Machine, page 18
part #1 of The Peradran Legacy Series
“Eric...” It stepped into the light, steely irises flashed toward me then Cohiri.
One of the beasts appeared in mid air. Injured, it hovered out of reach. The pale yellow-pink blood was beginning to flow from its ribcage. A moment later it was surrounded with something that looked like a Static-field. The other two appeared and effected similar changes upon themselves.
They were on the defensive and under obligation to act as protectors.
It became painfully obvious to me that there was very little left of Kevin Connor, his features read vacancy. His eyes scanned everything before him, processing. Unmoved by what he had become. Then It leapt from the floor to grapple with the nearest Eschelea. Before reaching Its mark a brilliant bolt of energy sprung from another Eschelea striking It squarely in the chest. Stopped cold in mid air It dropped like a stone. Shards of marble flew away from the impact and the floor shook.
Acting as one the Eschelea created spear-like projections of their own claws. They maintained their mental shields and moved upon the cyborg for melee. It rose to one knee then stood before them.
The seconds burned through time as the Eschelea descended. The Machine revealed Its potential for Machiavellian behavior. It widened Its stance and met the trio. Claws of energy sliced the air leaving trails on my retinas. Suddenly the Machine was leaping backward, completely avoiding the synchronized high-middle-low attack.
Numbly I realized why I was there. I focused on the suit, visually orienting myself to right it to its feet. As I focused my will the Eschelea regrouped and a mental chime rang approval. They ran a distraction pattern weaving around one another, bringing the Machine away from the left wall.
A metal foot slipped free and struck the marble with a resounding smack. The Machine reacted by planting itself. The Eschelea split up and generated high decibel effects for their actions. Shrieking and whistling they maneuvered, landing intermittently to let their weight send shudders through the floor beneath our feet. The Suit responded, not a little less gracefully than the Machine, and reached Its feet. My senses were near their limit. I was being drawn between projecting into the Void and the shared awareness with the Suit. I forgot about Cohiri as she left my side.
The scene became a nightmare as Morbannon entered with the fourth Eschelea at his side. His Arcane presence loomed over me like a stormcloud. He was holding back long enough to divine my coercive potential on the Suit and why I secreted such knowledge. Then the hammer fell and the nightmare bloomed. The fourth Eschelea seized control of my will amending my thoughts. The Suit romped toward the Machine , arms spread wide for the tackle. The Machine leapt aside, caught the weaker Eschelea and smashed its membrane into the floor, killing it instantly. The fourth Eschelea, named Ny'zd, fought desperately to remain at Morbannon's side. The other two fell upon the Machine with psionic fury sending wave upon wave of self pity and foreboding.
Kevin shrieked aloud in agony, the impossible lament was synthetic and breathless. Then his cybernetic eyes rolled in their sockets as he was slammed face first into the floor. Wracked with pain he cried out as if mercy were a curse. I sensed the regret mixed with satisfaction from Ny'zd and the others; Aœ’ad his sister and Lyk'zd his brother. Kevin's armored brow was buried in the marble. Biomechanical fluid flowed from Its nose but It still lived. I could sense Morbannon's will influencing mine via Ny'zd's assistance.
Beneath it all the Void lingered then dispersed slowly, until I could again tuck it away out of sight. Cohiri had retreated when Oc'ssr hit the floor. Aœ’ad and Lyk'zd refocused their mental onslaught in a sarcastic effort to rebuild Kevin's cybernetic mind. It was torture, the Suit obeyed and stomped on Kevin's head. The pain receptors opened and more of Kevin's mind was restored. He remembered his own pain and anguish suffered and relived, more pain. He moaned and more fluid ran from his mouth and nose.
Morbannon said, “Perhaps you can explain that.” He indicated Kevin, defenseless as the Eschelea raped his mind. The Suit loomed over him awaiting my amended will.
“That is Kevin Connor,” I sighed. “my friend and a victim of the Void.” I began to defend his actions but was cut off as Ny'zd resumed his inquisition. I was forced to watch as my own thoughts brought more suffering upon Kevin. The Suit stomped and kicked until his metal flesh actually bled biomechanical blood. Ny'zd's satisfaction oozed into me.
