In my dreams I saw the teeth and gums of chaos. Writhing amoebas of pulpy flesh and gnashing teeth. They fell from the Dreaming God like parasites, consuming everything in their path. There was an alien intelligence about them, a primal drive that didn’t understand light and dark, up and down, left and right, or any rational concept. They descended upon me like an impenetrable cloud of chaos.
I was standing at the Severed Hand, looking up at the Wolf House, with wave upon wave of chaos spirits rushing towards me. Then a mantle of thorns descended, as an angry pain spirit rushed to my defence. The chaos spawn struck barbed and tangled brambles, and were cut to pieces by a thousand tiny thorns. Twist was a fearsome opponent, able to protect me from all angles at once. Not only that, the pain spirit’s resolve was shielding my mind, angry that madness was trying to consume me.
“Wake up, Duncan,” said a distant voice. “You are once again whole.”
I opened my eyes and saw grey stone. I was back in the small stone room, stretched out on a soft couch. My skin was clammy and my eyes itched, though the air was fresh as a summer field, and the hoppy smell of ale filled my nostrils. I sat up and patted my legs and arms, reassuring myself that I was whole. I absently fiddled with the thorn clinch, making sure Twist was okay. The spirit hugged my leg, warming me with familiar pain.
“It’s good you are becoming friends,” said the pale man, though only his voice was present. “You and your spirit have seen the same things. It’s afraid, probably more so than you.”
I tried to speak, but my mouth was dry and my throat scratchy. I swung my legs from the couch and coughed, hacking up a globule of phlegm. “How?” I spluttered. “How did I get here?”
“Your mind was delivered by a spectral wolf,” he replied. “Your body by Marius Cyclone. It took effort to put you back together. For all practical reality, you killed yourself.”
I took a deep breath, holding my head in my hands. “How many Sea Wolves did I kill?” I whispered.
“I don’t know who you killed, or how many,” replied the pale man. “You should put such concerns from your mind. We have things to discuss. We’ll soon arrive at my hall beyond the world.”
Put it from my mind? It seemed inconceivable after what I’d done on the coast of Nowhere, but it was all so distant and cloudy, as if Twist and I wanted to put it from our minds. “Where in the void is this?” I asked.
“It’s a sanctuary,” replied the voice. “A way of bridging the gap between your realm of form and my hall. That’s where I’m taking you. Without this room, you’d be open to attack from infinite layers of the far void. Nasty things dwell out here.”
“Void beasts?”
“Dholes, Byakhee, Mi-go, immense segmented slugs with cruel spiders for blood. If you travel far enough you’ll find the boundless nuclear chaos that slumbers at the heart of all things, and be forced to sign your name in the black book. But we’re not going that far. Just to the shadow halls beyond the world.”
I rose from the couch. The floor was covered in thick, red carpet, and warm air rolled subtly from every angle. A mug of frothy ale sat on a small wooden table, but the square room was otherwise bare. I was travelling through the void, but everything was still. I’d exploded in a ball of wyrd, but I was still alive, no matter what practical reality said. Twist and I were closer than ever, and we needed to keep our wits about us. After everything we’d seen, and every hammer-blow to my mind, I could still feel the young man who wanted, above all things, to be a Sea Wolf. Duncan Greenfire, called Sharp Tongue, son of the High Captain, was still in there somewhere. He was broken, but far wiser, and he still had a task to do. I would honour them all. I would save the Eastron from annihilation.
“We’ve arrived,” said the strange voice. “You’ll like my hall, it’s beautiful. You’ll be the third mortal from your realm to have seen it. One day soon, when I stabilize the Maelstrom and open a gateway, thousands will walk through the glass to safety, and it will take no more than a minute. Salvation for your people, Duncan. Each and every one.”
A solid door of old wood appeared in the one of the walls. Black metal hinges secured it to the stone, and a ring of burnished brass acted as a door handle. I barely hesitated before reaching out and grasping the handle. The metal was cold and my hand tingled as I opened the door inwards. Then a blinding light.
I blinked and saw a carpet of green and grey, stretching away from my eyes as forests, grasslands and mountains. There was a dark void sky overhead, but a blanket of pale blue cast a warm light across a huge, fertile land. A wide river cut through a wooded valley, leading to a pasture, and beyond was green country as far as the eye could see. It didn’t feel like the void, except for the sky. Everything was solid and textured. Smells and sounds were sharp, as if we had somehow returned to the realm of form.
