"Rooms of Ruin" by Garon E. Whited

The Heru were born—if born be the word—in a convulsion of Chaos.  In a stroke, they began, teeming thousands upon thousands, all fully formed in a cataclysmic instant in the roiling void.  And, in that same instant, each was at the throat of the others, for the Heru are jealous and powerful and know nothing of mercy, love, or any of the gentle emotions.

In mere moments, the thousands upon thousands of Heru cut themselves down to hundreds of thousands, then tens of thousands.  Those who were left had only the greatest remaining to face; peers, of a sort, with whom they might do battle and perchance be slain.  Then did they flee into the writhing void and scatter for time untold.  When they came upon each other, there was combat.

Finally, two Heru joined together in untrusting alliance to do away with another of their kind.  Thus did the Heru begin to unite as a race, albeit slowly.  The two became three, then four, and so on until all those who remained were of a loose confederation against others of their own kind.

Yet, when there were no others to combat, there were still themselves.  They were still the Heru, jealous of their power and unwilling to acknowledge others as equals—yet more unwilling to risk oblivion.

Then spoke up the Heru Maddarrah, she of the eyes and hair of blood, and said, “Let us create a grand arena within which we may take pleasure and pain, and so pass our time in games of bloodshed, rather than in the shedding of one another’s blood.”

Many felt this to be a grand thing, a good thing, for all had come to savor the feeling of flesh and life.  Those few who disagreed kept silent, for well they knew the fate of those who would go against the will and massed might of the others.

Rendu was one of the Heru, and widely accepted as the master of all craftsmen, for he had designed the first sword, the first armor, the first shield, there in the beginning of things, and all others were but copies.  There were others of the Heru who possessed greater strength, or speed, or skill at arms; but none could match the skill of Rendu the Artificer.  What he chose to create, he created, saving only one thing.

Rendu, was asked to design such a plaything as would please them all.  For the Heru are proud and terrible, and knew that to order such a thing would be to slight the one of whom they wished a service.

To this request, Rendu agreed, and was left alone for a space to reflect and to consider.  One by one, each of the remaining Heru came to Rendu and spoke to him of the things that were most beloved, the ideas and concepts that each held in the heart.  Rendu took these, fashioned them together, and the Chaos convulsed again, spewing forth a great orb of green and blue and brown.  It was a globe of such size that each Heru could stand upon a continent and claim it as a prize.  And each of them did so.

Yet Rendu left no such place for himself.  For this, many mocked the greatest of artificers, despite the magnificent creation and wonders of the world, saying that the artist had been lost in the work.  But Rendu spoke thus:

“Not so.  I have made a place of all your dreams and whims and fancies.  Not of mine!  In payment for this, I shall place my own small worlds in the heavens about yours, ever circling your new home.  There shall I dwell, while you have your way with this thing that I have made at your behest.”

For time unmeasured, they lived and fought and did war with creatures of their own devising, like toy soldiers within a child’s sand-box.  Kingdoms grew and spread, empires rose, then fell to ruin.  On rare occasion, even a Heru would fall before the armies and the powers of another, for the Heru are mortal only in that they must be killed.  Neither age nor disease nor poison may touch them; only the hand that takes up fire and sword to slay them may do them harm.

In time, there were only a hundred Heru that remained.

These final hundred were the craftiest and most powerful of them all, the survivors of wars of such scope that would blast the minds of lesser beings.  So perfectly matched were they that none could gain an upper hand over any other, and none would trust the others in an alliance—for by such methods had the Heru grown few in number; never were there more Heru, for it was not the way of their kind to spawn.  Born of a convulsion in Chaos, such was the only way they might spring into being.

Thus was Rendu’s only failure.  He had crafted many things; the first elves were his, made from the glowing light of his seven celestial orbs.  He made the dwarf-kind from the silver-steel and stone.  The phoenix was his crested bird, drawn from fires made from the burning bones of the vanquished of his own kind.  And the mighty, scaled serpents were his creatures, the First of them formed perfect and entire from a diamond drop of his own perspiration and a ruby drop of his own blood.

