CHAPTER FORTY
To begin with the Red Council of Wrandal was very satisfied. They let the few writhling inserted Varen loose on the remaining citizens who fled in terror at the sight of them, while the Red Council encouraged them in every excess. Petrified candemaran were unspeakably brutalised and died, the harems reduced to centres of debauchery and perversion hitherto unknown on Shalah. The Red Council gloated. The loss of Rule amused them because they were sure he was probably dead and the troops who defected with him would be in serious disarray without their Cynas and therefore ineffective. The loss of the majority of the Varen, however, was another matter and caused deadly fury. The Red Council sought a synthesis.
“Where have they gone, the renegade Varen?”
“Where else but to another renegade.”
“That one being Knellen?”
“Knellen, yes, Varen of Castelus.”
“Who is still at Baron/Kelt.”
“So it’s believed.”
“With Jepaul.”
“With him, yes, we assume so.”
“Has anyone sensed Jepaul?”
“No.” That answer came as a concerted hiss.
“He appears to be content to stay at Baron/Kelt.”
“Yes.” Again there was a unified wheezing.
“He has taken no action of any kind?”
“No.”
“Not even over the Cynases, the troops, the Varen or the battle?”
“No.”
“Is he disinterested?”
“He could be. He may consider these matters our concern.”
“They are.”
“Indeed.”
“Do we challenge him yet?”
“It depends.”
“On what?”
“Any action he may take. We must be careful not to be precipitate or to agitate him at this time.”
“Castelus – how is Jamir?”
“Most obedient and willing. He is almost us.”
“Arrain-Toh?”
“The boy-child is subject to us. He obeys. The Varen respond as expected.”
“Metalans, called writhlings by Shalahs, have been inserted?”
“Yes, in those very few who remain. Most have deserted the city.”
“Successful insertions?”
“Yes.”
“Lethwyn?”
“Grone is suitably adjusted. His greed now consumes him. It is insatiable and drives him so we’ve enhanced that desire. He is, shall we say, most amenable to our wishes.”
“Excellent. Increase his dependence so he’s quite incapable of acting other than as you direct. Have you begun to drain him or shown a trace of yourselves?”
“No.”
“Do so. It’s time. Fear will act as an added spur to unquestioning compliance.”
“It will be done.”
“Rhume?”
“Robat stays weak and indecisive. He is isolated.”
“Do the same to him as will be done to Jamir and Grone. Do not delay.”
“Anything else for Rhume?”
“You wish to break Robat?”
“It’s time to do so.”
“Then his family are dispensable. See to them and begin as with others.”
“It will be.”
The synthesis broke then abruptly reformed with a hiss.
“What about Jepaul?”
“Nothing. Wait.”
“And the renegade Knellen?”
“His time will come. We will ensure it.”
“Do we organise troops and citizens for attack?”
“Totally. Fully mobilise. Time draws close.”
“We feel it.”
“We all do.”
“Those who will rise to support us?”
“Not far.”
“Within call?”
“Yes, very close, increasingly so. They, too, wait. Begin your destruction of Shalah.”
The synthesis broke on a mass whooping wheeze and coughing. Jepaul, hovering discreetly, withdrew, the Doms and Companions who awaited him holding him steady as he fully returned and was eased to a chair. He felt Quon’s reassuring hand on his shoulder.
“As we all sensed, young one?” asked Sapphire, after Jepaul had drunk steeply from a tankard placed in his hands. He gave a long sigh.
“Yes.”
“And the others?”
“Yes, the Maekwies, Succubi, Cefors, among others.” Jepaul turned his head up to Quon. “The Huyuks begin to respond, Quon.” Quon nodded.
“I know, lad, I sense them.”
“Me, too,” murmured Saracen.
“Water creatures stir restlessly,” added Sapphire. Javen nodded.
“Then time draws very, very close,” said Ebon, his deep voice with a menace to it. “Rest, now, young one. You’re drained by such a reading.”
Later, Quon spoke meditatively to those gathered in a small group about a comforting fire. His words were measured but quietly uttered, the conviction in his voice picked up by all.
