Heights of the Depths Read online

  “Say what you will about humans…but they relentlessly used their imagination, their dreams, if you will, to shape this world to their liking. They thought, in their limited way, that this was simply a measure of their ingenuity. But it was more profound, much deeper than that. This plane of existence, for whatever reason—whim of the gods, if nothing else—was, and is, entirely shaped by the conscious and even unconscious desires of human beings.

  “They thought that form followed function. They were wrong. The truth was the exact opposite: Function followed form. Humans would develop in their collective, dreaming minds, the sort of world they desired. One that did not exist. This unconscious desire would then sit in a type of ‘between’ state, a ‘limbo’ or transitory condition. And so it would remain until enough humans dreamed the dream, at which point they would then…through bursts of industrialization, or visionary philosophers and leaders, or even wars…bring the unconscious desires to reality. They would think of it as ideas waiting to happen, and in a sense, they were right. They just didn’t understand that there was an actual, metaphysical structure behind it. The concepts would develop a nebulous form, and then the functions would follow to actualize it.

  “In any event, Overseer,” Nicrominus had continued, “here is the situation, and the problem. The human race has largely been purged from the Damned World. And if my theory is correct, those humans who do remain are remarkably dangerous. For energy cannot truly be destroyed; it simply changes form or concentrates elsewhere. Which means the pure power of dream and imagination, rather than being diffused over millions of humans, is now concentrated within the minds of a mere handful. Of course, they don’t know it. They know of a time when humans dominated, but accept the status of their environment for what it is. But if they dream of greater things…if they take to imagining things not as they are, but as they could be…it could be disastrous for us. Through means we cannot begin to guess, they could set events into motion—affect probabilities, develop devices—that could spell the end of the Twelve Races.

  “But we cannot simply destroy the humans in self-defense, because therein lies our quandary. You see, naturally this sphere, this plane of existence, far pre-existed human beings. It was, however, chaotic. Unformed and void, almost unrecognizable. Humans were created to help bring it into sharper focus. They began as primitive specimens, but evolved over time. As they evolved, this sphere likewise evolved from the chaos that reigned to the relative order that now holds sway. The calamitous depopulation of humans has thrown this plane of existence out of whack. We are seeing, in the diminishment of the power of hotstars, merely the first step. If my theory is correct, if the few humans who are left should die off completely, the hotstars will not be the first things to give out. This entire plane of existence could come completely unraveled. It could well descend into the chaos that existed before humans were developed to hammer it into shape through their imagination, their will, their hopes and dreams and aspirations, and their odd obsession with ascribing names to everything. They even gave a name to the phenomenon: Entropy.

  “Nor will it necessarily end here. The nearness of the Elserealms, its dependence upon hotstars, and the effect the current energy depletion is having, indicates that the deleterious effects may ripple through to the Elserealms as well. Both the Banished, and those who banished us, may well share the same fate.

  “The depopulation of humanity may well be the single greatest calamity the Twelve Races has ever faced. There is only one solution that I can see: We must locate what humans there are and find a way to repopulate the species, all the while holding their dreams in check or turning them to serve us, lest they wind up—through sheer force of will—creating a series of circumstances that could lead to our utter destruction.”

  For a long moment, the Overseer said nothing.

  Then had come an explosive sound, like a crack of thunder. Lights had flickered on and off, and the very air seemed to crackle as if a storm were building up within the structure itself. Nicrominus had fallen to his knees, whimpering like a hatchling in the face of the unfettered wrath of the single most powerful being in the Damned World.

  And for the first time since Nicrominus had shown up, the Overseer had spoken.

  “You,” thundered the Overseer, “Have got. To be shitting me.”

  ii.

  Nicrominus, during his relatively leisurely voyage over courtesy of the Zeffer’s vast, dangling tentacles, had had a good deal of time to try and figure out just how the Overseer was going to react to his admittedly extraordinary theory.

