Mark Newton: The Book of Transformations

They watched in horror as distant buildings collapsed and bridges buckled.

‘Our brothers and sisters are out there,’ Arta gasped. Caley turned to Shalev. While the anarchists were in control and there was something of a plan, he could go with the flow, happy to help in whatever way he could manage. All of a sudden came the realization that there were people under those falling buildings — his fellow Cavesiders.

‘We’ve got to do something,’ Caley pleaded, and Shalev looked down at him, surprised at his sudden raw emotion.

She placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘I will see what I can do.’

*

Lan carried Fulcrom over her shoulder, from the depths of Balmacara and back up the way they came, until her body throbbed with so much with pain that Tane had to take over. The four of them progressed through dark ornate halls, the light of dawn showing through tall, arched windows. Momentarily they paused outside one of the Jorsalir prayer rooms, where Lan found a copper canister of holy water. As Vuldon and Tane stood guard, she mopped the blood from Fulcrom’s face, and checked for any further serious injuries. Admittedly, once he was cleaned up a little, she didn’t feel as bad. The stub of his tail was wrapped in cloth and that, too, would heal. He said nothing as she saw to his wounds — but his gaze was full of gratitude.

When they headed outside, Vuldon announced to guards that an Inquisition officer had been injured in combat, that there was a situation developing. Unbelievably they headed inside looking as though they meant business with their swords drawn, their shields raised, and heads down.

They’ll believe anything in such uncertain times.

The snow had abated, the wind had ceased, but sounds still travelled from afar: great rumblings, structures falling, screaming from the levels below.

‘Where now?’ Tane asked.

‘First,’ Fulcrom said, ‘let me see if I can walk on my own.’

‘It’ll be quicker if we carry you,’ Vuldon said.

‘Let me try to walk,’ Fulcrom said. Tane lowered him to his feet, and Lan came around to offer her support under one arm. ‘My legs are aching like bastards,’ Fulcrom said. ‘I need to walk it off though, and to figure out my balance now I’ve no tail.’

The pain on his face eventually faded, as he either got used to it, or could control his reactions. The sky was the colour of wine, with flashes of lighter and darker purple denoting truly odd cloud formations.

Vuldon and Tane marched over to the viewing platform, and Lan then steered the hobbling Fulcrom towards them. The panorama revealed a city that on one side was still cluttered with glorious architecture, and on the other a void where bridges and tall buildings and slate rooftops should have been.

Half of Villjamur had collapsed. They were lost for words. More and more stone toppled over amidst flashes of purple light.

‘That’s the mad cultist,’ Vuldon said.

‘We should have attempted to stop him,’ Tane muttered.

‘I doubt we’d have been much use,’ Vuldon replied. ‘We’d have been buried under there if we tried.’

‘Look,’ Lan said, pointing out the Astronomer’s Glass Tower, which, almost out of sight, was still standing in the half of the city that had not been wrecked.

A column of white light extended upwards, into the clouds, turning them into a textured whirlpool, and creating vast and weird streaks that extended for miles above the city.

‘Has the priest succeeded in whatever it was he was trying to do?’ Vuldon muttered.

‘Can we make our way there safely?’ Lan asked aloud.

Tane peered directly down, then across, assessing the potential for route. ‘Well, there appears to be absolutely no fighting anywhere near us. Perhaps that chap who’s ruined half of Villjamur has taken everyone with him.’

‘That’s a staggering death toll,’ Vuldon declared. Even he seemed shocked by the violence.

‘Ulryk,’ Fulcrom said. In the light of the day, he looked much better. ‘The priest is onto something we can barely understand. Given that this city is crippled, he’s the only one with a future mapped out.’

Every minute brought more casualties and collapsed structures, until there seemed nothing left in their path that could possibly prevent them. Was Dartun yet satisfied?

Numb and broken, the remnants of the Order of the Equinox were marched in front of Dartun, through narrow streets, passing places that had not yet been wrecked by his savagery. Verain didn’t care any more. She just wanted it to end.

Her legs ached, and she had no energy left, but somehow she found herself trudging ever upwards. Each of them slipped at least twice on the ice, falling face-first or flat on their backs. Images from the otherworld flashed into her mind randomly, though she didn’t understand why, and she looked across at the members of her order not knowing who any of them were. Was such forgetfulness generated from her exhaustion? In the distance she could hear the movements of people, of skirmishes in the shadows, but she didn’t have the energy to wonder what they were.

Like the undead creatures that Dartun had once bred with technology, she shambled without purpose.

Level after level, street by street, they eventually reached the platform before — What was this? — before Balmacara, a vast residence. Bodies littered the stone platform, their shadows cast long by the sun.

‘Yes,’ Dartun said. ‘Yes, this will do nicely.’

‘For what?’ someone said. She didn’t know who spoke, nor did she recognize the voice.

Dartun began to hunch and mutter something, not to himself, to someone else — but there was no one else but the members of the Equinox present. Suddenly he ran to one of the others and grabbed the man’s throat: the cultist seemed too exhausted to struggle against Dartun’s grip, pawing meekly at his wrist.

Dartun pressed his fingers into the man’s neck, stilling him, and he peeled back the man’s skin, ripping it from his head. Something weirdly ornate was in its place — a metallic object the shape of a head, with purple lighting webbing intricately along the surface. Dartun continued ripping the skin from the man’s torso — clumps of flesh flopped uselessly to the ground, with a black liquid — not blood — pooling by his feet. Dartun did the same to all of them in turn, ripping them open one by one and discarding their skin and flesh in a thoroughly businesslike manner.

He arranged these metallic forms in a circle, like a primitive henge, and occasionally light flickered between them.

Finally, he came to Verain. She didn’t cry, didn’t scream, even though she knew what was coming.

‘So is this all we were to you?’ she breathed. ‘Some fucked up containers for these… whatever they are?’

Dartun seemed to recognize something within her eyes then, a connection to his former self; but it was quickly gone, replaced by the cold, calm gaze he’d had since returning through the gates: ‘You were once something, Verain, but we all have a greater purpose in life.’

‘You sold your soul in that otherworld. I don’t know what you did, but just finish it now.’

‘I did love you,’ Dartun said. ‘I hope you realize. You would have been killed there anyway. I saved all of you — I gave each of you life, for just a little longer.’

Verain grunted her disapproval. ‘Love — and what would you know about that?’

‘I understand,’ Dartun continued, ‘that love quite often involves a little sacrifice.’

The last things she saw: his advancing form, his hands raised to her face, her head tipping back and blissful, blissful relief…

*

‘What the fuck was that?’ Vuldon demanded. The Knights paused at the foot of the Astronomer’s Glass Tower, and stared back up towards Balmacara.