Demogorgon Rising

Chapter 2

Chapter 2It was necessary for me to ride a fair distance that evening, as a result of which the sun had completely sunk by the time I was able to meet young Lance at the Maliksen field. The priestess and her apprentice had already arrived and my own poor assistant appeared more than a little confused and uncomfortable in their company. To my surprise, the priestess had brought along with her a young boy. Twelve or thirteen years old by my reckoning, he was not an Alvere, yet the glimpses of his ears which I occasionally caught behind his long, lank black hair showed them to be unusually shaped, though by no means as sharply pointed as those of the priestess. His complexion was of a sickly hue, his eyes narrow and reddish-brown, and his face gaunt and suspicious. His clothing was ridiculous: a set of black doublet and hose straight out of some old storybook romance, totally inadequate to the weather. He also wore a rough mantle of fur, unlikely to serve against the rain for long. Lance had thankfully provided oilskins for two. I offered one to the priestess, who refused with polite words and a thoroughly impatient voice. Preoccupied with gazing across the horizon in all directions for heaven knows what, she obviously had no time to worry about chills or damp. I ventured the same offer to her apprentice, but received only sullen looks for my pains.

“Johan does not speak modern Lucinian, I am afraid,” declared the priestess, though never sparing us a glance. “His birth was in a much colder clime, in the far northern peninsula beyond the mountains and to the east of Albinor: a harsh land, so I do not think you need worry about his tolerance to your dismal autumn weather. He has lived with blizzards and winds that would kill your pheasants stone dead if they blew over that moor for half a minute, not to mention violent sea-storms. His parents’ fishing boat washed ashore upon the northern strands of this continent. Salvagers found the pilot and his wife dead and cold, but they had poor Johan well protected below decks. That was almost two years ago. His health is quite recovered since, and I have taught him in the language of my people. Not yours, as yet. I suppose I must eventually, now that we are allegedly on diplomatic terms.”

“You mean to bring him up yourself, as an Alvere?” I asked, concealing my involuntary distaste at the notion. She answered dispassionately:

“Not as a common warrior, I am resolved. I have trained him well, and perhaps when he comes of age my archmagister will accept him as a novice. I see the very notion of it disgusts you. So much for the vaunted tolerance of the new order... but if you would look at Johan, even you might accept that he has at least a trace of the fair folk in his heritage already. A ‘changeling’, as they used to say, though that is a poorly chosen term. Your clever Lyceum has found a better one: a ‘recessive pangenetic characteristic’, I believe. Both his parents must have had some weak, latent faery characteristics in their blood. Sadly, those born in such affairs have a tendency to face hostility, ignorance, and occasionally being burned as witches. He will be far safer among my kind, who have long learned to deal with such things.”

Seeing as how she expressed such concern for his health, I again suggested that he wear the oilskin. She gave me a flash of impatience, before interpreting my offer to Johan in some very strange language. He answered me directly with what might have been curt politeness, in the same incomprehensible speech. His gestures were enough to inform me of his refusal, whereupon I let the matter drop and donned it myself, over clothes almost drenched already. A light hailstorm eventually mixed with the rain and I was most thankful for Johan’s endurance.

Little passed in the succeeding hours, save that the priestess and myself exchanged names. To be precise, she already knew mine. I learnt that hers was Phoebe, and that more or less concluded the small talk. We kept a constant watch, ate what little food we had brought, sent Lance almost five miles and back to the Trap and Badger for more, but saw nothing and nobody for a good eight hours at least. I cannot be very accurate on that point: for though it is far from easy or advisable to fall asleep beneath a dripping tree, in damp clothes, in a hailstorm, I somehow succeeded for a couple of hours.

I awoke in poor enough condition and worse humour, stimulated to consciousness by Phoebe shaking me. As soon as my vision had cleared enough to make out her excited countenance, I realised that our vigil had not proven such a hopeless exercise as I had feared. I saw it was near daybreak, from a narrow band of sickly sunlight on the horizon. Lance and Johan were both staring at the escarpment, and by following their mutual gazes I eventually discovered what had caught their attention. Though at first it was hard to distinguish from the fading stars, a moving point of light soon revealed itself to be no work of nature at all. All thoughts of a comet were dismissed when it relinquished its roughly western course across the horizon and seemed to approach the field. The light of the rising sun was soon sufficient to realise how close it actually was: surely less than a mile from where I lay and goodness knows how high. It also became apparent that the object gave out no light itself, but possessed a metal surface that simply reflected the weak sunlight.

It must have passed over the escarpment before I was able to distinguish its shape: a smooth silver “egg” or slightly flattened sphere, emitting a quiet but most irritating whine as it drew near. I cautioned the boys to keep low among the wheat, reasoning that Phoebe would have enough sagacity to make her own choices with regard to due caution. This curious missile eventually slowed to a halt in the air, perhaps some hundred feet or more above the field, where it held stationary. The “sky-ship” — for want of a better term — seemed to me no bigger than a small storehouse or cottage, though the view was far from clear. Quite apart from the rain and the dim light, the ship itself was most obscure, shimmering and wavering as though seen through a shallow layer of rippling water. Considering this, I first thought it to be a mirage, yet it held steady as a rock above the burned wheat for long enough to persuade me of its existence.

