ULYSSES: The Dial Strikes One

SYNOPSIS

The year is 1917, and the fervour of revolution has ensnared Russia. Unfortunately for thirteen-year-old Artyom Todorovsky, bullets ache for noble bodies.

As Artyom awaits the firing squad in his palace, however, the ground begins to recess as steps. Down. Down, and further down. Stairs are sculpted before him… into darkness. Soon enough, a man appears.

Enter, Horace Snell - Rogue, Privateer, Time and Space Traveller, Extra-Terrestrial.

He has come to save Artyom; but Artyom must die.

In attempting to evade his fate, Artyom is stalked by the Gnomon’s shadow. He discovers greater powers than The Revolution loom over him,and that an even greater terror awaits him, should he not be returned to his executioners when the dial strikes one.

PROLOGUE

I’ve never felt such rough hands, Artyom thought of the men that bungled him into the cellar. Although, they were still more tender than his father’s and more caring than his mother’s had ever been. He knew those men took pity on him, because that night they hid him in a once splendid, but now forgotten room resting in the foundations of the Palais Todorovsky. The entire estate had undergone a renovation some years earlier, but this room had remained untouched, save for the paint to conceal gaping cracks. Spiders nested in the corners with their thick cobwebs, lead paint peeled from the walls, and a grand chandelier lay rusted on the floor; and yet, it was away from the baying hounds, the whippets of bullets, and the prying eyes of less forgiving men. But Artyom could not possibly have hoped to be forgiven for his crime. In his thirteen years a noble, he had enjoyed more luxuries than all the millions of Bolsheviks would in their combined existences.

         “Fair does not come into it, this is the way of the world.” Artyom’s mother had once berated him after being introduced to his betrothed. A girl four years his junior.

         Artyom startled himself at the thought of that girl, remembering his jealousy of how much closer to Saint Petersburg her family was than his. It was only in April that he had seen her last, and how queer it was that the distance this October now seemed so short.

Perhaps these same men, or men of their like, had already ransacked their home as they were now ransacking his.

         A comforting thought, but there was no ‘perhaps’ about it.

         No corner would go undisturbed; no object, un-pilfered; no floor panel, untrod; because this was no longer Artyom’s home. It was now the property of The Revolution. And there was no protest that Artyom could make. Too small, he could not resist one man, let alone an army. And too pampered, they would not hear his claims of morality - that it belonged, above all, to him by birthright, and not the children whose ancestors had laid the stones. All the same, he believed it to be true. That it was his. It was all his. But he dare not make the claim. His neck was so brittle and so easily snapped. Thinner than the forearms of the men who held him captive.

         He counted the few hours he still lived as compensation enough for all he had lost in those few minutes: whilst he slept, he was the beneficiary of a fortune that outstripped all the mathematical multiplications known to him, and at once in the act of being awoken, it had all dissipated. And now, stood in his undergarments and exposed to a cruel draft, he felt a coldness like he had never felt before.

         How early a lesson in the life of a boy. That a man can have everything, and so very swiftly, be left with nothing at all. But Artyom would not be able to appreciate this lesson for very long. Faint echoes had been coming from outside the door. A man’s voice. It grew louder and fiercer, and suddenly Artyom could make out what this voice was saying:

“Where is the boy?” The voice thundered.

         The door swung open. A different man to the others he had seen before leaned into the room, sporting a budenovka hat and a mean smile.. “One O’clock is your time.”

         “My time?” Artyom asked.

         Artyom was not hidden away well enough, for this was one of those unforgiving men.“When your time is done.”

CHAPTER ONE

The Crimson Path

Artyom had determined not to spend any of his last hours living, asleep. He watched from the eastern window bay as the sunlight crept above the horizon, engulfing the forest that stood at the boundary between where that old Todorovsky estate ended, and the rest of the world began.

