The Poems of Madam Albithurst: A Tale of Yurghyn

In the centuries before recorded time, before the Myriad Worlds were set in their spiraling dance, the great giant Yurghyn stood tall on the land of Ut-cart. Ut-cart was, among the known world, the most verdant and beloved of lands, with people who cared well for each other and the balance-of-things.

Yurghyn, however, did not care for the balance-of-things, for the evil that he saw in the wasp sting and the viper’s tooth repulsed him. With his might and magic, he ruled over the people of Ut-cart, and guided them away from evil with a firm and steady fist.

His word was law, and the law burned bright.

But as time passed, the burning glow of new-forged law faded, and Yurghyn saw darkness again. So new law was shaped and the evil fled again, only to return once more. More and more law was born in flame, and the people of Ut-cart at last came to the great giant Yurghyn, and begged him to cease his crusade, but he did not heed them. He saw evil in the pride of a parent, and the lying security of a warm hearth. He hated wise and gentle kings, and strong and vital children, for the evil he knew they harbored, and his law continued.

At last, Gethwynnie, High-horned Watcher and the last of her kind, was called to speak with Yurghyn, and so she made the seven day and a day trek to Yurghyn’s palace, for he had found no evil in his mighty stone fortress. How small she was compared to the might of Yurghyn’s magic!

In his throne room, she spoke of the gentle caress of light on the leaf, and the joy of a warm hand held. She spoke of shelter made and feast devoured. She spoke of song and laughter, and tears for those past. She spoke of all the good in the land, and the evil that balanced it. A cost, she called it. Payment for joy, for one cannot live in joy without one day paying the price.

Yurghyn was moved by her words, but poor Gethwynnie, for when he felt his heart soften, he realized that this good woman — with her fine words and gentle voice — was preventing his great crusade. So in aligning herself with evil, Yurghyn realized that evil existed in all things beautiful.

He lifted his great hands and crafted a magic so powerful that Gethwynnie was torn from the Myriad Worlds and may never return. So lost is her soul, that it shall wander forever more in the space between.

But the words of the old woman had found a place in his heart, and now all about him he saw nothing but beauty and balm. He saw nothing but joy and laughter. Every blade of grass lightened his heart, and every warm breeze urged him to rest but a while. His crusade was now threatened by the world itself, and so great became Yurghyn’s wrath, that the entire land of Ut-cart was burned to ash. He burned forest and flower, mountain and valley, and the lands surrounding became sorely afraid of the great giant’s rage at being so betrayed.

Armies were sent to stop the giant’s work, but no matter how many soldiers were thrown at him, nothing could stop the great Yurghyn. Every spear broke against his hide, and every axe turned aside. No sooner did a blade break his skin, then it was healed once more. Ten-thousand ten-thousands of soldiers died under his feet, and so he became known as the great monster Yurghyn, for surely only a monster could he be. Unperturbed was the monster Yurghyn with their armies, and ever forward did he march, burning away the land as he walked.

A great council was held with delegates from a thousand principalities, as they sought resolution for what was to be done. They knew they could not leave the monster Yurghyn to do as he wished to their peaceful lands, so after seven days and a day, they agreed at last to the construction of a great weapon. The Fist of the Land.

So powerful would this weapon be, that even the great monster Yurghyn would succumb to its wrath. Artisans, sages, carpenters, and masons traveled from across the land to work on the great weapon. So large and terrible would it be, that the weapon required six full complements of soldiers led by strong men and women to operate it

If they ever wondered at the combating an evil with a greater evil, they did not question deeply, for at least the greater evil would be theirs to control.

At long last the Fist of the Land was finished, and the people unleashed its great power upon the monster Yurghyn. The six leaders of the soldiers who wielded the weapon gave their commands, and after a blessing from each of the Holy Nine, they used their awful power.

There was a great silence, then a great noise. A great light, then a great darkness. When the work was done, the invincible Yurghyn was at last destroyed, split into sixty and four pieces, and scattered across the Velvet.

As the six watched his body divide, they knew in their heart of hearts that the monster Yurghyn’s power remained in the pieces of his body. The six swore an oath then and there to ensure his pieces never reunited, lest the monster Yurghyn once more return to destroy the Myriad Worlds. They dismantled the Fist of the Land into ten separate pieces, and each went their separate ways. So were born the six secret societies whose singular mission was to ensure the prevention of Yurghyn’s reconstruction.

