XII
L’appel du Vide
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> Every soul will taste death,
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> And will only be given full compensation on the Day of Resurrection
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> Whence Lucifer will return and consult Azazel the worth of each life,
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> So he who is drawn away from the Fire and admitted to Paradise has attained his desire.
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> And what is the life of this world except the enjoyment of delusion?
—The Saint-Skin Scrolls, Apokálupsis 7:7-12 (the Verse of the Sower and the Reaper) translated into Vulgar by Bishop Gascoine D’Tristime; New Standard Version printed by Argo & Sons.
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I awoke before either Aîs or Mahhomed, folded the blanket over the cot and put the pillows atop that and then off I went, into Saint-Getaine’s twilit streets where the night-market was coming to an end for the morning was soon to come. I went out through the back as I didn’t have a key with which to lock the door and didn’t want to be a bother.
We made our way to Gendry’s shop and there the man was, hammering iron into steel upon the anvil with an even rhythm—he used his familial incus of poor-man’s orichalcum so something was amiss; hadn’t touched the thing in a handful of years, seven-generations of blacksmithing left fallow on the eighth.
At my sight he stopped and came to greet me outside the roofed outer workshop. There was a fire in his eyes that I’d yet to see until now, as if he’d brought the forge with him. Gendry was that sullen type of widower that did not take another wife for one was enough to last a lifetime.
If I didn’t know any better I’d’ve thought he’d gotten himself a bride.
“Well met, brother.” We shook forearm to forearm in the warrior’s tradition.
“Well met, brother.” I echoed and then we spoke for a span about our lives, our general goings-on and our recent windfalls. Apparently, rumour had spread of the Lightning-Bolt’s (the new sobriquet was most welcome) weapon and Gendry had capitalised on it, hawking there and back that he’d forged Ashen—the maker’s mark was, afterall, his family seal of Éarann; iron shaped in a wreath around a Golgothan cross, stamped on my scabbard’s leather and my sword’s ricasso and given form as the smitherie’s sign.
News travelled fast; Gendry had enough commissions to see him through the year and then some. I was beyond happy at that—he deserved every single customer, I knew.
“Let me get you the new crossguard; I finished the engraving just last night.”
Gendry had two more weeks to finish the commission and yet he’d done it in a third of the time—I was beyond stunned at his gratitude; he wasn’t a man for kind words but instead kind actions and I would not take this one lightly nor for granted.
As he went into the back, I unscrewed the pommel from the grip, slid the spridjan wood out of the tang and then took out the old crossguard. I let Gendry himself reassemble the weapon as he was spoiling to take a look at its glyphes—which, granted, weren’t much; both Calcifer and I erred towards function over form and so were conservative with the scrollwork.
The new quillons were the same as the last in regards to proportion; straight and square-angled perpendiculars rather than the comparatively-acute guard of Parhelion. Engraved within the metal was silver-leaf that depicted smoke and vapour and cloud and mist. The design was simple if beautifully executed but Gendry would not accept my coin.
“Brother, you’ve paid me twice-over; I’ll not take any more from your coffers.”
I hugged the man so hard that I think I might’ve bruised his ribs.
Gendry was downright giddy at the sword’s enchantments and the mechanised scabbard, playing with them as if a boy with new toys. I gave him carte-blanche over Ashen as it was as much his as it was mine, bound by a blood oath between us that went beyond silver and mammon-greed.
“What’s the activation mechanism?” He asked me, trying in vain to find a latch or some such on the otherwise smooth exterior—the mechanised innards were well hidden rather than on display as some more ostentatious pieces tended towards.
I waved my hand about the scabbard as if a sorcier and with a clink and a hiss, the locks disengaged, gears turning so that the chape depressurized and the blade slid out until the Tir glyph was on full display; the steamforged sorcerie of the Sixth Century was well and truly mesmerising.
“Two rúna aren't enough to interact with an artefact.” Gendry mumbled, perplexed as he looked back and forth between my inked hand and Ashen. “Either you got a real good glyphe-smith or there’s something I’m not catching onto.”
“Embedded lodestone—the Tir-Tau pairing is an interface, yes, but what really binds your blade to my heart is ruby-amber.”