         For most of his life, that was the extent to which he ventured from the palace grounds alone. A simple step beyond what was permitted. Even so, the punishment would be severe if ever he were caught. A fear had permeated the Todorovskys since Artyom was a babe and blood ran down the Winter Palace square. Borrowed time… borrowed time… he would hear his father mutter when vodka had gotten the better of him. There would be no riding, hunting, shooting, or any other proclivity indulged in that was characteristic of a family such as his, a person of his gender, or indeed a noble of his rank. Yes, the Todorovskys knew their time was coming, but they had no desire to tempt fate. A quiet existence would do, so long as they existed.

         For young Artyom, however, Preferans was no substitute for the horseback, and One Thousand and One Nights could not thrill him like the tales foreign diplomats brought from far-off lands. He had wanted to see the Pyramids, sail on treacherous seas, touch the new world. A quiet existence did not do for him at all. Yet, that was all he had.

         The sun mocked him with the promise of a new day. The possibilities of a universe that would live on for trillions of years - without him.

         The estate was constantly patrolled by armed guards. Every now and then, a group of them would join in the garden, and Artyom would observe them. It was strange, he thought. At first he experienced them as wild beasts - gun-toting, breast-heaving, teeth-gnashing. But the garden had an effect on them. Hedgerows lined the edges, encompassing two lots of six walled flowerbeds sitting on either side of a path that led to a large pavilion. And for a centrepiece, a pool of water in which a large obelisk stood.

         The guards would lay on the lawn, sit on the edge of a wall admiring the vanishing stars, inhale a cigarette whilst playing with the water. And it seemed like a picture of Saint Petersburg on an easy morning. What could drive the ordinary man to such extraordinary acts of violence, he thought… and thought… and he could find no answer.

         For a time, there was no guard in sight.

         In that moment, he saw an avenue where he could open the window and dash across the lawn in a bid for freedom. But if he were caught… he imagined no more kindnesses would be extended to him. The indignity of it all! Being shot in the back in flight from his ancestral home. Light had not yet touched the window he looked out from, and so couldn’t help but finding himself contemplating the image that reflected in that starry mirror. There was his round, plump face. His protruding brow under which blue marbles shone out. And his hair - soft like silk, blonde as lager - falling against his shoulders. He saw himself, no longer simply Artyom Todorovsky, the boy; but the Grand Duke Artyom Todorovsky of Russia, the man.

         He imagined the tombstone:

Grand DukeArtyom Todorovsky of Russia

1904 - 1917

But of course, there would be no tombstone. He would be lucky to receive his own grave. There was no reason this boy should be singled out when so many were in need of burials. There would be no special ceremony. The age of rituals was over. Anonymity awaited Artyom in oblivion, and so he determined that in these few hours of life, he would be every measure of the distinguished gentleman he was born to be. This man would face the executioner with the poise his station demanded.

But what’s this?

         A Tremor?

         Artyom felt his seat in the bay vibrate. He jumped out of it and steadied himself against the wall. Surely this could not be an earthquake, he thought. Earthquakes simply do not happen in Saint Petersburg. And yet, the chairs tapped-danced from the shaking of the room. The fallen chandelier shook. A sabre that decorated the wall wobbled off its hook and fell to the floor. What else could this be if not an earthquake? Artyom ran and ducked under a table. As he clutched onto it, the vibrations began to lessen. The tables and chairs stopped rumbling, but the floor was still unsettled. He could feel it through his bottom, the sensation of shifting sands under the stone.

         In the centre of the room, a red Persian carpet lay. And as sure as Artyom knew anything, beneath that carpet was a stone floor, the same hard and immovable stone floor he sat on. And yet, the carpet began to sink.

         Near the head of the rug, a long and wide thin column was made as a depression. Artyom pressed his hands to his ears to save them from the screech of stone grinding on stone. And it continued. Next to the depressed column, another began to submerge, but this one was a good ten centimetres deeper. Artyom could not believe what he was seeing.

         Another column began to depress into the stone, again, ten centimetres deeper than the last. And this process went on and on and hastened in speed for several more columns until, before Artyom’s eyes, a descending staircase had appeared.

         The rumbling ceased.

         Artyom did not move. Fear had gripped him. All he could do was gawk, unblinking, at this impossible chasm. Was his crime truly so terrible that hell has come to swallow him up? For what could be at the bottom of this staircase if not hell?