  You have got to be shitting me wasn’t it, or even remotely close to it.

  For starters, although Nicrominus understood the basic words being uttered, he suspected there was some sort of vernacular twist that he wasn’t entirely grasping. Furthermore, it simply didn’t sound like something that the single greatest power in the Damned World might say. It was so startling, so bizarre, that for a moment Nicrominus suspected that perhaps he had been fooled somehow. Perhaps this was not, in fact, the Overseer at all. An imposter, maybe? Someone who had been sent to test his mettle? Except who would have sent this individual? The genuine Overseer? Or unseen warders from the Elserealms?

  All manner of possibilities rattled around inside his head as he simply stood there and stared at the armored figure.

  The Overseer vaulted from the proscenium. When he landed, the sound echoed through the vast theater, the thunderclap-like impact of his previous bellowing reaction only having just died down. As he moved, Nicrominus could hear a series of faint whirring noises coming from the armor. He had no idea what they were. The armor was unlike anything he had seen before. It had an air about it, something that made him think of the Elserealms, clinging to it lingeringly as did the scent of, say, a female’s scent to one’s clothes on the morning following a night of passion. But there was also something about it that smacked of Damned World technology. The Banished had very little use for such things, but still, Nicrominus could spot it when he saw it.

  He strode right towards Nicrominus and didn’t slow as he approached him. Nicrominus’s bones may have been old, his muscles might have been sore, but he was still capable of getting out of the way of an oncoming behemoth when the need arose. He did so at that point, stepping aside and almost falling into a row of seats to his right. He stood there and watched as the Overseer strode past him.

  Left on his own, Nicrominus was uncertain of what he was supposed to do. The Overseer had not issued any instructions, or even really acknowledged his existence in any way save to listen to what he had to say. What was he supposed to do now? Stand there and wait for further instructions? What if none were forthcoming?

  Nor was it his nature to simply stand around and wait for other people to tell him what to do, even when one of the other people in question was the Overseer himself.

  But he couldn’t very yell out, “Wait!” to the Overseer. The Overseer did as he willed, when he willed it, and answered to no one. Or if he did, he certainly didn’t answer to an aged Firedraque.

  Nicrominus folded his arms, tasted the air with his forked tongue, and then shrugged and started off after the Overseer. His tail moved aimlessly in mild agitation, an outward reflection of his inner worries. The Overseer was making no obvious effort to leave him behind, but neither was he taking his time. He was simply walking, and so Nicrominus followed him.

  There was a large set of double doors at the back of the theater. The Overseer swung wide his arms and knocked them to either side. He passed through them and they almost slammed shut back into Nicrominus’s face before he caught them and stepped through. There was a large lobby with broken mirrors and faded gilt lining it. The Overseer kept going, heading towards the main doors that led out into the street. Nicrominus continued right after him, wondering if at some point the Overseer would turn, notice him, and obliterate him with but a gesture.

  Nicrominus considered that possibility further and came to the realization that the pros
pect did not bother him particularly. He had led a long life, seen many things, had mates, eaten them, spawned children, eaten them, allowed one of them to live almost on a whim and found the experience to be, on the whole, rather uplifting. There were still things he wished to see and goals he wished to attain. He had no overt desire for death. But if the next few minutes were to result in his being a red and green splotch on the streets of the Spire city, well…it wasn’t as if he hadn’t had more than his share of experiences.

  He also wondered just how far he was willing to follow the Overseer before he gave it up as a pointless exercise.

  The Overseer strode out into the street, his armored feet clanking beneath him. Nicrominus, following, heard a cessation of noise and wondered if the Overseer had simply vanished into thin air. It didn’t seem possible that he could do such a thing, but then again, this was the Overseer they were talking about. Who knew what was and was not within his capabilities?

  But no, he could see him through the large glass doors that led out. The Overseer had stopped dead in the middle of the street and he was just standing there. Nicrominus had been hurrying after him, so much so that he was getting out of breath. Now he slowed and then stopped, standing on the sidewalk and just staring at the armored figure.