“We come to a critical time in the affairs of Shalah, my friends, one that could be for good or ill. All we can do, and that includes me no less than any other, is be guided by our individual consciences – to do so matters. You may fail doing so, because externals may defeat you, but you won’t have failed yourself or your ideals, aspirations or sense of self-respect. You stand up for what you think was right at a certain time and you acted as befitted your conscience. So, dear friends, no one can later second-guess either your motives or sense of moral obligation, nor can they criticise your actions with the wisdom of hindsight.” Quon paused, studying intent faces, one by one. “If,” he went on pensively, “you do not act when you see wrong being perpetrated, watch abominations go unchecked, and witness cruelty and pain being inflicted, then that inaction on your part makes you equally culpable. If doing nothing makes you uncomfortable and unable to feel self-respect, then what action you take is probably right. You act, or acted, for the right reason. If you can truly say that you act or behave in a given way because how you do so is morally and ethically right, then, again, your action will probably be justified and correct. It means you behave with integrity, in an unprejudiced way; you’re not blinded by religion, dogma, selfishness or ignorance. Your action becomes driven by your principles. They prompt you to act solely for the good of others – that being so, then, again, you do only what is right and, I suppose, what is “good”. If others act beside you, say in war, for other reasons, you can’t then assume responsibility for their actions, bad or otherwise, but only for your own.”
There was a long silence, then Jepaul said,
“There’s so much hideousness on the world of Shalah.”
“Yes, young one, there is,” agreed Quon. “It must be fought, but with eyes open and with what I’ve just said at the forefront of the mind.”
Jepaul sighed very deeply and moved restlessly in a way unlike him.
“I feel the need to fight for the beauty of life, Quon. It’s a duty for me. That way I win a victory over myself – otherwise, Quon, I feel the lights of Shalah continually flicker and may even finally go out. With them could go dreams, ideals, the moral aspirations you speak of, as well as laughter that lightens lives. Shalah would be soulless.”
Deep pools of amber in the eyes of one with a beautiful soul stared at Quon.
“True, Jepaul, but you must remember you are also fighting for yourself. Stay open to that knowledge. Have self-belief and you will overcome any residual doubts or anxieties within as well as what you face externally. You learned this. You achieved mastery of both. Always keep this knowledge with you. It will act as a guide.”
As the Doms and Companions well knew, realities didn’t seem to scare Jepaul but his imagination did. His soul craved beauty and order. Reality, though, always brought out unexpected courage, endurance, resilience and empowering strength. Even so, his soul stayed tied in with his extraordinary imagination: it was only that imagination which kept him alive and saved hi
s soul from shrinking and becoming lifeless. He sometimes even suffered from nausea at the worst aspects of life, because what he saw could be ugly and painful; the memories of such would be with him all his life. He found it impossibly hard to dismiss or sublimate them. He almost seemed, the Doms thought, to want to get out of this world, his gifts, ideals and gentleness so apposite to what he saw about him. Sometimes they actually saw the light in his eyes blotted out at encounters with horror or darkness, as they were after contact with the Nedru.
“We’re in a changing world, Jepaul,” said Sapphire kindly. “There’ll be a newer one soon. The old world is being destroyed. It wasn’t enough, as we hoped and thought, to drive out the old anti-spirits and re-establish this world as it should be – not quite, as syns have shown.”
“We fight, all of us,” reflected Dancer, an odd light to his eyes, “for the fate of Shalah, for the ideals you speak about and an idea of what we believe this world should be. “
Jepaul turned his head to Quon who stretched out a hand to him. He often found renewed strength in Quon’s empathy, sympathy and total understanding. Of all those round him it was Quon who so clearly comprehended that beauty, of all types, was Jepaul’s guide; it was so from the time the Dom looked into the eyes of a very small, woebegone waif in a ditch.
Beauty was Jepaul’s inspiration and his solace, his every aspiration and joy. It manifested itself in his music. As the Doms knew, Jepaul was a universal piper. All spirits from anywhere, even the inner aethyr, including anti-spirits, had to respond willingly or otherwise to such a one. His music called them and they had to answer it even if it was against their inclinations. The music also always brought the elemental spirits and though the pipe almost acted as a summons it also brought support. The piper who called to Jepaul, and through him to all the Maquat Doms, was Loriel. Like others, they too had to respond to him.
