Avaldamon grinned slightly. “I have died before, my friends. This won’t be as bad as the giant river lizard. And I have been to the Otherworld before, and I know who waits for me there. My royal Princess, my wife. I have little to lose in this action, my friends, and much to gain.”
He gave a nod at the two men, then Avaldamon turned and ran for Hairekeep.
“Maxel, what can we do?” Ishbel managed between gasps as Maximilian hauled her up one more flight of stairs. They could no longer afford to stop and rest — the bones were cascading upward as fast as they could run.
Soon, Maximilian feared, they’d not be able to outrun them any more.
“I don’t know,” he said, and pulled her onward.
Avaldamon ran to within ninety paces of the parody of the Twisted Tower, then stopped. He steadied his breathing, took another ten or fifteen paces toward the tower. Stopped again.
He rubbed sweaty palms down his clothes. He was nervous, not at the thought of death, but because he did not want to get this wrong.
Avaldamon would get one chance only.
He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and turned his mind, just slightly, enough to put himself into that peculiar mentality that all Persimians cultivated for their dealings with the Twisted Tower.
Then he began to walk toward the tower, very deliberately, with slightly longer than normal strides.
As he walked, Avaldamon counted out each step.
“Now look to the pathway” Maximilian had said to Ishbel when first he took her to the Twisted Tower. “There are eighty-six steps to reach the door. You always need to take eighty-six steps, and you must learn to count them as you approach. Soon the eighty-six will become second nature”
“Why eighty-six?” Ishbel had said.
“The tower is a thing of order. It is also a thing of immense memory . . . ordered memory. If you approach it in a disordered manner, then that disorder will reverberate throughout the entire tower.”
Avaldamon was now taking increasingly long strides. He was very close to the tower, and as he neared it he shouted out the numbers of the final three steps. “Seventy-seven! Seventy-eight! Seventy-nine!”
Then he grasped the door handle, turned it, and wrenched the door open.
Something screamed. Avaldamon was not sure if it was himself or if it was something within the tower, but the instant he’d opened the door he had felt the entire fabric of his body starting to wrench apart.
The tower was a thing of order, and he had approached it in a most disordered manner.
About him the entire tower vibrated, at first gently, then so violently that Avaldamon felt his body flail about.
He decided it was himself who was screaming.
He stopped screaming at that very instant his body disintegrated completely.
Maximilian and Ishbel tumbled to the floor of the eighty-first level, losing their footing as the tower began to reverberate.
“What is happening?” Ishbel screamed.
“Disorder,” Maximilian whispered, and his blue eyes suddenly turned emerald as he wrapped his arms about his wife.
Avaldamon sighed, stretched slightly (more than glad to feel his limbs all in good order), then blinked in amazement.
He had come directly into the Otherworld.
He had thought the journey might take him a while, as it had the first time he had died. Then he saw the reason he had come so directly.
Josia was hurrying toward him. Avaldamon felt a moment of fear, then realised this was the real Josia.
“What has happened?” Josia said.
“Well, surely you know what has happened to you,” Avaldamon said wryly.
“Yes, yes, the One ambushed me,” Josia said. “But Maxel? Ishbel?”
“Was it you trying to call Maxel?”
“Yes, but I could never reach him. Avaldamon, what has happened to them?”
Avaldamon looked about. “Well, they’re not here, which is the best thing I can say.”
Even the One was not totally sure what had happened. By Infinity, it had all been going so well, and then Avaldamon .
The One was trying to keep his rage in check. Perhaps Maximilian and Ishbel were dead, crushed in the rubble of Hairekeep. He managed a grin as he stood at the window at the summit of the Twisted Tower and surveyed the carnage below.
He’d had them so fooled.
Ishbel had almost murdered him with the destruction of DarkGlass Mountain. The One had escaped only at the last moment and only by using the full extent of his ability to manipulate the power of Infinity. He’d been forced to sacrifice life in the flesh to take possession of the bodiless Josia. But, oh, what a hiding place! Bodiless or not, the One could still exert his power over events, still use the power of Infinity.
Still . . . the One missed the feel of wind against flesh, and the warmth of the sun.
Chapter 3
Hairekeep
Serge and Doyle literally did not know what had hit them. They’d watched in horror as Avaldamon tore apart, then saw the entire tower reverberate and collapse.
Before they could say anything, or move, or even blink, something hit them with such resounding force it threw them to the ground and knocked them unconscious.
Doyle was the first to regain his senses. Before he opened his eyes, Doyle was aware of the most appalling stink.
It was the stench of rotting flesh, and it was so bad, so overpowering, that Doyle found it almost impossible to breathe. Coughing and gagging, he pushed a weight away from his chest, opening his eyes only slowly. He’d thought the weight had been Serge, but when he blinked and finally managed to focus his eyes, Serge saw that he’d been covered in the bones and rotting flesh of one of their horses.
“Serge? Serge?” Doyle could barely get the words out, the stench in his throat was so overwhelming. He struggled to his feet, slipping in the slime of the flesh and bones about him, and moaned in revulsion as he surveyed the scene about him.
For as far as Doyle could see, lay rotten flesh and bones. There was a pile of it, perhaps fifty paces high, where Hairekeep had once stood, but the entire landscape was covered in a carpet of rotting, dismembered corpses.
Above the malodorous layer, the buzzing of millions of tiny black flies.
“Gods . . . gods .” Doyle muttered, unable to comprehend the enormity or the disgusting nature of the disaster.
These must be the remains of the people the One had trapped in Hairekeep.
He wondered for a moment why he and Serge were still in one piece when their horses had disintegrated, then realised that the horses, which they had so “miraculously” discovered to aid their journey, had likely been constructs of the One, too.
“Serge? Serge?” Doyle yelled, struggling about, trying to find his friend.
“Serge?” He slipped and slid, once or twice falling to his knees, always scrambling back to his feet with a cry of disgust, twice stopping to retch up bile. Eventually, he saw a movement to one side and he waded over, tearing away a pile of rotten-fleshed bones and skulls to reveal Serge, coughing and gagging as he regained consciousness.
Doyle helped him up and for long minutes they stood, rooted in horror, trying to get their gag reflexes under control and trying to come to terms with what had happened.
“Fuck,” Serge eventually muttered, which, so far as Doyle was concerned, summed up the matter succinctly.
“Maxel and Ishbel?” Serge continued.
Doyle indicated the huge pile of bones and flesh on the site Hairekeep had once occupied. “If they’re anywhere, they’re in that pile.”
Serge muttered an obscenity again, then the two men started to move through the sludge of body parts and bones toward the larger pile.
“How in the gods’ names are we going to find them in that?” Doyle said as they neared.
“Perhaps we won’t,” said Serge. “Perhaps we just need to keep on walking through this obscene sea of flesh and try to get to the coast as fast as we may. We need to get word to Elcho Falling.”
“Or perhaps we just need to sail south as fast as we are able to get away from this whole disaster,” Doyle said under his breath. Then, a little louder: “Who needs to fight an enemy who can do this?”
“Let’s just see if we can find what happened to Maxel and Ishbel first,” Serge said mildly, knowing Doyle was just venting his disgust and despair.
They reached the pile and stared at it, not knowing where to start. Then Doyle jumped, and pointed. “Look!”
Serge moved his eyes to where Doyle indicated, expecting to see either Maxel or Ishbel, but instead he saw a rat jumping up and down on a spot about a third of the way up the pile.
“Is that . . . ” he said.