  “You should have seen it,” the Overseer said abruptly. It so startled Nicrominus that he actually jumped, and his tail whipped around as if seeking to dispatch a foe that had snuck up on him hoping to catch him unawares. “Back in its hey day, I mean. What I’m doing here…standing out here on Sixth Avenue…you couldn’t do it back then. Far too many cars, packed with people honking their horns, on their way to God knows where. Like so many hamsters sprinting on their wheels, spinning and spinning and thinking they’re getting somewhere when they’re really not. Still…New York was just about the only city in the world that I could tolerate for any period of time.” His voice trailed off and then he turned and looked directly at Nicrominus. “You have no goddamned idea what I’m talking about, do you.”

  Slowly Nicrominus shook his head. “I have…some goddamned idea, Overseer. I assume you are talking about this city at some point in the past. But…” He had no clue what else to say, and so said nothing.

  “What the hell was your name again?”

  “Nicrominus.”

  “Nicrominus. Hunh.” He seemed to be considering it. “Good name. Sounds similar to Nicodemus. You wouldn’t have any idea who that is, would you?”

  “No, Overseer, I would not. Should I?”

  “A Biblical judge. He helped prepare the body of Jesus for burial after the crucifixion. I don’t suppose you know about any of that, either.”

  “I know of that, actually. I have done a good deal of reading into Mort philosophies and history. I know of the Bible. It was a book of mythologies that the Mort appeared to set great store by. This Jesus was one of the central characters. There are a number of pictorial representations of him back in Firedraque hall.”

  A strange noise came from the Overseer’s armored figure and it took Nicrominus a moment to realize that it was actually laughter. It seemed a strange thing to hear the Overseer laughing. Nicrominus wouldn’t have thought such a thing likely or even possible. The Overseer was like unto a god. Why would he be laughing? Then again, it had been the opinion of Nicrominus that the gods had been looking down upon the Banished and laughing at their fates for quite some time. So it made a certain kind of twisted sense that their representative in the world would likewise enjoy some merriment at their expense.

  “Notre Dame cathedral.”

  “I’m…sorry, Overseer?”

  “The place you call Firedraque Hall. Its true name is Notre Dame cathedral. I saw it when I was twenty-two, when I was stationed in Paris.”

  “You mean Perriz?”

  The Overseer had not been looking at him directly, but now he did. He turned and when he spoke his voice was tinged with anger. “Paris, goddammit. You could, at the very least, say it right. It’s pronounced ‘Paris.’”

  “Pah-ris,” Nicrominus said carefully.

  “Incredible. Earth was crawling with idiots, and then the idiots are damned near wiped from existence, and who replaces them? More idiots.” The Overseer was now walking back and forth, pacing, moving a few feet and then pivoting and walking back the other way in agitation. “They say that hydrogen is the most common element in the universe. But I disagree. I think it’s stupidity. I think that if the entirety of creation were left to fester and drown in the filth of its own ignorance, then that would be a good thing. Instead you’re telling me that I’m supposed to find the remaining humans and encourage them to breed so that we can make more and repopulate the Earth in order to save the whole of creation? And that’s supposed to be my job, is it? Well…what if it’s not? What if my job is to make sure that creation succumbs to the entropy it so richly deserves, and the first step along that path is to watch all life on Earth vanish?”

  “With all respect, Overseer…I might better be able to answer that question—presuming it actually requires an answer—if I knew what ‘Urth’ was?”

  “You know of the Bible, you know of Jesus, but you don’t know ‘Earth’?”

  “If it relates to Mort history or mythology, my readings and understandings are limited due to language barriers.”

  “It’s the name of the planet you’re standing on, Nicrominus. It’s the name of the planet that fell to the Twelve Races.”

