Gods of Earth (14 page)

“The boy comes with me,” the Guardian stated.

Again the old woman waited on the Grand Creator, but when he said nothing, she finally spoke. “Come.”

The Guardian did not move for a moment. Then he turned and strode not after the old woman, but to the hammer that stood by the throne. He grabbed its handle.

“No!” the Creator shouted. “No man can wield Threkor’s Hammer!”

The Guardian heaved it up. The plinth of stone cracked open, and then fell apart into two great blocks, releasing the shaft. The shattering crash made the elders instinctively raise their hands, as if to ward off some ill. The sound reverberated harshly in the long hall.

“I will bring this weapon back, Creator, when the fight with the god is finished.”

The old woman moved surprisingly quickly. She wore a long black cloak that swept over the floor, formed of the same heavy and shiny material all the Dark Engineers wore, and it hissed on the rough stone as she hurried before them.

As soon as they passed from the hall through a low black doorway, and she had pressed the door closed behind, Sar began
to mumble under her breath. It sounded to Chance like she said, “Stupid fat fool worst ever to sit on Threkor’s throne—”

“What do you say, Engineer?” the Guardian asked.

“This way, this way,” she answered more loudly. But as she turned Chance heard her mumble, “Useless, ridiculous to call him Creator; he’s unable to make a damn thing.…”

The Guardian and Chance followed in silence, through a maze of halls and turns, and finally onto a black stair that spiraled both up into a circular tower and down into a dripping well of gray stone. They descended in dim light, the black metal steps creaking underfoot. At every turn of the spiraling stairs, they reached a landing before a door rough with a thick coat of rust that appeared to have grown, undisturbed, for centuries.

They stopped before one of these doors. On a neat square of onyx above it was inscribed a symbol Chance did not recognize. Below them, the stair seemed to gyre down forever into darkness: the drip of water around them fell without report into the depths. The air smelled of water and mold and wet, rusting iron.

The old woman pointed at the door, and the Guardian shoved it open with one hand, causing red flakes of rust to explode out and over them. Chance blinked and rubbed at his eyes as, beyond the door, lights flickered on in a room shaped like a simple cylinder. In the center of the room, twelve rods of shimmering mercurial metal formed the outline of a cube. A dais stood before and to one side of it.

“Threkor’s brotherhood made a first binding cell, archetype for the Numin Jar,” Sar said, leading them into the room.

“This is fixed here,” the Guardian said. He walked around the cube, at a respectful distance.

“Yes,” the old woman replied. She brushed rust off of the sleeves of her black robes.

“Useless.”

The old woman went to the dais and waved her hands over the top of it, and then touched it in complex ways that seemed to
Chance like dancing with her fingers. The only thing he had ever seen like it was Elder Ruth playing her dulcimer. The shining silver bars made a strange musical hum. And then their mercury surface smeared and thinned and spread, forming six dimly visible sides to the cube. The sides were like a mist, but as Chance watched they grew more substantial.

“It functions still, Guardian.”

“So I must bring the god here, drive it into that space, and then keep it there, while these walls grow hard.”

The old woman bowed. While her head was down Chance heard her mumble, “Shouldn’t be so hard for a demi-god.”

Chance watched the cube. The sides were more solid now, starting to form a mirrored surface. He could see himself dimly reflected in it. But the mirror of the surface was not complete: the wall beyond was visible, as if seen through a fog.

“It takes several minutes,” the old woman explained. She walked to its side and ran one hand over the shining transparent surface that slowly formed.

They watched it until it turned to a complete mirror, reflecting everything in the room. Chance saw himself in its surface: there he stood, dressed in fine Puriman clothes, but with the Dark Engineer on one side of him, and the ancient Guardian on the other.

Who is that man? Chance thought. Am I still who I was just days ago? Is it even possible to be a Puriman in a place like this, and do these things, face these problems? Is it possible to be a Puriman and remember some of the things the false god showed me, as if they were my own recollections?

“How long will it last?” the Guardian asked.

The old engineer frowned. “It requires much energy. It should last as long as the energy lasts. If we are careful, then as long as Uroboros is held by the Engineers, I should think.”

The Guardian pushed against the shimmering cube, but could not push through. “It feels strong enough.”

He tapped it with the hammer. There was a sharp, deafening crack as green sparks flew from the impact.

“No!” the old woman scolded. “That hammer is otherworldly but not like god’s flesh, not Aussersein. It is in both worlds, at the same time. It will react violently with a binding barrier, which cuts through only this world.”

The Guardian nodded, hefting the shaft with admiration. He ignored Sar as she mumbled something about him being an idiot.

“You will show us the most direct path to this room,” he told the old woman, “from outside. Put arms for a crossbar behind the door, so that it may be locked from inside if needed. Move the dais there, to the back of the room. And you will teach the Puriman how to use it.”

“Not I,” Chance said. He pointed at the cube. “Besides, I will have to wait inside, as bait.”

“No, Puriman. You will stand on the other side as bait, and you will work the binding.”

