Leading up to the release of Volume 1: The Final Word, the first official installment of Arcbeatle Press’s new Auteur series, editor Aristide Twain penned a short preview story printed as a bonus preview in Cwej: Springs Eternal. As well as teasing the tone and cosmology of the Auteur series, the short also celebrated the 40th anniversary of the introduction of ‘the Magician’ in Tony Attwood's Earthlink Dilemma as immortals crossed paths on the shore of the Lake of Hali. Now, to celebrate another momentous occasion, namely the relaunch of the Arcbeatle Press website, it is time for a wider audience to discover this very special vignette — complete with a new illustration from Dante Vernor Katz!

The stage is the side of a road near the banks of a misty lake. A metal structure dominates, thirty feet in height; an elaborate cage dangles from it, golden hoops encircling the standing figure of a SKELETON, arms at its sides, legs together. Its shadow is dark and sharp below the gibbet, a cut-out silhouette on the silvery sand, cast by the light of twin suns that dominate the reddish sky like the eyes of a watchful god. It is late afternoon; hence, the cadaver's shadow is warped beyond human form, almost reaching the edge of the lake as it lengthens.

Two GUARDS stand watch at the foot of the gibbet: fearsome, armoured creatures, bipedal but hunched forwards as if under the weight of their metal shells, which bulge out above the shoulders. Of the conjoined plates that constitute these shells, some are etched with runes and symbols, and others encrusted with machine weaponry. Clutched in their left claws are weapons like golden halberds, tipped with contraptions like wireframe crystals, sharp, three-dimensional webs of gleaming lines that an irreverent observer might liken to egg-whisks. The guards have the appearance of turtles and the air of Roman legionaries.

The eldest is TARK, burly and squat, his brassy shell covered in scuffs and pockmarks, with dark bronze scales and one large, yellow eye. The other eye was gouged out by a Skulltrooper’s blade at the Battle of Cratosi Fields. Before he came to, the combat physicians had replaced it with a cybernetic monocle like a jeweler’s loupe; a warrior’s vision cannot be impaired. Whenever he turns or tilts his head, it whirrs and adjusts. The sound of it is slowly driving him insane.

Next to him stands BRYMR, thinner by comparison. Her shell is silver; her scales are a dark grey. This is the mark of old blood, but she is younger than the Cosmic War; she has never known true battle, never been deafened by the roaring of neutron cannons. But she is ambitious. Her shell has been augmented far more extensively than TARK’s; blue weapons-caches bulge out from between the natural plates of her casing. She is a living arsenal, full of bombs and retractable guns that clang with every step she takes; at a single word from her, her body could explode in a ball of fire that could wipe out a city. All for loyalty to the King; all for a promotion that never came. The Black Fleet has no room for women, even oldbloods. 

They have nothing in common — save, of course, for boredom. 

BRYMR:

Do you think it’s true?

TARK’s claw tightens on his spear.

BRYMR:

I only mean — have we always been here? Has it always been like this? Do you believe that?

TARK:

[Gruffly; reciting.]

…I am a warrior of Carcosa. My only belief is for the Yellow King.

So saying, TARK strikes his chest with his free claw balled in a fist. A gong-like sound echoes from the hollow space inside his shell. BRYMR hurries to mimic. 

BRYMR: 

Of course. Yet — do these words not taste strangely on your tongue? I have chanted them all my life, yet I feel — I feel as though we have been —

SKELETON:

— rewritten?

The SKELETON in the gibbet has spoken. Its tone is a discordant rumble, like cut glass scraped against piano wire — not that there are pianos here — and its words are a taunting challenge, but BRYMR and TARK are not surprised. They have heard the corpse’s voice before; it’s been hanging here for days, and it hasn’t been a model guest.

TARK:

Silence, microbe. You will not corrupt us.

SKELETON:

Hmmm… Y a du vrai là-dedans.

The guards scowl, as they always do when their prisoner slips into this alien tongue it calls French. They know it does so only because they cannot understand it; it delights this creature to confuse and befuddle.

SKELETON (cont’d):

Yes, there’s something to that. But it’s only a matter of tenses. You see, I’m not going to corrupt you — I already have. I’ve told you before. Vous vous souvenez?

BRYMR:

Affirmative. You said we had been different, once. Our species, our planet. 

TARK:

Brymr, don’t —

BRYMR:

You said you’d altered our… aesthetics.

SKELETON:

That’s right! C’est ça! And I did more than that… I changed your status in the Cosmos. You were aliens once, an empire like any other. I alone made you Tyrants of Hyperspace itself!

TARK:

[Neurotic as much as jealous.]

