The Long Reach of Night Read online

  THE VOIDAL SERIES

  Oblivion Hand

  The Long Reach of Night

  The Sword of Shadows

  DEDICATION

  I would just like to say a special thanks to those who have

  encouraged me to keep going with the saga of the Voidal

  and his dubious companions at a time when the Dark Gods

  were definitely gaining the upper hand.

  Mike Chinn,

  whose letter out of the blue, asking for any unpublished

  Voidal material, led to the entire saga getting into print

  after 25 years! Cheers Mike, here’s to Old Miseryguts.

  Pete Colebourne,

  For saying the right thing at the right time

  Sean Williams and Phil Harbottle,

  for their generosity in

  pointing me to John Betancourt at Wildside.

  Darrell Schweitzer

  for encouragement along the tortuous, dark road

  And to John himself, for bringing the saga into the light.

  COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

  Copyright © 2011 by Adrian Cole.

  All rights reserved.

  Published by Wildside Press LLC.

  www.wildsidebooks.com

  “The Exile of Earthendale” first appeared in Hexa magazine (Belgium) NO 6, 1980 and was first published in English in Fantasy Tales, Volume 8, no 15 (Winter) 1985.

  “Thief of Thieves” is a revised version of the story published in Weirdbook magazine no 14 (U.S.A.) 1979.

  The remaining stories are all published here for the first time, although some of them were originally placed with magazines and the small press in the late 1970s and early 1980s, but sadly, these markets folded before the stories came into print.

  Amongst these lamented magazines were Charles Melvin’s Escape, Bruce Hallenbeck’s Night Gaunt and Dragonbane from Triskell Press, to name but three.

  “The Burning Ice, the Freezing Fire” began life as “Daughter of Demons,” then became “Daughter of Hate,” before its final revision for this volume under its new title.

  DEDICATION

  I would just like to say a special thanks to those who have

  encouraged me to keep going with the saga of the Voidal

  and his dubious companions at a time when the Dark Gods

  were definitely gaining the upper hand.

  Mike Chinn,

  whose letter out of the blue, asking for any unpublished

  Voidal material, led to the entire saga getting into print

  after 25 years! Cheers Mike, here’s to Old Miseryguts.

  Pete Colebourne,

  For saying the right thing at the right time

  Sean Williams and Phil Harbottle,

  for their generosity in

  pointing me to John Betancourt at Wildside.

  Darrell Schweitzer

  for encouragement along the tortuous, dark road

  And to John himself, for bringing the saga into the light.

  EXORDIUM

  Having come thus far in the rendering into prose of the dark genesis of the enigmatic entity known variously as the Voidal, the Fatecaster, the dark man and the wanderer in the void, not to mention sundry other things probably best not recorded, I feel an ironic compulsion, a craving almost, to progress the saga. I say ironic for, in starting this history, I have tempted the worst of all possible fates, the full fury of the gods who have incarcerated me here. In the past, my indulgence in freedom of expression led, ultimately, to my present dilemma, this walling up.

  In my lonely isolation, every whisper, each breath of air beyond these walls would be like a shout to me and I have listened, oh, how I have listened, for a sign that I am observed, scrutinised, weighed. Yet, curiously, there has been no such sign.

  One might suppose that I, in my solitude and ennui, would long for such an intrusion, but I have very mixed feelings on the matter. An artist is nothing without an audience, but if a succulent young calf recited the most moving poetry imaginable to an audience of ravenous wolves, I doubt that their attention would be focussed on the quality of its couplets or the flow of its metre. Such torment!

  Even so, the silence that has followed my first grim volume has been even more intense than that which preceded it, prompting me to continue. The Gods undertake nothing without purpose, as this black history testifies, and it occurs to me that their silence may well be the unspoken approval of my indulgence in this narration. I cannot believe they are unaware of my labours, but of course, I have to confess this may simply be my own arrogance, the remnants of self-importance. It may be, horrible thought, that I am no longer of consequence to them. Could they have forgotten that I exist?

