Feast of Chaos (Four Feasts Till Darkness Book 3) (8 page)

Although he presented a front as brave as Moreth’s, the Wolf suffered from confusion and doubt. Already, his senses seemed disordered. Warning smells—smoky, earthy, musky, honeyed, mossy—polluted the air with a near insufferable redolence. His hearing fared no better: he was unable to identify a single one of the innumerable animal clacks, tweets, and roars that sung down from the wall of rock. Suddenly, he realized that a hunter—no matter how great—without specific knowledge of his
environment and all these alien smells and rainforest echoes, might be a blind and useless man. Morigan’s star, shining steadily in his chest, calmed his nerves and anger a little in this realm of instability. Once the boat was ashore, he stood behind his bloodmate and mind-whispered his fears to her.

My hide crawls with danger. I do not know what to focus on, or where to bark. The chaos of this realm bewilders my senses
.

I am no better at sorting through the madness myself, my Wolf. Fragments of memory and time are everywhere
.

It seemed impossible that the day could become any stranger, but as she shuffled ahead over the silt beach, Morigan saw lines drawn in the sky—faint scintillating strings of glass, arranged in a definite convergence and pattern. She didn’t know what they were, though her bees seemed to have an idea. Agitatedly, her bees pressed their stingers against their cage of flesh; they wanted to play those strings of fate or magik in the sky and hear their music. Morigan flailed and then found the Wolf’s arm. Like his bloodmate, he’d walked on, nearly unaware of his own actions. He could not see the strings in the sky; instead, he fixated on what lay over the rise they needed to climb. Another mysterious instrument lay there, one with strings that twanged tunes of animal cries, nauseating stenches, and delirious sights.

The Menosian will guide us; that is why he has come
, said Morigan.

Caenith growled and glared back at the man dusting the ashy sand off his overcoat. Moreth was totally unaffected by the strangeness around them, behaving as if he’d stepped off the deck of a pleasure cruiser to begin his vacation. In his shadow, the two scholars, Mouse, and Adam waited. The Wolf felt as if their positions were a subconscious acknowledgment of their new pack master. The Wolf did not know how
not
to lead. Was he to fall into step behind this wicked man? Could he actually listen to Moreth’s orders and not rip out his throat? Morigan squeezed the Wolf’s hand before he stormed up the hill.

I shall study this new hunting ground, and I shall master it
, he declared.

I know
, she replied.

“Follow me,” said Moreth, with perfect timing. He slung his knapsack over his shoulder and strode past the pair, before moving up the rise
in a puff of black dust. “And try and remember every warning about this land’s danger you’ve been given. On the subject of which, is anyone cut or bleeding?”

The company checked themselves and their garments for tears; none were found.

“Good,” Moreth said. During his briefings, he’d forewarned them that blood of any kind—from a wound, from a menstrual cycle even—would hold extraordinary allure for the creatures of this realm. The company presumed his caution arose from this.

“What about the boat?” asked Talwyn.

“No point in worrying about it,” Moreth called back. “The shore—and boat—won’t be here in a week or two.”

“A week or two?” complained Talwyn.

Moreth hissed at the scholar. “We’re not on a damned retreat, you fool. I’d have thought that you, with all your inquisitiveness, would’ve paid the best attention. Let me clarify: we have come to the very heart of chaos in our world, a land that never stays the same, save for a few points of order. All else is uncharted; unpredictability and death await us at every step. Whatever journey we have committed ourselves to shall take longer than a few days inland and back. I guarantee you that much. We shall be lucky if we see our homes again in a year.”

“We don’t have that long,” said Morigan, thinking of Black Stars and doom.

“Then we had better quicken our steps,” replied Moreth. Regaining the ghoulishly perfect carriage that he’d lost for a speck to spitting anger, Moreth threw back his shoulders and continued hiking. Climbing after the man as he moved with great athleticism up the rubbly path was laborious work for a few of them. When they’d all caught up with Moreth atop the rise, they quietly studied the land.
What am I seeing?
each asked their inner child. For their odyssey would take them through a realm of dreamscapes and wonder that only the youngest element within each could comprehend. Their vision scattered over the humps, spires, and valleys of Pandemonia, into the rainbow storms and queer will-o’-the-wisps on the horizon, not knowing where to focus in the phantasmagoria. Eventually, they restrained their wandering inspection and looked to their feet, where,
separated by a line of black and a line of green, the ashen rise ended. The slope angled down into a field of tall grass, fat-budded flowers, and small swarms of insects that flickered like embers.