Aœ’ad and Lyk'zd landed behind the Suit. They assumed a catlike stance, as if to pounce on Kevin. Instead they kind of purred a sepulchral tone that filled every corner of the chamber. Light waves became filled with mental energy forming visible lines of influence. Brilliant sky blue tentacles surrounded with oscillating braids of yellow leapt from their membranes and played over his metallic skin. Each moment they touched he was wracked with violent spasms. Balls of red energy flowed along the yellow braids. As they touched they were absorbed and Kevin would thrash, his amplified voice wailing until the next.
Ny'zd maintained a rapport with Morbannon and provided him with my every thought.
Aloud Morbannon called for Cohiri and bid her depart with me. When my will was my own I focused on the Suit only to realize it was back inside the circle. The dead Eschelea Oc'ssr may well have been the first in thousands of years to die an unnatural death. His siblings avenged six hundred years of blood. I turned my back on Kevin or what was left of him and followed Cohiri out. A wave of Morbannon's Arcane presence made me flinch. It was heavily laced with antipathy.
Static energy filled the room behind me.
Cohiri whispered, “Its almost over, don't worry Morbannon won't let them kill your friend.”
I almost stopped but Cohiri grabbed my arm and led me as I disagreed. “What?” I nearly raised my voice. “He made me stomp the shit out of Kevin.” She reached as if to cover my mouth as I spoke.
She regaled, in an anxious whisper. “That Suit stomped the shit out of your friend, not you. That Eschelea...”
“Ny'zd.”
“Who?” She looked at me then behind us and shrugged her shoulders.
“Ny'zd is the oldest brother then Aœ’ad, Lyk'zd and Oc'ssr who died was the youngest at a mere twenty-one years.”
“How do you know all that?” She held my arms as a pitiful echo reached us. I wanted to go to my friend, to help somehow. Her face was acute with sympathy. We shared a moment together, soul searching with our eyes.
“He, Ny'zd, used me to subdue Kevin. During his mental probe I picked up a few surface thoughts that leaked through. Morbannon called the shots, Ny'zd fired them.” Then I just wanted to put distance between me and the Eschelea. I couldn't fathom their perverse, misanthropic behavior. Morbannon however, seemed native to the element of fighting for pleasure and killing for satisfaction.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
INFINITY
The Eschelea left immediately after finishing with Kevin. They left him inches from death on the summoning chamber floor, his cybernetic blood running into the cracks, mingling with the blood of his Esch-quad victim. The influence of the Void, noticed only by me, was present. Merely a second passed and the marble was dry.
I stood in the foyer, staring at the Lalgoré portrait of my apathetic host. The Arcane message playing ever deeper into detail. Abruptly violent images filled my mind's eye. I experienced the phantasm first hand; Crimson armor floating amid a hoard of indistinguishable fighters. All about the crimson form was death, Humans and beasts fell away. The sound of steel and the cries of the fallen surged together as thunder.
I was aware as Morbannon moved nine hundred pounds of metal, plastic and bone. My Arcane sense was wound tight around the imprint of the Void. The independent sensations from each seemed for once to agree.
I was immersed in the intricate fiber of the Arcane presence once more. The enchanted portrait revealed more than the eye could see; within - night had fallen. A huge pyre lit the battle field and was comprised mostly of flesh. The air was thick with greasy smoke and the stench of death. The battle raged on.
Inhuman abominations blitzed the weary Lalgoræ from the shadows. The cruelest deformities formed within the gruesome pyre itself. The butchery was sadistic and swift. A seemingly endless supply of dead bodies were added to the pyre, the flames grew higher, the smoke thicker. Vile creatures pranced about the flames, dragging the dead and dying to its altar and tossing them in.
The presence of the Void preceded a surge of creatures that carried an odor more prominent than death. Hulking forms waded into the scene killing everything they touched; Humans, Lalgoræ and beasts alike. Their visage brought bile into my throat, oozing rime from bony protrusions that served as armor and weapon. Some had multiple arms or exposed organs and enlarged genitalia. Anything living that came in contact with the deadly puss fell lifeless to the ground. The crimson warrior was not to be seen.