         From the deep of the stair pit, echoed out a faint tapping. Two taps. One quickly after the other. Tap tap. Tap tap. Tap tap.

         Footsteps! Artyom rocketed up and smacked his head hard on the underside of the table. He crawled out, rubbing the spot that bore the bruise and searching for something - anything - he could use in his defence.

         Artyom spied the fallen sabre across the room and hurled himself at it. Grabbing the sword, he tucked himself into the bay window and drew the curtains.

         The footsteps grew louder.

         Artyom could feel the fluttering of his heart and his skin perspire. Death was coming for him and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

There was nothing he could do to stop it…

         Nothing had changed, he thought. Artyom was sentenced to die. Nothing had changed. This would simply be death by other means.

         Artyom took on the glower of a warrior. He would not die cowering.

         He threw open the curtains with a huff, and gripping the sabre, strode to the head of the demon staircase. 

         The footsteps quietened as a man rose from the depths.

         His skin was brown and his eyes hazel.

         He trod on the carpet now. Ascending the crimson path with a small lamp in his left hand. His feet were adorned by heelless kilim slippers; the vamps, black, were made from leather, the soles of gold, and a dark, silky hazel brocade patterned the whole of them. Within the slippers, his feet were bare. His trousers were simple, straight and black; his blouse, white, plumed and made of intricately laced cotton. As this man now neared the top of the stairs, Artyom began to get the full measure of him.

         He wore a cape above his blouse that was so layered, it may be called a robe. But it was sturdier than a robe. His collar was eight centimetres in height, covering the length of his neck. And from this collar flowed a hazel brocade, such as those adorning his slippers, but a much richer hazel. So dark it may be considered black, save for the edges of some strips of fabric that varied in length to either side of him - those were golden.

         He stood six feet tall, and as he stretched out his lamp that cradled a purple flame, Artyom made out his muscular build. He had the face of a man in his thirties, but the demeanour of one much older and wiser. Is this truly the face of the Prince of Hell? Artyom considered, and his every inclination told him otherwise. Yet still, sabre-pointing, he asked:

         “Are you the devil?”

         The man tilted his head in incredulity. Smiled. And offering his right hand said:

         “I am Snell.”

CHAPTER TWO

Master Snell

Artyom did not take his hand.

         “But, of course,” said Snell, lowering his arm, “I have opened up the earth beneath you and risen from it. It is altogether reasonable to assume me ungodly.” On the top and bottom of the lamp were bronze cylinders. Snell squeezed them together, and the lamp collapsed into itself so that all that remained were two small cymbals pressed together. He pocketed the novelty, and began to peruse the room, all the while Artyom kept his sabre pointed in his direction. “But I am no hell-spawn. Simply a man. Flesh and blood. Despite what some may say.” He wandered the room, taking note of the chips of lead paint, taxidermied creatures, and antique maps that hung on the walls. 

         “A man?” Artyom spoke. “You are no man. What were you doing under my home?”

         “Well, you see,” said Snell, “I wasn’t under your home at all.”

         “Yes, you were. That’s where you just came from!”

         “That,” Snell pointed at the staircase, “does not lead underground.”

         “Then where does it lead to?”

         Snell turned his head to him, smiled, and with his hands imitating fireworks said, “Your wildest dreams.”

         Artyom, lowering his sabre, looked into the pit, and somehow, the staircase did not seem quite so demonic. As he looked into the darkness, his eyes adjusted. And he found it was not darkness after all, but blue. Various shades of blue, and as he leaned in further, saw bright yellow specks glinting among the vast ocean of space. “But… how…”

         “Careful not to fall in. It shan’t be easy to fish you out of there.” Snell warned, but his attention was elsewhere. Now looking out of the eastern window, he was focused on the garden.

         “Fish me out?”

         “Yes.”

         “But isn’t that-”

         “Yes.”

         “How are you possibly able to-”

         “With ease.”

         “How far does-”

         “To infinity.”

         “Would you let me finish tal-”

         “No.”

         Artyom turned red. “Who the hell do you think you are?”