I stood on a wide, stone terrace of multiple levels, part of a palatial citadel of white stone and ornate railings. The architecture was like nothing I’d seen in the Kingdom of the Four Claws. The building blocks were enormous, and I struggled to fathom the kind of engineering required to move them, let alone construct a castle from them.
“It took me a long time to build,” said a gentle voice.
Leaning against the closest railing was a man. He was of slightly below average height, with huge shoulders and well-muscled arms. His skin was so pale that small, red veins were visible on his face, and his eyes were a deep shade of pink. Down his back was a long braid of bone-white hair, half-obscuring an ugly scar across the side of his neck. He was clean-shaven, though his peculiar complexion made it difficult to guess his age.
“You look like a man,” I observed, certain I was seeing the pale man for the first time. “Just a man with white skin.”
“I was a man,” he replied, in his precise, clipped accent. “Long, long ago.”
“What are you now?” I asked, aware that Twist was coiled protectively around my leg.
He smiled. There was a benevolence to his face, cutting through the pale skin and pink eyes. “If I told you my name was Utha the Ghost, would you truly be any wiser? If I said I was a god, would you believe me? A shadow giant, an old blood? These terms mean nothing to your people.” He smiled again, this time mournfully, as if in remembrance. “I want you to trust me, Duncan. You’ve seen the Sunken God. You know what the Eastron face, and you need to trust that I can help. That we can help. I’ve told this to no-one but Ten Cuts and Marius, but my hall beyond the world is large enough for all. Your civilization can survive, in any one of a million other realms of form. Your realm is but one of many, floating in the void sea.”
I looked down the valley, and saw another world. It wasn’t the Kingdom of the Four Claws, but it was just as real.
“This is just a fraction,” said the pale man, seeing my wonder at his hall. “There are beautiful, rolling blue oceans to the south, and snow-capped mountains to the north. I’m sure there are great cartographers amongst your people who will delight in mapping its extent. I’m not even sure I could tell you how big it is. Life has a way of expanding on its own. Even in the halls beyond the world.”
He approached me, looking like nothing more than a mortal man, cursed with white skin. He wore a simple robe of black fabric, gathered at the waist, and a silvery cord woven into his long, braided hair. He put a hand on my shoulder and was flung backwards by an aggressive flash of my wyrd. I didn’t mean to, but Twist reacted to him touching me.
“I’m sorry,” I muttered. “He doesn’t trust you.”
The pale man had struck the terrace, ten feet away, and didn’t appear hurt. He was flat on his back, but a knowing chuckle removed any tension.
My wyrd pulsed to the surface, becoming a cloak of tangled thorns. I’d never seen Twist physically manifest, but then I’d never been to a void realm before. Perhaps the rules were different. I wasn’t stung, but slowly felt something crawling within the knotted brambles.
“Say hello to him,” said the pale man, rising to his feet.
Over my shoulder, pulling itself through thorns, was a small imp. It had dark green skin and sharp ears, rising to two points either side of its round head. Its mischievous, angular eyes covered half its face, and around the spirit’s waist was my thorn clinch, worn like a belt. The twisted brambles flowed around it, allowing the imp to perch on a narrow branch and face me. We looked at each other for the first time.
“Hello, Twist,” I whispered, tentatively raising my hand, and reaching for the spirit. The imp flinched for an instant, before nuzzling into my hand and closing his eyes. It felt as if our nerves were connected. We were wrapped in a warm blanket of wyrd, but I couldn’t tell where I ended and Twist began. Our thoughts mingled. Shared fear, confusion and anger, but also gratitude and relief. The pain spirit loved me. I loved him too. We were each other’s worlds. We’d grown together and shared everything, until we were one being.
Twist had been a juvenile spirit, floating through the void of Moon Rock, when Clatterfoot dragged him into the thorn clinch. A pain spirit knows only pain, and he’d lashed out, unsure what else to do. For years he’d raged against me, trying to free himself from bondage, seeing me as his enemy. We’d made each other strong. Then we’d seen the Sunken God, and had become one.
“I don’t know who bound him to you,” said the pale man, looking with amusement at the imp. “But he did you a great service. You and your pain spirit have made each other truly powerful. Unchecked, chaotic, but powerful. Perhaps more powerful than any other Eastron in your Kingdom.”
Twist opened his eyes and glared at the pale man. Thorns and nettles sprouted from his body, and he snarled a deep rumble of distrust.