But never did he make another of his own kind.  That he marked as his single failure and never turned his hand to the task again.  Without the capacity for renewal, the Heru were doomed to die, physically immortal though they be.  For while the Heru remained, there would be conflict.  And in conflict, there would be those who fell.  In all of eternity, all things may come to pass.

Rendu knew this, perhaps alone of them all.  And therefore his creations, his legacy, were greater and more wondrous than any of the others.

*   *   *

Rendu reclined on a low couch of bailwood and seetem-cloth while a dozen females of the elf-kind waited upon his whims.  One polished tikka fruit with her lips, another massaged warm oils into his brow, and a third stroked the hard lines of his body with fingertips of great softness and skill.

Rendu felt within his body the approach of another Heru.  It was a distant thing, but drawing nearer.  Someone had violated the borders of his realm and remained there, on the edge, taunting him with a presence.

The elven-maids withdrew from their lord with grace and speed; he rose from the low couch and walked across the great mosaic of the floor.  His bare feet trod upon the inlays of silversteel and diamond, redgold and trapped firelight.  As he walked, memories of the old times, when Heru beset Heru, came to him, and his feet were no longer bare.  Shod in boots of wondrous suppleness and strength, his armor returned from the depths of his memory, made stronger by time and thought.  Upon his arm rode a shield of infinite darkness, a hole through which things might go, never to return.  Into his hand came a sword molded all of frozen fire, with an edge sharper than the last ray of light from a shattered mirror.

The great doors of the serpent’s aerie slid aside at his aproach, and the great wyrm lifted its head, eyes blazing with the color of sunsets.

Kill?  Destroy?

“Perhaps,” Rendu replied in a voice as pure as silver bells, and walked up the length of the great serpent to sit astride the neck, just behind the head.

The roof rolled back, and the serpent writhed into the air.  They closed rapidly with the hovering dragon; the rider it bore was dressed in robes all the color of blood.

“Hail, Rendu, Artificer!” called Maddarrah, and her voice crossed the intervening miles.

Rendu approached without reply until they were no more than a thousand yards apart.

I could kill this lesser dragon with ease, Lord.

Rendu tapped the serpent lightly on the head with the hilt of his sword, and it was silent.

“Why have you come, Maddarrah?” he asked, coldly.

Maddarrah flinched inwardly.  “The Heru have thought of a new game, O Artificer, and would fain have thy help.”

“Our kin have thought of this?  Or you?” he asked, his gaze never leaving the twin pools of blood she held in place of eyes.

“Very well.  As you say, I have thought of a game.  But we all wish to play it, and so would ask of you a boon.”

Rendu considered this.

“No.  I have all that I require.”  He nudged the serpent, and it turned in the air like a ribbon to return.

“It is a contest to see whose creations are the greatest!” called Maddarrah.

Rendu slowed, stopped.  He turned in his seat to consider this.

“Come,” he said, and urged his serpent onward.

Within the Hall of Rendu, both serpent and dragon landed.  Their riders dismounted and walked across the mosaic to rest upon finely-brocaded chairs.  Rendu lifted a finger and refreshement in the form of fermented starlight was poured from a crystal decanter into goblets all of cunningly worked gemstone.

“Tell me,” Rendu commanded.

Maddarrah paused for an instant, considering the insult of his command.  She discarded the idea; she had disturbed him, come a-begging, and was in his place of power.  He would make his own terms.

“We have long known that none of us may challenge another with any surety,” she began.  “To brave such a conflict would result in death or success—no middle ground.  So it was decided that we would abdicate from the games of the world and merely watch, allowing our plans and stratagems to be executed by creatures less than perfect.”

“I understand.”

“But we have also detected occasional…” she paused, rolling the ruby goblet between her palms for a moment, “…disturbances.  Things that cannot be accounted for by our toys.  We believe that some of us may be cheating.”

Rendu nodded.  It seemed only natural.

“Thus, we wish to have another home.  A place where we can reside and watch, but we cannot interfere.”

Rendu arched a brow, surprised.

“You realize,” he said, “that you are asking me to invent a prison for the Heru?”

