Weird Tales, Volume 51 (15 page)

They did as they were told and, within a matter of hours, had rendezvoused with 8 and 47 who, in the meantime, had been tracking BleakWarrior who, in the meantime, too, had been well aware that he was being tracked.

Nailer of Souls was face to face with a Meta-Warrior of growing renown called Be My Enemy. She was taunting him with verbal abuse that had about as much effect on him as flecks of dust against the void.

“Your ugliness resembles the facial contortions of a hog at the slaughterhouse,” she spat. “You have the elegance of a bat with its ears removed. If I were forced to love you I would cut out my heart and feed it to the dogs to please me better. Tell me, Nailer, do you sleep in the sewers of the linear folk? Why else would your robes stink so forcibly? I would likely vomit if it weren't for the fact that you disgust me so much.”

Finally, she leapt, spider-like, towards him, her flails raised, one in each hand, ready to slam with precision into his temples. It was her favourite move against Meta-Warriors with big reputations. She liked symbolism, which was the basis of the reputation she was trying to build now.

But Nailer of Souls responded as if he was made of air rather than flesh. His club, spiked with a single nail, swung up in an arc and impaled itself in the underside of her chin.

It was the best piece of symbolism Be My Enemy had ever seen.

She had failed, having counted on speed. Nailer of Souls had counted on the will to be faster. Her tongue had been pinned to the roof of her mouth; her teeth had been shattered; and, more to the point, her mouth had been shut. When the Nailer removed his weapon, she fell limply to the ground, too stunned even to whimper.

Nailer of Souls bent over her and, reaching into her body, dragged her soul from its containment of flesh, proceeding to devour it in a series of gulps that resembled a gannet scoffing a speared fish. Be My Enemy's belated scream was of untold desperation compared to the physical pain she'd received from the force of the blow.

As Nailer of Souls stood enjoying the moment of resuscitation, he suddenly caught a whiff of some ghastly concentration of bitter and twisted life essences, against which the soul of Be My Enemy had smelt positively sweet. He raised his head at an angle and sniffed, filling his lungs with definite traces of putrescent anima. And there was one among them, too, full of agonies too deep to conceive, even more infested with rot than the others.

Drooling at the mouth, Nailer of Souls walked to the cliff edge of the hill upon which he had slain Be My Enemy, and leapt. He followed the stench through a maze of IDs, which led him, in the end, to a place he disliked more than most.

Nemeden.

He had emerged on the outskirts of the city, and the smell was coming from well within its intricate clusters of marble domes and minarets.

But it wouldn't take him long to get there, not even by linear means.

The free traders of Interest spoke of a highly unusual spree of violence which had resulted in the deaths of two visitors to the city and the serious injury of six others. Nemeden had never known anything like it. Among the victims were men and women of all ages, beaten and robbed within a space of four hours during an average market-day afternoon.

The killings were to some extent regrettable because they tended to attract attention in linear societies where law enforcement was more advanced, but they were necessary due to the dangers of being recognised (two of his targets had caught a glimpse of the Lenses, while the others had been more efficiently dealt with). They had served their purpose, however; and BleakWarrior now had the means for financing his stay in a private residence of considerable luxury.

One useful effect of the killings was—precisely—to ensure that the City Arbiters were especially vigilant, which meant that the Sons of Brawl, much against their habitual tendency, would be forced to tread carefully in mounting their attack. It was in the interests of Meta-Warriors to keep a low profile in places like this—places where they'd be regarded and pursued as freaks rather than embodiments of Nature. There were already one or two linear humans or groups who'd made certain discoveries about the presence of “unusual visitants”, but who were luckily too wary of the repercussions (the accusations of craziness or eccentricity) to be profligate about voicing opinions of the facts. Because of that, they (some of them known personally to Meta-Warriors) had determined to take a more secretive course in widening their investigations, tending to form clandestine academic factions or mysterious sects reported to be engaged in queer religious practices.

BleakWarrior knew one of them himself—a priestess from the Church of Nechmeniah—who had gained his confidence and, on one occasion, had even helped him. But Achlana Promff couldn't help him now; not now that there were five of the Bastard Brood on his tail. There was nothing for him but to knuckle down and face up to the fight. The Sons of Brawl were hardly versed in the arts of diplomacy: but, then again, neither was he.

