The Long Reach of Night Page 4

  “No,” agreed Elfloq, again pretending to take a long swig. He set down the tankard, looked about him in the ludicrously secretive manner of the drunk and winked at his companion. “Min’ you,” he said, leaning on the table so that his chin was no more than an inch above it, “you can’t jus’ dishmish these shings.”

  Elfloq had to grit his teeth in firm resolve as the dreadful gaze of the Facemaker blazed down on him. “I said, let’s forget the book.”

  “Sure, sure,” said Elfloq, nodding stupidly. “But you can’t stop gossip. I tol’ you, I pick up a lot. An’ I hear shings. Gleaners talk about booksh. I don’mind forgetting it all. ’F’you shay sho.” He rambled on, ignoring the fierce stare. “Killing Spells, Agnarphand’s Complete Cycle, Disruptive Acts by the wizard Shuddersnake, a’ so on, an’ so on. Demonic Doors, etshetera, etshetera.” He rattled off the spurious titles as convincingly as he could. “ Who cares? Turn ‘em all to ash, eh? Like good ol’ Ratspiddle.”

  The Facemaker leaned forward, his voice very low, but as menacing as death itself. “Where did you hear these books named? Here? In the Skullworks?”

  “Psht! So what? Gleaners ramble on. Probably make it all up.”

  “The books you name sound real enough. But they don’t belong here. Who spoke the names? Gleaners from outside?”

  “No, no. No gleaners are from outside.”

  “You are from outside. From Moonwater.”

  “Oh, yes, yes. A few like me, rudderless, with no masters. We get toshed in here. But they all gossip. They all know about the books. Authorities can’t suppress them,” Elfloq giggled, though inside, his heart was pumping madly.

  “You said Demonic Doors, did you not?”

  “I heard that name,” Elfloq nodded.

  “Is it here?”

  “Well,” said Elfloq, leaning forward and making a great show of gathering his wits together. “I heard someone say that it is.”

  “But such a huge volume would be very hard to hide,” said the Facemaker suspiciously.

  “Huge?” said Elfloq. Ah, this was a trap, a test. He shook his head. “No, no, this one isn’t huge. Must be an abridged version.”

  The Facemaker nodded very slowly. “Not necessarily. But it’s serpent skin is said to be poison to the touch of anyone but a demon.”

  “No, not poison. It’s shark skin. No, a shark-hound. Whatever that is. Hasn’t poisoned the gleaners.”

  Again the Facemaker nodded. “And does it have an embossed symbol on its cover? A golden dragon?”

  Elfloq screwed up his face. “No. Cover’s blank. So they say.”

  “Then it may very well be here. You haven’t seen it yourself?”

  “Me? No,” Elfloq snorted, slumping back. “Don’t want nothing to do with books, master. Like you said, dangerous! Damn ’em all.”

  “Yes, damn them all. But it is possible, Elfloq, that if I am to – if you and I were to escape the Skullworks, such a book as the Demonic Doors might actually help us.”

  Elfloq leaned forward blearily. “Izzat so?”

  “Possibly. Who has this book?”

  “Don’t know.”

  The Facemaker seemed to control his temper with difficulty. “You could find out, though?”

  “You wan’ me to?”

  “Perhaps you could obtain it?”

  “Steal it?”

  “Buy it?”

  “Buy it?”

  “What do gleaners want? Not their freedom.”

  “Big spells! High sorcery.”

  “That’s it! You could swap them their little book for something far more valuable.”

  “But,” said Elfloq, dumbly scratching his head, “I haven’t got anything. Even that red book is supposed to be destroyed.”

  “I’m sure I could find something,” said the Facemaker.

  “Takes gleaners a long time to find things – ”

  “I’ll conjure up something. You stay here.”

  Elfloq waved airily and sank back into his seat as the Laughing Facemaker slid from his chair and left the hall as swiftly as an escaping spider. Elfloq grunted, pushing the tankard away. Gods, but this was not easy. One slip and he was demon’s meat, that was for sure.

  * * * *

  Elfloq would have slept, but his nerves would not let him. Instead he used the time to rid his head of the last of the effects of the ale and spoke to a number of gleaners, trying to discuss with them the dubious matter of books. Better to look the part, he told himself. For all I know, the Facemaker doesn’t trust me and is disguised as one of them, watching me.