“In essence…  Yes.”

Rendu looked thoughtful.  “You want something to contain the likes of us.  A creation that can contain the power of any Heru, and in that sense is greater than ourselves.”

“Yes.  That is why we have come to you.  If it can be done at all…”

Rendu nodded.  “I will think on it.”

Maddarrah sipped at her drink and waited.  After a time she asked, “Well?”

“I have not finished thinking.”

“When shall I ask again?”

“Return in seven circlings of my home.  Then shall I give you answer.”

Maddarrah nodded and departed.

*   *   *

“Well?” asked the one in the armor of bronze and gold.

“Telu, he is far more dangerous than you think.”

The one called Telu shrugged massive shoulders.  “He is proud of his gewgaws and trinkets and toys.  Let him be.  Can he do what we need?”

Maddarrah held her robes wrapped tightly about her.  “You were not there, Telu.”

“Just answer me.”

“As I was leaving, I flew low over the latest of the orbs he makes for his homes.  That one, the one upon which he dwells, is not yet full, as are the others.  Even so, it is brimming with things that I call wondrous and beautiful and strange.  While we have fought with each other and made war, he has made beauty and grace.  All our efforts here are cold and bloody things, ugly and forceful and brutish by comparison.  Even were he to give us one of his personal attendants, I much doubt that we, working with all our combined might and skill, could fashion something with half its grace.”

“So he’s had a lot of practice at making prettified meat toys.  Can he do it?”

“You are not listening to me,” she snapped, the blood within her gaze seething.  “When I approached his home, he came out garbed for war.  I know of no one living who has seen him fight, save in the time of the First Stroke, for all fought then.  Instead, he has thought.  I do not know what he forged that sword from, nor what dark forces lay within his shield; I know that I never wish to face them.”

“So he frightened you.  The tools are only as good as their wielder,” Telu replied, scornful.  “Can he make the thrice-cursed prison or no?”

Maddarrah laughed, a brittle, terrible sound of mirth and fear.  “Yes, I believe he can.  Oh, yes.  I do believe he can.”

Seven times the orbs of Rendu circled the globe, and Maddarrah approached on the back of her dragon once more.  This time she was expected, and the phoenix-bird was sent to escort her.  Once she had landed, she held out her arm; the bird deigned to land on it and gaze at her.  It accepted a gentle petting, then flew to its high perch.

Rendu received her in his grand hall.

“You have in mind to imprison all the Heru,” he stated, without preamble.  “I surmise that my own presence will be required within this prison, for no Heru will trust another to be his jailer.”

“This is true,” Maddarrah replied, quailing inwardly.  She had not intended to bring it up so soon.  She cursed herself silently for not realizing that if anyone would realize that, it would be Rendu—the one to craft the thing!

“I agree to these terms on two conditions,” Rendu stated.  “I will be the jailer, but imprisioned as well.  No Heru or combination of Heru may pass out of the prison until I do.  When I depart the prison, all may depart.  But even I will not be permitted to pass unless another Heru comes with me.  Thus I am caged, as are we all.  When any of the others frees me, so do they free us all.  How say you?”

“This, the first of your conditions,” she replied, “I see as acceptable.”

“The second is that these seven orbs will not be touched by any of those upon the greater world.  I shall lay powerful enchantments upon these seven small worlds that they will be held in stasis for as long as might be needful.  But no one and no thing shall touch upon them while we are within this prison.  How say you?”

“They are yours, Rendu,” Maddarrah said.  “I do not doubt that there will be great relief that your creations will not take part in this game.  I will put it to our fellows and see if they agree.”

Rendu nodded.  “If they agree to my terms, then shall I build you your prison.”

*   *   *

Upon the plain of Gol-Taroth, there met for the first time in all the ages the physical presence of all the Heru.  They came armed and armored, wary, and with much distrust.  But they came, for immortality demands a heavy toll of boredom, and what interest is there in a game without danger?  There is no spice that can flavor the meat and drink of endless days, save the risk of losing them all.

“We are here,” said Dor’amar, he of the golden hair.  “Where is this castle you would build for us?”