  “Is it?” Nicrominus found that extremely surprising. “I had repeatedly come across what I thought was an old Mort name for it: Ee Arth. But nothing called ‘Urth.’”

  “Ee Arth is Earth. It’s pronounced Urth. Ee Arth would be how you said it if you didn’t know how to read it properly.”

  “I see.” Nicrominus shrugged. “Truthfully, Overseer, I—as do most of my people—have always simply referred to it as the Damned World.”

  “Yes. I know. Are you aware of why that is?”

  “Well, the story may be apocryphal, but it is said that the last of the human defenders of the planet, when confronted by those who were about to destroy him, took a final stand and shouted something to the effect of ‘Get off the damned world.’ And that was taken by those present to be the name of this sphere.”

  Again the Overseer made that same strange noise that almost sounded like a laugh. “It is not apocryphal.”

  “With all respect, Overseer, how do you know? Were you there?”

  At first the Overseer didn’t respond. Then, slowly, he reached up to the wide collar that encircled his head and touched either side. There was a hissing sound, and white mist floated up from the connection point. He reached up and twisted the domed helmet. There was a loud “clack” as something disengaged and then he removed the helmet, lifting it off slowly.

  Nicrominus trembled, so much so that he was almost unable to stand. He would have indeed fallen had his tail not managed to balance him and keep him upright. This is it. I am going to die. To look upon the face of the Overseer is to die instantly. He had no idea exactly how that death was going to occur. Some said that beholding the face of the Overseer would result in bursting into flames. Others claimed your head would melt. Some even contended that not only did you yourself die, but any and all of your descendants would likewise be struck down instantly, prompting a brief surge of regret for the catastrophe he might inadvertently have visited upon his daughter, Evanna. Look away! Look away! It still is not too late! But he could not look away. His curiosity got the better of him.

  He could not quite fathom what it was that he was looking at.

  The face that stared back at him was lined and wrinkled and haggard and looked for all the world as if it would be perfectly happy to just shut its eyes in final repose but never, ever could. Those eyes were a dark green, and only one of them appeared to be functioning. The other, the left one, was nearly milky white, with only a hint of a pupil. A mass of gray hair clung to the head, sopping, like a lion that had been caught out in the
rain.

  It was the face of a Mort. A human. A gods damned human.

  “It wasn’t just that I was there,” said the human. “I was the one who said it.”

  the land of feend

  I.

  The Children’s Crusade of the Ocular huddled for mutual warmth and protection deep within the woods. They were cold and tired, and they could not stop staring at the distant green glow that emanated from the far off city.

  The children were looking to two of their own for guidance, the two oldest. One was named Turkin, a young, strapping Ocular lad. The other was a female, Berola. Berola had always been a precocious sort, and had far preferred to run with the males than associate with the females. Defying Ocular custom, she had actually shaved her head, which had infuriated her parents and made her quite the talk of the town.

  Now she and Turkin were sitting a short distance from the others, and Berola was muttering, “This is ridiculous. We should just head back to the city, that’s all.”

  “While it’s glowing?” demanded Turkin. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “So it’s glowing. So what? A glow never hurt anybody.”

  “The captain said we wait here for him to get back,” Turkin said firmly. “And here is where we wait. Did you all get that?” he raised his voice so the others could hear him. “We wait here until the captain returns.” Then, once they nodded, he lowered his voice so that only Berola could hear and said, “Between you and me…I think this is all part of the training mission.”

  “Eh?” Berola looked at him skeptically.

  “Yup. They keep coming up with all sorts of ways to try and keep us off balance. Why, earlier the captain had me follow the high adviser himself, Phemus.”

  “Really.” Berola now seemed impressed, which pleased Turkin no end. “Did you find out anything interesting…?”

  “He was talking to a Piri.”

  “No! You lie!”

  “Gods’ truth,” Berola said fervently. “I told the captain, and that’s why he went and left us here: to go back and tell the king himself.”