We have always been the rulers of Hyperspace! We Tyrants are the rulers of Hyperspace! Tyrants are the masters of —

SKELETONAUTEUR: 

Yes, you are! But thanks to me! Listen to me — listen! I am Auteur, God of Writing — I am an Archon, a power of the world. A God. I can rewrite anything I please. And I deigned to rewrite you. To free you of your tropes, your remoteness and ambiguities. Why, I — I put you on the map! Made you combatants in the Great Cosmic War! And I let you survive it, didn’t I? Just couldn’t kill my darlings. 

[With increasing desperation.]

Don’t you understand? I am of the God of the Fourth! Fear me!

Now both TARK and BRYMR have turned around to face the gibbet, looking up at the corpse and shaking their spears in his direction.

TARK:

We are warriors of ageless Carcosa! We are immortal! We are perfection! We will not cower before decaying bones!

AUTEUR:

[Slyly.]

But you will lose your temper…?

TARK splutters, baring metal fang in his beaked maw; but BRYMR is calmer. She lowers her weapon, striking the metal sand with the hilt and planting it like a flag — then her rounded head is again looking up at AUTEUR in the cage, meeting amber eyes that the crows have stubbornly refused to peck, even as they tore his fine robes from his frame, shred by shred.

BRYMR:

One question, God of Writing. And you will answer.

[Beat.]

If you have rewritten our destiny beyond recognition, changed our shapes, mocked the designs of our makers and the will of the Yellow King — if all of this is true, Auteur —

[Beat.]

— then what made you think that we’d ever forgive you?

AUTEUR freezes. 

So do the GUARDS, and that is not a matter of dramatics. AUTEUR’s lengthening shadow has reached the lake, and in that very second, all things changed. The sky darkened to a screaming purple, and the cloud-mist boiled. Time has stopped moving on the shore of the Lake of Hali, for all but the man in the cage. The air is still; TARK and BRYMR are statues of metal. 

And then a figure rises from the Lake, chanting. 

THE MAN:

Along the shore the cloud waves break./

The twin suns rise beyond the Lake./

A dead god walks… into Carcosa.

First a head crowns over the waves, then a torso. The figure who steps to shore is pale in the purple, timeless light. He looks too perfect for words, too perfect to be human, like a painting come to life — too beautiful to be attractive. He walks in even steps, bare feet on the metal sand. Wisps of cloud cling to his frame, dripping like water, but he walks on, until he faces the frozen figures of the guards. 

Then, at last, he reaches behind his shoulder and pulls forth a crimson cloth; he swishes it around himself with the grace of a dancer, then gathers it about himself as one might a towel. He’s drying himself, ridding himself of the cloud-stuff — 

— but when he tosses the red cloth aside, he is fully dressed in resplendent white clothes. His fair hair is dry, and a hat with a brim like a figure of eight shields his eyes from the glare of the black stars in the purple sky. He smiles.

THE MAN:

Well, well, well. ‘It was in Carcosa that my old enemy Auteur was finally taken for trial’…

AUTEUR:

Oh, la ferme.

[He pauses. Sulking.]

We were never enemies in any case, Magician. 

THE MANTHE MAGICIAN:

[Neutrally.]

You banished me when last we met.

AUTEUR:

Sure — back into reality. You’re welcome. Or did you and your House mean to stay a deck of cards forever? 

THE MAGICIAN:

We had our own contingencies.

[Beat.]

Leave that. We don’t have long. 

AUTEUR:

To do what? Gloat?

THE MAGICIAN:

Why, to get you out of this, my friend.

AUTEUR:

Friend? I thought I was your enemy.

THE MAGICIAN:

I thought you were a power of the Cosmos. However did you get yourself locked up like this by common hyperspatial rabble? 

AUTEUR:

Idiot! See the markings on the hoops that bind me. The glyphs of the Auld Ones. That pair of idiots there wouldn’t know a spell from a brand of detergent, but the Tyrants fought a War with us — remember? They have ways of keeping gods contained. 

THE MAGICIAN:

I see. I could, of course, point out that their… predecessors had nothing like this. You got carried away in your rewrites, didn’t you?  

AUTEUR:

[Peeved.]

I had to make it a fair fight, didn’t I? This was a long time in the making, crois-moi. I couldn’t let our final foes be anything too… base. 

THE MAGICIAN takes a few steps along the shore, twirling a wand between two fingers. His shoes leave no imprints upon the sand. 

THE MAGICIAN:

You always did have a knack for aesthetics, old friend. I like what you’ve done with the place. Although — twin suns, distant towers? It almost reminds one of home. Could it be you feel… well, what is that? Nostalgic? Guilty? 

AUTEUR:

…That wasn’t me. It always had two suns.

THE MAGICIAN stops in front of TARK’s unmoving form; he caresses a rough, scaly cheek with slender fingers, his gaze lost for a moment in the lens of the mechanical eye. 