Gendry put the sword still in its scabbard between his pits to take a peep at the pommel—the effort he took so that the tip did not touch the ground was commendable if humorous in that clueless and earnest sort of way.
“Texture and striation’s like chalcedony but the refracted transparency suggests otherwise—too clear to be any variety of mundane rock, and I can see the slightest hint of cluster crystallisation as if this were the inside of a geode once. Doubt it’s full-blooded rubédo; no offence but you’re no sorcier. Lesser variety of Godstone then, a mineral of quartz.”
The smithman scrunched his brows together as if to draw out a phantom tang from his thoughts and ventured: “Lucifer’s bezoars?”
I whistled.
“Damn, Gendry. That’s impressive.”
“Impressive’s the glyphe-work on the sword. How does the scabbard differentiate between gestures? Else you might draw steel while stroking the one-eyed eel?”
The man was well and truly in high spirits for such a jest and since I was as well, we fell into the throes of throwing out ribalds one after the other, upping the ante again and again until our cheeks hurt from all the mad grinning and our ribs ached from the lack of proper breath.
“And this time it might actually leave you blind!”
After I recovered my wits, I spoke: “My right hand needs to be at least half-a-palm-width for the array to recognize the lodestone imprint. Here, let me show you.”
I shouldered the scabbard and held out my right hand near the hilt. Change of ambarique pressure was not enough to activate the machinerie as the artefact was bound to me by blood; a spark of ambaricité and intent were needed to catalyse, to arouse the dormant spirit of Abhartach.
Now, I wasn’t a sorcier—I could not call down lightning nor cast bolts of phlogiston—but the Tir-Tau pairing was more than for show, more than a simple key. The glyphe-pair carved in my flesh was an extension of my me, body and soul; like a fumbling blind man in the moonless night, I prodded at it and the enchantment came alive.
Branching arcs of scarlet tethered That-Which-Remains to my right hand and I drew the sword without it touching my skin; it hovered above my palm, stable and under my command, spinning on the axis of the lodestone such that it alighted in my right hand as it should.
“Impressive parlour trick, ain’t it?”
Gendry’s already manic eyes grew a tad more unhinged, as if scrupule and sanity left him so that but exhilaration remained.
“Can you draw it to you from a distance? Can you throw it and call it back as if a hound? Does it actually shoot lightning like they say happened during your fight with the Sparrowhawk? You didn’t say that it could shoot lightning! By the Standing Stones, I’ve made a sword that shoots lightning!”
The man devolved into what I could only describe as Tirrish gibberish which was impressive given that all that remained of the Ogham Tongue were the loan words laced into dialects of Vulgar and the buried letter-pillars that survived the Purge.
“Lasair ard na spéartha. Cloigeann Ymir, lasair ard na spéartha!”
I calmed the man down and explained: no, it needs to be at least half-a-palm-width for the lodestone to tether; no, see point one but I can use the lodestone as if a sling to enhance the throw’s distance and speed; it does not, unfortunately, shoot lightning—that’s just a little bit of lightning, yes but not even near enough to singe; at most, it might shock as if a particularly irate carpet or a snake without fangs.
“Those sorts of enchantments are for down the road.” I told Gendry to calm his spirits back to a reasonable level. “What I got was a solid foundation with a matrix that can be further upgraded as needed; or well, more accurately, as the coin in my coffers accumulate.”
Amoré, do remember about your new toy—the Sun-Dog as you’ve christened it.
The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.
I’d almost forgotten!
“Oh and let me show you a new arm that I got from a friend of mine.” I said as I unsheathed the blade from the small of my back and handed it to Gendry. We continued to speak as I unbuckled the scabbard.
“Cinquedea? Haven’t seen one of these in a long time; just isn’t in fashion nowadays as most men go either for a long-arm like a flamberge or bastard, or go for something more gentlemanly—think rapier or bollock-dagger or a sparklock pistol; something that’s still civilian defence but that can also be a show piece.”
Handed the sheathe to Gendry and asked him: “Can you anneal the blade with an occult metal? I need something that can strike spirits and burn ghûls and their nests.”