Rendu drew forth a small orb of something like stone and placed it upon the ground.  Its color was as impossible to fathom as the skies of the uttermost Chaos, and its surface was as ever-changing as those same depths.  Here he drew his dagger with care and pierced the tip of one finger with its point.  He let fall a single drop of his own blood upon the orb, which seemed to drink it in, swallow it up.

“There is our home,” said Rendu.  “Each of you must do as I have done, so that it can perform the function required of it.”

Many were unwilling to do this, for the blood of the Heru is not lightly shed; every drop has potency beyond that of words to tell, and whole continents and races had been birthed and blasted by less powerful forces.  Yet those who were most avid for this new game clamored the louder and presented united assent; those few who would have refused instead kept their silence.

Maddarrah came forth and drew her dagger also.  She too let fall a drop of her own blood, and the orb drank it as greedily.  One by one, the Heru all marched by, each imbuing the orb with the faintest touch of the power within themselves.  Until, at last, Wedlek of the scaled hands completed the roll of the race.

Rendu then pricked his finger again, for any wound upon the person of a Heru—save that of a deathblow—heals almost as swiftly as it is made.  Again, he let fall a drop of his blood, and the orb drank it; the first drop and the last drop, both shed from the hand of its creator, sealed within the almost-stone.  With this, it began to grow, changing size and shape, swelling up and out.  The assembled Heru backed away, watching it and each other, giving this new thing enough room for its alterations.  The skies above swirled with random strokes of Chaos, and a funnel of it descended like a whirlwind, screaming in all colors and smells, pouring into the now-changing structure like the laughter of children and the taste of bitter ashes.

A great silence fell.  Within the ring of the Heru stood a spire, reaching up from the roots of the world to the vault of the sky, pierced with many windows and a single great door.

Rendu turned to Maddarrah and held out his hand.  “If I enter alone,” said he, “then never may I emerge until another Heru enters and frees me.  If you enter alone, you will never come out until I enter to be freed, and so free you.”

“This is a game that I have called for,” she answered, and took his hand.  “I will dare this with you.”

The great door of the Spire swung inward, and the two entered together.  Behind them came the rest of their race.

What is to be said of the interior of the Spire?  It was the capstone of an immortal life given to wondrous craftsmanship?  It was a work of art beyond compare?  It held precious beauties that made the Heru themselves weep?  It was a home worthy of that ancient and terrible race?  All these things it was, and far more.  Spacious halls of eye-twisting geometry marked it as a home for those born of Chaos, and pleasing to them.  Mosaics of the most intricate design decorated the floors; many fell to their hands and knees to better trace the infinite complexities of the designs.  The walls held friezes of such beauty that the Heru paused in confusion, thinking the images themselves were Heru known to be long-dead.

So they moved about their new home, their prison, and found rooms accomodating to each taste and fashion, for Rendu the Artificer had forgotten nothing of their old loves and desires from when he made for them a world.

Time passed swiftly for the lords of all creation, for the Spire held as many windows as there were Heru, and each window could call forth a vision through itself to any place upon the greater orb.  No matter how far the vista or how secluded the place, the windows brought sight and sound from anywhere in the world.  And they watched, did the Heru, watched their creations avidly as they were set in motion on their own, to rise or fall without interference or intervention.

Many exulted as their races spread and became victorious over another’s, and an equal number gnashed their teeth or raged.  The oolone were the first to perish under the iron heel of the dakthars, followed by the shimsa and the prevnyt.  The dakthars themselves were crushed by the orku, and so the raging in the Spire grew greater than the exaltation; for it is always a harder blow to see one’s work rise high before being cast down, along with one’s hopes.

Finally, six races yet remained, vying for supremacy, yet well-matched.  The orku, the giant, the dwarf, the tyga, the demon, and the human.  Their conflicts drew on for centuries, and the Heru grew restless.  Of those whose creations no longer survived, a few desired release; more desired the game to continue, as agreed, until one race should be supreme.  But, weary of waiting, one by one they elected to assume a deep sleep, passing out of consciousness and thought until the day when one race would live, and no other.