When all had fled or died and only the Demons remained an out of focus glow glided down from above the carnage and came to rest before a single tattered field tent. Pools of oil mixed with blood and rime formed about its perimeter. The glow became more defined, resembling a ten foot statue of a man. As the glow subsided a ripple in my Arcane sense brought me closer. A sudden blast of super heated air disintegrated the tent and its contents. Amid the putrescent remains stood The crimson warrior. The statue continued to assume a more animated likeness. From its mouth came the words, 'Let the moon bare witness to the last utterance of the name... Morbannon...' His image became that of the portrait and I was looking at its flat surface in the foyer again.
Cohiri had gone to the kitchen to get an ice pack, she was left a bit unnerved by the graphic nature of what had just transpired. The image of the descending Eschelea, psionic talons extending, replayed in my mind. That and Oc'ssr hitting the floor. Both images strobed together becoming the Battle of Souls, the defeat of the Machine and Kevin's torment. I pushed the memories aside, welcoming the emptiness of the Void's signature within me. I felt myself slip away, everything around me faded to gray.
A moment passed. The Arcane presence.
“Eric.” Cohiri had my arm, I swayed in her grasp.
“Hello there.”
“That is the second time you've done that. Are you all right?”
“Its because... so intense...” I let my voice trail off.
She realized what I meant and nodded mutely.
I didn't think she knew the Eschelea were staying in the Keep when I arrived. They would have remained unnoticed if Kevin had been summoned to Peradra by Morbannon. There would have been a protective circle. There would have been no reason for such senseless violence. Kevin's mind was already in a precarious state. Who knew what kind of delusion he was living. It couldn't have been much worse than the reality he shared with us. Some of it must have been reaching him. He spoke my name, saw my face.
I had not yet told Cohiri of my prophetic dreams. Bleakly I assessed their relevance so far. They began with the telling of Kevin's prolonged deterioration into a mindless instrument of chaos. Followed by images of my wife Lena, torn by fate to love another. The former had become a grim reality. My chances were slim that the latter had not.
Somehow my own lover, a woman who's birth place was in another dimension, shared such impressions surrounding my state of being. Attributed to that was her unalloyed gift for the Arcane.
My Arcane sense seemed to be related to the imprint left by the Void. The consequent sensitivity to their presence was no longer unique to that dimension. It made an alluring temptation, being in Peradra. To divine the most subtle influences of a nature beyond my own. To control the Suit as an automaton, by my will alone. Vicarious ambitions.
I gave Cohiri an informal smile as she left me in the foyer. Even though she was high-strung and weary she ascended the great staircase with sanguine grace. She loosened the laces in her vest and shrugged it off. She didn't look back to see if I was watching. Her skin was glossy with perspiration. A brief peak in my Arcane sense and she was dry. An errant breeze carried her scent to me, it was sweet with Peradran essence. I watched her throw her vest into her room, striding in long paces she headed for the bath. Her expression was modesty laced with detachment. I lowered my eyes soberly, when I looked up the hall was empty.
I browsed through the gallery of portraits. The faces of many, maybe living or dead, filled the walls. I searched for portraits that might have been the same individual. I linked those that were a similar style, background color and possibly location. I devoted the rest of the day to learning the history of the portraits.
During my study I detected at least six artists, one for each portrait of Morbannon, beginning in his early adulthood and ending with the only full body rendition present. Each period in his life was accompanied by other portraits of many races and ages. Few of those would reappear in later versions. Many of which were female. One in particular was Lalgoré, probably his mate and mother of two children. I had thought there was only one with lovingly coveted portraits in abundance. But after comparing the likenesses I discovered that one had curly blond hair, the other with wavy sand-brown hair. They were otherwise identical twins. The most recent paintings divulged their age to be around twelve with Lalgoré features and Human build.
There were no group portraits, no two faces shared the same canvas. None of the other works appeared to evince the Arcane presence. Regardless I avoided such direct scrutiny in light of the intensity of the crimson portraits enchantment.
