Mark Newton - The Book of Transformations

Footsteps up the stairs…

She spun back, her heart beating furiously, as Dartun pushed open the door.

A sigh of relief, a surge of adrenalin that she could now press him further. I care for him — I’m not going to let him grow into some

… monster.

‘I trust you will be better company than those downstairs,’ he said, more gentle than she’d heard him speak for a long time.

‘They’re well fed, for once, and very tired.’

‘Yes, I forget just how exhausted the human body can get.’

‘That implies you don’t have a human body,’ she suggested, tracing the scars on his face, the exposed metal. ‘I saw what happened with Papus — we all did. That wasn’t normal, Dartun.’

Now that she had voiced her concerns, she feared what might happen. Silence stretched out before them. He seemed quite inert, as if he was incapable of formulating an answer.

‘Dartun, what happened in that other world? We were lovers before we went away, and now we’re back I don’t even know where we stand. But I’m not saying this for me — I care about you.’ She took his hands in her own. In the moonlight, his scars muted by the dim light, his face regained much of its handsomeness. His expression was contemplative. ‘What happened, Dartun? What did they do to us… to you?’

‘I can’t remember, Verain. I really can’t.’

‘You’re lying. The rest of our order was wiped out — I remember that. The specimens of the undead you took with us — they’re gone. There’s just a few of us left now and you’re dragging us halfway across the world without any explanation. You must tell us something, Dartun — you can’t force people just to follow you again without some reason to.’

His face darkened and his breathing quickened. ‘I wanted immortality,’ he said, ‘and I think I’ve found it. You remember the cages in which we were kept?’

‘As if I could forget.’

‘We were there for weeks, Verain — it was days here but weeks there. We were kept alive, we were special. They found us more intriguing than average human stock — we knew how to use aspects of their technology and it mystified them.’

‘Who’s they?’

‘Can’t you remember? You just said you couldn’t forget being in the cages.’

‘I remember being in them. That’s all.’ She wondered if she had forced many of the horrors from her mind of her own will, or whether there was something genuinely wrong with her head.

‘Our captors comprised of many races, bizarre creatures — much worse than the shell-based life forms we passed on the way in, and only a few of them could communicate with us in anything more than grunts. Some individuals knew our tongue, and our culture was vaguely understood. And we few — we survived. We managed to negotiate. We’re heading back to Villjamur with a message, to visit our rulers and negotiate.’

‘What, exactly, are we negotiating?’ she asked, eager now she gleaned some information.

‘They wish to enter our lands. They wish to occupy our islands. You must not yet tell the others — I will do this in my own time.’

Verain gestured to the window. ‘Is that them, out there? Is that their armies?’

Dartun took a cursory peek, before returning his gaze to her. There was a tenderness to his voice now. ‘Indeed it is.’

‘Who are they?’ she breathed.

‘They are part of the Akhaioi. Do you remember their war? Those military machines that were constantly droning in the distance?’

She shook her head.

‘They have been seeking access to our world for years, and they will take it by force. But to minimize loss of life, I am to… negotiate with the powers in Villjamur. That’s why I have been modified. They’ve given me augmentations so we can travel safely back to Villjamur. I only know half of what I can do. And I’m struggling to cope, if I’m honest.’

He had never been this candid in all her years of knowing him. His vulnerability touched her. She moved in closer and held his forearm tenderly. For a long while it seemed he had forgotten what to do, but eventually his arms closed in around her.

The dormitory was vast but minimalist, with little in the way of decoration. The beds were too small so they had to be pushed together in order to be of any use, but, still, this was opulence compared with what they had gone through recently. A night spent under a solid roof was more than a relief.

The rest of the order dozed off, eventually finding a deep state of rest, but Verain could not sleep at all. She had been thinking long and hard about the consequences of what Dartun had told her earlier. One detail didn’t sit right in her head: why were the other cultists not killed with the rest of the order?

The army passing on the horizon also prompted her concern. Where exactly was such a large body of beings heading? Images flashed again, of the other world, her intermittent memory teasing: vast columns of troops marching across decimated landscapes. Hideous beings covered in blood.

She pushed herself up and out of bed. Dressed in thick layers, she headed down to the kitchen, the stairs creaking beneath her cautious, night-blind steps. Clouds had obscured the moons, which left the kitchen quarters in utter darkness. The musky smell of cooked food seemed more prominent as she sensed her way by touch, her eyes gradually adjusting to the oppressing gloom.

She wanted to make herself a drink, something warm, so after stumbling about for several minutes, she eventually lit the stove and the fire seemed to heighten the blackness at the edges of the room. For a moment she thought she could see eyes looking at her, but it was a decorative metal handle on one of the cupboards. Other items glimmered, thick blades and whisks and ladles.

She heard something outside. A faint movement, snow crunching underfoot, the rattle of a stifled breath.

Verain felt afraid and alone. She had no relics with her, so she moved across to the other end of the table, grabbed a massive knife from a rack, shut the door of the iron stove and pressed her back against one of the walls. From here she had a view of two windows either side of the kitchen, one of them being right next to the door. There were no shutters here — just thick, cheap glass.

Something brushed against the outside of the building: she heard it clearly. Perhaps one of the dogs had escaped? No, this was a much slower noise, like something scraping down the wall.

Her heart froze.

Moonlight came, and through the facing window a silhouette was defined. It was… human. Yes, definitely human, just standing there a few paces back from the door, in the middle of the street, peering in.

Cautiously, she stepped across the room and flipped down a hatch on the wide door to the building; a rush of cold air followed. Outside, the man was facing her, silent and still, arms by his side — he reminded her of the undead humans that Dartun had reanimated.

‘What d’you want?’ she whispered.

‘You speak… Jamur,’ he stuttered. He stepped forward presenting his hooded face, long stubble and haunted eyes. His accent was heavy on the vowels. ‘You’re not one of them?’ He seemed desperate and breathless.

‘One of whom?’

‘You… know who. Those… those things that came here.’ He was freezing, rubbing his arms vigorously and shivering in his thin, ragged clothing.

‘No, I’m not one of them,’ she replied.

Behind him, the street was deserted, but he kept gazing about him, scanning the area.

‘How did you survive?’ Verain asked, debating whether to invite him in. ‘We’ve been through several settlements and we never saw a soul.’

‘We’ve been hiding in a tavern cellar — seven of us, and we have been surviving with next to nothing. I came out to see if they have gone… Where are you from? How did you get to the — ’ he searched for the word in Jamur ‘ — educational facility?’