Gardens of the Moon

Raest grunted. “In this age there are none who can defeat me.”



The figure laughed, a low rumble. “You are a fool, Raest. In this age even a mortal can kill you. The tide of enslavement has reversed itself. It is now we gods who are the slaves, and the mortals our masters-though they know it not.”



“You are a god, then?” Raest's scowl deepened. “You are a child to me if so.”



“I was once a god,” the figure replied. “Worshipped as K'rul, and my aspect was the Obilisk. I am the Maker of Paths-do you find significance in that ancient title?”



Raest took a step back, raising his desiccated hands. “Impossible,” he breathed. “You passed into the Realms of Chaos-returned to the place of your birth-you are among us no more-”



“As I said, things have changed,” K'rul said quietly. “You have a choice, Raest. Onos T'oolan can destroy you. You have no understanding of what his title of Sword signifies-he is without equal in this world. You can fall ignobly beneath the blade of an Imass, or you can accompany me-for in one thing we are the same, you and I. Our time has passed, and the Gates of Chaos await us. What choice do you make?”



“I make neither, Eldering One.” With a soft, hollow laugh, Raest's battered, withered body collapsed.



K'rul cocked his head. “He's found another body.”



Kruppe pulled out his handkerchief. “Oh, my,” he said.



Kalam gestured sharply and Paran ducked down. The captain's mouth was dry. There was something very wrong with this garden. He wondered if it was simply the exhaustion he felt. The garden's air itself rubbed his senses raw. He thought he could see the darkness pulse, and the smell of decay had thickened to a stench.



Kalam reached for his knives. Paran tensed, unable to see anything beyond the assassin. Too many trees, not enough light. Somewhere ahead flickered gas-lamps, and people were gathered on the terrace. But civilization seemed a thousand leagues away. Here, the captain felt as if he was within a primordial presence, breathing slowly and heavily on all sides.



Kalam gestured that Paran remain where he was, then slipped into the shadows to their right. Crouching low, the captain edged forward to where the assassin had been standing moments earlier. There looked to be a glade, or clearing, just ahead. He couldn't be certain, however, nor could he see anything amiss. Yet his feeling of wrongness now ached in his skull. He took another step. Something occupied the glade's centre, blockish, like a dressed stone, or an altar, and before it stood a small woman, almost wraith-like in the darkness. Her back was to Paran.



One moment she stood alone, the next Kalam rose behind her, knives glimmering in his hands. He drew back his arms.



The woman moved in a blur, one elbow driving backwards into the assassin's stomach. She twisted round and drove her knee into the man's crotch. A shout burst from Kalam as he reeled back a step, then fell to the ground with a heavy thump.



Paran's sword was in his hand. He dashed into the clearing.



The woman saw him and voiced a surprised, frightened yelp. “No!” she cried. “Please!” The captain stopped at that girlish voice. Kalam sat up. He groaned, then said, “Dammit, Sorry. Wasn't expecting you. We figured you were dead, girl.”



The woman eyed Paran warily as he approached cautiously. “I should know you, shouldn't I?” she asked Kalam. Then, as Paran came closer she raised a frightened hand between them and stepped back. “I–I killed you!” With a soft moan she fell to her knees. “Your blood was on hands. I remember it!” A fire of rage flared in Paran. He raised his sword and moved to stand over her.



“Wait!” Kalam hissed. “Wait, Captain. Something's not right here.”



With great difficulty, the assassin climbed to his feet, then prepared to sit down on the stone block.



“Don't!” the girl gasped. “Can't you feel it?”



“I can,” Paran growled. He lowered his weapon. “Don't touch thing, Corporal.”



Kalam stepped away. “Thought it was just me,” he muttered.



“It's not stone at all,” the woman said, her face free of the anguish that had twisted it a moment before. “It's wood.” She rose and faced “And it's growing.”



A suspicion came to Paran. “Girl, do you remember me? Do you know who I am?”



She frowned at him, then shook her head. “He's an old friend, I think.”



The assassin choked on something, then coughed loudly, wagging his head.



“I know Kalam,” she said. The woman pointed at the wooden block. “See? It's growing again.”