THE MAGICIAN:

Yes, it did… or so I remember. But can I believe that, Auteur? Even I, who have always longed to see beyond the tides of time, even I can’t be sure. That’s the trouble with you. How can I believe a word you say, when you keep changing the facts to suit yourself? That is not art — and it isn’t magic, if there’s a difference. It is not even godhood. It is imply… childish. There is much I admire about you, but not this. The Kingmaker’s Laws existed for a reason.

AUTEUR:

Did she send you? 

THE MAGICIAN:

[Coldly.]

She’s gone. The ancient covenant is broken; we can do as we please. Is that what you wanted, when you raised the Tyrants against us? Does that make you happy?

 AUTEUR:

Ecstatic. Et toi?

THE MAGICIAN:

[Thrice thumping his chest with his palm.]

Me? It breaks my heart.

[Beat. More controlled.]

But then, I suppose it breaks yours too. I can smell the rot from down here. It’s why that cage can bind you at all, isn’t it? In the old days, you’d have forced your way through the enchantments. But that kind of effort would kill you. Without her, without the power she represented, we’re not supposed to exist. Isn’t that right?

 AUTEUR:

Oh, I have a plan for that, pas d’inquiétude. I was on my way there when the Tyrantlord Prime snatched me out of time and space. 

THE MAGICIAN:

On your way? On your way where? Tell me —

A shudder passes through the world; there is a groan, like stalling machinery straining to come unstuck. The purple sky flickers a pale mauve. 

AUTEUR:

…You said you came to free me. Well, hurry! Or is there a price?

THE MAGICIAN:

There’s always a price to magic. But you needn’t pay me. I have reasons of my own. Stay very quiet, now. 

THE MAGICIAN snaps his fingers, and the sky jolts back to the way it was; an unearthly twilight still, but a living, moving colour, not a freeze-frame, not a tableau. TARK and BRYMR grunt at his appearance before them, and in a moment, the spear-like weapons are pointed in his direction. Their sharpened points spark with little, warning gouts of yellow flame. 

He smiles, and doffs his hat.

TARK:

Intruder! Destroy him!

BRYMR:

Spy!

THE MAGICIAN:

Only a stranger, my friends. A Stranger in Carcosa. But not an enemy.

TARK:

Hah! All alien life is the enemy of the Living God.

THE MAGICIAN:

[Wry, with a flickering glance at the gibbet.]

Well, I see he didn’t change you that much.

[Eyes on them.]

But I’m not living. You see, I’m only a thought, a vision. No more alive than that thing you’ve hung in chains.

BRYMR:

That is the body of an Archon. It speaks to us, in riddles and jeers.

THE MAGICIAN:

But the Archons are dead, are they not? And so are their foes. You did it. You won the War. Glory to Carcosa. Isn’t that right? 

TARK:

[Effortfully.]

But if you’re like him. And he’s… an Archon… then doesn’t that mean you’re…

THE MAGICIAN twirls on one foot, skipping a step, his wand raised theatrically; his movement is quick and nimble, unlike any kind of combat. He is further away from the guards now, just out of range of their weapons. 

THE MAGICIAN:

Dead too, precisely! So quick you are. Superior beings indeed. I’m just a ghost, just the shadow of a fallen foe, a testament to Tyrant might. But if a living creature invaded your shores, now that would be an emergency, would it not? Far more urgent than me, or the body in chains.

BRYMR:

Wh — of course. To capture such a contamination —

[She brightens. Panels in her shell hiss and whirr as a living arsenal instinctively begins to prime itself.]

— why, we might be commended! Promoted!

THE MAGICIAN:

Excellent. Then look alive! 

He reaches into his rigid, broad-brimmed hat, and cannot suppress a grin as he pulls out a small, furry form, as white and as nimble as he is. The moment it lands upon the silver sands, it’s running, bolting past the gibbet and towards the distant spires. 

THE MAGICIAN:

Quick! It’s alive! It’s ferocious! And it’s running away!

And the guards are stampeding, their living armour clanging with every step — shoving at each other, desperate to get the honour and the joy of snuffing out the hated rabbit’s life. Within moments, they’re over the dune and out of sight.

The skeleton dangles from the gibbet as the wind from the Lake of Hali picks up. 

AUTEUR:

Oh, very clever. Very amusing. And he says I’m childish…

[Louder as he looks down.]

Well? What’s nex — oh no. Don’t you dare. Don’t you dare!

From the foot of the gibbet, avoiding AUTEUR’s shadow, THE MAGICIAN looks up. His wand has vanished, along with his hat. He has shrugged off his cloak, opened his tunic and rolled up his sleeves, preparing for an effort. 

He is smiling. With both hands, he is holding an axe. 

With apologies to Gustave Flaubert and Robert Chambers.

The Magician © Tony Attwood

Auteur, the Battle of Cratosi Fields © Jayce Black

The Gods of the Fourth, the Kingmaker © Dan Freeman

The Archons, the Hyperspace Tyrants © Aristide Twain

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