  Ah, but, I am torturing myself needlessly! I must remain on my guard, for only one who has taken complete leave of his senses would trust the powers beyond these walls. However, having come this far in the telling, I am compelled to move on. I owe it to the countless scribes and gossipers, poets and balladeers who have contributed to the convoluted tapestry.

  Read then, again, of he who was cursed with the burden of the Oblivion Hand, and of crimes, punishments and of penalties. For of one thing we can all be certain, for every act there is always a price. Always.

  —SALECCO, The Persistent, The Optimistic, sometimes called the Dreamer and whose daydreams are dark, whose dreams are darker, and whose nightmares are better not shared at all.

  PART ONE: THE PREPOSTEROUS LIBRARY

  I have spoken of my own predilection for the written word, for marvelous histories, no matter how dangerous. But I am nothing to the fabled Effelgung and his worlds-spanning Library. It would be easy to believe that every thought of every mind is recorded there. But of course, such things are not always readily available to those allowed to browse. They are very much in his keeping.

  And like the gods, he does not bestow his favours lightly, nor without certain requirements. Elfloq, like a bee about the honeycomb, discovered this simple truth. Oh, yes indeed.

  —Salecco, the admirer of Great Libraries, of which he is most wary.

  Elfloq the familiar, glided silently through the shimmer of astral mist, glancing behind him from time to time, even more alert than usual for one who lived on the edge of his nerves. The astral realm, that endless expanse that flowed like silk between the many dimensions of the omniverse and normally as safe a place as any for a small being such as he was, shivered with whispers, hints that dangers were abroad. These were strange times, Elfloq mused.

  He was, he felt sure, being followed.

  This was not in itself unusual. Indeed, wherever he went among the many dimensions, he never felt safe from prying eyes or cocked ears, not to mention talons. But was even this haven breached? It seemed so.

  He swooped down on membranous wings to a shadow that jutted from the mist. Confirming that the outcrop was of rock and not the head of some sleeping monster or calcified demon, he alighted, taking cover in a fold of the crag that afforded him a view of the astral murk about him. Moments later his keen ears picked up the sound of wing beats: soft and hardly stirring the air, but no doubting it.

  A creature, no bigger than his own diminutive size, circled his precarious hiding place. As the mists shifted, fickle as clouds, Elfloq grunted in recognition. And to some extent, relief. This was no fire imp, demon or other tormentor. It was, like himself, a familiar. Moreover, one that he knew.

  He ducked down out of sight and let the creature curve in flight about the rock and alight on its pinnacle. It scratched itself, feigning nonchalance, its puckered face squinting out into the mists as if its real goal was out there.

  “Ho, Owlworm!” called Elfloq from the shadows.

  The familiar hopped up as if pricked, favouring the rock with a scowl that did nothing to improve its ugliness. Then, gargoyle-like, it sat again on the rock. “I know you,” it said.

  Elfloq poked his head up and grimaced. “You should do. You’ve been following me for long enough.”

  “Nonsense. You flatter yourself, Elfloq. I have urgent business. Why should I be following you? I have a master to serve.”

  Elfloq masked his emotions. A master? Fortunate indeed. A familiar without a master would not survive long. None knew it better than he, whose own master, the shadow-hung Voidal, was elusive as a rumour. He had not found him for a long time, not even so much as a clue to his whereabouts. If he didn’t find him soon – well, he did not want to dwell on the consequences.

  “You survived the debacle on Moonwater, then?” Elfloq said, referring to the demise of both their former masters along with several other misguided sorcerers in the all too recent incident. Both had fled like scalded cats, seeking comfort in the vicissitudes of the many dimensions. It was an occupational hazard for familiars.

  “I did, though precious few of us were so fortunate. None of our former masters lived. They overreached themselves, toying with sorcerous powers that they could not control. Always the same. Too much power. Not one sorcerer survived Moonwater. I might have known you’d find your feet, though.”

  Elfloq’s frog-like features widened in a grin. “Even so, Owlworm.”

  “Your former master, Quarramagus, is no more. Extinguished like the other power mongers. But I presume you must have found another one to serve.”