  None of the gleaners claimed to know anything about books. But Elfloq returned to his table and waited.

  When the Facemaker returned, he had taken on another of his extraordinary disguises. But Elfloq guessed that the short, muscular being with the grizzled face and hands like hammers that sat opposite him was indeed the actor. The Facemaker took from under his arm a thin slab of marble and dropped it noisily on the table.

  Elfloq saw the runes carved neatly across the face of the polished stone. “What is it?” he said under his breath. “I don’t recognise these runes.”

  The Facemaker’s absurdly wide face broke into a smile. “That’s because they are gibberish. I just made it up. Tell the gleaners what you like. It can be a dragon spell, or a withering curse. Use your wits.”

  “In that case,” said Elfloq, picking up the slab and tucking it under his arm, “I can tell you that it is the lost Thunder Song of the War Trolls. Immensely valuable. It should fetch a good price.”

  “Oh? Say, Demonic Doors?”

  “At the very least.” Elfloq stood up. “Very well. I go to do business at once. The next work shift is about to start. Once it’s over, meet me outside the Chamber of the Right Eye. I should have what we need by then.”

  * * * *

  Effelgung had told Elfloq that he must lure the Laughing Facemaker into the chamber behind the right eye of the skull and by the light of the moon, get him to read from the book. This would then absorb him and Elfloq would simply have to pick it up and fly out of the Skullworks, directly towards the moon. Effelgung would do the rest. What could be simpler?

  Elfloq had spent a restless work period. He had broken up the slab with the false “Song” engraving into scores of pieces and scattered them with difficulty. Sooner or later someone would find a piece or two and wonder how marble had got here. But with any luck Elfloq would be well gone by then.

  He had then joined a small band of gleaners, ferreting for lost lore. His mind conjured up a thousand ways in which things could go wrong, but at long last the moment had come for him to go to the appointed chamber. Once the remaining gleaners had drifted away, he made his cautious way to the corridors that led to the Chambers of the Eyes. They were supposed to be off limits, but there were no guards, as the gleaners never thought to disobey the orders of the authorities.

  Elfloq loitered in the shadows beyond the tall threshold to the Chamber of the Right Eye. Beyond it, bathed in moonlight, he could see the massive, curved ceiling of the chamber, the immense open Eye looking out over the vast emptiness beyond the Skullworks. Then, from almost beside him, a shape seemed to flow into being from the very bone itself.

  It was the Laughing Facemaker, his features vivid in the rays of moonlight, his eyes gleaming with eagerness. “Well?”

  Elfloq patted his chest, the book under his thin shirt. “Too easy,” he grinned. “The gleaner who had the book was desperate for promotion. He was about to render it up in order to claim his prize, but the Thunder Song of the War Trolls was too good an offer to miss!” Elfloq chuckled and motioned the Facemaker to follow him into the Chamber of the Right Eye.

  He slipped over the threshold before the tall figure could stay him. Inside, moving to the great circular opening itself, Elfloq stood, awash with moonlight. He took from his shirt the book bound in shark-hound skin. “And this was my prize.”

  The Laughing Facemaker came closer, fascinated by the treasure. “You have done well, Elfloq. And now, entirely appropriately, I will have the last laugh.” He reached out for the book.

  Elfloq controlled his trembling hand with great difficulty, passing the slim volume to the actor. The latter took it and held it for a moment. He looked at Elfloq as if he would read the familiar’s face, and thus his scheming mind. He looked at the book. He looked again at Elfloq.

  Then, mercifully, he opened the book. Light from the huge moon illuminated the pages. The Facemaker turned them, eyes roving across every inch.

  Elfloq waited for him to dissipate, or flare into flame, or do something to indicate that he was about to dissolve into the book. Nothing happened. Elfloq tried to speak, but could not move.

  The Facemaker turned the pages ever more rapidly, his face becoming a sudden mask of anger. “What is this?” he snarled. “WHAT IS THIS?” He held the book up for Elfloq to see.

  The pages were blank. Every one of them.

  “I, uh, I – ”

  “Is this the Librarian’s doing? By the Nine Hells of Zarubac, I’ll chew on your liver for this!”

