Destroyer of Worlds

1

In the blistering morning sun, the sands beyond the jungle's edge shimmered in a heat haze that gave an illusory quality to the rolling, golden world. From the shade of a canopy on the terrace, Church watched the barrens, deep in thought, smelling the dry desert wind as he sipped the hot, spicy drink brought to him by the scaled cafe owner.

Through the haze, the figure of the Burning Man glowed like coals in smoke, still there, always there, but closer now, looming so large Church was convinced he would soon be able to feel the heat.

From the moment they had stepped through the Groghaan Gate, the journey had been hard, but at least the exhaustion and the strife had left little space for black thoughts. The Halls of the Drakusa on Summer-side had been reclaimed by the landscape an age ago. They rested beneath a grassy mound in the northlands beyond the foothills of the mountains, a few crumbling stones all that remained on the surface to mark the glory of the once-mighty Drakusa, and even they were so weathered that they were easily mistaken for an outcropping of natural rock.

They spent an hour in the halls mourning their dead. Though she tried to hide it behind her flinty exterior, Laura's devastation at the loss of Hunter was clear, and she had to be persuaded by all to continue, in Hunter's name. Never once did she cry, though for a while she disappeared into an antechamber to be alone with her emotions; she sat silently in the centre of the room, her head bowed, her features hidden.

All of them felt grief for the deaths of Miller, Jack and Virginia, far beyond what their loss meant for the mission. The others were surprised to see that even Veitch was touched, particularly by the passing of Miller, whom he considered a friend, he said, even though he had never expressed it. At the end of the hour, their hearts were still heavy, but they found the strength to go on.

Following the deep, lush river valleys that offered dense tree-cover and deep shadow, they moved steadily north, across the stinking, haunted marshlands where the insects were bigger than fists and carried a poisonous punch that could paralyse and kill; into the tropical jungle where the night was filled with drums and the howls of hunting beasts. They avoided the mysterious tribes who worshipped brutish idols and came and went from the dense interior like ghosts, just as they had avoided the war-bands of the Enemy that roamed across every part of the land, harrying and slaughtering. After the death of the Iron Slaughterman, they knew Janus would have despatched others with the specific task of tracking them down and destroying them, and on one occasion they had seen something terrible silhouetted against the moon on a ridge, but nothing had located them. It was only a matter of time.

And finally they had come to the Court of Endless Horizons, abandoned by the Tuatha De Danaan as they raced towards sanctuary at the Court of the Soaring Spirit. Now it was filled with hundreds of thousands of refugees from every part of the Far Lands, dwarfish mountain-dwellers and the willowy, silver-eyed hunters of the western plains, the lizard-skinned people from the river deltas, and other, stranger beings that rarely ventured from the shadows. All swarmed on the streets, or crammed into buildings in the sweltering heat, race upon race sharing the same space, begging for food, sweating, fighting, haggling for transport or the promise of safe passage; all of them united by their fear of an Enemy that was alien to them in every aspect, a threat that exhibited no compassion, not even the slightest empathy, who could not be cajoled, or pleaded with, or flattered; who slaughtered with a devastating dispassion. Even in the Far Lands with its extremes of emotion and distorted motivations, this was an anomaly.

The city itself was a gleaming monument to the glory of the Tuatha De Danaan. Soaring towers of brass and gold reached far above the steaming jungle that surrounded it on three sides, kept at bay by walls of beaten copper and steel, a sculpture of grace and beauty in the heart of a primal setting. A sleek futurism in the materials and design of the buildings was set against an almost medieval confusion of tiny, twisting streets and alleys leading off the broad, leafy main thoroughfares, yet somehow the incongruity worked. The quarter nearest the gate through which they had entered was still rich with the scents of the spices that used to be stored in the warehouses along the wall, and the heavy, ornate incense-burners that swung from the lamps along the streets suggested the entire court would once have been filled with beautiful aromas.

In its time, it must have been a breathtaking place, Church guessed; now it stank and seethed, filled with the hollow hopes of desperate people who knew death was always a step or two away.

After struggling to live off the land for so many weeks, they thought they would have even more trouble obtaining food in the overpopulated city, but they encountered enough people who were aware of the growing legend of the Brothers and Sisters of Dragons to guide them to a place of shelter. Veitch was stunned that their reputation could earn them free food and drink in the rooftop cafe when so many were starving, everything they required given freely, and without obligation.

Irritable in the heat, Tom joined Church and was instantly presented with a cup of the hot, spicy drink. The waitress, a tall, willowy woman with a forked snake-tongue, bowed. 'True Thomas,' she lisped. 'Your presence here is recognised and welcomed.'