         “Who do I think I am?”

         And now Artyom was incandescent. “I am the Grand Duke Artyom Todorovsky, and you will look at me when you address me, Sir.”

         Snell did as he was bid and turned from the window. But this time, motioned his entire body to face him, and Snell’s face was suddenly all so sombre. “What did you say?” He asked, walking slowly towards Artyom.

         Artyom’s eyes looked about the room, avoiding contact with Snell’s. “I- I said-”

         “What did you just say to me?”

         The figure of Snell grew larger and fiercer to Artyom with every step he took towards him. Remembering his brittle neck, he clutched it with a trembling hand. Would he be one of those unforgiving men? He decided to find out.

         Snell was in-front of him now, and looking up to meet his eyesight said in one long quivering breath, “I am the Grand Duke Artyom Todorovsky, and you will look at me when you address me, Sir.”

         Snell gasped as he dropped to his knees, then embraced Artyom tightly, as if they were friends once long lost, reunited. “I thought I’d never find you.”

         Artyom’s continued existence left him in quite a shock, then after some lengthy period asked, “You… you know me, Sir?”

         “I do.” Snell pulled back from the hug and held Artyom’s shoulders dearly. “I do, indeed.”

         “Have you come to save me?” His eyes lit up. “From the Bolsheviks?”

         “Oh,” Snell laughed. “They are the least of our worries.” He let go of Artyom and once again bounded back over to the window, examining the garden.

         “But who sent you?”

         Snell did not answer. His fixation could not be broken.

         “And is this,” Artyom asked, peering back into the staircase, “…this is to be our escape?”

         “Not just yet.” And with a click of his fingers, the staircase began to rumble once more - the recesses were closing. The steps began to rise in a sequence.

         “No no no! What are you doing?” Artyom went to his knees and pushed down as hard as he could against the closing staircase. “What are you doing? You’re trapping me here!”

         “It will follow us wherever we go.”

         “What? They won’t be able to find us!”

         “Not the Bolsheviks.” 

         The staircase rumbled shut, and now the stone floor was once again, simply a stone floor. Artyom slumped over it, sulking. “You could free me with that staircase and instead you’re fascinated with whatever’s going on outside. What a useless liberator you’ve turned out to be.”

         “I wouldn’t speak so soon.”

         “What are you so obsessed with over there?” Artyom sniffed and rubbed his nose.

         “Come and see for yourself.”

         With a whimper, Artyom picked himself up, and lugged over to the window. “What, then. What is it?” He looked out onto the garden and saw no discernible detail.

         “Look closer.” Snell said gravely. And so he did. Artyom scanned every inch of the picture before him: the robins still fluttered in the hedgerows; the blooms of the twelve flowerbeds remained undisturbed; the pavilion provided shelter for a lazy fox; and the obelisk…

         “The obelisk…” Artyom realised. “The obelisk is gone.”

CHAPTER THREE

The Scorched Earth

“There’s a man out there, too.” Said Snell.

         “I don’t see anyone.”

         “Lying on the floor.” Snell gestured to a small lump of a figure by the pool. “There, can you see?”

         “No, not really.”

         “Let’s have a look.” Snell opened the window, and slenderly angled himself through it.

         “There are guards out there.” Said Artyom. “What’re you doing? We’ll get shot.”

         “We’d better be quick then.” Snell chided from the other side of the window. “Are you coming?” He ducked down and gingerly began to cross the garden path.

         Artyom looked back into the room. “I suppose I’m no better off in here.” And having climbed through, followed after Snell.

         Artyom was so short that when he ducked, his body was completely hidden by the walls of the flowerbeds, but even if they could, there were no guards around to see him. As he approached the pool, he saw the figure Snell spoke of; what's more, smoke arising from a lengthy spot in front of Snell, who was crouching down, examining the strange marking on the earth from which it was emanating. The sun had reached the garden now, and they were in the warmth of the dawn. 

         “Oh, God! Is he…”

         “Dead.” Snell said coolly.

         Artyom looked over the body. Its skin was blue and had frozen solid; the eyes were bulging out of their sockets; and grimy green lines, on the paths of veins, protruded from his every surface. “Who could have done such a thing?”

