Lazarus 6 - SIXTEEN: Wayland

The staircase descended down, down, down. Twenty feet, thirty feet, forty, fifty. The walk seemed to last forever.

Eventually it let out into what I could only describe as the nave of a temple, equal parts gothic citadel and a pulp sci-fi laboratory. The walls were weathered gray stone, pitted with time and age, but they were covered by banks of blinking lights, floor to ceiling monitors, and huge burbling vats filled with things that only the most generous would call humanoid. Fluted pillars spanned a massive central chamber, supporting a gold-plated domed ceiling. Stained glass windows, illuminated by garish neon lighting, featured reverential images of man and machine merging together and grand, futuristic utopias.

The place had an air of the divine about it—this was a place of ritual and religion as surely as any church. But it was clear what they worshiped here: the end of humanity and the beginning of something else entirely.

Instead of pews or confessionals, there were metal, run-etched spires, stainless steel worktables, operation gurneys, and platters covered with scalpels, wrenches, soldering irons, and electric bone saws. But for every slick and shiny gadget, there was a touch of the arcane harkening back to a different, older, darker age. Stone bookcases filled with esoteric tomes. Some of them I knew at a glance, the Picatrix, the Clavis Salomonis, Archidoxes Magica, while others were new to me. I spotted an iron maiden—and not the band, sadly—a hulking brass Aradia cauldron, an enchanter’s pedestal, and cabinets loaded down with otherworldly ingredients. Everything from Frenbite Scale to Catthistle Extract.

I squinted, straining to see the alter at the far end of the citadel, but it was lost in murky gloom up ahead.

“Looks like there’s only one way to go,” I whispered, pulling free the monster killing pistol at my side. A quick brass check made sure I had rounds ready to fire.

“That won’t be at all necessary,” floated a voice from out of the darkness. “The weapons, that is.”

A moment later a harsh fluorescent light flicked on, revealing the rest of the sanctuary and the curved chancel, where the priest would typically deliver mass.

Waiting for us were two figures. The first was a gangly asshole, eight or nine feet tall, and gaunt as a skeleton. Not a single extra ounce of meat on him. He had inky dark skin—a purple so deep it was almost black—and pale white hair that cascade down his shoulders. His ears were point, his eyes the color of fresh blood, and a third eye, suspended in a triangle, graced his forehead. He wore oversized boots, leather breeches, and a simple leather work apron, that cover his emaciated ribs. Like many of his creations, spidery metal limbs protruded from his back, slowly curling and uncurling.

He sat in a hulking throne of metal and neon, one leg crossed, his foot bouncing impatiently.

Didn’t look like a guy spoiling for a fight and he wasn’t at all the monster I was expecting. Not after everything I’d seen in this place. The other thing more than made up for it, though. A crimson-skinned creature with jaws the size of a great white and a glut of eyes peppering its body, hung from a metallic cross, suspended high above the floor. Vines and flowers entwined its form, reaching along gangly, claw-tipped arms, then driving upward into the temple ceiling. Protruding from the creature’s heart was an enormous violet flower with a single eyeball staring blankly onto the world.

Levi stumbled and shook his head. “No. It can’t be… Siphonei?” he asked, voice wounded. Oddly gentle.

“She can’t hear you,” the dark elf, who could only be Wayland, said. “She is only a shadow of what she was, I’m afraid. Tough she does have her moments. Enough moments of lucidity to tell me about you, Levi Adams.” He reached up and tapped a thin, elegant finger against his pale blue bottom lip. “Hogg’s original homunculus. The things I could learn from you.”

I shot a glance at Levi, but he only mouthed the word later at me.

“Look, pal,” I said, leveling my gun. “I don’t know what the hell that thing is or what kind of history you have with Levi. Frankly, I could give a shit less. I’m here—”

“For the Morrigan,” he finished. “Yes, I am more than aware. She warned me you would be coming, though I must say I doubted you would make it so far. I expected my Chimera to fair better, but then…” He paused, surveying each of us in turn. “But then I will admit, I wasn’t expecting such a robust team. The illustrious Lieutenant Sullivan, though I suppose you’ve been promoted with Iron Stan gone. I always liked him, Iron Stan. He helped me with a number of the weapons I designed for the Fist over the past hundred years. Including that little number you’re carrying, Lazarus.” He gestured toward the gun in my hand.