“Beautiful…” whispered Talwyn.

Farther on, the hillside meadow met a bank of rocks beyond which flowed a twisting rapid. Talwyn’s gaze followed the rapid and its mysterious windings to break down the larger mystery into smaller chunks that his mind could digest. In the left of his vision, the water flowed into a creek, gentle and babbling. The creek then dried out, suddenly, as it entered a yellowish grassland with far-off steppes. Over that region of Pandemonia reigned the blackest of thunderheads, with lightning so bright it spotted Talwyn’s sight as he stared. He wondered whether the tremor in the soles of his boots was caused by the thunder or his own quailing. He wondered what kind of rain would fall there, in that yellow desert. Perhaps a rain of fire, to have forged the enormous broken crystals that glimmered like the rib cages of giants ossified in crystal between the steppes. Dead crystal giants. Talwyn laughed, unable to disprove the lunacy of his imaginings. Faintly seen herds of animals raced across the shimmering, storming land.

Finally, he tore his attention away from the desert. To his right, the meadow broadened and surged wildly into thickets and trees wholly unfamiliar to him, despite that he had just come from Alabion and its strangling verdure. These shuddering trees—their branches like loose hoses draped and tangled in each other, the knots in their trunks spilling forth profusions of canary-yellow moss—seemed more suited to an expressionist’s unfinished painting than to woodland. Birds circled above the rubber forest, warbling warnings against approach. The birds, too, seemed unfinished—ugly clay things that Talwyn could not fully distinguish, even when he squinted. These strange terrors were not hidden from the Wolf’s sight, however, and he glanced at the sky-flecks and frowned.

Beyond the river lay the least objectionable terrain: more grass, scabs of stone, a smattering of dead-looking trees, a speckled trail of sunlight in which to walk.
Not entirely normal
, thought Talwyn,
though close enough
. He had a hunch they would head in that direction. Moreth proved him right.

“Deserts and dense woodlands we stay away from,” said the Menosian. He stripped off his coat, revealing his male-blouse and buttoned vest; sterling matchlock pistol grips gleamed from the shoulder holsters under his sweaty pits. Very quickly, the weather had changed from ocean-cool humidity to sweltering heat. Moreth folded his coat and put it away, placed his pack back on, and then twisted the metal gargoyle head off his cane—a metal scrape and quick flash of light confirmed the presence of a hidden blade—before moving toward the river. The company followed him closely.

“Once more I shall tell you the rules,” said Moreth. “They’ll make more sense now that you’re here and you’ve seen the lay of the land. First, we sleep only in the open. I know that sounds contrary to huntsman’s wisdom, but here we do not sleep in hollows lest the earth seal them into tombs while we rest. Second, no fires, obviously, since we aim not to draw attention to ourselves. In Pandemonia, you’ll find a million ways to die. Many of them are almost pleasant: death on a bed of poison flowers, or at the paws of a charming, furry animal with a musk or spray that melts your flesh like acid. Alabion is dangerous, as you all well know, although the realm of the Sisters Three plays by nature’s rules. Nature can be cruel by mortal judgments, but we understand her and her laws. Do not attempt to understand Pandemonia—death will come more quickly if you try. You might not even know it’s happening until the Pale Lady shows up to take your hand. So the third and most important rule is, do not touch, eat, or otherwise engage with anything unless I have confirmed it is safe.”

Moreth spun around and poked his cane into Talwyn. The scholar had been bumbling along behind him, eyes wide, fingers trembling and ready to grab things to feed his scientific curiosity.

“I wasn’t—I wouldn’t just touch things!”

“You would; you will. I’ll be shocked if you aren’t dead in a day,” replied Moreth. “Blood King, if you care for him, watch him, please.”

The Wolf flicked Moreth’s cane off his pack-mate. “I am the Blood King no more.”

“Well, find out where he is, and get rid of the other fellow you’re pretending to be. We need monsters in Pandemonia, not a lion who has gone and slept with the lambs.”

After having offended the whole company, Moreth—unfazed—resumed his walk. Breezes and heat swayed his dandified attire; he somehow blended in with the fantastic vista ahead, seemingly as comfortable as the natives of this land.
What people could live in this kaleidoscopic delirium?
wondered Thackery, as he glanced from ember-bug, to rubber tree, to the terrifying desert over yonder. Noises, visual stimuli, and smells abounded. Thackery sensed that the Wolf struggled with this sensory deluge. When Thackery looked to the man, he saw his chest-fur matted, his hanging mouth huffing, and his eyes wild—the appearance of a frantic animal. They would have to help him find a way to filter out all the environmental static, or this place might drive him mad. All-seeing Morigan flashed a silver stare at her concerned friend as he pondered her Wolf.
It will be all right
, she seemed to whisper. And Thackery would have believed her—if he hadn’t known her well enough to read the lie in her expression.