“We don’t like you,” I observed. “You control people’s minds. You made them attack the Dead Horse. We think you’re dangerous. We know you can help, but Twist might try to kill you if you don’t tell us who you really are, and how we can honour the Sea Wolves … and why you care.”
The pain spirit whined, his pointed ears drooping slightly, and his tiny fingers sprouting bright green nettles. My discomfort affected him, just as his suspicion affected me. The spirit and I shook our heads in unison, trying to find a peaceful middle ground, where we could happily exist together. There were a thousand differences between us, but we’d grown into a single being. With time, the join between us would be invisible. We faced each other, sharing a smile.
“I haven’t controlled you,” replied the pale man. “Come and sit. Let us talk.”
Twist darted to my shoulder, pulling the thorns back into himself and tugging on my ear. He only cared about us, and wanted to keep us safe. The void realm allowed him to manifest, but did nothing to soften his suspicions. We couldn’t scratch the image of the Sunken God from our mind, and he blamed the pale man. We blamed him for Lord Vikon too, and for bringing Marius Cyclone and the third void legion to Nowhere. Our collective mind was a whirl, with all of our concerns mingling together.
By the railing, positioned at the head of the green valley, were two chairs. The pale man squeezed his bulky shoulders into one of them and produced a small keg from beneath the table. We narrowed our eyes, but decided to take the second chair. The view from the citadel was spectacular. We were a hundred feet from the ground, and the scale of everything was enormous. From our vantage point, the mountains, the river and the trees were like a painting of a perfect wilderness.
Twist jumped up and down, muttering in my ear. “I know you have use for us,” I said. “And you want us to trust you … but how can we? And if we can’t, after what you’ve shown us, how will you persuade the Sea Wolves and the Winterlords? Or will you just control as many minds as you can?”
The pale man grumbled to himself, his strange voice forming a string of curses and barely intelligible invective. None of it was directed at me, but I felt uncomfortable nonetheless, perhaps even regretful that I’d pushed him.
“My name is Utha,” he said, when he’d finished muttering under his breath. “And I know I’ve made mistakes. And I’ve got people killed.” He drew two mugs of dark brown ale from the cask and handed me one.
Twist smacked his lips together and snatched the ale from Utha’s grasp. The pain spirit cackled and wrapped its arms around the mug, taking several deep gulps. We both felt the effects, and I swallowed contentedly. It was the same delicious ale I’d tasted before, and had the same refreshing effect.
“Where did you say this ale was from?” I asked, trying to avoid further grumbling from the pale man.
“A city called Ro Leith,” he replied. “A long, long way from here. It’s built on six hills, near a huge forest, called the Fell. Leith’s famous for its wine, but the ale … best hangover I ever had.” He spoke like he was a normal man, but with a sadness behind his words. He looked like a normal man, but with an eldritch aura, hanging like a cloak over his white skin. Then he smiled. “Thank you. It’s pleasant to talk of ordinary things. It’s rare I get the chance.”
“How old are you?” we asked.
He was reluctant, and we sensed a vulnerability, as if the pale man was more fragile than he wanted people to believe. He bowed his head. “I was born a mortal man. I discovered I was an old blood. I slowly became a shadow giant. One day soon I will be a god. As for how old I am … I thought a few hundred years, but that was a few hundred years ago. Time doesn’t mean a lot here, so I only get a sense of its passing when I return to the realms of form. But there’s no guarantee that time moves at the same pace in each realm. So, I don’t know how old I am.”
Twist burbled in my ear. “We don’t really know what it means to be a god,” I said. “I once heard Adeline Brand say that, if the Eastron ever had a god, we killed them before we left the Bright Lands. Gods have no place in the Kingdom of the Four Claws. No-one would worship them.”
He flexed his neck, looking off into the distance. “The gods of old were our freedom’s woe, and we were freedom’s fool. The Bright Lands they gave us, but our thrones of wyrd we stole. Upon their graves the Eastron were born, and the Eastron sailed across the sea.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“It’s written in the Strange Manse at the Dark Harbour. Marius showed me. I think he was trying to tell me the same thing as you … that gods have no place in the Kingdom of the Four Claws.” He looked at me, the smallest hint of a smile appearing as his eyes flicked to the green imp, perched on my shoulder. “I care about the Eastron because I am to be your god. You are to be my followers. That is the last step on my journey, and the first step on yours. But it means nothing if I can’t save you from the sleeping Old One.”