Tom nodded grumpily. 'It grates on me to be treated like an elite,' he said when the waitress had gone. 'All those people out there suffering and we get free drinks.'

'It makes them happy,' Church replied. 'They believe in us, and want to hope that we can make things better for them. If that's the least we can do, then it's something. Everyone deserves a little hope to make them happier.'

Tom snorted. 'Hope is meaningless if there's no chance of it being effected. Otherwise it's just delusion.' He fixed a cold eye on Church. 'Are you losing hope?'

'I'm not planning the victory party, if that's what you mean. I'm waiting for a sign that there's still some way we can make a difference. The Puck has helped me more than once. Why hasn't he appeared since Winter-side? Because there's nothing we can do?'

'The universe gives you a helping hand when you put some energy into the process yourself, not when you're sitting back hoping something will just turn up.'

'We are doing something. The others are out gathering information about the Enemy, the Fortress — they call it the House of Pain around here. What we need right now is a way into it.'

'And what are you doing?'

'Thinking.'

The Morvren had gathered on every treetop around the city; often silent, they were now cawing as if filled with an insatiable hunger. Their number had increased rapidly, and Church didn't know if it was because they were breeding, if the possibility of death that attracted them had grown more intense, or if it was symbolic of the level of threat now facing him. From the rooftop, it looked as if a black shroud had been laid across the steaming jungle.

'My mistake,' Tom said, blowing on his drink. 'I thought you were doing nothing.'

'Why hasn't the Libertarian been hounding us?' Church asked.

'We have been a little elusive.'

'He's me. He must know what I've done, where I've been. So why doesn't he just turn up out of the blue, slit everyone's throats, dump me in a cell and be done with it?'

'Time and memory are slippery things,' Tom began edgily. 'We can't trust ourselves. We never quite remember things how they actually were. And time itself is not fixed, you know that. On every occasion you go back, something subtle alters. It might not be enough to change the big events ranged through history like tent-poles supporting the whole damn canvas of everything. Or it might. The Libertarian has to be extremely cautious. He won't want to risk doing anything that might stop him coming into being, so that he winks out like a star at dawn.'

'It makes my head hurt thinking about it,' Church grumbled.

'That's because you see things in a linear way, and in terms of simple cause and effect. I've lived with my ragged view of the future for a long time, and I can tell you that nothing is clear, everything shifts and changes like the grains of sand on the beach, and you can never predict which way one will go.'

'He must think like me, so I've been trying to put myself in his head,' Church continued. 'What does he want? For me to change and become him, I presume. If I don't, he doesn't get to exist. You're right — this whole screwed-up timeline thing is a mess, but if the Libertarian is still around, then what lies ahead guarantees I become him. Things are panning out just as they should, from the Libertarian's point of view, like clockwork. But he's not going to take any chance that I might change events, or that the Puck might push me down another path or something, so he's going to keep manipulating me into situations that will make me become him. Basically, if he's not around, things are going badly. If he is, there's a chance I might be able to put things right.'

'I don't think it's wholly wise to put yourself into the Libertarian's thought processes. That alone may be leading you towards that destiny.'

Church sipped his hot drink thoughtfully. 'Another thing: the Blue Fire exists all over our world, if you look closely enough. It's here in the Far Lands, certainly, but not to the same degree. And why isn't this place swarming with Fabulous Beasts? You'd have thought of all places, here would be their true home, where they'd thrive.'

A hint of a smile flickered on Tom's lips before he wiped it away. 'Yes, I wonder why that is.'

'I suppose you're not going to tell me.'

'Where would be the fun in that? Especially when you're doing so well with your thinking,' Tom added caustically.

'When did things become so difficult?' Church asked after a moment's reflection. 'It used to be so easy, in our world, with the Blue Fire everywhere. Seeing the magic in the world. The choices were clear.'

Tom's brief glance revealed an unusual hint of tenderness. 'If the choices are clear they are usually false choices. Life is muddy and complex, without any easy answers.'

'But these days I'm not even sure we're on the right side. I don't know what I'm fighting for any more. I don't know why I'm having to make all these sacrifices.'

'You've been on the road a long time. You're weary-'

'It's beyond that. What if the Libertarian is right? People aren't in the world for long. They just want a little security, a few home comforts, time to spend with their loved ones. Is that so bad? All I want is some time with Ruth, to enjoy what we have. Why should I give that up to keep fighting for something I don't understand any more?'

Tom made to speak, then caught himself, his expression registering a deep concern. Church was distracted by the sight of the Morvren suddenly taking wing as one, a black cloud that blocked out the sun and cast the whole city into shade.

What's disturbed them? he wondered.