  Elfloq feigned diffidence. “Oh yes. I am on a mission for him even as we speak. Quarramagus, was a mage of great power, but it was nothing compared to the power of the one I serve now.”

  “Indeed? And who is
this extraordinary demi-god?” snorted Owlworm.

  “I’d rather not say. Even his name sends out ripples of unease.”

  Owlworm’s face wrinkled into a smile. “Really? Then I won’t pry.”

  “And who have you taken up with?”

  “Me? Oh, I haven’t done too badly. Could have been worse.”

  Elfloq knew that Owlworm was bursting to boast about his new master. Just as he was dying to know whom Elfloq served. Nothing burned as brightly as a familiar’s curiosity. Owlworm’s would be no less a force than Elfloq’s own.

  “You had talents, as I recall,” said Elfloq. “I would not have expected you to serve anyone less than a sorcerer of the highest order. Don’t be modest, Owlworm. Confess it, you have won to the service of someone who moves in the highest of circles.”

  A smug grin enlarged Owlworm’s face. “Oh, yes. Yes indeed.”

  Elfloq choked back his disgust. “Surely you can tell an old companion.”

  “Well, since you must force it from me. I serve the exalted Effelgung.”

  This did take Elfloq by surprise. Who had not heard of Effelgung, the great and worthy Librarian, caretaker of what was universally agreed to be the largest and most complex library in the omniverse?

  “Effelgung,” repeated Elfloq. “The keeper of books and records? The clerk of the files and histories?”

  Owlworm glared indignantly. “Effelgung is the Keeper of Absolutes, Lord of the Sacred Texts, Supreme Protector of Knowledge. He is not a clerk.”

  “Pardon me,” said Elfloq with a bow. “I did not mean to insult the divine status of the Librarian, the Warden of, of – “

  “Forbidden Documents. No, I should think not.”

  In truth, Elfloq was mentally rubbing his clawed hands together in excitement. Effelgung and his legendary library were notoriously impregnable. Only beings of great power and influence got anywhere near them. Elfloq knew that a visit to Effelgung’s hoard of written treasures would have afforded him unsurpassable knowledge. But he had never dreamt of breaching the hallowed halls of such a place. Until now.

  “And you are his familiar?” he said to Owlworm, filling his voice with respect and admiration.

  Owlworm preened himself, chest swelling. “Yes, I have that honour.”

  “It’s no less than you deserve.”

  “And you, Elfloq. Will you not tell me now who it is you serve?”

  Elfloq bent his head in mock humility. “Owlworm, you embarrass me. You, who serve the mighty Effelgung, ask me whom I serve. Why, he is nothing! A mere fry in an ocean of leviathans! Don’t humiliate me by asking. I am too impressed. Let me enjoy more news of your triumph.”

  Owlworm was easily flattered and clearly more interested in his own success than hearing Elfloq’s no doubt exaggerated account of his own doings. “I’m returning to him now.”

  “Then I won’t pry,” said Elfloq. But how do I win his confidence? He knows me too well. He would trust me less readily than he would a serpent.

  “Perhaps,” said Owlworm, scratching behind his tufted ear and appearing mentally to chew over some weighty problem, “perhaps you could visit the Exalted Halls of Reference. Just for a short time, mind. Effelgung is a jealous lord.”

  That’s it! Thought Elfloq. He can’t resist showing off! Now that he’s won himself a position of real merit, he can’t keep it to himself. “My dear Owlworm, your generosity knows no bounds.”

  “True, true. But I know you, Elfloq. Unless I show you my fortune, you won’t really believe me.”

  “Nonsense! Of course – ”

  “No, no. I’ll prove my success. You shall visit the Exalted Halls. Just for a very short time. Secretly and with your assurance that you will keep it to yourself.”

  “But of course. Discretion is my watchword, Owlworm, you know that,” Elfloq smiled.

  The two familiars spread their wings and lifted, light as gossamer, up into the astral. Owlworm led the way, and behind him Elfloq could scarcely control his excitement. Effelgung’s library! There, surely, he would uncover invaluable knowledge about his master.

