THE SORCERER'S CORPSE - chapter 28

INSPIRED BY THE FISH

Kore trudges through the dank caverns. Manfrydd walks ahead, a crackling and smoking torch in hand. How deep are they underground, who knows? There is nowhere else to go, really.

The deeper they go into the cave, the more acrid the air becomes, mixed with something acidic that eats at the inner side of Kore’s eyelids. She trips over something. Looks like a stick. What would a stick be doing here, so deep underground?

A trill of metal hitting against stone resonates through the air. And the further they go, the louder it becomes. Manfrydd looks at Kore, eyes full of meaning. Some light in the distance. Manfrydd dips his torch into a shallow pool of cave water. A veil of smoke lifts from it. And yet, Kore can see better now. The light coming from the opening of the cavern is enough. Manfrydd says nothing. He always looks like there is something deep on his mind.

The cave opens into a larger cave. This seems to be a regular motif here, underground. But this is an unusual cave. Number one, because there is a wide hissing and spitting acid lake in the middle of it. Two, the racket in the air is something sick. Voices of people mixed with the sound of steel hitting the rocks. A fair distance away, on the other side of the lake, little glowing figures move backwards and forwards.

“They mustn’t see us,” Manfrydd says.

“What’s on your mind?” Kore says. “What is this place?”

Manfrydd points at the centre of the lake. Can’t see much, only that the red roots from the ceiling twist into a semblance of a tree trunk and connect to something in the middle of the lake. There seems to be an outline of an island, but it’s hard to tell with the thick fumes rising from the toxic water. “The Sorcerer’s central point,” Manfrydd says. “His heart, I suppose. That is where Ven should be. You must promise me that you will not kill him before I get a chance to speak to him.”

“Kill him?” Kore says. “Everyone seems to have a rather warped opinion of me. Envisaging me to be some kind of assassin.”

Manfrydd gazes at her. A scary serious look. Full of complex meaning. “It is because you are Kore of the Pallid Sun and one of the most powerful True Human alive.”

She’s never been called that before. It sure is a very kind title. “Just don’t expect any wonders,” she says.

On the other side, glowing silhouettes cluster on top of a hastily built bridge over the acid. Manfrydd steps towards the edge. The lake hisses and spits at him. “We shall ford it here,” he says, without looking at her. “Too many puppets on that bridge.”

Kore stares at the hissing water. She doesn’t fancy going there. “Walk through that?” she says. “You want to walk through the acid?” She thinks she might be able to do it with her regeneration, but what about him? He is a True Human alright, but how robust is he? Is he like the Golden Princess with her nearly invulnerable body? Or can he regenerate like Kore? What’s his mechanism for making wishes anyway? Kore looks at Manfrydd’s hand. The finger that he sacrificed is still missing.

“Do you want your memories back or not?” he says, then puts his foot into the acid. His face contorts in pain, and he lifts his foot. His skin glistens red, bubbling and oozing something pink. “We can do it,” he says. “If we move fast, we should be able to cross it.”

It’s a long way though. Like crossing a wide river. “If the water is shallow,” Kore says. “If it gets deeper, I am going back.”

Manfrydd waits till his foot regenerates itself—the wounds close before Kore’s eyes— and then steps into the hissing water once more. He seems to possess some kind of regeneration after all. He then begins to walk, as fast as he can, but still slow, towards the island.

Oh well. Kore’s got nothing to lose, really. Except her life which she might not be capable of losing anyway. There is a lot to gain if she meets Ven after all. She steps into the acid.

At first, it doesn’t feel like anything. She makes another step, both legs submerged knee deep—of course, she is much shorter than Manfrydd. Then, her skin begins to tingle ever so slightly. More so on her old puppet leg, than on her Jester one. She keeps walking. And that’s when the pain kicks in. It’s like hundreds of tiny burning blades scraping against her skin, removing a layer with each pass, until they are no longer scraping at skin, but at the sensitive flesh underneath.

She begins to feel faint. Her body must be struggling to cope with all that pain. Around her knees red chunks separate and dissolve in the acid. She wouldn’t want to lose her legs here.

Manfrydd sways from side to side, almost falling. He must be having it rougher than her with his limited regeneration. Still, he seems motivated, trudging through water, not slowing down despite his swaying.

Kore overtakes him and steps out onto the shore. Her legs, a glistening mess of smooth bloody flesh now appear much skinnier than they were when she first stepped into the lake. The Sun water coats them in an instant, providing a soothing sensation of coolness.