“One of my favorite pieces of work, that.” He uncrossed his legs and hunched forward in the chair, forearms resting against his thighs as he peered at the weapon. “I track my weapons. You see, there’s a silver of my magic in each one. A tiny portion of my soul. I love seeing what my terrible creations do in the world and that revolver has carved quite the bloody path. Its impact is disproportionate to its power, which only goes to show that even a weak weapon in the right hands is more deadly than a powerful weapon in inept ones.”

“I’m glad you’re enjoying the family reunion,” I said, cocking the hammer. “But this ain’t quite the same gun you built. It’s got some after market upgrades, which I’d be happy to show you up close and personal if you so much as look at me funny.”

He grinned and leaned back in his chair, crossing his legs once more. “Despite your run ins with my Chimeras, I mean you no ill will. Your qualm is with the Morrigan, and I want no part in it.” He brushed his hands together.

“But your company is building a compound for her,” Sullivan said, eyes narrowing.

“Yeah. From where I’m standing,” I said, “it looks like your hip deep in this pool of bullshit.”

“It’s all purely transactional, our relationship. The Morrigan and I have long had our own qualms. She is a relic, a creature stuck in the past, who doesn’t see the value or wisdom in the future—save for how it can return her to what she feels she once was. But”—he shrugged—“I often work for those with whom I deeply disagree.” He canted his head to the side. “I am Wayland the Smith, Mad King of the Dökkálfar. My purpose is to build. To forge the weapons of our destruction and salvation. I don’t particularly care what a client’s ideological bent is, so long as they can pay my price.”

“So you’re purely a mercenary?” Sullivan said. “You do this”—he waved his cane at the chapel—“all of this for a paycheck?”

“Hardly.” Wayland rolled his eyes and sighed. “I do it to fund my own ideological vision. And not with money. I don’t barter in something as common as gold or silver, I barter in power and oaths. Though I have no great love for the Morrigan, she offered me a deal that was simply to good to pass up. A fellow college of mine, who these days goes by the name of Arlen Hogg, reached out to me with a proposal on behalf of the Morrigan.”

“We know well of Hogg,” Winona said, all kindness gone from her voice. “He is a monster. A murderer. He invaded our lands, convinced my betrothed to turn his back on the way of the People, and kidnapped those most vulnerable in society so that me might experiment on them.”

“That’s only the tip of the iceberg,” Levi growled. “His heinous ways go back further than that. He has a soul blacker than the heart of the ocean.”

Wayland the Smith wrinkled his elfin nose. “Your pathetic moralities do not concern me in the least.” He waved away their contempt. “You people get so caught up in the minutia and fail spectacularly to see the largest picture. Hogg, for all of his many failings, understands the grand scheme. He came to me a year ago with a bold plan. A revolutionary weapon designed to kill to a god. Or even more than one god.

“Naturally, he needed someone with my skills and formidable expertise to accomplish the task. His plan was intriguing, I will admit.” He shrugged narrow shoulders. “But it required far too much time and far too many resources. I passed. Until, that is, he sweetened the pot, as your kind is wont to say.” He turned and gestured toward the hideous thing hanging from the cross.

“Wait,” I growled, “are you saying you agreed to help him build a weapon that can kill immortals for that thing. The creepy plant thing.”

“This thing,” Wayland hissed, “is both the pinnacle and the last remaining remnantof the greatest civilization to ever exist. A civilization that realized that humanity’s final evolution was singularity.” He reached up and tapped at the electric eye jammed into his forehead. “Singularity of mind, of all consciousness, but also the singularity of magic and technology coming together to form something far more beautiful than the sum of their parts. This thing, Siphonei, is the revelation of that truth.”

“She was a good woman, who a bunch of monsters with more power than sense experimented on,” Levi growled. “They trapped her in the god forsaken place out in the Sprawl and left her to die. Alone.”