  Rather than wait to see whether the Facemaker meant this, Elfloq leapt upwards, spread his wings and executed a deft turn in mid-air. He almost tumbled through the eye socket, but before he could plummet, righted himself and swept upwards, clawing for the skies. He heard a terrible shriek of fury behind him, but did not look back.

  Up towards the bright moon he flew. It filled the night sky, vivid yellow, like the eye of a god. Behind him he heard the whoosh of wings and could not resist a glance over his shoulder. Horror of horrors, the Facemaker had opened his cloak, spreading it like two wide bat wings and was flying in pursuit. But his face! It was contorted in demonic anger, literally. Row upon row of fangs gleamed, dripping with saliva. The eyes blazed with feral fury. The demon really meant to rip Elfloq apart for his trickery.

  The moon seemed somehow to swell, its light blazing more like a sun’s, and Elfloq felt himself blinded by it. It roared, coming at him like a fireball. He screamed, but everything was lost in the sound of an explosion.

  * * * *

  Elfloq tumbled forward, hitting something that was not as hard as a wooden floor, nor as soft as a carpet. It gave a crunching sound as he rolled, then he dropped down what seemed to be a step. When he felt himself fetch up against a solid surface and stop, tangled in a heap of wings, arms and legs, he opened his eyes. He had bumped into a wall. He stared upon the most bizarre of sights.

  He was back in Effelgung’s chamber. Before him, spread over the floor like a big fat carpet, was yet another book, opened to reveal huge sigils and designs. Beyond it was a table on which lay another open book, and beyond that stood the enormous Librarian. Before Elfloq could speak, a shape blurred up out of the book upon the table, its terrible face shaping itself into the maddened mask of the Facemaker. As the demon materialised in full, its eyes fell on the sprawled familiar, and two claws reached out.

  The demon leapt forward with a snarl of triumph, landing on the carpet-like book. As it did so, Effelgung took the covers of the book on the table, The Skullworks, and slammed them shut with a loud whoomp!

  At this, the Laughing Facemaker swung round. Elfloq tried to press himself back into the wall behind him, but it was all too solid and resisted him.

  “Welcome back,” said Effelgung, leaning on the closed Skullworks. And on his face there was a broad smile to rival anything of the demon’s.

  Even as he spoke, the sigils on the pages of the huge book writhed and formed themselves into tendrils that rose up the legs of the Laughing Facemaker. The demon screamed, tearing at the invaders with his substantial claws, but already he was being pulled down, down, ever down.

  Elfloq watched incredulously as the demon was drawn into the pages of the very book itself. The last thing to go was the face. No longer laughing, but contorted horrifically into the ultimate snarl of indignation. As it faded, the huge book began to shrink. It became no bigger than the volume Elfloq had carried to the world of The Skullworks. Its covers closed and Effelgung bent down and picked it up with one chubby paw. It was red, matching the set of books on the shelf behind him.

  As the Librarian slipped it back on to that shelf, into the gap from whence it had been taken, Elfloq read the golden print on its spine. The Laughing Facemaker.

  He struggled to his feet, glaring at the Librarian’s smug grin.

  “I was nearly killed!” Elfloq spluttered. “That - that book was full of blank pages! I tricked him into reading it! I did what you said! But it was blank!”

  “My dear Elfloq,” said Effelgung, going to the door of the chamber and unlocking it. “I never doubted your skills. If anyone could trick the demon into opening the book, it was you.”

  “Then why -?”

  “Was it blank? Well, what I did have reservations about was your loyalty. If you had trapped the Facemaker, how could I be sure that you would return to me? The book was a key. For all I knew, you could have taken off anywhere in the omniverse. The Laughing Facemaker would have made you quite a slave.

  “I decided that the best way to trap him was to have him lose his temper. That way they lose all concentration, all guile, you know. I guessed that his anger would focus into one thing, that being your good self. But, no harm done. The timing was excellent. I had every confidence in you.”

  Elfloq’s mouth hung open, and all that emerged was a squeak of frustration.

  “Now, come along with me. Success is not without reward. I must find that volume of Salecco the Banished.”

  Elfloq managed to pull himself together and he hopped after the huge form. “Salecco?” he mumbled.

  “Yes. He writes about your master, the Voidal. And about you. Quite lucidly, too. Which is how I knew your nature.”

  Again Elfloq felt flabbergasted.

