The Sword of Shadows E-Book

Adrian Cole

• Herausgeber: Wildside Press
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Serie: The Voidal
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 378

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

Throughout all universes and dimensions, a great darkness is gathering, forging itself into a monstrous force bent on an all-consuming path of destruction. Against this impending cataclysm stands one man - the enigmatic Voidal, creature of myth and legend, and with him a small band of reluctant followers, themselves god-cursed renegades. Among them are Elfloq the familiar, Orgoom the Blue Gelder, Scyllarza the demoness, and Evergreed, the fallen god. In a Hell-forged alliance, they travel to the very heart of the nightmare omniverse to uncover the last of its frightful secrets.

THE SWORD OF SHADOWS, third and climactic volume of the Voidal trilogy, is sword and sorcery in the tradition of the fabulous Dying Earth and Eternal Champion sagas!

Leseprobe

Table of Contents

THE VOIDAL SERIES

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

DEDICATION

EXORDIUM

PART ONE: THE WEAVER OF WARS

PART TWO: AT THE COUNCIL OF GOSSIPERS

PART THREE: ADRIFT IN DELIRIUM

PART FOUR: DARK DESTROYER

PART FIVE: THE SLIVER OF MADNESS

PART SIX: AMONG THE BONES OF GIANTS

PART SEVEN: GATE AT THE EDGE OF REASON

PART EIGHT: IN HOLY HEDRAZEE

THE VOIDAL SERIES

Oblivion Hand

The Long Reach of Night

The Sword of Shadows

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

Copyright © 2011 by Adrian Cole.

All rights reserved.

Published by Wildside Press LLC.

wildsidepress.com

The Weaver of Wars first appeared in a slightly different form in Weirdbook magazine, No 23/24, 1988.

At the Council of Gossipers is a revised version of the story published in Dark Horizons magazine no 21, 1980.

Dark Destroyer was first published in a slightly different form in Swords Against the Millennium, Alchemy Press, Autumn 2000.

DEDICATION

For enduring support, hugely appreciated:

Dave Holmes

Dave Brzeski

Bob Covington

Roger and Rod

EXORDIUM

So, I begin once more this history of the dark man, pawn of the shadow gods who turn universes on their axis.

Though I sense the darkness coiling about my lonely retreat and imagine that I hear its measured breath, yet I am not molested. Perhaps the war that rages between the gods distracts them from a mere exile such as myself and my recorded impieties. For I know that it never ends, this god war, merely ebbing and flowing like an ocean, its tides washing the shores of human existence, re-shaping them sometimes as no more than an afterthought.

Wars and wars within wars, these are the things of which I must speak now. Gods fall, gods rise, some die, others live on and, like the tide, come again. The power of gods fluctuates, surging, breaking, dispersing.

The greatest of them may be humbled by the oceans of change, while even the least of those creatures that catch the tide at the flood may benefit. We all cling to the debris of hope. Even the outcasts, the condemned.

In this spirit I begin this history again.

—SALECCO, flotsam on the tides of Fate

PART ONE: THE WEAVER OF WARS

The Dark Gods had been strict in their control of the Voidal and in their manipulation of him. Part of the curse with which they had burdened him was that he should befriend and be befriended by no man.

I have written elsewhere of how Elfloq, craftiest of familiars, had sought to overcome this censure by emphasising that he was not a man and thus immune to reprisals. While some remarked on this insouciance with amazement, others were far more sceptical, seeing in the dark union a hidden purpose that would ultimately serve the Dark Gods.

At this juncture in my history, where the very gods clash and shatter in the maelstrom of their wars, I must introduce another pawn in their ineluctable machinations. Though he, unlike Elfloq, was never a willing protagonist.

—Salecco, whose own memory of companions grows fainter by the hour

* * * *

Tyrandire, the Palace of Pain, moves secretly and silently through unseen tunnels between the many dimensions of the omniverse, traversing any of them that its grim master wishes to visit. A minute moon, perfectly circular, colder than terror, Tyrandire speeds on its way like light, sometimes lingering like a biting frost. The energy that charges this oval missile is greater than that of any sun, indeed greater than the energy contained within an entire universe, for it is the will of the outlaw god, Ubeggi the Deceitful. Where Ubeggi seeks to go, his Palace of Pain takes him. He has many missions, all of them selfish, all of them corrupt, for the Weaver of Wars exists solely for his own amusement and he delights in knotting together the workings of more thoughtful gods or undoing their orderly tapestries of fate. All the gods know of Ubeggi, and when his Palace of Pain nears their own haunts in the omniverse, they curse him, knowing that his mischief will be upon them.