         “It’s a ‘what.’ Not a ‘who.’” Snell, once more, was pre-occupied. This time with the marking etched beside the body. The earth was scorched, but it didn’t seem so by fire. The marking was in a particular shape - the shape of the obelisk. Small black crystal-like stones lay in that shape where all around was green grass and white stone.

         “How did he die?” Artyom asked.

         “Instant hypoxia: he suffocated, all the water in him was vaporised, his blood boiled.” Artyom recoiled from Snell, he wondered how he could be so matter-of-fact about it all. He took out a handkerchief from his pocket and laid it on the face of the body.

         “I’ve seen this before, Artyom.”

         “Alright, then. Tell me, Snell. What could have done this?”

         “You wouldn’t understand.”

         “I’ve just had a strange man climb out of my floor, through a magical stairway-”

         “You see, it’s not magic.”

         “Whatever it is, Snell. I can handle this. Tell me, please. I want to understand.”

         Snell returned to assessing the marking. “It’s a bit like dry ice. But much, much colder.”

         “How colder?” Artyom asked.

         “Give or take… minus three-hundred degrees Celsius.”

         “So, what was it?”

         Snell looked up into the empty space where the obelisk once stood.

         “The obelisk?”

         “It’s not an obelisk.”

         “What is it then?”

         “A guard… a bailiff… an executioner.”

         “I don’t understand.”

         “It’s a Gnomon.” Snell explained. “They’re engineered creatures from another world. Employed to carry out executions.”

         “Another world?” Artyom asked, in awe.

         “The Gnomon’s shadow is a vacuum. The creature absorbs radiation… energy from stars. Everything from radio-waves to x-rays and converts it into… well into this.” Snell pointed to the scorch. “If you fall into the Gnomon’s shadow…” Then he looked to the body. “Well…”

         “But you said it’s a guard, too?”

         “It can be. When the prisoners have leave of the grounds.”

         “And…” Artyom hesitated. “And who is it guarding?”

         Snell looked up to meet Artyom’s face. Artyom saw he tried to form a sentence but couldn’t let it out. He just kept looking. But Artyom already knew the answer.

CHAPTER FOUR

The Shadow-Touched Men

“And what of you, Snell? How do you know so much about this… creature? Are you one of its prisoners as well?”

         Snell did not answer.

         “Alright, then. Why would this creature be guarding me?”

         Snell stood up, and considered for a moment what he would say, how he would say it, and whether Artyom would believe him if he did. But he decided against it all. “Let’s go.” They rounded the pool and were headed to the pavilion before:

         “HANDS!”

         Four guards appeared from behind the pavilion, brandishing pistols.

         “I said hands in the air! Now!” One of the guards shouted. Snell pulled Artyom beside him and stepped forwards to hide him from their view.

         Three of the guards were bald, save for the one who shouted. Artyom recognised him for the man in the budenovka hat that had sealed his fate. The hat looked very important and bore a five-pointed red star, and so Snell took him to be their leader. He had a sleight build and something of a hunched-back. At five-foot-four, all the other guards were far larger in stature, but the black eyes and slack jaw of the budenovka man gave him a menace all the others feared. “It’s not quite time for the executions,” he said. “But I’m sure we can make an exception.”

         “Look at those fancy clothes.” Another guard said of Snell. “Must be a diplomat.”

         “I’ve been called worse.” Snell replied.

         “Perfect Russian.” The guard in the budenovka said. “How do you know our tongue?”

         “I know them all.”

         The guards laughed. If it was a joke, they did not understand it. The leader tipped his head to the guards, and they kicked Snell behind the knees so that he fell to kneel on the ground. The budenovka man was no longer forced to look up to him.

         “Ahh, and who’s this?” The guard stooped down and lazily flapped his revolver around Artyom’s face. “Our little lord duke.” He said with a snarl.

         Snell once again pulled Artyom behind him. “Leave him alone.”

         “Kirill!” One guard called to the budenovka man. Kirill - so apparently was named the man in the budenovka hat - peered around the pool to see what had alarmed the guard. Two supine legs stuck out from behind the structure.