It was now that the rule of the Red Councils in city-states became an unspeakable hell. They no longer governed through Cynases. They destroyed. They chose people at random for torture, ritual purging and insertion of writhlings mature or otherwise. Citizens lived in dread of a Varen knocking on their door with a metalan in hand. Forced insertions were everywhere at any time and they were common, every day. Many were held down by Varen who simply laughed at the faces of horror and terror in those subjected who had to watch as a metalan slithered from a Varen hand and plunged avidly into flesh. Hosts howled.
Citizens with metalans, and more and more were treated with them as the days slowly passed, were marshalled into groups to be trained for war, the writhlings enforcing their co-operation and obedience to the Varen. They trained with little respite until, sweating and in constant pain, they were allowed brief trembling rest. If they ate the metalans made them retch distressingly. The Varen made them take sustenance through needle-like tubes on spikes that broke the skin and through which liquid seeped. It was actually the metalans who were fed, not the hosts, but it was also the metalans who drove their hosts and would continue to do so until their hosts collapsed. Even though now most of the writhlings were immature they were enough to overpower people steadily weakened but useful as war fodder when the time came. It was only a Varen who could withstand a mature metalan.
The Cynases at Baron/Kelt had city-states with far fewer citizens than others because so many had fled and that included emtori who ran for their lives. Arrain-Toh was similarly sparsely populated and most of Harnath’s personal troops had gone long ago, as had increasing number of Varen who fled to Lisle who was known to be in Baron/Kelt. But in Castelus, Rhume and Lethwyn the Cynases enforced new and crueller discipline on their personal troops, their officers compelled to submit to metalans in front of aghast men. The metalaned officers turned on their troops in ways that terrified them and brought them to submission very quickly. Those who could, escaped; significant numbers did.
The Red Councils approved. The Cynases’ troops, once loyal to them, were now answerable to their Red Council. So were all the Varen in these cities, all inserted with metalans of varying degrees of maturity. So with everyone of whatever rank, from emtori to Varen, now fully answerable to each Red Council, the Nedru felt empowered enough to make their next move. They needed time for citizenry to be fully militarily trained, but the writhlings, directed and controlled by the Red Councils, knew how to ensure accelerated learning. They did. No mercy was shown to anyone.
Fear and dread stalked everywhere in cities where caste and class systems no longer existed. Elevated citizens found themselves flung among wretched emtori. They floundered, spurred on by insertion, as they tried to cope with rigorous training, beatings and little sustenance other than what kept them alive. They knew a desperate desire to somehow survive the nightmare they were pitch-forked into.
Those who’d lived the good life suffered most. Stunned and struggling, many of them tried to escape before the Varen found them. Few succeeded. If these people hadn’t been fully subdued by a writhling, the Red Councils enjoyed spectacles of torture and ritual purgings that were now done in market squares. Any public place was used. The agony of others had a salutary and quelling effect. Some people simply gave up, their death throes to the writhlings a ghastly, noisy sight.
The Red Councils moved freely about the cities and environs now. They began to do what they liked most. They began with public buildings, amenities, archives, libraries, schools, hospitals, guilds and halls of learning. They cleansed all who worked in them, the purgings increased in number every day, then, the buildings empty, the Nedru started the process of destruction. Architecture had heavy weaponry trained on it until it crumbled. Art was desecrated then burned.
Wherever the Nedru turned, they destroyed with impunity. All buildings were targets. As the Nedru turned their attention to dwellings, inhabitants watched as their homes became dust or ash. Nedru left nothing. They never did wherever they went: they were nihilists of the universe. Some time since they’d decided that Shalah now bored them as it once did the Progenitor, so they let their urges full rein. They often thought of Jepaul telling them they could have this world. They no longer wanted it. So now they could turn their full attention onto Jepaul once the cities were no more.