* * * *

Inside the Palace of Pain, Ubeggi entertained several visitors. (Those who came here could not rightly be termed guests, for Ubeggi admitted no equals.) These seven beings stood in an ovoid chamber near the heart of the Palace. Before them was no more than a shimmering image encased in a globe, a projection of a laughing face, though the laughter that shaped the face distorted its lines cruelly and made of it a mockery of amusement. Ubeggi often laughed, but his laughter was unique to himself, for others read into that laughter only terror.

Those who now stood before their master were not ordinary beings. They were creatures that had once been men, but whom Ubeggi had warped into hybrids for his own purposes. Blue-skinned, hairless, hunched as though they always walked in fear, they resembled demons, and indeed their nature was much akin to those evil beings. They had no hands, only a clutch of five small sickles where there fingers should have been. Those sickles were said to be capable of cutting in twain the web strands of the smallest spider.

“Well, my pretty Gelders,” came the voice of Ubeggi from the globe. “What have you to report? Tell me of the places you have visited. What seeds of ill have you sown?”

At this, each of the Blue Gelders growled a short report: each of them had visited one of the many dimensions, searching out information, studying kings and empires, monarchs and dictators, sowing discontent, or noting where it simmered, ready to be brought to the boil. Ubeggi would evaluate all the news that his spies brought him and from it would initiate some new campaign of terror, aimed at bringing into conflict whole empires and even gods, for he was eager for new sport. It gave him the greatest pleasure to destroy the reputation of gods and turn their worshippers away from them.

As the last of the seven finished his report, Ubeggi nodded, musing on their words. “So, Cattapermennon still builds a star empire in Gorzendoom, does he? I think I shall let him consolidate his conquests a while longer. Shaddar H’mmil and his vermin grow stronger in the Well of Odak, too? And Aacrol of the Oceans grows weaker, does he? But, no, he is too feeble to warrant my attentions. Age will decay him, not I. I like the sound of the rebellion on Alendar. I’ve half a mind to spoil the Bloodwight dominion: Androzael grows fat and lazy there.” Ubeggi deliberated long, but somehow none of the reports he had received filled him with the zest for a campaign.

“Wait, though. Were there not eight of you in the cell that I sent out?” he said. “Who is missing?”

The Gelders looked at each other unhappily. One of them spoke. “Orgoom, master. We awaited him as long as we dared without rousing your impatience, but he has not returned.”

“From where?”

“From the universe of the Tree Citadel, Verdanniel,” replied another.

Ubeggi mused on that. “I sent Orgoom there as an afterthought. Life on Verdanniel is not accustomed to war — the turmoil of growth, certainly — but a war as we know it would risk destruction to the great Tree and thus to all Verdanniel. And Verdanniel is little more than a gardener! He controls his subjects with great care. I wonder how my little Gelder has gone astray.”

None could answer that, having been on other errands.

“A riddle, then,” smiled Ubeggi. “Some good has come of your work. I will set to solving it. It may yet lead to a new game.” With a final chuckle, he dismissed the relieved Gelders.

* * * *

Orgoom, in fact, was no longer in the universe of the Tree Citadel, to which his master had sent him, though he had of late been there, prying into its secrets and its intrigues. Curiously he now found himself floating in a most unique fashion in what appeared to be a void in space. Distance had blotted out the stars. He knew this must be an illusion, for he could breathe and was not cold. To be sure, he told himself uncomfortably, he was floating in an illusion, which could well be the working of Verdanniel, the all-encompassing god whose being made up the universe of the Tree Citadel, angered by the work of Orgoom. This was strange, though, for Orgoom had done no open harm (aside from prying into matters social and political) and it was not forbidden for astral travellers to pass across the Tree universe.

Orgoom fixed his attention on a point of light that grew. Now he became cold, prompted by fear, for the light formed itself into a long arm of impossible dimensions. It reached from the depths of space on a thin, tenuous thread and the hand touched the Gelder’s chest. Its touch was clammy, unhealthy, as though blighted by plague. Orgoom screeched as it slithered over him like a tongue. Courage was not his forte.

“You have been exercising your insufferable curiosity again, have you not?” said a disembodied voice. Orgoom shivered: it was harsher and even more suggestive of pain than even the laughing voice of Ubeggi. More hands came snaking out of the night from infinity, dabbing and teasing at his flesh. He writhed.

“Who are you?”

“We are those who do the asking. We are the Divine Askers.”

Orgoom gurgled with an even deeper-rooted fear, for these invisible horrors were the inquisitors of the Dark Gods, who none dared oppose.

“Why were you in the universe of the Tree Citadel?”

Orgoom had to watch his words. He dare not seek to outwit the Askers, but he would be thrice damned if he as much as whispered a word against Ubeggi. It was for such reasons that the ugly, blue-skinned Gelder loathed his position in life. He would gladly have become a dung roach had the opportunity been given to him. Clearly, though, such an opportunity was not about to present itself.

“Collecting information.”

“For some reward?”