I suspect that much pain and exertion would have been avoided, had our small party kept to my advice to remain as low, sheltered and inconspicuous as the field and trees permitted, but apparently I had underestimated the force of my fellow investigator’s curiosity. At all events, I was shocked when I realised that Phoebe had risen from the shadows of the boundary trees and had walked out into open ground at the edge of the field, where she had taken a new and thoroughly exposed station. “It is magnificent!” she exclaimed in deranged admiration, whilst gazing upon the apparition. “A chariot of the heavens!”

Ignorant in religious matters though I may be, I am confident that the next action of this celestial object was by no means angelic. The shimmering that surrounded it had now settled, allowing a much clearer view of its silver-plated hull. I could only regard this briefly: for my gaze was drawn by a violent flash of light as the air near the sky-ship seemed to ignite furiously, and a sudden rush of heat came as our final warning. I leapt from the shadows and drove Phoebe before me into the wheat, calling out to Lance and Johan to run for new cover. I did not look back to see how they fared, though I had little enough opportunity, for it was mere seconds later that the fireball exploded against the trees where we had sought protection, and a cruel blast of searing air threw both myself and my confused partner upon our faces among freshly-crushed stalks of wheat.

The following moments were sheer confusion. I recall looking back upon the trees and being thankful that the flames had failed to catch upon the dripping wood, though the leaves and thinner branches at least on the field side of the treetops had been reduced to fine grey ash. Many times I gazed up in a fearful search for the ship, once catching a glimpse of the appalling object as it skimmed across the fields, keeping at a constant height. I spent a brief period keeping low in the wheat, attending to the unlucky Phoebe. Barring dignity, she had not suffered from either her misjudgement or her fall, and upon her suggestion we crawled as rapidly as possible back to the edge of the field in a search of the two youths.

We soon discovered the wheat they had trampled in their rush and shortly after the area in which they had settled, relying as we had done upon the tall stalks to confuse the view of our attacker. Lance was exhausted and no better for the heat-wave, but essentially uninjured. Johan, unfortunately, had fainted outright at the explosion, perhaps from having been born in such a cold climate and being ill accustomed to strong heat. Our brief efforts failed to revive him and soon our attention returned to our more pressing problem: judging from the interminable whine and occasional glints of silver over the stalks, the ship was still sweeping over the field and presumably looking to finish the job of our incineration. All I could suggest was that we all run in separate directions and pray that we confused it long enough to make good our escape. Phoebe dismissed this with some contempt, pointing out that the ship would have little trouble pursuing any one of us if it so chose and we were not yet so desperate as to be making human sacrifices for the sake of the majority. She then asked whether I had been able to keep my powder and shot out of the rain. Thankfully, the oilskin had kept both perfectly dry.

“Then reload your musket,” she commanded, “and make it a strong charge. But tie something around the gunlock and block the barrel. You shall need it prepared for quick use, but you dare not risk the charge going damp again. Your lad and I can, with luck, hold the attention of that hunter if we run across the face of the escarpment. Risky, but essential.”

“You think buckshot will be any use against that thing?” I asked without pessimism or sarcasm, but genuine hope, however tenuous. I did not relish the idea of using poor Lance to draw the fire of our enemy, however briefly, yet I thought it best to hear her out.

“Understand this: that craft is ordinarily protected by a barrier that is impenetrable to any means of ours.”

“You mean armour plating, like an ironclad warship?”

“Nothing so straightforward. I thought at first that it was surrounded by some kind of galvanic field, but I now see that shimmering is actually caused by it not being here at all, in a sense. One can almost see through it, as if it were a phantom. It protects itself by travelling within a dimension of its own, and if the greatest of your ironclads was to fire a broadside at it, the cannonballs would be just as ghostly — and totally harmless — by the time they reached its hull.”

“Sounds either like witchcraft or gibberish to me, but I daresay you know what you’re talking about, although how—”

“Because firstly, I am a gifted sensitive, and secondly, even you must have noticed how it seemed to appear far more solid and dipped slightly in the air when it fired upon us.” I had noticed no such thing, having been preoccupied with not being burned to death at the time, but I let the point go. “Don’t you see? In order to attack us, it has to fully materialise, but only for that moment. We must trick it into making an attack for our own strike to be effective... assuming my theory is correct, of course.”

“And if it isn’t?” I protested, recoiling at a word so unpromising as “theory”.

“Then he and I,” she flatly answered, indicating Lance, “will be running in opposite directions along the escarpment, as you first suggested. Johan will be no worse off for being sheltered here, if the craft is pursuing us, and you are welcome to bolt to wherever you please. But I suggest we hurry, otherwise it may simply find and kill us here while we debate. If we keep low as we approach the rise, hopefully we shall only be seen when we run along the open face. It will have to fly nearer the escarpment to get a fair shot at us, so you had better follow us to the other edge of the field. You may catch it as it passes overhead. Remember, though: only fire at it when the shimmering fades. Preferably before it actually fires, if you wouldn’t mind. I trust you are a fair shot yourself, friend gamekeeper. Let us proceed.”