Jamir tried to fight the destruction. So did Grone and Robat. Their powerbases and accrued masses of wealth, in all its forms, disintegrated in front of them. Robat, distraught by the loss of his family succumbed, first to frightening madness, then to a total loss of will. His troops battered by metalan-inserted officers, watched their Cynas in horror and mounting despair. With sudden panic-stricken decision the army deserted almost en masse, even those officers unlucky enough to have immature writhlings. The troops literally abandoned a crumbling city that collapsed about them and smashed people under ruins of masonry. Huge rifts opened in the roads so transport was useless. The troops didn’t even think of weaponry. They fled any way they could. Communications were dislocated.
Robat’s fleeing troops, terrified and disorganised, tried to organise themselves into coherent order once they escaped the city. Troops from Lethwyn and Castelus were the same. They took what could be retrieved and any supplies, suddenly frighteningly aware their Cynases no longer functioned as they should and the Varen were monsters who rampaged and ravaged wherever they went. The troops were as terrified of them as they were of the Red Councils.
Any who could ran for it. Their lives depended on their scrambling over rubble, none waiting to ensure they had enough for survival. Indescribable fear drove them. Foot soldiers helped them. Mounted troopers even flung the exhausted, the old and the young up in front of them as they rode away. They were frantic to abandon cities become hells. Troops and citizens, many en masse, others alone or in small groups, had one thought and that was to reach sanctuary; they knew that was only to be found in Baron/Kelt.
Before they dealt to Jepaul, the Nedru turned their attentions to their Cynases. They ignored those able to stream through gates and gaps in the walls
and left it to the Varen to hound and harass as many fleeing as they could. The Nedru had new toys. Their prey was their Cynases. And play with them they did, like cats with mice.
Cruel, corruptly venal men without souls now experienced much worse torment unlike anything they inflicted on hundreds over syns. Robat was little amusement. He allowed the Nedru to do whatever they liked without resistance. Bored with his screams and agony, his Red Council simply absorbed him very slowly, savouring him piece by piece, until the gaping maws snapped shut and he was gone.
But Jamir and Grone were much better sport. They struggled. Their helplessness amused the Red Councils. While their people fled and their Varen finally became satiated and quiet among the ruins, the Nedru revealed themselves to Grone and Jamir. Their deadly games became increasingly savage with the passing days. The Cynases experienced physical, mental and emotional anguish inflicted with delight by a species dreaded everywhere and what they endured was deliberate and prolonged. Nedru were pitiless. The Cynases, trapped and increasingly less of substance, were drained – they longed for an end they believed would never come. They felt suspended and cocooned as their very life juices were excruciatingly sucked away.
In Red Council cities, the Varen, with trained citizenry and metalaned officers with some of their unluckier troops, were ready for whatever order they might receive. Discipline was extremely harsh. The writhlings did their work exactly as they were designed to do. Resistance was broken. All mindlessly obeyed for fear of vile consequences if they didn’t.
By the time the Red Councils were ready to declare war whenever it suited them, refugees began to converge on Baron/Kelt and they included exhausted and debilitated troops from destroyed cities. Some were still terrified of pursuit and others were well-nigh mindless with fatigue and fear. There was much to be done. Warned by the first people to reach them, it became clear new plans had to be drawn up expeditiously by a select group established to deal with exactly this possible problem. People from Strame/Helt, Clariane and Arrain-Toh spoke of writhlings in Varen and some citizens, but the revelations of those from Castelus, Rhume and Lethwyn were profoundly sickening, the actions taken horrendous and barbaric. There was little news of Wrandal.
The Doms summoned the Cynases. Their instructions were direct. To cope with the floods of fleeing people coming from all directions, accommodation was essential. The city-state closest to Baron/Kelt was Strame/Helt, so an army was to be sent there immediately. It was imperative the city was taken before any more damage could be inflicted on it and it was to be prepared for an influx of people Baron/Kelt couldn’t handle. The Varen there would need to be dealt with and the Red Council incapacitated in some way, though Barok looked rather blank at that last injunction. When he heard the Companions would be with him he breathed easily again, relieved, and hastened away to speak long with Knellen.