Manfrydd steps after her. All that’s left of his legs are bones with barely any muscles on them. His feet are mostly dissolved. He falls onto the rocks, eyes closed, breathing hard.

“How long does it take,” Kore says, “to restore your legs? Will it take a while?”

“Just give me a moment,” Manfrydd says in a whisper. No visible regeneration seems to be happening at first. Kore hesitates. Her own legs seem fine. Restored. It only took a few seconds for her skin to grow back. Perhaps she could help Manfrydd if she touched him with her silver hand, but he seems to know what he is doing. A few minutes pass according to Manfrydd’s watch, and white strands of sinews wrap themselves around his shinbones. Brown chunks of muscles grow in the gaps between strands. Then the regeneration stops with his ankles looking flayed. Manfrydd stands up on shaky legs and gives her a nod. It looks like skin for him is optional.

The whole island is just a bunch of boulders piled together. The rocks block whatever is going on in the middle where intertwined red tendrils connect with the ground. Manfrydd walks towards the tendrils, his knees shaking and buckling underneath him. It’s a wonder that his flayed legs still manage to hold him up somehow.

They circle the rocks and walk into the middle of the isle where red tendrils twisted into a corkscrew plunge into the earth, forming a shape resembling the base of a large and gnarly tree trunk. There, amidst the roots, stands a man, his skin blazing red like ruby or blood. His body long and thin, like the red tendrils themselves. Beside him stand knights in chitinous armour, their bodies completely concealed. Naked people with glowing bodies kneel on the ground, illuminating the surroundings. The red man turns to regard the intruders, his features calm and calculating. He casts a glance at Kore first, at her silver arm and leg, then gazes up at Manfrydd.

“Ven,” Mandrydd says. “I must ask you to abandon your pursuit. Do not defile the Sorcerer further than you already have.”

“Speaks the man who killed the Sorcerer,” Lord Ven says.

“And I cannot forgive myself for it,” Manfrydd says. “I was too emotional to succumb to your influence. You knew I was lonely, and you used me.” Emotional? Him? What’s going on? Kore watches them, passive.

“The only True Human born after the Feast—of course you would be lonely. But you did not have to do anything you have done.” Lord Ven gestures at Kore. “What business do you have with Kore of the Pallid Sun?”

Kore steps forward. It’s hard to think of Lord Ven as a foe or as a friend. He is an unknown, so she addresses the matter directly. “I need an antidote so I can make Jester wishes again.”

A little half-smile appears on Ven’s face. “Anything else?”

“And I want my memories back.”

“You will not have them back, Kore of the Pallid Sun.” Ven says. “You are too dangerous when you are yourself. Too ambitious. That is why I had you culled in the first place. I was lucky for Naur to be so collaborative. It was difficult enough to remove you from the picture.”

“So you tricked us both,” Manfrydd says. “Do you feel even a grain of remorse? All I want you to do is to say that you did not mean it. There is still a sacred bond of brotherhood between us.”

Ven shakes his head. “You don’t understand, Manfrydd. It was a different me back then. The one who tricked you was another Ven from another time. He is telling you to kill the Sorcerer as we speak right now. And the one who gave Kore the neurotoxin is another man too.”

“What a stupid way to free yourself from any responsibility,” Kore says. “So you are just saying that any misdeed you committed was essentially done by someone else?”

“Not only misdeeds,” Ven says. “Great things too. The greatest things, some of them. But none of that is I. I am here, at this moment, a reflection of the true me who is still stuck in a millisecond before death, on the day of the Feast, as a part of the most complex of wishes.”

Manfrydd shakes his head. “So what are you going to do now? Join your mind with the Sorcerer’s undead brain?” He gestures at the seat formed by the red roots at the base of the tree of tendrils.

A terrible racket comes from somewhere. Can’t see what it is beyond the rocks blocking the view. Ven looks around in a kind of way that tells Kore that the noise is not a part of his plan. “Prepare the roots,” he says, gesturing at his knights. “And don’t let these two interfere.”

Several knights begin to chop at the tendrils with small axes. The remaining ones stand between Manfrydd and Ven, blades unsheathed. Manfrydd doesn’t touch his weapon, but retreats back to the rocky wall, ushering Kore to approach him. “When Ven sits on that throne, the Sorcerer’s nervous system will connect to him,” he says. “That will be the end of the universe as we know it. Ven will revert all timelines back to the moment before his death and make other complex Jester wishes that will change the universe. It is very possible that both you and I will be gone by the time he is finished.”

Ven laughs in the distance, overhearing Manfrydd. “Don’t try to stop me,” he says. “You can’t do anything.”

