the front, fighting her breasts as if wrestling two bags of ale with stuck stoppers. Pull, you fool! Twist and pull!

The wizened wolf knows well its prey. A thousand hunts, a thousand conquests, and this trail is older than you might think, and yet, old man or not, I find it fresh as strawberries!

The pup knows nothing of this. Even Tathenal barely comprehends. The sweetness of life is anticipation. This, then, is our real moment of glory, yet listen to them, grunting and gasping as we climb yet another mountain’s backside, about to plunge into the crack of the pass, and crawl our way down its length – be tempted not by any caves you might spy, my fellow husbands! They are but distractions! She runs in order to be caught!

Ah, Lasa Rook, beloved, your sweat should taste sweet as wine. Which we can achieve, once I pour wine all over you.

Is not the mind a wondrous world? That thoughts and aspirations can cavort with such glee? That desires can spool out into such wild mess as to tangle every sense, and confound the spirit in a welter of delicious indulgence!

Reality stands no chance against such inner creations.

Dragons notwithstanding.

‘Ease up the pace, Garelko! You will rush us to our deaths!’

Garelko’s whiskered lips stretched into a grin … that just as quickly faded.
Oh, such ill-chosen words!

  *   *   *

‘I would have preferred a simpler path,’ muttered K’rul. ‘A modest step on to the withered plain, flanked by hills, and before us the tall poles surmounted with skulls, to mark the Jhelarkan claim to the territory. A week’s journey north of that, and we find ourselves in the place we sought.’

Skillen Droe shifted slightly, his neck twisting as he looked back upon K’rul.
‘The Jheleck would not welcome me.’

‘Oh, them too? What have you done to earn their enmity? In fact, is there anyone who would actually welcome you, Skillen Droe?’

The giant winged reptile tilted his head, considering, and then said,
‘None come to mind, but I will give it more thought.’

K’rul rubbed at his neck, where the bruises remained from when his companion had lifted him into the air. He studied the scene before them, and then sighed. ‘I wonder, is it your imagination, or mine, that conjures up worlds such as this one? Or do I reveal the flaw of conceit?’

‘If such landscapes are the products of your mind, or mine, K’rul, then conceit is the least of our worries.’

In the basin before them sprawled a city, so vast it climbed every slope, with a heavy cloud of dust shrouding the entire valley. Spires towered above angular tenements and what seemed to be public buildings, monumental in a solid, belligerent style. There were causeways spanning the gaps between the spires, and a vast gridwork of canals in which clear water flowed, with ornate bridges precisely placed at intervals, linking each district.

What jarred the eye were the city’s scale and the seething press of denizens crawling upon every available surface. Not a single spire was taller than K’rul himself, and the denizens were insects. Ants, perhaps, or termites, or some other such hive-dwelling creature.

‘I foresee difficulties crossing it,’ K’rul said. ‘Without, that is, leaving ruin in our wake. I think,’ he added, ‘we’ll need the use of your wings.’

‘It is the way of such insects,’
said Droe,
‘to ignore anything and everything, until that thing in some way disturbs them. Occupied as they are with more immediate endeavours, scurrying about on their rounds. The exigencies of survival, status, cooperation and such consume their entire existence.’

K’rul considered Droe’s observations, and then grunted and said, ‘But are there malcontents among them, I wonder? Plotters seeking freedom from their daily travail: that miserable crawl from birth to death? With heavy boots and careless steps, we could be the scourge of gods down there, and from our passage cults will rise in the years to follow, as memories blur and twist. Vengeful or indifferent? All a matter of interpretation.’

‘You imagine this as more than a simple illusion of civilization, K’rul? Are these insects in possession of written records? Histories and compilations? Literature?’

‘Droe, I see sculptures, there in the central plaza. There are artisans among them. Surely, there must be poets, too? And philosophers and inventors. Historians and politicians – all the natural pairings of professionals who, in the end, prove to be sworn enemies of one another.’

‘A curious notion, K’rul,’
said Droe
. ‘Philosophers and inventors as enemies of one another? I beg you, explain this.’

K’rul shrugged. ‘The inventor possesses a lust for creation, but rarely if ever thinks of unintended consequences to whatever is invented. In answering a dilemma of functionality, or pursuing the dubious reward of efficiency, changes arrive to a society, and often they prove overwhelming. And surely, Skillen, you need not an explanation of the hatred politicians hold for historians – which by hard experience is rightly reciprocated. The Lord of Hate had much to say on the matter, which I found it difficult to refute. Civilization is an argument between thinkers and doers, just as invention is an argument against nature.’

‘Among these insects, then, in this city, you believe there is true civilization. But my eyes, K’rul, are perhaps keener than yours. I see how they march to and fro, and each one identical to the next, barring the ones we might deem soldiers, or constabulary. If there be a queen or empress, she hides, perhaps, in the cellar of that central palace, and speaks in scents and flavours.’

‘As do you, Skillen Droe. Yet does your chosen manner of communication lack subtlety? Does it fail in the necessary intricacy to express complex thought? Someone indeed rules below, and is served by an inner court. The soldiers maintain order and enforce cooperation. The sculptures are raised, to gods, perhaps, or even heroes of the past. What leads you to doubt?’