Now, if the stories are to be believed, there are only four remaining societies. I know the name of one — the Bonepickers of Had — though I make it a point to not search to deeply into the secrets of others. Suffice it to say that this tale spun through my mind at uncontrollable speeds as we wandered the Starkness.

It was not alone. Stories and folk-tales from countless cultures echoed in my mind, crowding each other out. Kahch the Moneychanger and the legend of the tipped scales. Wryn-tax with their ever-shifting face. The twin hunters of Uuphoo and Tooluu. Old King Rest and the Howling Tiger. The Brook and the cast-off bottle. The many adventures of Pipi Treenut.

You know these stories. You know them by different names, wearing different clothes, but you know them. We all know them.

When did I realize my friends were no longer with me?

I was alone, though there were many around me. I saw Archonarchians, of course, shuffling to and fro in their pale masks and arced uniforms; but also were there the other races of the Myriad Worlds. Dworgs clopped about the large rooms carrying paper and strange devices on their backs. Aeolam floated in front of broad blackboards, rolling chalk in their thin fingers. Gilbrim chattered at each other, arguing and pulling each other’s noses and hair. Esquin, Zatalia, Rim-runners, even a grey-skinned Uumphoun cocked its head in rapt attention as a white-robed Yattrinti waved its tentacles in animated explanation.

Each an engineer, each a scientist, each a philosopher of unparalleled imagination. They were building something together, a thing of such unimaginable power that I dared not stare too deeply.

“There is no way back,” I said, with a startling certainty that I myself could not countenance. “Memory is illusion, I must keep moving forward, though I do not know where I am.”

“E secret plece,” the Archonarchian Assassin whispered. “where those who ere untrusted cen work in peece.”

“Work?” I was bemused. “The starkness is where the Great construction is being built?” It was obviously true. I knew it as soon as I said it.

I looked in one room, wherein stood a short Nob: It was such a tiny room, barely larger than a sleeping room on the meanest of trains. Barely enough room for the small cot which also served as the poor thing’s chair. How their hands flew across the paper, sketching lines and curves of strange portent that I did not understand. Strange and exotic symbols were carved onto the page, circled, and then connected like a web made by a spider of unsure footing. Gnarled and winding, sigils of eldritch warp and weft were pieced together with shaking hand, only to be tossed aside and started over, with new symbols, new circles, and a new net of intersecting lines. Poems of multiple stanzas, writ in hasty scrawl, from top to bottom of the scroll and back again. A perfect image, as clear and precise as a living thing, of a Sheffich bird, long curving beak graceful and sharp.

When I left, the Nob followed after.

Into a giant spherical room we walked. Mirrors shone about us, reflecting beams of red light through the aether. In the middle of the room sat a strange cube of glittering gold. A nose grew from one corner, while eyes peered out from a thick bristly brow. Gripping a paintbrush in its mouth, a long-necked beast of no clear origin carefully painted the same mirrored sheen on panel after panel, while tall men and women fit the pieces to the walls.

We saw the cut apart body of a poor puppet on a slate slab, whose neck still twisted while doctors walked back and forth, clucking their teeth as they studied their clipboards. They poked and prodded at levers and switches, none of which appeared to do anything, but resulted in a great number of passionate argument.

The women, the men, the beast, the walls, they all followed after.

I saw a television set playing a game with a woman who was her brother, and upon every move they made a great cheer came up as if from a great many miles away. They followed after.

I saw a net, a spider-web, of brass and steel piping. Steam burst from the joints as tiny folk ran about with metal and glue; building, repairing, growing. All followed.

I saw a queen bee swarmed about with flecks of dried bark that spat flame and settled down into rows when the queen cried out for food. They followed.

I saw golden coins spinning in the air, floating as if rolling on unseen waves, and one by one they exploded in a shower of sparks and leaves, while engineers cooed and groaned in creative glee. They followed.

I saw a pile of cheese rinds on a plate, and wondered if it meant anything. “Illusions,” I told my strange companions. “Nothing more.”

What were they building? What was I building? Everything came with me as soon as I lay eyes upon it, following along like a twisted parade, a monstrous row of ducklings following my waddling tail.

Then, at last, the looming shape of the Archonarchian Assassin stood in my path. Her stele-headdress was lined with red thread, her mask flickered in shadow.

“I am no engineer,” I told her, waving my hands in an all encompassing manner, “but I cannot help but marvel at these strange ingredients. I expected this great weapon to be a mechanical marvel, but now I wonder if it is, in fact, a dramatic piece of art?”

The Archonarchian turned to face me, her eyes glittering in what I think was something like a smile. “The Greet Construction is e weepon. It is e tool. It is e greet meny things. But it is not e vessel. It is not e cennon. It is not e sword nor mechine.”