“Quiet life is all I want!” insisted Orgoom.

“Yet your master, Ubeggi, seeks anything but that, Gelder. What, we wonder, does he seek in the universe of Verdanniel?”

“Never told me, Just sent me.”

“For an informer, Gelder, you are remarkably tight-lipped.”

“Ubeggi just says go. Find out things.”

“And what did you find out?”

“Trouble brewing. Verdanniel’s creatures have been attacked. By others from outside.”

“Describe these others.”

Orgoom was anxious not to conceal anything, certain that these Askers already knew what he did. Why must they toy with a flea such as himself? “Warriors. Looking for conquest. Want to win Verdanniel.”

“So you expect Ubeggi to foster a war there? One that would likely destroy Verdanniel?”

“Don’t know. Just do my duty. Collecting information.”

“Duty? To Ubeggi or to the Dark Gods? You cannot serve both, for they oppose each other.”

Orgoom felt his bowels loosening. Here was a pretty dilemma. It seemed he must make a frightful choice. But the immediate threat was obviously the one to avert. “I am forced to obey those who prod me, masters. Dark Gods are omnipotent. Their will is my deed.”

Soft laughter came from around the floating Gelder, but it chilled him just as if it had been his master’s. “Go back to the Weaver. Encourage war in the universe of the Tree Citadel. Do all you can to persuade Ubeggi into it. Understand? Serve him well, and remember nothing of this meeting.”

Orgoom felt the awful hands slithering off him and withdrawing. He was not to have his brains clawed open after all. The words were riddles, but what gods or divine messengers spoke otherwise?

“Go back to Ubeggi? It is done, masters.”

* * * *

Again Orgoom felt hands of fear pulling at him, tightening his insides. An audience with Ubeggi never bred comfort or relaxation. Orgoom and his fellow Gelders snatched what comfort they could in numbers. However, to be stood before the Weaver of Wars on one’s own, that was something to squeeze one’s bladder. Orgoom trembled as the face in the huge orb glared at him.

“So you have deigned to return at last, little Orgoom. What has kept you so long? You must have a considerable amount to report.”

Orgoom made several attempts to speak, failing each time and lapsing into a growling monologue in which his tongue contrived to knot itself around his thick lips. He was known for his lack of eloquence, but in his current state of fear he had surpassed even that in incomprehensibility. He did not want to blab about the Askers.

Ubeggi was in a patient mood, amused by the gibbering. “Come, come, little Orgoom! If it were not for the fact that you are one of my most successful Gelders, albeit reluctantly, I’d have had you killed off long since. I’ve a fancy you’d like that, though! You serve me well, so why fear me now? Come, say what you must! What is it that transpires in Verdanniel’s universe?”

“W-w-war’s a-brewing, master.”

“How intriguing. I should have thought it the last place in the omniverse for violence. Have the plants developed teeth?”

“No, master. Outsiders have found a way in. Gates must be weak,” Orgoom stuttered. “Tree creatures worried. Can’t stop flow.”

“Outsiders, you say? Who? Who are they? Describe them.”

“Warriors. Thin and nimble. Black and gold armour. Swords like needles. One each side. Mean to steal the wealth of Verdanniel. Steal the blood of the Tree. Use it to grow strong, like gods. Build up their own empire.” Orgoom was not given to long speeches, nor over-use of words, which were a premium with him, one serving where others would have used a score. But Ubeggi had a quicksilver mind that could assimilate information from a thousand sources in an instant. Orgoom’s scant words were enough.

“Black and gold armour? Swords like needles, to suck out the blood of Verdanniel. The Tree is Verdanniel, its sap a unique potion. With sufficient of it, a nation could become like an army of demi-gods! Good! Do these warriors have a lord?”

“Don’t know,” mumbled Orgoom.

“Did the name, Mitsujin, reach your ears?”

The organs referred to seemed to quiver for a moment, as though a sullen bell had sounded close to them. “Yes, master! Heard it whispered by the leaves and in the branches.”

“Mitsujin!” sighed Ubeggi. “A most ambitious conqueror. I have been watching his rise. Already, for one so young, he has branded together the warring nations of his own world, Oshotogi, and spread an empire far across his dimension. Almost as great an empire as those of Cattapermennon and Shaddar H’mmil I spoke of earlier. Well, I had thought I might extend their triumphs, but this ambitious Mitsujin excites me more. He has found a gate into Verdanniel? How very singular. Oh, this is a fine tale you bring me, after all, Orgoom! What a worthy vassal you are.”

Orgoom grunted, which could have signified pleasure or relief.

“I will elaborate some plans,” mused the Weaver. “Perhaps I can open still more gates for Mitsujin. Verdanniel must be getting careless. Well, we must have you sent to the warlord. I have words for him that you must carry.”