I balked at the idea. The Sea Wolves would sooner die, throwing themselves at the Sunken City, than kneel before the pale man. They’d believe they could win, until they were faced with the reality of the creature, and then it would be too late. Though I couldn’t speak for the rest of the Eastron.
“Is that why the Stranger knelt to you?” I asked. “Are you the new god of the Dark Brethren?”
He appeared surprised at the suggestion, snorting ironically and swigging from his mug of ale. “No,” he stated. “I am not. There are three Cyclone brothers, each commanding a third of the Dark Brethren. Unfortunately, I only trust Marius Cyclone. He follows me because he believes I am the only hope for your civilization. If I prove to be so, he will be my first cleric. But not before.”
Twist gnashed his teeth together, absently scratching at my shoulder. The spirit understood no more about divinity than me, and just wanted to know where we fit into the almost-a-god’s scheme to save the Eastron. “And us?” I asked. “Are we expected to worship you? We were powerful enough to see you, but what does that mean? What do you want from us?”
He bowed his head, setting aside the ale, and sitting forwards. “You are the only Eastron I’ve met who can survive what I need doing. To use any other mortal would mean killing them … in great pain. Probably a dozen or so people. But your pain spirit has amassed more than enough power for both of you. I can take your wyrd without killing you. And I will need no-one else.”
*
I awoke in a bed, laid on smooth sheets and enveloped in a soft quilt. The air was fresh, and my throat and nostrils felt cleansed, pulling in soothing breaths as I blinked myself awake. My body was rested and our mind felt clear. In fact, our mind felt calm and rational, as if Twist and I had been allowed time to acclimatize to each other.
I shook my head and came fully awake. We didn’t remember finishing the conversation, nor leaving the terrace and descending into Utha’s citadel. We hadn’t even seen a citadel, just the suggestion of one, stretching beneath the multilayered terraces and immense views. Curiosity drove us to sit upright immediately, rather than lounge around in the unnaturally comfortable bed. Around us was a small bedroom, made of stone blocks with wooden framing. A cold hearth sat next to a door, and my clothes were on a chair beneath a single window, through which shone a clear void sky. At every angle and at every corner was a shadow, forming vibrant lines. They cut into the room, wherever the light couldn’t reach.
Twist flung back a corner of the thick, woollen quilt and yawned, making a low, burbling sound. Our thoughts and concerns were now shared, and both of us felt content, as if a years-old war had ended in an amicable peace. A bit of Duncan wanted to shout fuck you to Clatterfoot and my father, but Twist thought we should shut up and be grateful. As a single being, we decided to be smug, but not shout.
The imp grinned, his huge, angular eyes sparkling as he darted to my shoulder. A prickle of thorns glided across my arms, but caused no pain. We had control of the thorn clinch. Twist no longer needed to lash out, and Duncan no longer needed to feel pain. We couldn’t exist without each other, and there was a sensation of unbreakable love between us.
“I know,” I said, standing from bed. “He wants to take our wyrd. Or is it just my wyrd?” Twist burbled again. “Okay, your wyrd is mine and my wyrd is yours.”
The spirit gave a contented murmur and settled into the crook of my neck, summoning a small nest of thorns in which to recline. He continued making quiet noises as I dressed, observing everything I did with interest.
“Helping him means helping the Eastron,” I mused. “But who are we without wyrd?”
The murmuring flowed into a low whine, like a puppy who sensed distress. I felt a small pinprick of pain in my neck as Twist pawed at me, his spiky ears drooping. Our power flowed in a circle between the man and the spirit, amplifying what each possessed. Our collective power was staggering. The deaths we’d caused had largely been accidents, but if we wanted to, Twist and I could best any mortal, no matter how mighty their wyrd. It was a strange feeling to be in possession of so much power. We imagined smashing the door open, or pulling down the stone room entirely, just because we could. Tendrils of wyrd snaked outwards, appearing as thick brambles, twisting together and emitting a dark blue glow.
“That’s new,” I observed, looking down at the thorny mass of wyrd that we now collectively controlled. “Maybe we should call Rys Coldfire’s name on the Day of Challenge.” I bowed my head, pulling in our power. “If we get the chance … if we’re not dead.”
Our world had changed, and not just because we’d found each other. Twist was as afraid and confused as Duncan, perhaps more so. But maybe this was our chance to shine. We would win no battles, conquer no wildernesses, defend no holds, but we could save millions of people. Sebastian Dawn Claw had brought the Eastron from across the sea. Could Duncan Greenfire bring them into the void?