Having said which she grabbed Lance by the arm and the two of them were trampling down the wheat before I even had a chance to clear out the wet charge from my musket. I had to do this as best I could while running in their wake and resisting the temptation to look about for the source of the perpetual whine, which certainly grew no quieter for all the distance we covered. I was fumbling for my powder horn when a rush of heat to my right side caused an immediate, instinctive change of plan: I veered to my left and at the dull thud of the explosion threw myself upon my face, freshly plastering it in mud and wheat-grains. When the scorching wind had passed I rose and belted for the edge of the field, hardly daring to look back for fear of delay. My one, brief look revealed several small fires in the area I had hastily abandoned. For the sake of both Lord Maliksen and the unconscious Johan, I hoped that the weather would subdue them before they spread.

In the time it took me to reach my appointed station I was fired upon once more, with no more harmful effect. Yet it was a source of considerable worry to me that the “sky-ship” was able to track our movement among the crops. The tall stalks of wheat did, however, hide from me the sight of Phoebe and Lance for some considerable time, giving me no end of anxiety concerning how they had fared in these latest attacks. I was only relieved when I eventually saw them upon the face of the escarpment, each making a rapid, diagonal ascent: Phoebe to the east, Lance to the west. My relief was shot to smithereens when a fireball the size of a two-horse gig exploded against the ground less than twenty feet behind Lance, who accordingly devoted even more effort to his — by no means leisurely — flight. I wasted no time in flinging myself to the ground at the edge of the cultivated area and refilling my firelock with powder, lead shot, and a piece of thick cloth as wadding, trusting that this would keep the rain from the barrel for long enough. I refilled the gunlock with dry powder, rubbed the flint dry and protected it with my hand, while I swept the sky for my target.

The ship had come lower, not to mention closer. It was now holding a slow, steady course and was due to pass directly over me in a few seconds, assuming that anything of me would be left by the time it made that pass. I could only imagine that I was the intended quarry: that it had either killed both my companions while I had reloaded, or had simply abandoned the attack on them in favour of an easier target. In any case, it had clearly followed the tracks we had left and by such means had located my present retreat. I watched it draw closer in silent, immobile panic, but kept enough astuteness in spite of my fear to pay attention to its every action. As Phoebe had predicted, the shimmering that surrounded it settled completely as it came over me, and its ghostly form resolved into a solid mass of airborne metal, descending as it did so, as if it had suddenly acquired both shape and weight.

My reactions were never so quick as in that moment. I raised and fired the musket in one split-second movement. The shot left a gaping black hole in the ship’s lower hull, and it remained clear and solid, while continuing to drop like a stone. I was on my feet in the very next second and hurrying towards the escarpment, harbouring no wish to be crushed beneath the remains of my opponent. There was an almighty bang and a powerful rush of hot air at my back that caused me to throw myself face-down until it had subsided, but I emerged unscathed, which is more than I could venture to say for the twisted wreckage of the ship, not to mention numerous sections of Lord Maliksen’s wheat. Thankfully, the rain and hail soon put paid to that.

Phoebe and Lance, both quite unharmed, recovered me from where I lay with words of encouragement and congratulation that I barely heard at the time and never expect to remember clearly. The mention of Johan soon restored my senses, however. None of us could recall exactly where we had left the unfortunate boy, and could not help casting glances and morbid reflections upon the numerous patches of fire and smouldering wheat. I eventually found our tracks and was able to reassure Phoebe that none of the fires were even remotely dangerous to her young charge, though she would not be satisfied until we had retraced our steps to where he lay, drenched to the skin and dead to the world, but actually no worse off than before. Thus comforted, Phoebe allowed her attention to drift to the ruins of the ship.

“This is a truly wonderful event,” she declared, to my total amazement. “I am sure nothing like this has ever been done before, and that vessel is worth infinitely more to us down here that it was in the air, even destroyed. Chandry, Lance: you two must guard this field with your lives until that debris is safe for us to examine. Tell nobody else of this, no matter how trustworthy you may think them. We cannot risk the wrong people coming to hear of this. I shall return in a few hours, well equipped. Kindly keep a safe distance between yourselves and that wreck until then, for your own safety. Be patient and I promise you that we shall satisfy more than mere curiosity. And God be with you,” at which she kissed me most indecently, then did the same to Lance, as I presumed from the expression it left on his face. With the same air of shameless enthusiasm she gathered up Johan and set off back to the moor, where I supposed she kept her encampment.

On reflection, had I been performing my job to the letter, I should have arrested her for even walking through the nesting grounds. Much as I could hardly say that I trusted her implicitly, though, I knew that this was something I would never lower myself to. Not that I was aware of owing any particular debt to her: I had no doubts on that account as I stood guard over a smouldering, rain-drenched field, desiring sleep so greatly that I had little thought for my accustomed duties that day. But a man does not need to be a Lyceum academician to recognise when his fate has had the fortune or misfortune to become linked to that of another.