In the preliminary stage of his existence, BleakWarrior wanders over a vast and vacant territory of desolate hills and staggered peaks, where granite cresses overhang the marshy fens and discoloured summits elapse into long ridges of twisted rock. Storms rage and abate over a dreary terrain where rain ravages the foremost heights and sinks to a heavy pelt in the lower braes. No living creature, warm- or cold-blooded, could withstand the conflagration of raw conditions, that to the mind and body bring dreadful hardships, without resorting to a savagery that rivals the hostilities born against it. And, for this reason, BleakWarrior is wild; and wilder still because of the all-too-seeing sight—the penetrating gaze of the Lightning Vision—that enables him to see the supernatural aspect of the natural world, where the metaphysical hues of physical reality are as clear to him as corporeal objects.

It is the world outside of linear time, where an eternal stupor of elemental forces manifest themselves as distorted beasts that war without pause or as feasting deities too beautiful or strange to gaze upon. Ghosts and denizens populate his vision with terrors and splendours; celestial figures dance naked over the glowing heaths: and, for all his sense of fear and wonder, BleakWarrior cannot conceive of them without going mad.

Eons have passed, and BleakWarrior is drawn from the world of excessive marvels by the ululations of a harp that trails on the wind like the residue of sorrow. It is the music of the Bard who, when approached, does not open his lips to speak, but on his harp invokes the utterance of words:

“One who wanders, from your madness now afforded some relief, the timbre of my strings has reduced your visionary convulsions to a material calm. My bardic offerings have delivered you from your impressions of lunacy. Come sit by the blaze of my hearth and slake your thirst on the draughts my naiads bring.”

BleakWarrior sits and drinks. The Bard affixes the Warped Lenses.

“Your restricted madness compels you to a mastery of your senses, which is all the more ferocious for its underlying dereliction. This, your weakness, now your strength, to enemies will convey their bodily ruin; and to you will bring your dedication to their doom.”

It was time. The freshness of the morning before sunrise would keep his instincts keen. The streets, by and large, were deserted. East of the market square lay a clutter of alleys and arcades that would provide a sufficient territory for secluded combat.

He didn't have to search the shadowed nooks to know that the Sons of Brawl were following his progress through the maze of ancient conurbation. And as he rounded the bend of a long and empty street, crammed to the heights with intersecting layers of Fiddithian and Mharothic architecture, they were there, five of them, waiting for him with weapons poised.

BleakWarrior approached and made a ritualistic motion that was his personal prelude to battle. Finally, he drew his Weapon of Choice, which flew from its sheath with an ominous ring of honed steel. The Dirk.

And holding it clasped in both hands, with his legs apart and arms outstretched before him, BleakWarrior bade the Bastard offspring do their worst.

“Nay, BleakWarrior,” declared 24. “You will receive a good beating at our hands, but you will live to suffer much greater torments at the hands of our illustrious patron.”

“Best lay down the Dirk,” added 39, “which will soon be ours by virtue of our victory. Lord Brawl awaits your company with anguishes contrived at your expense.”

BleakWarrior's frown only deepened and the ripple of his brow increased.

“Waste not your words on speculative discourses,” he said, “which have no root in the decisive consequences of action. The Dirk and I have other plans concerning the distribution of pain between us.”

But as BleakWarrior prepared himself for an onslaught, he saw behind the Sons of Brawl a figure glide with ethereal swiftness out of the gloom. Sensing an untoward presence, the Sons of Brawl turned to look; and their faces, suddenly, bore the expression of their shattered bravado.

“Nailer of Souls!” gasped 21.

And a long silence passed between them; and Nailer of Souls was almost within striking distance when 24 took courage and said:

“There stands a confluence of miseries no duty to our Father can allow us to deny. Good brothers, take heart. We have pursued a rat and discovered a Mastodon. Think of our Father's joy when such a prize falls wrapped in blood into his lap. Cripple him but do not kill!”

The instruction given, the Sons of Brawl pounced on their prey, but the match was one of saplings to a hurricane. Nailer of Souls went about his business with chilling elegance, stealing among them with ease and with an exactness in every parry and stroke that struck asunder the Bastard host.