Chance opened his mouth to protest, but then thought better of it.

“And Puriman,” the Guardian added. “Tell no one of what you have seen here. Not Thetis, not Mimir, not even Seth. No one.”

The Guardian turned to Sar. “Who knows of this?”

“A very few. I rebuilt this myself, over many years.”

“The Creator knows?”

“Yes.” She added in a mumble, “But that fat fool never had any interest in anything that an engineer should—”

“Can you keep it secret?”

She nodded. “For a while.”

“Good. Do.”

“But what happens after the false god is in there?” Chance asked. He pointed again at the cube.

“I will stand watch,” the Guardian said.

“Will it die in there?”

“No.”

Chance frowned. “How long will it live?”

“Till the sun dies.”

“Till the sun dies? The sun in the sky?”

“Till the sun dies.”

Chance thought about that.

“Will this… trap last that long?”

The Guardian shook his head. “No. After a time, I will have to find another way. I’ll seek one of the true binding jars. Then I’ll let the god out, and bind it again.”

Chance shook his head emphatically. “No.”

“What?” The Guardian peered at him under the ridge of a deeply furrowed brow.

“No. That’s not good enough.”

“Not good enough?” The Guardian was incredulous.

“We have to end it. You said we would end it.”

Chance looked at the old engineer, but she only bowed and slipped from the room, mumbling inaudibly. This was not a conversation in which she wanted to be involved.

Chance held his hands out, emphasizing his point to the Guardian. “There is a rot that attacks grape vines. Some vinmasters pull off a leaf when they see the rot on that leaf. Some pull off the rotten grapes or even all the grapes on the vine, when they see the rot on a grape. But in the end their whole vinland can be overwhelmed. I say, pull the vine, the whole vine, and burn it. Kill the rot, burn the rot, all of it, when you can, as soon as you can. Can we not kill this false god, burn it away, now?”

The Guardian watched him a long time, his great jaw working silently. Finally, he growled and then spoke. “There is a way. But there is much that could go ill. And it could beguile, and make cravings which I do not want to loose.”

“What kind of… cravings?”

“Dangers for you, Puriman. It could open to you the… hunger… to become like him.” He looked at the cube, as if the false god were already inside it.

Chance laughed bitterly. “I tell you this, Guardian. That is no temptation for me. None.”

The Guardian scowled. “You don’t understand.”

“I don’t need to understand. I know what I need to know. I’ve been a trouble-maker in my time, I’ve been a fighter and a mischievous son. But I want nothing but to be a simple man, a winemaker, a man like those who lived and died before any false gods were made or even dreamed of. That’s all I want.” He did not say, though he thought it,
and I want Sarah
.

“What if becoming a god could give you that?”

“No false god could have that, Guardian. How could one want to be a god and want a simple mortal life? No, the false god is an abomination, lost to God and God’s ways. It cannot tempt me, I tell you. It cannot tempt me.”

The Guardian gathered the others and, without speaking to the Grand Creator, they walked out of Uroboros the way they had entered it. Chance was relieved to be back out in the cool autumn salt sea air, free of the oppressive heat and the thick scent of oil. The sun had climbed and he felt a pang of hunger.

As they walked back to the Broken Hand that Reaches, Seth implored the Guardian to meet finally with the City Councilors.

“You talk with them, philosopher,” he replied.

“St-st-student,” Seth protested.

“You talk with them, philosophy student. I’ve not woken and walked the Earth to haggle with talk-hawkers.”

Seth barked angrily. The Guardian did not even turn his head.

“But it is the Ga-Ga-Guardian they want to see!”

“But it is the Hekademon student they shall see.”

“You en-enjoy this,” Seth growled.

“My mirths are few, philosopher. Do not begrudge me them.”

Seth snapped his teeth, obviously struggling with the desire to nip the Guardian in the calf.

“Bad, bad, bad man.”

Once back in their chamber, the Guardian stood in the center of the room and faced them.

“I kenned the god today. It moves closer, but not quickly. Perhaps four days till it is here.”

“The-the-there’s another problem,” Seth growled out. “The City Guard told me that there were others in the city who fo-fo-fought for, for the god.”

“Who?”

“Hieroni,” Thetis whispered.

Seth yipped in assent.

“What is this?” the Guardian demanded.

Nervously, looking at the floor as she addressed him, Thetis explained. “There have always been stories that in the city there is a cabal, called the Hieroni, with members from every guild. Secretly they worship the Younger Gods, and await their return. Some say they search for the hidden five Numin Jars of the Theomachia, to free the bound gods.”

The Guardian grunted. “I do not reckon that fools meeting in shadows will hinder us.”

Thetis wrung her hands but said nothing.

“When the god comes,” the Guardian continued, “I will fight it, and it shall be held in Uroboros. Then, we go to the Numin Well and Chance will draw out its soul and we will be done with it. It would be best to fly, following the coast along the sea. Makina, can
your ship take the Puriman and me as far as the door to the Numin Well at the foot of Yggdrasil?”