Aside from his immediate family, Morbannon maintained a fortune in what was merely a Peradran photo album that covered much of fifteen years. The gallery hadn't changed during the previous ten years to my arrival, due to the prolonged absence of the owner. The whereabouts of his family were a mystery, as it was for the rest of the gallery. At one time the Keep must have served as refuge, exclusive to those who would be greeted, amidst the imposing Great Range. The expansive valley to the west accessible only via the Keep proper.
There were doors that were left to explore, all of which were in the foyer were locked. There wasn't any in the library, save for the arched entry. I entered the kitchen. Not far from the unconventional looking oven was to some extent a door, rather a bolted gate pinned together with irregularly shaped pieces of lumber. As I neared the door it became apparent that the door must have remained open during the entire term of occupancy. The floor near the door was smooth and dark from years of passage. I tried the bolt but it was corroded shut. I kicked it but I succeeded only in hurting my foot, the flexible soles were no match for a decade of inactivity. I searched around the oven for some sort of tool that would contribute to the task. All there was was a metal skillet weighing in at about eight pounds. I fell upon the vexation with zeal, dislodging chunks of corrosion and lumber. Soon the bolt was pounded flat and knocked to the floor. The door swung open. Beyond lay an escarpment, at the edge I looked down a sheer cliff descending some ten or so feet to a another wider ledge pocked with patches of overgrowth. I followed the foot and cart worn ledge around what served as the foundation of the living quarters on the second floor, twenty feet above. The ledge widened before ending before two barn-sized doors. One stood ajar, I moved to the opening and sensed the presence of the Void from within. The unmistakable odor of animal displaced the inevitable sensory projection into the nonexistence reality. The darkness thickened with the pungency, a weight seemed to keep my senses grounded but I peered deeper into the shadowy outbuilding. At the far end two similar doors stood open, particles of everything within danced in the pale glow. I heard a voice, its timbre was undeniable, speaking broken Peradran.
“Animal...strange...hot...” A whicker not all too familiar to me defined the location of the animal somewhere to the far left, behind a partition of freshly baled hay. The silhouette moved nervously beneath the touch of the Machine. Horizontal planes of light hung on Its form like frames in an old movie.
“His name is Fivetoes.” Morbannon's voice mired from the shadows.
“Fivetoes.” The monotonation was childlike, curious.
Other beasts scooped idly at the loose dirt and shifted their weight. I remained unnoticed in the stable hubbub.
“He is almost as young as you.” Morbannon's tone was full of pride, the peculiar beast was easily over a ton of solid muscle.
“Why?” The eternal question.
“I made him before you were made. You see?”
“You...made me?”
“No. I don't know who made you.”
“You...help...me.”
“You might say that.” Again his tone betrayed his pride.
I sensed ambiguity between the Arcane presence and that of the Void. Each time the Machine spoke a tide would wash over me, peaking my awareness, then it would pull away bringing down a shroud of Morbannon's influence. I reeled involuntarily within the ominous cadence.
“Why do you make Fivetoes?” It requested ineptly.
“To help myself, watch.” Morbannon hefted a massive harness onto the beasts back and fastened several buckles. He then demonstrated a mount and ordered the Machine to repeat the maneuver.
Fivetoes staggered under the unfamiliar weight of the Machine. The Arcane presence seemed to make the air thick. A languid vociferation from the Machine spooked the other domestic beasts, a din arose about the stable. Dust and debris filtered through loose floorboards in the lofts above.
The peal of tearing leather was followed by a curse from Morbannon.
“Damn the Regime.” He stepped out from the shadows for the first time. He adjusted the tethers and led the beast from its stall. He was teaching the Machine to ride.
The beast was by no means domestic in appearance. Its general anatomy resembled a monstrous pittbull with a leathery hide, intricately textured with swirling patterns. The texture was one of rough cast iron but holding a mercurical sheen, dulled by the smoldering debris abundant in the stable air. Its four massive legs ended in four white-hot talons each as long as my forearms and an ankle toe that looked like it might be used as a thumb. The ground vibrated and was scorched where it trod.