“He can undo True Humans directly?” Kore says. “I thought that’s not how Jester wishes worked.”

Manfrydd shakes his head. “The Sorcerer was the most powerful of us all. He could do anything—no one knew how—hence the name. When Ven possesses the Sorcerer’s body, he will have command over a great power.” He rubs his chin, then gestures at Ven. “I hold no serious grudge on you. Even though you have betrayed me, things can be as before. We can shape the world to our desires—within limits. We would be some of the most powerful creatures in this world.”

Ven shakes his head. “Not a chance. I have made my decision.”

Manfrydd steps towards him—the knights raise their blades. “I know you, Ven. I know that it is your guilt driving you. You want to wipe the world and start again, but you don’t have to.”

The racket grows louder, now interrupted by the series of screams. In a nervous movement, Ven looks in the direction of the sound, then stares back at Manfrydd. Whatever game Manfrydd is playing, it seems to have some effect on Ven, just based on his facial expression.

“I’ve never had anyone to talk to,” Manfrydd says, “except for you. Do you remember that field of black pyramids you showed me? I was fascinated with your sensibility and imagination. I’ve never seen anyone creating things so imposing and wondrous.”

Ven crosses his arms and frowns. His knights continue to tinker with the roots.

“And these puppets,” Manfrydd says, gesturing at the knights and naked people on the floor. “Their skeletons glow like the deep water fish of the old earth. It is truly a beautiful idea to a create a people with such features.”

Ven half-smiles. “I was inspired by the fish when I conceived them.”

“And the clothing and weapons and architecture?” Manfrydd says. “Is it sixteenth century?”

Ven nods. “Holy Roman Empire with a touch of the later period here and there.”

“The Earth is yours to play with,” Manfrydd says. “The Sun Court have their own planet. Lord Jared is useless, and I hear that the Golden Princess is dead. And others… Are there even any others?”

“The Mycelium Heart is ready, lord Ven,” a knight says, stepping away from what now looks a small seat hewn in the root, oozing some red substance.

Ven nods to the knight, then turns back to Manfrydd. “I can’t make wishes without sustaining permanent injuries. A few wishes per life at most. I might achieve peace, but what of my other selves? Thousands of iterations scattered across timelines all stemming from the day of apocalypse? I will only fix this chaos if I gain the Sorcerer’s powers. There is no downside in me connecting to the roots.”

Manfrydd shakes his head. “No downside, apart from losing yourself. Will it be you, when you become one with the Sorcerer?”

The racket grows louder intercut with blood-curdling screams. Ven casts a glance at the red throne.

“Being all powerful, you will soon grow bored,” Manfrydd says. “Your mind will begin to rot, like that of the Golden Princess or lord Jared. You will want the lively excitement and danger back, but it won’t be there, because you will have wiped the Earth and made everything to your own liking. This world doesn’t need another Feast to break it apart.”

“Well,” Ven says. “I don’t have to wipe the Earth. I could remain myself.”

“Then why undergo this transformation?”

“For the peace of each iteration of myself.”

“But what of you? You are an individual, even though there are other copies. Leave the Sorcerer to them, but choose peace in this timeline.”

Ven stares at Manfrydd, his eyes glistening with wetness. He casts an apprehensive look at the throne prepared for him. No idea what’s going on in his head or what those iterations that they speak of are.

A terrible racket feels like needles stuck in Kore’s eardrums. She presses her palms against her ears, looking around, eyes wide. Whatever it is, it is close. At that moment, all conversation stops. Ven’s knights raise their blades, looking around, searching for the source. Then, a blast of wind in Kore’s face. A stout shape spins though the air right towards her. Curb. No way. He followed her all the way here after all. Did he dispatch the boy with the Foetal Blade? Kore throws herself to the side, letting Curb spin past, then turns to where he’s gone. He looks different now. Bulkier and darker and colour, as though something is covering his body. A horrible suspicion sneaks into Kore, as she retreats towards a wall of rocks.

The Blood Spinner hangs in the air for a moment, rotating in place, as the surrounding people stare at him, then rushes towards Manfrydd, moving fast like a bullet. Manfrydd only gasps. Not enough time for him to step away, or to do anything at all. One moment he stands intact, another, he has a gaping hole in his chest, oozing dark blood. He falls on his back as sticky darkness begins to spread from the wound, the same rot that caused the Golden Princess’s death. Curb spins through several of Ven’s knights, slicing through their bodies, making their heads come off or dangle by little threads of skin. The remaining ones panic—who wouldn’t?—dashing away from Curb rather than towards, refusing to fight. “Forgive me, lord Ven,” they mutter, fleeing in terror.