Adon was requested to take a slightly smaller army to try to take Clariane. It was believed to still be intact, as it was hoped Wrandal might be. Lisle would be with Adon and the army would mostly consist of Varen. Adon looked a question at that until it was explained that it was metalaned Varen who would defend the city. Any Varen, said Knellen, who obeyed a mature writhling would be ruthless and extremely formidable. Jepaul would be with them. In this force all men, of whatever ethnicity or rank, knew Jepaul was to be implicitly obeyed.
Once Clariane was secured Wrandal might be an objective so Rule went with them. Two cities would ease the congestion that was becoming unmanageable around Baron/Kelt and it would re-establish two more powerful fallbacks should that be necessary. Once the cities were taken Grohol offered to go to supervise reinforcements because alternative guarded havens for floods of desperate Shalahs seeking sanctuary was now a necessity.
At the time Castelus, Rhume and Lethwyn began to crumble, two large armies marched from Baron/Kelt. People still managed to get away from Arrain-Toh and Wrandal, groups from there suddenly meeting up with refugees of all persuasions from across a suddenly dislocated Shalah. Nedru caused chaos, suffering, then, the finale, annihilation. It had begun.
The attack on Strame/Helt was made as soon as the city came in sight, the skirmishes in the environs quick and decisive. In a sense the fight was a one-sided affair because the city was almost deserted by citizens and emtori and the army was seriously reduced to a handful of men. The people there were those with metalans or ones simply reduced to pitiful terror by the Varen and forced unwillingly to fight. Those without writhlings laid down whatever weaponry they were given and joined the attackers. Outraged, the Red Council ordered the Varen to protect both them and the city. However, because some of the city was already destroyed by the Council itself and the walls weakened, it was easy for attackers to breach walls and enter. There the Varen awaited them in silent ranks, malevolent and indomitable.
The fighting was unremitting and savage. Explosions followed one cannonade after another. Projectiles slithered and swerved among defenders and attackers alike, fizzing before they splintered into shards that pierced anything and everything. It was bloody and relentless bombardment. It went backwards and forwards for hours. With nightfall the attackers drew back to assess the situation, but even though the city wasn’t taken what they’d managed to do was grant enough cover for the Companions to enter the city unseen.
The Companions, helped by Barok’s senior officers and Strame/Helt Varen who’d escaped the city long before, managed to reach where the Red Council was located. They could secrete themselves there while they waited for the appropriate time to act. They had only one chance and they knew it. They had to wait for dawn. It was then a renewed attack would take defending Varen attention from the Red Council and leave the Nedru, however briefly, vulnerable.
It was a very long night. The Companions were cramped and cold. Nor could they discount the possibility they may be betrayed, unwittingly or otherwise, so they had to remain in a constant state of alertness. It was with relief they saw faint light begin to filter through narrow windows at the end of the chamber and then saw the sun begin to rise above the distant horizon. At the same time they heard the calls to arms and deep Varen voices as they descended stairs in haste. The Red Council was alone.
It was now that Saracen crept, inch by inch, to the containers of sustenance the Varen had brought the Red Council late the evening before. They always supped in the early morning. Saracen watched them, huddled together, weaving slowly from side to side, their wheezing audible all night. Very carefully Saracen lifted the lid of each container and quickly poured the contents of phials in each one. With a grim twist to his lips he replaced lids silently and retreated, his breath catching in his throat when he heard a hiss behind him. He literally froze. It was Belika who pulled him back the last little way and it was Javen who handed him a small bottle and told him, sharply, to drink from it. With trembling hands he did. It steadied him. They all waited.
The Red Council slowly broke the huddle and began to exhale long breaths that hissed before they glided fluidly across the room, each one reaching for a container. The Companions watched. They all had to swallow hard to suppress gasps of utter revulsion as hoods were shoved back a little way to allow boney fingers to tilt the containers. The Companions only saw a little. It was enough. They were all white-faced, even stoical Knellen.
The containers were emptied, the hoods drawn forward and the Red Council moved together again. They remained that way until one fell back from the circle and its hands began to move agitatedly. The circle broke. The Red Council faltered. They swayed, gesticulated, then began to utter odd, high-pitched whistles and moans. Their hands waved aimlessly about and robes fluttered as they started to gyrate, sway, gyrate again and then almost fall.