I shall look out for her again, too, until Caenith finds his bearings
, he decided, and considered what in his arsenal he could use to uphold this promise. What of his magik? Aboard the
Skylark
, Moreth had suggested that magik wouldn’t work properly in Pandemonia, that the etheric currents made sorcery too unstable. Surely, though, there was a way for him to invoke. First, he had to discover what was mechanically wrong with the process in this environment, before exploring how to fix it. So as not to embarrass himself through failure, Thackery waited until the others were ahead of him before summoning his Will. He conjured a memory of Theadora running in a green summery field not unlike this one (although without the freakish elements). It was a memory of love. She’d always loved stars, his Theadora. She’d called them wishing-spots. A little wishing-spot, then, he would make in her honor.

W
HOOSH
!

A pillar of white fire twisted in the air behind the company, and they scattered for cover. No warning, no tingle of danger from the Wolf, seer, or Menosian hunter had presaged the event. There was simply a violent, fiery assault. Mouse was wrenched away by Adam; the Wolf barreled into Morigan and Talwyn, taking them to the earth, and then leaped to his feet. Thackery! Where was the sorcerer? Neither he nor Adam had shielded the man. Angrily, he scanned the haze and screamed into the cindery clouds
for his friend. Just as the Wolf was about to charge ahead into the black mist, Thackery appeared: soot smudged, coughing, and stumbling. The Wolf carried him to safety.

“You idiot!” exclaimed Moreth, appearing beside the huddling company. He brandished his cane like a mean schoolmaster ready to rap bones. “You used magik, didn’t you?”

Thackery coughed. “P-perhaps.”

“Per-fuking-haps! Obviously, you did.” Spittle flew from Moreth’s mouth. “I would not have thought that a sorcerer, a
sage
, would fling magik about—here of all places—without reason. I warned you.”

Sooty, though indignant, Thackery scowled at the Menosian. “I had a reason. Furthermore, your warning was quite vague. A sage and scholar puts himself at the forefront of experimentation to determine causation and result.”

“The
result
is that you nearly blew yourself up.”

Caenith growled. He was done taking abuse from a Menosian master, ally or not. Besides, the Iron City had died: so, too, should its ideals and rulers. Once the others were on their feet, he told Moreth to get moving. Smartly, the Menosian made no rejoinder; he knew when not to provoke a violent animal.

When they were nearly to the river, Moreth resumed chatting. “Magik,” he said. “Once more I find myself repeating lectures…Perhaps this time you’ll listen. Putting things simply, you’ve gone from one polarity of magikal influence to the other: Alabion to here. In the Sisters’ domain, magik is repressed, but in Pandemonia, there is no limit to the diffusion of magikal energy in the air. It surrounds us like a fine mist upon the sea. We breathe and drink in magik without our knowing. Scholars and wise men have said that the world is wrapped in threads of power—ethereal currents—and here, these threads converge in a knot. Whatever you conjure, Thackery, however small the release of magik, will be amplified one hundredfold. You will open a dam, and wash us all away.”

“Threads, yes…” mumbled Morigan, and gazed again into a sky crossed with silver lines that the others could not see.

“I am sorry.” Thackery glanced to the ground, ashamed. “I should have known better. I didn’t believe most of what you’d said. I needed to
see it for myself. We should have better prepared ourselves. We should have listened to you.”

“Confession is the last act of the damned,” agreed Moreth, mockingly. “You scholars and sages are such slaves to curiosity. Although, why prepare for the most dangerous mission in the history of man, when we could spend days waxing our pricks?” Moreth glanced to Caenith and Morigan. “Playing fetch with our dog?” Then, to Mouse and Adam. “Or wasting hourglasses on sophistry?” He finished his berating with a glance at the two scholars, who stood side by side. “When I wasn’t being interrupted with nonsense, I devoted my hourglasses to
preparing
: strengthening my mind, recounting my inventory, remembering the bestiary of this realm, and testing the limits of my body’s deprivation. For in the land of chaos, all faculties and strengths you have ever owned will be called upon and exhausted. You think you know death? Hunger? Fear? You think you know doom? Pandemonia will redefine the meaning of despair.”