“How’s about an alloy of three parts silver, one part gold, four parts iron, and one part mercury; I’ll feed the amalgam with shavings of tombac, empyrean aurum, and blood-amber dust. Me athair called it a sun-varnish because the alquemique reactions form a patina that feasts on light and heat, trapping it within. Like with oricalc, the alloy’ll interact with ambaricité, discharging its built-up fire when a strong enough current is run through it. Not bad for a smith, ei? Almost feel like an alquemiste proper if not for the calluses in me mitts.
“Them ghûlies will be runnin’ to the hills, I tell ye. But anyhows, what’s the occasion for the gift? Anything to do with the Sparrowhawk fight?”
I grinned, mad as a hatter and content as a fiddle, as I told Gendry my tall tale.
“Aye. You’ll never believe how we met—he’d taken up a bounty on my head and tried to kill me not one, not two, but three times.”
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I did some more tricks with the sword for Gendry’s sake, patted him on the back hard enough to make him stumble, said my farewells and then off I went into the labyrinthine streets of Saint-Getaine lest he latch onto Ashen and never let go. I would return the next morn’ to pick up Parhelion, annealed in sun-varnish.
As I wandered vaguely through the Western Cairn, I let my mind wander as well; no thought stayed in the forefront for long. It was then that I realised that Ré had been uncharacteristically quiet today though the trend had begun for some time now—Gods, the week before last feels as though a century ago.
“Penny for your thoughts? Sixty-seven Hels, I can even spare you a silver now.”
Just as Gendry had recovered his joie de vivre, Lamaré had lost his; he laughed still but it was the sardonic laugh of a husk that attempts to imitate what it once was and knows that it will ever fall short.
I am contemplating l’appel du vide.
“Well, thank Lucifer that there isn't a noose inside my skull; but, tell me, what’s got you down? We’re swimming in Her Majesty’s silver and we’ve two friends more than before.”
Ah, mon ami, not even rhyme can raise my spirits; I am, as they say, in a rut. And before you interrupt, no it hasn’t anything to do with being in control of the body though I’d like to take the reins sometime soon.
The heir apparent to the D’Amice branch of the Sol bloodline took a moment to collect himself and his thoughts, herding his wits about him as if unruly sheep; now, he spoke not with dejection but with the sombre acceptance of a man that’ll need to kill ten to see another year.
They’ll come for us, you know?
“Better than a slow death as someone whose name will disappear with the sand. And besides, I know that it’s deeper than that. Yes, you’re worried about the tomorrow but the yesterday’s what really haunts you. Tell me Ré the name of this spectre.”
The last sentence was half jest and half command—I would not let my familiar spirit fester and agonise over something alone when I was less than a stone’s throw away.
I feel guilty, El. I feel like I’ve dragged you into something that’ll only end up with you in the gutters—not sleeping but sleeping ever more without waking; the big sleep of death from which no one returns from. Not even God.
Cutting through the superfluous and purple fat, I already knew then that Ré’s heart was too big for his own good and prone to bleeding that could dwarf even a hæmophiliac. He felt himself responsible even though he was, most assuredly, not.
“Everything that surrounds us is no fault of your own, my familiar spirit. By Fate, by Blood, and by God Himself, if it weren’t for you, Lamaré D’Amice, I would have died that Sabbath night.”
Silence.
Silence broken from a sigh escaped from my lips.
“Ré, I won’t say that you needn’t worry—that’d be a great way to brush well-founded fears under the carpet where they’ll only grow fat and bold and worse.” We’d reached the harbour by then; and there, beyond the wharf, boats swayed to tide and time under the midday sun.
“Instead, I’ll tell you this: no matter what happens, it’s been a good one. Leagues better than either of our previous lives—you may not be a thrill seeker to my extent but you can’t deny the rush, the exhilaration, of the past week.”
We talked this way and that, and decided that we would never again set foot in the Mangy Feline unless it was to kill Claude and spit on his corpse.
You see, both Lamaré and I are paranoid and sceptical and cynical bastards whose one sole heart knows only of betrayal and the worst side of Man. Having defeated all that would stand against me in the Pit, Claude did no longer have need of me. I had, in his soulless eyes, earned him all the silver possible.
I would bet my last thirty silver Talents—the Judas-Price fittingly—that the curmudgeon had already sold me out to the nobility. I would have to watch my back from now on with greater discretion and even greater suspicion for every person on the street could be an assassin or kidnapper or some other such boogeyman. Which was why I would no longer stay out during the day beyond this one and instead rely on my nature as a creature of the night.