Rendu watched.  Seated upon the great throne at the heart of the Spire, he watched the creations of his fellows.  Most he scorned as worthless, and was right; a few he noted as worthwhile.  But one stood out in his mind as original and persistent.  He called Maddarrah, and she came to him.

“What is this race of humans?” asked Rendu.  “I have watched it long, and it is as unlike anything I have ever seen.  Kill them, and they both wail in grief for fallen comrades, and they rise up in fury like rabid calim.  They are weaker than orku, less hardy than dwarf, softer than demon, short-lived and short-sighted, yet they persist.  What inspired them?”

Maddarrah licked her lips and was pleased that no other was with them in that room.

“I do not know,” she replied.

“I hear your words, but I sense a deeper story.”

“That is true.  I do not know what inspired them, nor what created them.  I did not.  I found them, clinging like flies to small places, adrift in Chaos.”

Rendu looked at her, and said, “So you entered them into the game as your own?”

“I found them.  They are mine.”

“So you declare; you will be held to that.”

Troubled, Maddarrah left him to his observations.

One by one, the Heru eventually tired of the game.  Even the six who held great races grew weary, for the conflict promised to be long, even by the standards of the Heru.

“Let us sleep for ten thousand years,” they said, “and awake for a day to see how things fare.”

To this they agreed, and so laid themselves down.

Ten thousand years showed little change, but the human and demon were gaining ground; the orku and the tyga were losing.

“It is good to see progress.  Let us sleep again.”  And they did, for ten millennia.

Upon awakening, the tyga were gone, not to be found.  Toril, he of the transluscent skin, their creator, gave a cry of anguish and returned to his chamber to sleep the ages away until the ending of the game.  The giants were also vanished, leaving only bones.  Gartun of the many arms wept, and also turned to slumber.

The four who still played the game returned to their couches for another ten thousand years.

But something happened that they did not expect.

Into the Spire came a man.  Disbelieving the tales of gods imprisoned, he came with what magics he knew to test the tales.  And test them he did, for, great as the Artificer of the Heru was, he had never even considered that something other than a Heru would ever attempt entry.  The Spire was meant always to keep those of the blood of the Heru in, not keep anything out, and so the door opened for the man.

Within, he found the sleeping gods.  Perhaps believing that he might gain their power, he drew his sword and slew them as they slept.  Indeed, such was their power that he did feel something of the might of the Heru as he slew them.  His steps grew firmer, his hand stronger, and his mind buzzed with the faintest memory of the battle-lusts of that race.  From couch to bed he ran, sword red and dripping with the ichor from pierced hearts and slit throats, until he came to the door of Rendu’s chamber.

Rendu shuddered in his sleep, for the webwork of his creation united all the Heru within the Spire, and his dreams were troubled.   But the Spire knew death when it saw it, and much blood of the Heru had flowed upon its floors.  It changed its own shape, reworking its own interior, and the door to Rendu’s chamber opened only onto stone.

Thwarted, the human raged at the shifting labyrinth of the Spire.  He sensed another Heru, for a piece of their power now lived within his flesh.  Yet could not reach the last of them.  For years he remained within the Spire, hunting and seeking and stalking, but ever did the Spire’s walls shift and flow, denying him all access to the thing he sought.

At last, he departed the Spire and built up a great wall around the base of it to block the door.  If he could not slay the last of the Heru, he would cage it forever! 

Little did he realize that he had already locked the cage.

He went off into the world, the miniscule fraction of the power of the Heru burning in his blood; he fought across the face of the world beneath seven moons of silver, as a warrior, wizard, conquerer, and king—but that is another tale.

In the Spire, Rendu woke after the ten thousand years of sleep.  He searched the whole of his creation and mourned the loss of his kin.  Then he looked upon the great door of the Spire and knew despair.

Rendu still sits on the throne of the Spire, surrounded by the most luxurious of trappings.  He watches the comings and goings of the beings of the world, for what else is there?  Without another Heru to set him free, the warden of the Spire is as much a prisoner as those he once held. 

All is silent in the rooms of ruined gods, the halls of slain Heru.