“A tool that is not a machine? A weapon that is neither cannon nor sword? I must say, this is a fascinating idea, something I have heretofore never considered. Can you explain to me — in simple words, please, as I am, as I said before, no engineer — exactly what the Great Construction is?”

There was a long pause as I waited — patiently, I thought — but my companion said nothing. At last I spoke again. “Come now, I have been traveling for a good time now, hearing all about how this Great Construction would mean the end of the Arcwhite kingdoms. It has started a war, created the Tentative Alliance, and been whispered about with such nervous tones, that I half expected a mechanical dragon. I think this foolish teasing has gone on for long enough, and I demand an explanation. How will anything we have seen so far be used in a fight?”

The agent sniffed in smug satisfaction. “There is no fight to be hed. You think this is wer? You see only the Ercwhite Kingdoms collepse ebout themselves, prepering to fight the lest wer, when the next wer is elreedy lost.”

“Already lost? How?”

“You know history?” she answered with a question: “In the Ember Wers, the victors possessed the ert of herdened steel. The Bettle of Re wes won by the fielding of the Erceledon Cetephrect. The lest Greet Wer wes decided before it hed even begun, es the Ercwhite Kingdoms hed sterted their wer mechine before we hed sterted ours. It did not metter how fest we could build.”

“You…dreamed it,” I said, understanding coming as slow as treacle. “the Arcwhite kingdoms will build and use such a weapon, so you are building yours first.”

“It is inescepeble. We who begin to build better weepons before our enemy ere the victors. We who fight the wer before it hes begun will win. So too do we build our superweepon before it is needed, beceuse then, no metter how greet your skill, your soldiers, your pession…we shell elweys triumph in the end. We heve, es you might sey, en insurmounteble heed stert.”

“But what is it?” I demanded. “What are you building?”

“E position. E plece to stend end e direction to look. Support structure end wooden freming. A picture window cerefully pleced, and perfectly positioned end eimed floodlights. We ere building e freme of reference. We ere building e world-view.”

“A world-view?” I gaped at the idea. Not one to spend much time considering the ramifications of my actions, let alone the actions of others, I was unprepared for such a clear and straight answer.

“The perfect weepon,” her mask rocked back and forth. “While the Ercwhite Kingdoms sit in complecent decedence, we will finish our Greet Construction, end the Myried Worlds shell fell to us. Our every ect will be seen es righteous and correct.”

She turned away, then, and looked at the vista before us. A web of rooms filled with scientists and engineers, carpenters and blacksmiths, Ogres and Humans and Dworgs and Gilbrim and everything in-between, all trailing behind me in a cacophonous line.

“I em efreid.”

So sudden and soft was her statement, that it took me a moment to sort through what she had said. “Afraid? of what? If you are, in fact, leagues ahead of those of the Tentative Alliance, what do you possibly have to fear?”

“Cen you not see?” She spun about, raising her arms in a whirling dance. “This weepon, it will be used. Elreedy they plen for its dispersel. Its poison will spreed ecross the Myried Worlds, end we shell sit behind the door, sefe end sound. But then whet heppens? Whet is the Erchonerchy for? E story? E monster? E dreem? Whet use is e dreem? I heve never dreemed, I heve only done whet I heve been told to do by those who ceme before me.”

Dreams. Poison. Antithesis of the hereandnow. Again they tried to destroy. I was sympathetic to her pains, as while I found myself confronted by the horrific pieces of the Great Construction, I could not easily escape the siren call of the imagined future: What momentous things were coming? When the construction was complete, what horrific change would be wrought on the Myriad Worlds? How many dead? How many suffering? Perhaps worst of all, how many whose lives would not change at all?

I rested my hand on her smooth shoulder, trying in my way to let her know that she was not alone with these concerns — though perhaps alone in the precise details. I tried, with that gentle touch, to convey the fact that the pain she suffered could be weathered as easily as any other, and with the proper application of personal will and emotional suppression, she could live a life as well as any other, no matter what came out of the Great Construction’s use.

Of course I did not know this for sure, you understand, but I did my best all the same.

After a moment, her head raised, and she took me by the hand. “Come. It is time for you to meet the meker.”

“Maker?” I protested as she gently pulled me along. “I’m afraid I am quite unprepared to die, my friend. Perhaps it would be best if we delayed meeting for a time?”

“Not your meker,” she said with what I imagine was a smile, “the meker of the Greet Construction.”