Once Orgoom was dismissed, some time later, his heart beat less violently. His brush with the Divine Askers had not come out, nor should it need to now. Yet who would next pull the Gelder’s strings? He muttered curses to himself and wished again for the guise of a worm or roach in some remote universe far from all conniving gods.

* * * *

When the god Verdanniel first entered the small universe that was later to become the universe of the Tree Citadel, it was empty and no more than a void, a pocket of nothingness. Verdanniel fashioned a large world and upon this planted himself in the form of a sprawling tree-growth. Into the earth of the world he had created, Verdanniel spread his roots, and across the surface of the world he spread his shoots. Into the skies he diffused countless clouds of his seed, so that in time all the heavens were seeded and other worlds were born and pollinated. All life that spread throughout Verdanniel’s universe was rooted in Verdanniel, so that all that happened there was known to the Tree god. To be spread so far and wide taxed the god, though, for he had never been as formidable as many of the other gods, and certainly not one who cared for conflict.

In the Tree Citadel, which was the heart of this universe, there lived the tree beings, which were fragile and delicate, for their purpose was not to go forth and conquer the universe, but to nurture it and tend its rampant growth. These tree beings were the hands of Verdanniel: their strength came from the very sap of the god and they partook of it to the exclusion of any other nourishment. Its properties were unique and gave the tree beings their remarkable powers, which included an enduring life and healing abilities.

Verdanniel had closed up his small universe by sealing any gates that had led into it (such gates between dimensions and universes being the prerogative of gods throughout the omniverse). Thus there was no reason for him to suppose that anyone or thing would ever visit his enclosed universe again. As time passed, Verdanniel came to rely upon his tree beings more and more, himself dreaming lazily, content to do little more than produce the sap which sustained his universe. It was this sap that had drawn the attentions of Mitsujin.

The warlord had heard about it through legends, of course, but had never thought to find a key to the closed universe of the Tree Citadel. That he did so came about by chance (if one is naïve enough to believe in such a preposterous concept). Universes may be closed, but the one common link between them all is the astral realm, which is admittedly only accessible to certain gods and beings, such as elementals and familiars.

A certain tree sprite of Verdanniel used the astral to speed a long journey and was abducted by wraiths loyal to Mitsujin, whose allies numbered among them all manner of beings. It was this tree sprite that provided the eventual lever, which forced a minor gate into Verdanniel’s universe. Hence the conqueror from Oshotogi sent his minions in to gather what sap of the Tree they could, for it would make supermen of his warriors. Now the warlord prepared to enter the universe of Verdanniel himself.

* * * *

The dark man opened his eyes, then closed them against the unaccustomed glare. Was this no more than a continuation of his confused dreams? But then he knew that it was not, for the unique sense of total awareness that came with each new entry into one of the many dimensions permeated his entire system. Gently he opened his eyes again, adjusted them, and sighed. Through a vivid green canopy of leaves, he could see a remote blue sky. This was not one of the darker dimensions, for looking about him he could see healthy vegetation. He stood upon a firm wooden rampart that appeared to be part of a living branch.

His first thought was, why was he here? Who had brought him out of the dream regions this time? No doubt the Dark Gods were behind it, for he was ever their pawn and they had thrust him into the many dimensions when it had suited them. He had no control over that, though he yet sought a way. Otherwise it could have been the scheming Elfloq, the winged familiar who had never been averse to goading both men and gods into invoking the Voidal before now. But there was no sign of the squamous little figure.

The Voidal decided it must be the work of the Dark Gods. Until he had performed some grim, unwitting deed, he must remain here. His memory had been partially restored, and he had an abrupt vision of the terrible landscape of Vyzandine, volcano world of the fallen god, Krogarth, where he had lately endured the rigours of a hellish battle. Instinctively he examined his right hand. It was his own, restored in the aftermath of that terrible death struggle. So, the Dark Gods had kept their word. The Oblivion Hand, their hand, was no longer his burden.

However, in spite of the tropical humidity of this place, he felt a shiver: someone would likely die because of his coming, to feed the needs of his hidden masters. He felt the living wood beneath him stir like a branch in a breeze, as though it had read his troubled thoughts. Something fluttered nearby on wings as thin and brightly hued as a butterfly. He looked up to see a number of beings like plants. They eddied around him closer and he saw that they were hemispherical sacs with clusters of bright pink petals spreading from their tops: these pulsed gently and acted as wings.

“Who are you, and why have you come to Verdanniel?” the whispering voices asked him. He knew at once that it was these flying things, their words a susurration, an echo inside his head.

“How did you enter the universe of the Tree Citadel?” came another voice.

The dark man shook his head. “I cannot answer any of your questions. I have little control over what happens to me.”

He could sense the floating creatures trying to probe what must be held in his mind, but they trembled with puzzlement, for it could be no more than a pool of dark turmoil to them, as it was to him.