“Is that the gatril working?” whispered Javen of Belika.
“It should soon be fully effective,” came the curt reply.
“What then?”
“We refill those containers.”
“Will they drin
k from them?”
Saracen sounded agitated and dubious.
“With that dosage of gatril they’ll be very thirsty soon,” was Belika’s response.
Knellen gestured that they be quiet. He watched the Red Council closely. They now became quite still. No hissing was heard, just a gentle rhythmic wheezing, the heads bent to chests and hands and robes motionless.
“Now!” muttered Belika and Knellen together.
Working around the Red Council was an eerie and unnerving experience that had hands trembling as containers were filled from large bottles the Companions had brought with them hidden under cloaks. They barely had time to put back lids before they saw movement. The Council began to twitch and the rocking started again but slowly to begin with. It was like watching ocean waves it was so gentle and rhythmic. Just as the Companions reached their refuge, the bodies weaved and glided back to the containers that were urgently grasped, lids thrown aside and hoods barely pushed back as grasping fingers tilted the containers then discarded them.
When the concept of disabling the Red Councils was mooted by Jepaul and laughingly endorsed by the Doms and Saneel, no one, not even the Doms themselves had any idea what the end result might be. It was a very real gamble. Within only minutes the gatril, now mixed with two powerful drugs called meme and hyme, reacted with them. It made the gatril stronger. The Council found themselves extremely relaxed and vague so they could no longer focus on anything nor did they have the desire to. But the meme and hyme made them strangely unlike themselves as well.
The wheezing and hissing intensified. There was no gliding either. The Council was being torn to react in two different ways at exactly the same time. The result was confusion. They couldn’t form a circle however hard they tried. Hands lashed out at each other. Robes swirled and swished as they started to spin, first one way then the other, round and round the room, completely uncoordinated. They spun into each other. While the gatril tried to make them rest, the meme and hyme urged activity. The Red Council’s reedy wheezes grew louder as the spinning slowly eased. The Companions sank back into their hiding place.
“Let’s go,” suggested Javen, in alarmed amusement as the agitation began again. It wasn’t spinning. They banged into each other before they stood and began to twitch vigorously.
“It should keep them disabled for some time,” said Belika with satisfaction. “Saneel said it would.”
“Knellen, where’s our escort?” whispered Saracen.
Knellen glanced round. Just as he did, a Varen appeared at the door. He stood, irresolute. Knellen remained where he was, unmoving. With a shrug the Varen went to the strewn containers and lifted them onto a table in neat order. He glanced incuriously at the Council as he clearly awaited an order. Receiving none, he strode from the room. Minutes later a Strame/Helt officer appeared and beckoned. The Companions tried to look inconspicuous. Belika was hooded. Knellen marched them along. They reached a landing several flights down from the Red Council quarters, all slightly breathless because the pace they were moved at was very fast. A few Varen eyed them but when they heard Knellen’s deep bark at his apparent captives to hurry they ignored them. They were halted on the lowest level then brought to a sudden stop.
“Elite city Varen,” whispered the officer, his face whitening.
Three Varen paused interestedly next to them and one spoke curtly.
“What do you do with them, brother?”
Knellen’s response was prompt and assured.
“To join the front lines. They are expected. They are fit enough to bear arms.”
“True, brother. Battle begins again. We need as many as we can get to go in the first wave. That’s all they’re fit for.”
“Do you wish to guide them there or shall I? I’m expected.”
“Marshalling is through the next courtyard. Get them moving. What is your nomen?”
The officer and the Companions held their breaths.
“My nomen is Air,” came the reply.
“Then we will the pleasure of meeting again, brother. Go your way, Air.”
The Varen strode away with out looking back. Javen felt faintly sick and took a quick swig from the bottle he offered Saracen earlier.
“If,” began Knellen, glancing across at the officer, “they’re marshalling so close, what, my friend, do you suggest?”
The officer swallowed and whispered huskily.
“Back a corridor, Knellen, towards the wall by the gates. You’re expected.”