Mark Newton - The Book of Transformations

They trudged up the incline towards the first gate, refugees milling about their trail with a vague curiosity. Four soldiers in full battle regalia exited their small stone station and marched out towards them, their swords drawn.

‘Sele of Jamur,’ muttered a man with rat-like features. The others formed a casual line alongside him, eyeing the cultists with deep suspicion.

Dartun was silent.

‘We’ll need to see written reasons for entry,’ the soldier drawled, ‘and any associated medallions, before we can permit you through to the second gate.’

Dartun stepped closer and the soldiers held up their swords.

‘Remain where you are,’ the soldier cautioned.

Dartun chuckled without saying a word. He moved further forward and the soldiers slipped through the mud to intercept him; their swords clattered into his arm, pinging off its surface. They didn’t know what to make of his immunity to their blows.

With the guards in a state of surprise, Dartun grabbed the nearest one, placed the palm of his hand on the man’s back and the armour began glowing red hot. While the other guards looked on dumbly, the man screamed: his skin was burning, his face reddening and then, with a muted burst, the soldier exploded within his armour. Dartun discarded the bloodied armour to one side and, with a grin on his face, regarded the other soldiers.

*

Vuldon, with all the dignity of a drunk, lumbered groggily to his room. He lived abstemiously, never wanting to accumulate much these days. There was a bed, a chair, a cupboard of identical uniforms, and a desk, which he’d insisted on having installed. He sat at his desk, lit the lantern, and pulled sketches from a hidden compartment.

It was, more or less, the final scene.

MythMaker was about to defeat the king of the underworld, the crude parallel to Caveside, with a series of magical creatures he had summoned. This had been the culmination of the entire story, and Vuldon was wondering if he could say everything he wanted to say in the last picture. Moreover, ever since Ulryk had discussed with him the potential of actually bringing drawings to life, Vuldon had been struggling to incorporate this into his work. He wasn’t even sure if what the priest said was true. Still, there was nothing to lose in trying.

MythMaker had been Vuldon’s perfect coping mechanism. Ever since his withdrawal from public life, these picture stories had helped him to stay in touch with the essence of who he was — someone who wanted to do good, to please people. That’s what I am. I just want to please, to be accepted. On these sheets of vellum, which were nailed to the various noticeboards and school-room doors about the city, he could continue saving imaginary lives. After he had pinned one up, he watched from a distance the reaction of children as they herded around to read the latest part of the story. Before the end of the day, youths might be re-enacting some of the scenes. He’d hear their innocent cries as they play-acted the defeat of Doctor Devil or the Unicorn Queen.

Now the city was falling down around them, it seemed that MythMaker could be the one way of genuinely helping the children. If he was to protect the Emperor in these desperate hours — if he was to be away from the streets and unable to help people — then he would find a way of saving them: through MythMaker and using the priest’s advice. Assiduously, with a remarkable speed that only practice could bring, Vuldon inked down the final acts of MythMaker.

A couple of hours later, Tane knocked on his door. ‘Vuldon,’ he called, muffled through the wood, ‘time to go.’

Fucksake. ‘I need more time,’ he grunted. ‘I need to head out before we see the Emperor.’

He heard Tane sigh. ‘There’s going to be no stopping you, I suspect.’

‘Damn right there isn’t.’

Vuldon opened the door with a bundle of the sketches under his arm and a purse of nails in his pocket, slipped past Tane, out of the building and into the night.

Snow was drifting across the city in thick flakes, but at least it wasn’t raining much. He wore a cloak and a scarf across his face. For years he had paid others to do this job for him — that was, until the money ran dry, so he had taken to posting the work himself. Given his recent fame, he felt he had to be especially cautious not to be discovered.

Across the city — under bridges and viaducts, past the shadows of wrecked taverns and behind military lines, Vuldon pressed a nail through dozens of copies of MythMaker, fixing them to doors or noticeboards or any sheltered surface he could find. This sketch was special, he knew it, and had to be seen by as many of the city’s children as possible.

The city was a depressing vision. Walls had crumbled, blocking paths, whilst militia groups prevented him from gaining access to certain roads, but he managed to target all the main thoroughfares on the levels farthest from the attacks. He couldn’t get to the crude Caveside plazas, though, which was of concern — he wanted all children to have equal access to these sketches. Once he had finished he dashed back across the city to his headquarters. Two hours late, but I don’t give a fuck.

When he came in he found Tane slumped on the couch, staring up at the ceiling.

‘Ah, the traveller returns. What were you up to?’

‘Never mind. Let’s go babysit the Emperor.’

*

As they ascended the steps of Balmacara, past one unit of soldiers and heading towards another, they were presented with a panorama of the rise and fall of the city’s rooftops.

‘Wait,’ Tane cautioned.

‘What?’

‘I can hear something.’ He turned his head into the powerful wind trying to locate exactly where the noise had come from. ‘There,’ he said, pointing just as a flash of light soared up and struck the cloud-base, then a bridge collapsed somewhere around the third and fourth level. A cloud of dust rose up from the streets, and a sound of rumbling followed moments later.

‘We should hurry,’ Tane said.

Guardsmen, having recognized Vuldon and Tane, ushered them up the steps of Balmacara quickly, and led them into the relative warmth of the Imperial residence. A commanding officer of the Dragoons led them through the lantern-lit corridors, past a number of soldiers who were buzzing back and forth. They looked as if they were stockpiling food and weapons, ready for Balmacara to be a fortress.

‘Wouldn’t these warriors be better out there protecting the people?’ Vuldon said.

‘Aye, sir. I suspect they would.’

‘You agree?’ Tane asked.

‘Sir.’

‘Then why the fuck aren’t you out there?’ Vuldon demanded. ‘People are dying.’

‘Not our decision, sir,’ the soldier replied, ‘not our choice. You’ll see.’

Vuldon looked to Tane, who simply shrugged.

Through layer after layer of security, through ever-darkening passages, and into an antechamber, they finally entered a vast room, with a desk maybe fifty paces away at the far end, and little else except a huge burning hearth and several vast windows that offered a remarkable view of the city. No lanterns were lit, no candles, so once they stepped away from the firelight, they were in a room of shadows. Flashes lit up the horizon now, booms of illumination that lingered and hovered, before scattering themselves throughout the cloud base. Snow raked against the windows, wind rattling the glass against the frame.

A figure was silhouetted against the flares of magic in the distance, but as they marched closer, Vuldon and Tane realized that the person wasn’t looking out, but facing towards them.

‘The Knights of Villjamur,’ the figure gasped. ‘I am relieved that the two of you are now here. Those fuckwits behind you are about as useful in a war zone as a silk handkerchief.’