“All yours until the sun sets, Ré.”
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Lamaré D’Amice was by no means a paragon of virtue.
He was petty and vindictive and prone to fits of melancholy. A silver-tongued d’yabel that knows only of the next trick, the next bed, the next drink, the next gamble.
That was the man I was before I died; now whatever I was, I was better. Or at least, I hoped so.
And you already know my troubled past with hope.
I walked without aim and found myself before a tavern by the docks, home to sailors and courtesans and strangers in a strange land. It was nicely built, decorated with ivory up near the rafters so that it wouldn’t be so easily stolen—lévayathan-spawn of one sort or another; God-blooded monsters were known to be able to copulate with species wholly different from their own and produce hybrids that are able to further procreate. Such was the origin of many kinds of chimeres, be they khikhimeras or mantigores or gryphens.
I drank and heard tales of foreign lands beyond the Aller, beyond the Sea-That-Severs; of Ossir’s far shores where men went on to quest for ancient ruins hidden beneath the obsidian sands, where treasure was sure to be found and danger in equal measure.
“Rarely do any remnants survive the Narancan Purge.” I told my new-fangled drinking buddy, Ahomed. “But you already know that, being an adventurer and all—so tell me this: what’s the latest conquest of yours? What kind of bygone civilization did you take back from the ashes of time?”
The Ossirian man grew quiet, brow hung, drawn, and quartered under the weight of something no Man-born-of-Woman should’ve borne witness to.
“Me and me crew found an oasis in a bowl-like depression which, in the Black Desert, means a tar pit filled with oil and sometimes a scum layer of water. We took what we could and put it in our alembics to distil into something potable.”
Ahomed took a draught of breath and drink both, attempting to regain a footing in his own haunted memories.
“At first we thought it was just a spear but it was instead the point of some temple or some such. Quickly we ran across the dunes—we were scouts an’ all so we couldn’t dig it up ourselves—and brought back a dig crew.”
Another breath, another gulp.
“Took us a good week to excavate it; it was a building whose stones were not stones at all but rather bone so black that it took us some time to parse it out. We thought the skulls carved but soon we knew better.”
I patted the man on the back as I waited for his wits to recover.
“It started out slow but, one by one, men were bewitched and delved into the gaping, ravenous maw of the ruins and never came back. After the third one, we buried the accursed thing back under the ashes of time and left.”
What next Ahomed said was so faint and dreadful that I shivered as if chilled to the bone.
“I can still feel it whispering for me to come back. I don’t even need to sail there, just find the nearest way to die and in death would return.”
With that we turned to less macabre topics of conversation but Ahomed did not recover his joie de vivre and neither did I.
You see, I knew then that he’d crossed under the threshold of Death for I felt that same whispering, so faint and trace and cold. Azazel had Her roots in me and coveted my soul for having escaped Hel. There was a name to this phenomenon: ‘L’appel du Vide’, known to all tongues as some variation of the Call of the Void. It was that fancy of wondering ‘what would happen if I jumped?’ when one gazed from the precipice or the violent daydreams invoked by looking at a knife.
The Éder called it ‘Dumah’ or the Twelve-winged, Thousand-eyed Silence which holds a sword upon which clings a drop of gall; when a man is to pass from this world into the next, this variant of the Grim Reaper appears before him and he is sent into convulsions whereupon he opens his mouth and ‘tastes of death’.
I had tasted of death before and wanted nothing to do with it ever again.
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The evening came with bonsoirs and au revoirs.
We bought perfume and rags that we might fashion into masks and ventured into the sewers once again. Bellamie walked beside me in my wake as I led him back to his natural habitat.
“You know any good places to set up shop, little one?” I cooed at the ratling as he chittered back and boggled his eyes in joy at the attention. He’d grown on me though it took no small amount of coaxing from El to finally pet the little one.
It was this tiny, fragile thing that kept the darkness at bay from my inner thoughts as the darkness of my without consumed me.
However we’d come out from this, I did not know. But I did know one important fact: I had kith and kin, found amidst circumstance and fate, and would return under the vulture wings of Death a man without regrets.