Yet the Bastards were no novices. Their adroit ferocity allowed them to avoid the more precipitous blows of their adversary. Desperation, too, played its part. Empowered to bravery through the reflexive impetus of sheer panic, 21 embarked on a rolling manoeuvre that enabled him to clip the calf of Nailer of Souls with his jagged-edged cleaver. The Nailer lost his balance by an inch or two—not much. But it was enough to rouse the Bastards to a less evasive approach in coping with the Nailer's deftness.

BleakWarrior, meanwhile, saw that the time was ripe for his discreet withdrawal from the melee. There were no obediences to codes of honour in the world of universal strife. Far better to let Nailer of Souls indulge his hunger for souls composed of cosmic filth, for he was not to be challenged when newly revived by their nutritious boons.

But a rational acceptance of the risks involved was not a thing to motivate BleakWarrior; nor was it courage that determined his actions: it was madness that defined him, and it ran in his veins with unstoppable motion like a river in spate.

21 was the first to fall. BleakWarrior slit open the back of his neck and felled him like a sacrificial ox. 39 came next. BleakWarrior planted the Dirk in the small of his back, causing him to crumple like a burning leaf.

The confusion caused by his appearance played into the hands of Nailer of Souls, who promptly smacked the jaw of 47 with the butt of his club and sent him spinning. Number 8 made the mistake of seeing this as an opportunity to make a move. He swung his studded cosh towards the Nailer's upper body with all the force he could muster. But the Nailer dropped himself to his knees and lowered his head—the cosh passed over him—then sprang to his feet and delivered an almighty thwack into number 8's groin.

8 went up, then down and didn't rise. The Bastard's candle had been snuffed.

BleakWarrior, meanwhile, was busying himself with 47, whose jawbone had been unhinged like a piece of machinery. It seemed appropriate to BleakWarrior that he should tear it off completely from the Bastard's face. So he took a grip of 47's chin and wrenched it sideways with all his strength. A few vicious twists accomplished the deed, and it was good to hear the Bastard squeal like a puppy roasting on a spit.

And now the Nailer was closing in on 24, and there was nothing 24 could do about it except die.

Accordingly, the Nailer leapt into the air and turned like a bird on a swirling eddy. The club, spiked with a single nail, impacted almost with delicacy into 24's forehead. 24's body wilted with an instantaneous limpness like a piece of string.

BleakWarrior wasted no time as the Nailer endeavoured to prise his weapon from the perforated skull of 24. He charged full on, ready to slam the Dirk into whatever part of the Nailer's body presented itself first. But Nailer of Souls turned to meet him with an unpredictable rippling of his form. He caught BleakWarrior's arm and stayed the Dirk, then span low and buried his head in BleakWarrior's abdomen. BleakWarrior felt himself being hoisted and twirled; and the Nailer dumped him onto the ground like a man offloading a heavy sack.

BleakWarrior wanted to struggle to his knees, but a foot on his back pinned him to the cobblestones.

He knew it, then, that he was going to die.

Badly.

It is written in The First Book of Absolutes that the soul is a derivation of the Fundamental Awe of Nechmeniah when first she developed an awareness of herself as the Over-Notion of Existence and Time.

As practitioners of the Church of Nechmeniah, it is our belief that we are able to receive the same extreme of realisation whenever we encounter new things or experiences that appeal to the Fundamental Awe in all of us. Crucially, however, the arousing freshness of these encounters is brief because of their obfuscation by the degrading animal distractions that characterise our physical condition. Needless to say, a sustainable Awe is recoverable through death, whereupon our souls are re-absorbed by the primacy of the Life Before the Body.

But my visitor tells me that this is wrong.

Instead, he says, we are strictly bound to a material existence that has no root outside of itself. Anything that exists beyond the reach of our senses is but a part of the expansive interaction of all things operating as a contingent body of differential states. What cannot be seen can be felt, he says, which makes all things, mental or physical, equally real. Some substances are less palpable than others—that is all. And, to this extent, the body and soul are a single unit consisting of extremes of materiality which cannot exist in dualistic separation.