Hugh Cook - The Wishstone and the Wonderworkers

Binchinminfin screamed with rage.

As the firefight intensified, Uckermark and Logjaris set out after the two wizards. Tolon followed them. As did Guest Gulkan and Thayer Levant. Chegory, the last of the heroes to hold his ground, stayed down, stayed low, waiting for his chance to rush forward and rescue Olivia.

Then Binchinminfin went berserk. He hurled sheets of smoke, flame and lighting toward the taunting Shabble. As death filled the air, all humans who could run took flight. Chegory among them. He was no good to Olivia if he was dead!

‘Where are you?’ roared Binchinminfin, as the smoke cleared.

‘Here,’ said Shabble.

Then giggled.

Binchinminfin picked up an orange and breathed on it. The orange became transparent. Within its depths lights swirled and sparked.

‘Tharaftendosko,’ said Binchinminfin.

Then released the orange.

The globe went rolling through the air toward Shabble. Who guessed what it was — and dropped like a stone. The globe struck a pillar and disintegrated. As did the pillar. Where the globe had struck, stone became chaos: a cascade of free-sliding incoherence in which bits of maybe, once was and might-have-been tumbled over and over. Gravity claimed the chaos. Which collapsed toward the floor, writhing its way downward to join the unpleasant mess which had already disfigured the Star Chamber.

Fortunately, the pillar had been purely ornamental in nature, therefore the palace did not fall down on the heads of those who were doing battle within its walls.

The demon loosed another globe. Shabble skittered and jived, frantic to escape this lethal weapon, which the refugee from the ruins of the Golden Gulag had correctly identified as a field of localised improbability.

Three more globes the demon loosed. Time for Shabble to be gone! The feckless one duplicated itself thrice thirty times. Leaving the Star Chamber ablaze with imitation Shabbies, the true article went to ground and rolled along the floor, speeding out of the nearest exit like a glob of spittle being blown along by a hurricane. In the dark interstices of the pink palace, Shabble caught up with Chegory Guy, and shone a little light to help the Ebrell Islander and his stumbling comrades navigate out of the palace.

‘What happened?’ said Chegory.

‘I got beaten,’ said Shabble frankly.

‘You mean, you can’t kill the demon-thing?’

‘I tried!’ said Shabble, hurt by the note of disappointment in Chegory’s voice. ‘I tried, I tried, really I did! But I couldn’t, that’s all.’

‘All right.’ said Chegory, doing his best to soothe poor Shabble. ‘All right, you did your best, I know that. Come, let’s be gone.’

Outside, they met Ivan Pokrov and old man Al-ran Lars, who had been conferring in the shadow of the palace portico.

‘What’s happening within?’ said Al-ran Lars.

‘Explanations later!’ said Uckermark. ‘Let’s just get the hell out of here.’

‘What about the wishstone?’ said Guest Gulkan. ‘Where is it?’

Uckermark had to confess that he had dropped it in the Star Chamber.

‘How could you!’ said Guest Gulkan, aghast at this disaster. T risked my life for that thing! Years of questing! Battles, torture, horror, nightmare, death! And you — you

— I don’t believe it! You’ve got it, haven’t you? Haven’t you?!’

‘Search me then,’ said Uckermark. ‘Search me, if you don’t believe me.’

Guest Gulkan needed no further invitation. He frisked the corpse master instantly. Then nothing would serve except for him to search all the others. Then he screamed in frustrated rage. He was so angry he punched himself in the head.

‘Right!’ said Zozimus briskly. ‘If you’ve got the histrionics out of your system, then let’s be gone.’

So saying, the master wizard of the order of Xluzu began to march away downhill. The others followed.

Chegory wanted to protest. Olivia was still back in the Star Chamber! If she was alive. But…

What could he do? He could not contend with the demon. When threatened, Binchinminfin had strung him up in the sky without even touching him. The demon controlled fire, smoke and thunder. Could smash stone at will.

Already the other humans were a hundred paces distant.

‘Come on, Chegory!’ said Shabble.

So the Ebrell Islander joined the retreat down Lak Street. Past the houses of the great and the grand with their walls aglow with the blue-green glimmer of moon paint. Past the inexplicable ship-sized monolith of bone which the city knows as Pearl.

There Arnaut of Asral stepped out of the shadows and greeted them.

‘What happened to you?’ said Al-ran Lars.

‘It’s a long story,’ said Arnaut, and began to tell it as the refugees continued their retreat downhill.

Shortly they reached the Cabal House of Injiltaprajura’s wonderworkers. From the uppermost storey there still came the same drunken singing, indicating that the end-of-the-world celebrations were still in full swing.

Uckermark halted.

‘Let’s go in and negotiate,’ said he. ‘We can’t handle this demon-thing without help. Zozimus, my man! Lead us within!’

‘Me?’ said Pelagius Zozimus. ‘I’m a wizard. Wizards and sorcerers are deadly enemies. They’d kill me rather than listen to me.’

‘Right!’ said Uckermark. ‘I’ll go in alone!’

So in he went.

After a protracted wait, Chegory Guy ventured within to see what had happened to the corpse master. He found Uckermark sitting on the steps which led upward. The way was impassable, for the wonderworkers had done nothing to clear the mass of stone still blocking the stairwell. Chegory could smell the dust of broken rock. Plus something else besides. Something sharp, evil, alluring. He noticed that Uckermark had a small flask in his hand.

‘What you got there?’ said Chegory.

‘What do you think?’ said Uckermark, proffering the flask to the Ebrell Islander.

‘No thanks,’ said Chegory stiffly.

‘Well then!’ said Uckermark. ‘Your loss, my gain.’

So saying, he drained the flask, then tossed it aside and led the w’ay outside.

‘We’ll get no help from the wonderworkers tonight,’ he said. ‘Let’s be going.’

They turned down Skindik Way and hurried past the Dromdanjerie, from whence there came the sound of deranged howling. Chegory presumed that Jon Qasaba would be inside, ministering to his patients. Not for the first time, the Ebrell Islander wished he could flee into the Dromdanjerie, curl up on his pallet and pretend the disasters which had overwhelmed his life had never happened.

On they went. Past the enormous rotting shadow of Ganthorgruk. As they hastened down the street, a ferocity of rats burst from a sewer-hole in the base of the building. Vampire rats! A pack of marauding vampire rats intent on murder!

‘Shabble!’ said Ivan Pokrov. ‘Light!’

Shabble flared. Then the men turned on the rats with savage intent, glad to have something to kick and kill. But the vampire rats sensed what they were up against, and fled screaming.

On went the terrorisers of rats, past the slaughterhouse where phlegmatic butchers were working late by lamplight, anatomising the corpse of a kraken which had recently met its death in the polluted waters of the Laitemata.

Chegory stopped to warn them.

‘Hey!’ said Chegory. ‘Hey, there’s a demon on the loose in the palace.’

‘Oh?’ said a butcher.

Down came the cleaver. Then the man swayed slightly, and burped. Chegory realised he was drunk. Everyone in the slaughterhouse was drunk! They were working in an alcoholic haze. Working by rite and ritual, by habit and force of routine. For a moment longer he stood watching, then, realising he could do nothing useful here, ran after his comrades.