“You must come with us to the Hollow of Thought.”

He had no alternative, and besides, no riddles could be answered until he had acquired certain information. The hovering tree beings floated around him, edging him along the wooden ramparts of this strange place. As he walked, he discovered that he was on a fantastically interwoven highway of thick branches, none of which appeared to be attached to a visible trunk. Above and below him much of this peculiar arboreal architecture was obscured by thick fronds and leaves, together with an abundance of exotic blooms and flowers that shone with colours of every conceivable hue. The dark man had never before seen such a breathtaking display of vegetation. Somehow it seemed to be part of one colossal parent plant.

There were places along the vertiginous journey where water fell from above, and in the curves and dips on the branches pools of trapped moisture had formed. The air was clamorous with the cries of birds, the plumage of which vied in splendour with that of the foliage. From far below him, the dark man could hear the answering hoots and shrills of yet more indigenous creatures.

Soon the hovering plants stopped. Before them the tangled framework of branches parted to form a natural clearing. Above was a circle of clear blue sky, ringed by waving leaves, while below all was lost in a hazy distance where the endless branches and shoots tangled anew in an artificial floor. In the centre of this clearing rose what at first appeared to be a green column, but which was in fact another plant, like an unripe trunk. A single branch, no wider than two men, grew outwards towards this silent plant, ending yards from it like an unfinished pier. The dark man realised that he was expected to walk out over the dizzy drop and stand before the plant. He did so.

As he waited, balanced on the very edge of the branch, a number of translucent tendrils undulated across to him. He fought the urge to defend himself or run from them and waited. They tickled across his face, gentle as a lover’s hands, then softly parted his hair, affixing themselves with infinite care to his scalp.

“You do not fear me?” It was a question, as well as a voicing of surprise.

“I do not fear that which I know nothing of,” replied the Voidal.

“A unique reply, for men usually fear most what they do not understand,” mused the mental voice.

“I am not as other men.”

“Indeed? My children would seem to agree, for they tell me that your head is full of screaming colours and thoughts that conflict and drift apart. But you do not have the appearance of a madman. Have you, perhaps, been touched by some god?”

“I fear so,” nodded the Voidal. “I am used.”

There was a long pause, as though the two minds were studying each other. That of the plant seemed to sigh. “The mysteries locked within you remain closed to me. It must be, therefore, that you are what you say.”

“Who are you?” the dark man asked.

“I am Verdanniel, god of this universe. You see now why your are a puzzle to me. What other god or gods have you brought into my realm?”

“Their names and identities are as much a secret to me as my own. If you cannot read the answers for yourself, Verdanniel, I cannot tell you.”

This was apparently good enough for the Tree god. “Dark things are happening in my universe. Events transpire here which are not rooted in my designs. This is strange, for all that occurs should be through me. You are not the first recent intruder.”

Across the drop, the dark man saw leaves unfolding above him. From out of their centre depended a stalk, upon the end of which dangled a light green pod. It opened as it swung over the drop. Inside was what appeared to be the body of an imp, blue-skinned and inordinately ugly. Its hands terminated not in fingers, but in five small sickles.

“Is this an accomplice?” asked Verdanniel.

The dark man shook his head at sight of the motionless figure, which was either dead or unconscious. “I have no recollections of this creature, though my memory is incomplete.”

“It came to the Tree Citadel with a prophecy. That my enemies would have aid in destroying me, aid from outside. It said that some evil god would assist in my destruction. Are you that god?”

Ripples of unease spread throughout the Voidal’s frame, for it was conceivable that the Dark Gods had brought him here to destroy Verdanniel. “You must seek the answer to that in the mind of the imp,” he replied, “for again, I cannot answer.”

“I see that I must.” Verdanniel lowered the dangling pod and set it down upon another jutting branch, close to that which sustained the Voidal. The imp was not dead, for as the pod withdrew, he stirred, then sat up dazedly, staring around in horrified amazement. The first words that passed his lips were gruff and obscene. He rose to his feet and hissed at the air creatures, his sickle-fingers zipping through the air in several wild passes.

“Do you know me?” the Voidal challenged him.

On seeing the black-garbed man and the tendrils about his head, the imp drew back with another curse. His sickles were before him defensively. “Who are you? Tree god?”

“You prophesied that one would come here — am I he?” said the dark man.

“Who is your master? Say who and I’ll say if I know you.”

“Say, rather, who is your master,” demanded the Voidal.

The imp spat accurately over the lip of the branch. “Don’t know you, nor you I. No words for you, or the trees!”

Verdanniel’s voice returned to the dark man’s head. “So it would seem you are not allies.”

The Voidal shook his head. “I think not.”

“Lost!” called the imp. “Never wanted to come here. Let me be.”