Ven cries out something incomprehensible, retreating quickly towards his Mycelium throne. He trips over a corpse and falls backwards, staring at the intruder.

Curb comes to a stop, landing on the ground before Kore, his hand grasping the Foetal Blade. The Blood Spinner stands there, blood-splattered corpse-armour clinging tightly to his small body—so this is why he appeared different. Curb looks at Kore, his eyes sad, filled with a sense of betrayal—she almost feels bad for leaving him.

“My work is done,” Grockle screams from the pommel of the Foetal Blade. The bones composing the blade snap outwards, pushing the blade out of Curb’s hand. Curb drops it, then retreats backward from it, his armour shedding in chunks from his miniature frame.

The bones of the Foetal Blade crack as they reform into more anatomical-looking shapes. A tiny ribcage, an underdeveloped tibia, a miniature toothless skull. Within seconds, it is back to what it used to be—the skeleton of a foetus. Grockle stands up on his bow legs and raises his skeleton hands up. “I did it,” he exclaims. “I killed Manfrydd. I am free.” With those words he begins to move with increasing vigour, strutting backwards and forwards, turning and bowing. In other words, dancing. Bizarre.

Lord Ven, his face in shadow stands up and stares at Manfrydd’s corpse from the distance. He appears somewhat frozen. Curb, free from the Foetal Blade and the corpse armour peeling away from him, stands up, rubs his forehead. “What happened?” he mutters, the silhouette of Grockle frolicking before him.

“Ven,” Kore says, stepping towards him. “If I am going to die, if this whole plane of existence is to disappear anyway, I’d like to have a glimpse at who I truly am or was. I need that antidote. Will it really make any difference to you now?”

Ven doesn’t look at her, still staring at Manfrydd.

Curb turns to Kore, then looks at Ven. He frowns deeply. “Lord Ven?” he says, his plump hand reaching for a piece of glimmering steel on his side.

Ven lets out a deep sigh. “This plane of existence is doomed indeed. I had doubts before, but now I am certain. This cursed place and time deserves to be wiped from the face of this universe.” He turns his back and walks towards the oozing red throne prepared for him.

Curb bares his teeth, his table knife unsheathed in his hand. He flings himself towards Ven, propelling himself through the air, hawk-like. Before Ven can react, Curb wraps his legs around Ven’s neck, knife pressed to his throat. “Even though Kore abandoned me, she granted me this life, and you shall not turn your back on her. Give her what she asks for.”

Ven jerks about trying to throw Curb off, but the little man is stuck firmly to the back of his neck, knife digging deeper and deeper into his flesh. Ven’s hand darts towards his pocket.

“Curb,” Kore shouts, stepping towards them. “He’s got something.”

The something, a square shaped object with protruding buttons and two little metal spikes; Ven touches it against Curb’s leg and presses a button. Too quick for Kore to interfere. A flash of light explodes from the point of contact between Curb’s flesh and the device. Curb screams, louder than he did at the moment of his resurrection. His body contorts in seizures, and he lets go, flying off several feet away from Ven and crushing against the rocky ground. He lays there still.

It hurts deep inside Kore’s chest to see Curb suffer. She gave him his life—is she not responsible for his existence now. She rushes towards him and lays her silver hand against his dark burned leg. Curb’s breathing steadies itself in an instant and sits up, staring at Kore.

Ven, his device still in his hands, observes them, unmoving from his spot. “I did not know you still had your power. It should’ve left you permanently.”

Kore faces him and shrugs.

“And you chose to heal that creature,” Ven says. “Why?”

“I don’t want to see him suffer. No one should be made to suffer.” Dead Manfrydd catches Kore’s eye. She walks over to the body, while lord Ven observes her. She crouches beside his corpse and lays her silver hand on his cheek. Some of the colour returns to Manfrydd’s face, but she feels the poison resisting her power. She keeps her hand there nevertheless. A deep feeling of sadness punctures her mind—it is as though her very soul is being sapped in exchange for Manfydd’s life.

Grockle stops dancing, observing the healing.

Manfrydd’s face twitches. Maybe he never even died in the first place. The restoration feels terribly slow. Kore’s silver arm loses its remaining brightness as she holds it against Manfrydd’s skin. A dark vignette closes in around her.

“Now, this is a surprise,” Ven says. Kore turns her head. In a blur, one of Ven’s knights sits on the red tendril throne, contorting in pain.