“Not monsters,” Wayland said. “Magi. There was a time,” he continued, eyeing me and Sullivan, “that your people didn’t cower, afraid of your own shadows. There was a time when they ruled the most powerful empire in the ancient world. And unlike you and your pitiful Guild of the Staff, they embraced the future. They reached for it, yearned for it. They realized that the fullest potential of men lay not only in magic, but in the perfect union of the arcane and the mechanical. And so Siphonei was born—a blend of magic and technomancy pilfered from the future.”

“And their hubris destroyed them,” Levi said, stomping forward, his one remaining hand curling into a fist. “Their greed and lust for power drove their whole civilization to the bottom of the ocean floor.”

“Yes, as Icarus flew too close to the sun, so too did they soar. Yet the lesson in that story is caution, not that we should avoid the skies altogether. What they pioneered I will prefect.”

“Even if that’s true,” Levi said, getting angrier by the second. “You really expect me to believe Hogg just waltzed in and gave her up? I know exactly how much hell he went through to build that thing.”

“Ah yes,” Wayland replied nodding, “I do forget just how closely you are tied to Hogg’s work. But he did indeed give the homunculus up.” He leaned forward. “He has a new vessel for his master, one that will serve even better than this last, though…” he paused, drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair. “Not so well as you, I imagine.”

I was totally, utterly, and completely lost in the sauce. I had no idea who this Siphonei person was or how Levi knew her. Levi had admitted his connection to Hogg before—shit, he was helping us in order to get back at the mad scientist douchebag—but clearly their history went much deeper than that. I would have to ask later, but right now we needed to know about the Morrigan.

“Fascinating,” I offered dryly, “but I’m not here for a history lesson, dickhead. I’m here for answers. The question is, are you gonna give them to me freely, or am I gonna have to strap you into that Iron Maiden”—I hooked a thumb at the metal coffin, studded with inward facing spikes—“before we have our little chat.”

Wayland stood, the motion so fast it was impossible to track with the eye.

“I regularly deal with deities,” he said evenly. “Deities who desire weapons of immense power, which should tell you everything you need to know about their disposition toward violence. I haven’t survived this long by fighting. I’ve cultivated a persona for madness, for recklessness, but only as a cover. It is likely that I could destroy the lot of you, but perhaps not? You have thwarted the Morrigan at every turn, assassinated half the Royalty in Pandæmonium, and managed to slay my greater Chimera. All impressive feats. Fighting you would be an unnecessary risk, especially when I want you to succeed.”

That last bit caught me flat foot.

“Eh, maybe run that by me one more time,” I said. “Did you say you want us to succeed?”

“Indeed I did. As I said, my business with the Morrigan is purely transactional—I am a freelancer, a contractor. Not some mindless drone in her army. As Mr. Sullivan should know, the Mad King doesn’t fight for any side. She’d paid and I am happy to do the work, but she and I don’t see eye to eye on a great many things. Her vision for the future is oppositional to mine, in many crucial ways. I would not at all be sad to see her come to an end.

“I will not actively help you, of course,” he continued, “but you have survived my attempts at discretion and forced your way into my inner sanctum. As I see it, I have done everything within reason to uphold my end of the bargain with the Morrigan. I will do no more. What you are seeking lies there.” He ushered toward an archway on his left. “Just behind those doors. I wish you neither luck nor ill will in your future endeavors.”

“I’m not letting you take her,” Levi said, face contorting into a grimace. “Siphonei has suffered enough and I won’t see you abuse her anymore!” With a roar he broke into a lumbering run, beefy legs pumping as he charged the Mad King like an enraged bull. But before he’d gone more than a handful of feet, a blinding light as bright as the sun at noonday lit up the room. I recoiled from the flare, closed my eye, and pressed a hand up against my face. Even through my fingers and eyelid, I could see the glow. After a few seconds the light dimmed and died.

When I finally worked up the courage to look again, Wayland was gone, vanished without a trace, and so was the creature, hanging from the cross moments before.