The Voidal spoke softly to the Tree god so that the imp could not hear his words. “Release him. Perhaps he will lead you to his master, if he is here.”

“You are the only interloper in my universe, save for the minions of the warrior lord, who seek my lifeblood.”

“Who are they?”

“You know them not? They serve Mitsujin, a conqueror from another dimension who has ruptured a way into me. He seeks my precious sap which would strengthen his armies a thousandfold.”

“Then this imp must be his slave —”

“Not so. The prophecy of the imp was intended for the ears of Mitsujin, not for me. The promised aid was for this intruding conqueror. The evil god that seeks my downfall promises aid to Mitsujin.”

The Voidal began to feel that perhaps he had not been sent here to destroy Verdanniel after all. More likely the Dark Gods had set him up against this Mitsujin. But who was it that was to aid Mitsujin?

Verdanniel read each thought that passed coherently through the Voidal’s mind. “Perhaps, dark man, you will aid me and stand with me against this conqueror from Oshotogi?”

“If I am able to do so, I shall. Tell me all that you know of the intruders.”

“Very well, but first let the imp go. His flight may teach us more.”

The Voidal gestured to the blue-skinned being, who growled something before skulking along the branch out of sight.

* * * *

The forest stretched out along the very crest of the low hills and spilled over the last of them like a long green wave, dipping down to a wide valley floor where the trees ended. The valley became a plain that spread for miles into the hazy distance and from that haze there arose tall mountains — or so they seemed. The army that was encamped in the forest at the foot of the hills looked out at those barely visible mountains across the plain and knew that they were not mountains at all, but the remarkable sky-piercing entanglements of the Tree Citadel, that colossal vegetable structure that was the very essence of Verdanniel himself.

In his tent, the warlord, Mitsujin, spoke confidently with his chieftains. He had entered Verdanniel’s universe with a fanatical horde, personally coming to mastermind the draining of priceless sap from the body of that vast, tranquil god. The gate that had punctured the perimeters of Verdanniel’s universe had been widened. The Tree god had been caught unawares by the blight that had been used and had acted too late to halt the torrential flow of Mitsujin’s warriors. The warlord, his veins afire with the belief that his own passionate gods would be with him, would stop at nothing. He would succeed, or die gloriously in battle and thus sit alongside the terrible gods of Oshotogi.

A shout from outside brought Mitsujin to his feet. He was lithe and alert, the twin blades at his sides always a mere second from his grasp. He snatched aside the flaps of the tent.

“Someone crosses the plain — alone,” came the message.

Presently Mitsujin and a heavy escort stood on a knoll overlooking the dip in the landscape that reached as far back as the distant Tree Citadel. The warlord could see the tiny figure in the distance. He motioned riders out to it.

Soon they returned, escorting the surly, blue-skinned Gelder, Orgoom.

“Words for Mitsujin, no other,” spat the Gelder, apparently contemptuous of the countless blades that surrounded and menaced him.

Mitsujin stood before him, dwarfing him. He glared down, face an emotionless mask. “Well?”

“I serve Ubeggi, the Weaver of Wars,” began Orgoom.

Mitsujin’s heart gave a lurch, for he had heard of this fearful warrior god. But his face remained like stone. He waited.

“Ubeggi seeks the fall of Verdanniel. Will aid you.”

This appeared to be the entire message. Mitsujin considered it, then gave a hint of a bow. “You must excuse my impertinence, voice of Ubeggi, but why should such a divine overlord aid a mere maggot of the soil such as I?”

“Ubeggi asks only that you swear fealty to him and no other, once you have conquered here. Discard the gods of Oshotogi, for all gods are the enemies of the Weaver of Wars. One by one he will eliminate them,” Orgoom concluded with a hawk.

A muted roar went up from the yellow and black ranks of the warriors who heard this blasphemy. Mitsujin stilled them all with a motion of his hand. He indicated his tent. “Please enter,” he told Orgoom. “We will talk further privately.”

Orgoom grunted, confident that his master’s will would be enforced. No one refused to serve the Weaver of Wars, least of all those whose very existence thrived on conquest, for Ubeggi was generous to those who did his killing.

As Mitsujin and the Blue Gelder went into the tent, the warriors went back to their waiting. None noticed the plant creature drift upward on a breeze and float far away towards the remote Tree Citadel, the words it had heard still clear in its mind.

Some time later Mitsujin emerged from his tent. At once he called all his chiefs to him and they gathered before a small hill at the edge of the forest to hear his words. The warlord stood with legs apart, arms on hips, glaring almost insolently at his men as though daring them to challenge him, even though he had not yet spoken. Behind him stood the surly Gelder, his features puckered in a permanent scowl.