‘It is not doubt that I feel, K’rul.’

‘Then what?’

‘I feel … belittled.’

‘Well.’ After a moment, K’rul sighed. ‘Hard to argue against that. Still, we skirt the most intriguing issue here. These realms, which we stumble upon, when our only intent is to reach a destination. At times,’ he admitted, ‘I feel as if nature sets against us obstacles, each one intended to obscure.’

‘Obscure what, precisely?’

K’rul shrugged. ‘Some banal truth, no doubt.’

‘Each and every journey I have undertaken, K’rul, insists upon a passage of time, manifest in the gradual alteration, or development, of the landscape. The eye measures the step, the step spans the distance, and the mind conjures for itself a place for it, and gives it a name. But we sentient beings, we are ones to clutter time, to crowd it or stretch it out, when in truth it is unchanging.’

K’rul eyed the winged reptile. ‘Is this how your most recent hosts deem things? Have we not also the will to bend time, as it suits us?’

‘I cannot say. Have we?’

‘In the absence of confusion, we find easy synchronicity with time’s natural passing, with its fixed pace. Alas, Skillen, confusion walks with us, stubborn as a shadow.’ He paused, and then waved at the city before them. ‘An insect sets out, there to the west, and begins its march to the easternmost end of the scape. In its modest scale, the journey is long, arduous even. Yet you, Skillen, with your wings spread, could paint your shadow upon the gap in mere moments. Time, it seems, possesses a varying scale.’

‘No. It is only perception that varies.’

‘We have little else.’

‘The K’Chain Che’Malle, K’rul, are makers of instruments and machines. They contrive clocks that divide time itself. Thus, it is fixed in place. The procession of the gears never varies.’

‘But would a citizen of the city below sense the same intervals as those K’Chain Che’Malle?’

‘Perception suggests not … and yet, as I said, the gears are precise and the intervals consistent.’

‘And so, once again,’ mused K’rul, ‘we must look upon scale, and deem it relevant.’

‘It may be,’
said Skillen Droe as he unfolded his wings,
‘that in creating their clocks, the K’Chain Che’Malle have imposed an order, and a focal point, upon a force of nature that heretofore knew no rules. And by this creation, we are now trapped.’

The notion disturbed K’rul, and he had no response to make.

‘I see a sea beyond the valley.’

‘A sea! Now I begin to suspect who imposed this world upon us!’

‘Too bad, since he too will not welcome me.’

Skillen Droe collected up K’rul with one long-fingered, taloned hand, and unceremoniously took to the air, wings snapping. As they rose higher, K’rul could see that the land they had walked upon was in fact an island, although there had been no sense of that when striding through the mists earlier in the day. The realm of detritus and dust, of abandoned thrones and monuments, had dwindled into the fog that seemed to mark the boundaries between worlds.

Such distinctions seemed arbitrary, and the uncanny proliferation of realms, to which the Azathanai had access, had led K’rul into the belief that, by some strange synthesis of creation, he and his kind were the makers of such places. It was a difficult notion to shake, particularly when it seemed – as it did now – that two wills could war with creation itself.

This island was a manifestation of Mael’s whimsy, and Mael was in the habit of mocking the pretences of solid ground that rose like raised welts upon the perfect surface of his seas and oceans. He was also in the habit of peopling such lands with irritatingly poignant absurdities.

Insects! A city of spires and statues, bridges and canals! You deem this humour, Mael?

They swept over the city in the valley, shadow trailing, and a short time later reached the sandy strip of the shoreline. Out of courtesy, Skillen brought them down upon the white beach. The air here was sharp but warm.

His feet settling into the sand, K’rul straightened his clothing. ‘Your talons have put holes in my robe,’ he said.

Mael appeared, walking out from the lazy waves that whispered over the strand. Momentarily tangled in seaweed, the Azathanai paused to pluck it free, and then continued on. The man was naked, pale, his eyes a bland, washed-out blue. His black hair was long, hanging limp over his broad shoulders. Reaching the shore, he pointed a finger at Skillen Droe. ‘You owe me an apology.’

‘My life is measured in debts,’
Skillen Droe replied.

‘I see an easy solution to that,’ Mael said, and then his gaze shifted to K’rul. ‘At the very least, you should have elected to bleed out into the sea. Instead, we are witness to a crude proliferation of untempered power. Did no one advise you against such an act?’

‘I chose not to table the decision for discussion, Mael,’ K’rul replied. ‘Not that any of us ever discuss anything before doing whatever it is we end up doing. In any case,’ he added, ‘we are not all insects.’

Mael smiled. ‘An exercise,’ he said, ‘that amuses me.’

‘To what end?’

The Azathanai who ruled the seas simply shrugged. ‘What do you two want? Where are you going?’

‘To the Vitr,’ K’rul replied.

Mael grunted and looked away. ‘Ardata. And the Queen of Dreams.’

‘Well, to be more precise, the bay known as Starvald Demelain, where, it seems, the Gate once more resides.’

‘Open? Unguarded?’

‘We cannot be sure,’ K’rul admitted. ‘Hence, our journey. Now, if you’ll kindly get this damned sea out of our way …’