  * * * *

  Owlworm’s squamous body teetered on the edge of the huge beam as he peered through the festoons of cobwebs at the place beneath. It was a hall of monstrous proportions, one of the many that housed Effelgung’s magnificent Library. High up above the floor of the vast hall, the two familiars hopped along the beams under Owlworm’s fretful guidance.

  “Effelgung will be working somewhere in the heart of this wondrous edifice,” he told Elfloq. “The gods themselves send him directives. He is always burdened with work. We won’t be noticed.”

  In which case, mused Elfloq, we should be able to avoid undesirable consequences.

  “Best if we stay up in the rafters,” said Owlworm. “Random wandering down below would lead to certain disaster. What do you know of this place?”

  “Only what the legends say,” replied Elfloq with a shrug. “Most of it nonsense, I imagine. To keep the inquisitive away.”

  “Oh, no!” sniffed Owlworm. “No, no. The Library is fraught with danger. When we were on Moonwater together, serving the mages there, we were less likely to get caught up in their meshes of sorcery than we would be here.”

  “But this place is a monument to the written word. Why, every wall is built not with bricks, but with books, grimoires, tomes – ”

  “That is so, of course,” nodded Owlworm, and indeed, in the hall below, the colossal collection of books could clearly be seen, rising from the shadows at floor level to the soaring heights of the rafters. In this gigantic hall alone there must be books enough to fill the libraries of a world. And scrolls, pamphlets, letters, papers. Elfloq felt he would go dizzy just looking at them.

  “How many such halls are there?” he said.

  “Dozens,” grunted his batrachian companion. “But there are other halls, other rooms, their purposes varied and complex. Effelgung’s Library is not merely a repository of manuscripts.”

  “Is it not?”

  “No. There are doors here, doors that lead to the strangest of rooms. Gateways to elsewhere. There are certain grimoires here, Elfloq, that no one dare open. For they themselves open a way to realms that you and I have scarcely dreamed of. This Library is one of the omniverse’s great crossroads.”

  “Well, well,” murmured Elfloq, trying not to sound too interested.

  They crossed the maze of thick, black beams, each as wide around as a room, and came through a narrow opening to another, smaller hall. One wall was lined with shelves upon which could be seen row upon row of dusty jars.

  “Biographies,” said Owlworm. “Of demons, goblins, imps. Preserved in ash and bone. Open a jar at your peril. The shades of the deceased appear, shaped from the mouldering contents, and speak their tales. Only a sorcerer dare lift these lids, for those within forever seek a way back to life.”

  “Then let them rest,” mumbled Elfloq as they passed across a beam to an exit.

  “Ah,” said Owlworm. “A Chamber of Enlightenment.” He pointed down to the several immense tables below. On each of them was a book the size of a catafalque and a candle as thick around as Elfloq’s waist.

  “May we look more closely?” he said.

  Owlworm was about to demur, but Elfloq ignored him and dropped down as deftly as a spider on a thread of web, landing beside one of the great works. He lifted the cover, disturbing a small storm of motes, but Owlworm was beside him, gibbering nervously.

  “Don’t open it! You don’t know where it will lead you!”

  Elfloq regarded his companion with a mischievous grin. “Lead me?”

  “It’s a gate, you idiot! Open the book at the wrong page and you’ll find yourself wandering into it and the gods alone know where it’ll be. Either that or something will emerge from the page, something too terrible to name.”

  Elfloq patted the closed cover and more dust swirled. “Well, well. I am impressed, Owlworm. This really is an extraordinary place. And what’s through that door?” He pointed to a thick, wooden door banded with black hoops that looked as though it would have withstood an army.

  “Through there? That will be one of my master’s Curse Chambers. Not a room to visit for your health. Some of its secrets would blast a god, believe me.”

  “A bagful of its contents would be invaluable,” said Elfloq. “Are you sure we can’t just peep?” He put a claw on the door and felt it vibrating like flesh.