Endworlds - Nicholas Read [62]
Stripped of everything they knew, faced with total devastation and scratching in the mud for survival, the remnant of that people shared a uniform psychosis, the same terrors. In the months that followed the fall of the Fae’er world in the First Age, the survivors had a dream in common, and the more they fed it, the more persistent it became.
An image of a smoking giant. Its massive arms and legs billowing with soot, its face that of churning rock with deep pits where danced white-hot coals for eyes. A furnace of lava spilled out through black jagged teeth, soundlessly melting the people who milled at its ponderous feet, burned alive by fire, or crushed by its stride.
Onward it always came, the dreamer frantic to escape, almost believing they were just far enough in front to outrun it. Then their passage filled with a flood of waist-high water, making their escape futile as each booming step shot mountains of steam into the air, closer and closer, until its wicked face filled their field of vision and the glowing pit opened wide!
This was the apparition now filling the screen. Brace Aragenti allowed a moment of silence for the memory of it to sink in. Then he muted the vision and spoke evenly in a tone of unmistakable control.
“You know what this is. A creature that never walked in nature, and so has no place in the four dimensions we patrol. It is a figment of the id, and yet it is made corporeal on Earth Prime not two days ago on the grasslands of their African continent. I submit that whatever holes their technology is punching through the quantum membranes, it is reaching darker places than thought possible. Places where the very stuff of nightmares find form and power, a dimension possibly made of psychic energy. Who knows what lurks there?
“I say it is time to remain hidden no longer. Respectfully, and in deference to what we know as the will of the Builders, the time for half measures is over. We need to intervene and stop the use of the machines that are causing these imbalances.”
“The sacrilege of a Dae’mon!” cried some.
“He’s right! Listen to the man,” cried others.
The chamber exploded with voices jostling to be heard, eyes darting from the Brace of the Fae’rest Nation to the reaction of the Fae’ro and Fae’qua representatives, then on to the Queen herself who sat expressionless, inscrutable.
Above them all was heard the slow clap, clap, clap of two hands. The Nabiyã Siancay who had invoked the session was standing, and a dozen others of the Clansfrau sisterhood rose from seats all around the globular Conclave chamber, motionless, waiting as the tumult fell silent, expectant.
When they spoke, all mouths made one grating voice, a blend of haggish voices beating each consonant like a drum.
“Thus say the Nabiyã Siancay: time is upon us but soon time shall be no more. As Endworld approaches, the hearts of all shall be tested. Who will walk enlightened, who will walk benighted? Already have fallen three from above, yet the children of prophecy shall not walk alone: even now two from below are rising. Others still are called, if they have ears to hear. Judge ye this day the Builders’ will. So much will be required, of so few, so soon. As the books are opened, what shall ye read? What will ye write? It is given unto you to choose until all choices are made and judgment come.”
With no further word, the seerwitches bowed their heads and filed from the chamber. What followed their departure was chaos as all Houses spoke at once, a cacophony of opinion and unanswered questions.
There were no absolute answers, and even four hours later Queen Fae’Elayen and the governing Braces had only wrangled her constituents to three interim resolutions, much still to