“Hear me!” Mitsujin roared in a voice that would have shouted down the wind. “I have reached a decision. We are to march on the Tree Citadel and take what we will of its vital juices. Verdanniel will gather himself to oppose us, and there will undoubtedly be a bloody battle. Many of you will die.”

This was greeted with cheers, for the men of Mitsujin were eager to die for their wild causes.

“To die in such a battle would indeed be glorious, but far greater the glory if we triumph. We must do so! Vaster rewards await us should we drink deep of Verdanniel’s precious sap. Then we would be truly invincible. Is this not a prize worthy of any endeavour, and of any price?”

The reply was unanimous in its agreement.

“There is one who will secure our victory. The greatest god of war in the entire omniverse! To find favour with him, to be chosen to serve him, imparts riches beyond belief. Is there a warrior here who could resist such an honour? Is there a warrior here who could name a greater honour?” Mitsujin shouted defiantly at them, his face drawn into a veritable mask of war, his manner terrible to behold.

No one dared to speak. But the silence was eloquent.

“We knew that it was time we rose above our past. In Oshotogi we were heroes, smiled upon by the gods there. But see! We have outgrown our old home. We reach for greater glories. We have outgrown the old gods! They have no power here. If we triumph over Verdanniel — when we do so — we shall be greater than the old gods! We need not die to stand beside them, but living, stand over them. We have been watched and are favoured by the Weaver of Wars!”

The warriors thought on this, many nodding, some keeping their faces absolutely impassive. Mitsujin did indeed resemble a god, as though he had only to lift his hand for mountains to fall. In his own mind, he was a god already.

“Are we united?” he cried. “Do we wish to become more than men? Will we acknowledge the frightful might of Ubeggi and swear fealty to him? Will we accept the glories he will heap upon us? Climb from your modest stations with me and we will stride among the stars! Accept the terms!”

If there were dissenters in all that massed gold and black, their doubts were lost in the savage shout of compliance from the majority. The warriors chose to stand with Mitsujin, and thus Ubeggi: the glories of conquest were like an aphrodisiac to them.

Mitsujin turned to the Blue Gelder. “Go back to your master. He has our answer. We dedicate our coming victory to him.”

* * * *

The Voidal stood upon a high place, looking out from the last of the branches at the flat landscape so far below. Verdanniel had had him brought here to the outer ramparts of the Tree Citadel to let him look out over the world and see the coming of the enemy. It was as though the dark man stood on a high mountain ledge, studying the colossal drop to the lowlands. Green earth spread away to hazy distance, like a detailed map. There were low hills and a small range of mountains some thirty miles across the plain, stained dark by plentiful forests. It was there, said Verdanniel, that the enemy was gathered.

All around the Voidal the plant beings hovered in the air, as thick now as windblown seeds. They would be the Tree God’s defenders, but they had such little strength for conflict. The dark man sensed the despair and acute anxiety of the Tree god, for Verdanniel had never designed his world for contest. It had never been anything but peaceful.

“I must revitalise powers within me that I had thought never to use again,” said Verdanniel. “I came here and built this universe to escape the strivings of my fellow gods. Their constant warring appalled me; they were never satisfied with the powers they had. I am afraid that my own powers are devoted now to creation, nurture and healing. This Mitsujin frightens me to my very roots.”

“And you say that the Weaver of Wars is the most powerful of all the gods?” the Voidal asked, having heard the report of the plant being that had drifted across the great plain from Mitsujin’s war camp.

“Perhaps. He is at least the most reckless, the most bellicose. If Ubeggi is to aid the conqueror, my very existence is threatened. I cannot guess what Ubeggi will send against me.”

“Why should this god seek your death?”

Verdanniel sighed deeply. “It is his only purpose, to destroy all those around him, or bend and warp them to his will. To undo the works of others. All gods delight in creation and are driven from within to perform wonders. But Ubeggi is driven by a lust for destruction. What others build, he will pull down. In this he is alone, but nonetheless powerful for all that.”

“You speak as though you are already doomed,” said the Voidal.

“I will fight. For the lives of my offspring.”

“Are there no gods who will aid you?”

Again Verdanniel sighed. “I chose to live here in isolation from them all. I spurned them and their war-like ways. They would certainly spurn me now if I called upon them for aid.”

“And yet,” mused the Voidal, “the Dark Gods have sent me here. For what reason, do you suppose?”

“I have been alone with my universe for timeless ages. Your identity, your past, are unknown to me. If I knew these secrets, I would impart them to you, even though that would seem to be angering these Dark Gods. Yet I do sense that you are here to aid me, rather than to contribute to my undoing.”

The Voidal nodded. “The Dark Gods seem cruel and unwavering in their purpose. Yet my fractured memory suggests that those they destroy work for evil ends. Perhaps they seek to undo Ubeggi.”

“All gods curse him and seek to destroy him, for he seeks to destroy them.”