  Effelgung chuckled. “Don’t worry. No one else gets to read Salecco’s work. I don’t let even the gods near it. But if you are to be reunited with the Voidal, I’ll need to see where he is.”

  “You mean, my master’s history is chronicled? All of it?”

  “No, no. Not yet. But enough to indicate where you need to go from here.”

  “I should like to read this Salecco the Banished.”

  “Really? I should have thought you’d have had enough of books for now.”

  Elfloq held up a hand in submission. “Yes, sire. Just as you say. Enough books for now.” Or indeed, he thought, for a long time.

  PART TWO: THE MARCH OF THE DAMNED

  Man has, since the first dawn of his existence, been obsessed with both creative and destructive drives. As time has rolled forward, Man’s ingenuity in devising weapons, the machinery of destruction, has known no bounds. It is probably true that Man has spent more time and energy at this exercise than any other has, and entire worlds have been blown asunder and scattered as bloody testimony to this.

  The gods, of course, are no different. Except that they are far more inventive and grotesquely imaginative than any Man could be. Their weapons disintegrate entire universes, though one has to allow that this is partly what defines a god. Power is potential annihilation, and what is a god if not a manifestation of power?

  Which leads me to this next series of tales.

  —SALECCO, who has never in all his long existence caused the death of a single organism.

  * * * *

  Elfloq the familiar, flying erratically but not aimlessly through the astral realms (for nothing that Elfloq ever did could be termed aimless) had noticed a certain exaggerated furtiveness surrounding the movements of a number of minor elementals hereabouts. Indeed, had the little creatures not been flitting about on waspish wings, Elfloq would have said to himself that they were scurrying, even skulking. Curiosity warped the batrachian face of the familiar into a thoughtful smile. Something was afoot in this gloomy dimension of the omniverse, and his psychic nose for incident suggested that there was more than a degree of importance attached to the skullduggery. That, coupled with the information he had lately gleaned from the remarkable library of Effelgung.

  To divert and challenge one of the tiny elementals would, Elfloq knew from experience, have been a waste of energy. They were tight lipped and loyal. Therefore he decided on a course of action more in keeping with his character: he adopted a manner surpassing in stealth that of the elementals and followed one of them.

  This creature was obviously the bearer of tidings which both excited and disturbed it. It sped through the astral murk and shortly made a dive downwards, preparatory to plunging out into the dimension where its master would be waiting. Elfloq was the essence of discretion (otherwise he would long since have perished on one of his numerous escapades). As the elemental materialised in its master’s dimension, Elfloq did so also, being sure to keep himself a reasonable distance away.

  He found himself in an enormous hall, the exact dimensions of which were impossible to determine. Those shadowed perimeters pulsed with powerful sorcery. Elfloq was quick to utilise a tall column of smoked marble, hiding behind it, peering into the light ahead to see where the elemental had gone. Several other tiny shapes popped and fizzed into being and flitted on towards the light like moths. Twin candles rose up, giant trunks of tallow, and the flames that wriggled atop them threw a huge pool of light upon the polished floor of the hall. Between these candles sat, or rather sprawled, a vast, living bulk.

  By the eerie light, Elfloq discerned that it was man, though one in whom normal proportions had run amok. The girth of the being weighed him down in such folds of fat that the likelihood of him rising to his feet (which were not visible) seemed remote. There was no neck, but a truly huge head and two watery eyes, glazed over as though they looked far off into dimensions not even guessed at by ordinary mortals. Elfloq suspected that this was a god, though one who had certainly fallen upon hard times. Even so, the familiar was doubly cautious: he had met crippled gods before and their powers were assuredly not to be despised.

  “One at a time!” roared the gross god as a gathering of elementals began babbling to him whatever tidings they had brought. They darted back in a uniform cloud, then reorganised themselves, a spokesman stepping forward. Elfloq grimaced, for he could not hear. Stealthily he edged his way around the pillar and secreted himself behind a row of what appeared to be statues. He moved nearer, up the line to within mere feet of where the whispered dialogue was in progress. The statues, he now realised, were all of forbidding warriors in fantastical war gear - war gear that spoke not of one but of many of the dimensions and worlds of the omniverse. Indeed, there were statues here that were forged in the guise of gods, real and legendary. Their shadows prodded at him, moved by the wavering light.