The dark man mused on that. The riddle would not be answered until the battle began. Below him now he could see movement on the plain. Like a mighty column of ants, the vast host of Mitsujin was approaching.

“I will begin it,” said Verdanniel. “If I attack them before they reach me, surprise may yet unseat their initiative.”

The Voidal studied his right hand. It had remained as it was when he had first opened his eyes here, his own hand. He lowered it, instinctively fitting his palm to the grip of his sword. He looked down at the weapon, noticing it for the first time. He knew that the Dark Gods possessed thirteen blades, each with a powerful property. Often when he woke in one of the many dimensions, he wore one of them at his side. And this blade? His hand tightened on the haft, which was cold. With a certainty, he knew that this was the Sword of Ice, though why it should be so was yet another riddle.

Down on the plain, Mitsujin rode proudly at the head of his army, his confidence ablaze like a sun, his destiny assured. Verdanniel was a peaceful god who had done no more than sleep for millennia. What could such a bloated vegetable offer in the way of resistance to such an oncoming army of fanatics? Mitsujin was soon to know.

The Voidal saw the van of the army clearly now. At the feet of the Tree Citadel something strange was happening. The land was flat, but odd hummocks were moving across it like ripples on a pond, very slowly. These grew in number to become a procession of barrow-like humps, spreading outward to meet the front ranks of the army. Verdanniel was defending himself.

Mitsujin was the first to see the green waves approaching. His horse reared up as though sensing some awesome, primal force at work. It looked as though huge burrowing creatures were coming upon the army. Mitsujin drew his gleaming blade and whirled it defiantly. The first hummock shook the earth and then its crest split open like a ripe fruit. From out of it shot a curling root, three times thicker in the middle than a man’s waist. It flicked across the heads of the warriors and lashed down at them. From a score more of these undulating hummocks, tendrils burst, lashing at the army with their slender whip— tails. The warriors cut into them wildly, relieved to be in a battle, thriving on the confusion.

Only the savage ferocity of the fanatics saved them from a terrible mauling by these whiplash roots. Men tumbled from their steeds as the ground heaved like a sea swell. Mitsujin sought a high place on which to rally his men, but the ground kept altering. He was forced to defend himself. The roots, however, cut up easily in spite of their girth. Verdanniel strove to keep as many of the tendrils attacking as he could, but they were being systematically hacked apart, Mitsujin’s army organising itself efficiently under its many chiefs.

The Voidal sensed the agony coursing through the entire Tree Citadel as it sent out these roots to defend itself. Presently he noticed two new factors in the battle. Firstly, a dark cloud scudding quickly across the battlefield, fanned by an astral wind. From out of this pall dropped scores of figures. Secondly, the Voidal saw what looked like a small moon hovering high up in the blue, a silent observer.

The leaves around the Voidal trembled with fear and the bough on which he stood shivered. “Fire elementals!” said Verdanniel, horrified. “And above us, Ubeggi watches like a hawk preparing to dive. There is nothing more destructive to me than fire!”

“I must join the battle,” said the Voidal. “Can your creatures set me down amongst the fray?”

Verdanniel marshalled a number of his floating creatures and the Voidal caught hold of the tendrils that hung beneath them. He clung on as they drifted out over the great drop, spiralling down with their human load.

Mitsujin gave a hoarse shout of joy when he saw the terrible allies that Ubeggi had sent him. Taller and thinner than men, the fire elementals sliced about them with blazing rods that charred and burned the roots that were still bursting up from the earth. The elementals took a frightful delight in setting ablaze the roots, driving them back into their burrows. The earth was scorched and fires began to lap forward in a yellow tide towards the Tree Citadel, the base of which was now no more than a mile away.

The Voidal dropped down in the thick of the battle, pulling out the Sword of Ice. It was evident now how he must use it. The warriors around him were too busy defending themselves to question him, thinking him another of the allies sent by Ubeggi, for they expected no men in this world, only Verdanniel’s creatures. The dark man made his way through the dead and the struggling to one of the fire elementals. It stood a head taller than him and its scaled armour steamed.

The Sword of Ice hissed through the air and cut deep into the trunk of the snarling being, drinking deep of the elemental energy. The fire fiend screamed in a terrible fashion as it felt all the heat sucked out of it by the blasting fury of a frost colder than the void between universes. It turned a look of concentrated agony on the man who had seared it.

“Voidal!” it spat, collapsing. The dark man rushed forward to the next of the fire elementals, but already they were wary of him and the devastating weapon he bore. Verdanniel’s roots were all slithering away in retreat, crippled by the fires, but from the skies there now fell countless numbers of the tree creatures. From small sacs beneath them there burst clouds of poison seeds. Choking cries of alarm went up from the warriors beneath. Fire elementals tossed blazing balls up at the clouds and sheets of flame engulfed many of the creatures.