         “What is this?” Kirill said, barging past Artyom and Snell to get a better look.

         The guard took the handkerchief from the dead man’s face. The body contorted and the colour so unnatural - Kirill retched at the sight. He turned about himself in a rage, marched up to Snell, and struck him on the head with the butt of his gun. As Snell collapsed to the ground, his vision blurred, and the screams of Artyom were carried off into the distance.

- - - - - - - - - -

“… He is no diplomat…” A guard in green said.

         “What else, then?”

         “Have you ever seen a diplomat like him? Look at his clothes.”

         “Don’t talk as if you’ve even been near one in your life. What? Do the slaughterhouses send special envoys now to collect the pigs?”

         Snell had begun to awaken, but he could not make much sense of what was going on, save for the guards arguing amongst themselves. As his vision returned to him, the splendid colours of the Palais Todorovsky ballroom greeted him. Three glass chandeliers hung from the ceiling and dazzled against the bright red panels that layered the walls. The fireplace blazed and glinted against the gold cornices that ran across the rim of the room. It seemed larger than the length and width of two tennis courts, and taller than the deepest swimming pools, with four sets of ten-foot-high windows that let in huge beams of the morning sun. However big the room was, it began to feel very small to Artyom as more and more men filed in to gawk at the impossible body of the dead man - laid in the middle of the room.

         “Surely the boy must know?” Said the guard in green, whose clothes now took on a darker hue as sweat drenched him. Now, nearly three dozen soldiers were present, and surely enough, they all turned to Artyom who was gagged and bound in a chair next to Snell.

         Kirill stalked over to them. “Little duke…” He said with a grin; and pressing his pistol between Artyom’s mouth and the cloth, removed the gag. “So, tell us…” Kirill’s right eye darted to examine Artyom’s face, but his left remained still. “Who is this man? A friend of your father’s?”

         With all these burly men in the room, who were brazen enough to overthrow the Tsar, Artyom could not help but sense the fear they had of Snell. They wanted Snell dead, that much he knew. When each of them entered, one by one, there were some who fled, others who wailed, and there were a few who crossed themselves on first sight of the dead man who had died by unearthly means. And they all held Snell responsible. Not yet… not yet… Kirill commanded them, I want to know how he did it.

         Artyom saw the Bolsheviks were terrified and sought to terrify them further. “You’re right,” he said. “This man is no diplomat. The path to hell opened up in the earth, and he came striding out.” Some of the men crossed themselves again, and the guard in green lifted a wooden crucifix from his neck.

         “He’s lying.” Said Kirill. “He’s just trying to scare you. What? Can you really be so scared of the little boy’s bedtime stories?”

         “Then how did he die?!” The guard in green shouted, pointing to the body.

         BANG

         The guard in green fell to the floor. Blood pooled around him as Kirill lowered his smoking gun.

         “Are your ideals so easily shaken…” Kirill walked over to the fallen guard in green, then snapped the blood-speckled crucifix from his neck. “… that you turn back to this blindness…” he waved it in front for all to see. “…at the first sign of something you do not understand?” Kirill threw the crucifix into the fireplace.

         No one responded. All was silent save for the crackling of the crucifix in the fire.

         What’s this? Kirill cocked his head up to hear another sound. A muffled sound. Was it crying? Kirill’s face soured. No, he realised, laughing. He turned to face the bound pair. It was Snell. And he was laughing.

         “Look who’s awake.” Kirill sneered. “What’s so funny?” He marched over to Snell and snatched the gag out of his mouth. “What? What? What’s so funny?” He demanded, but received no answer. Snell laughed, and laughed, and laughed - it was a wonder he did not run out of breath.

         Kirill slammed down the butt of his gun on Snell’s nose, and the laughter stopped as blood ran down his face. “What, am I not so funny anymore?” And with that, Kirill turned away from him.

         “Don’t listen to him!” Snell projected so everyone in the room could hear. “Keep your idols. You’ll need them.” But this, he kept only for Kirill: “You’re all shadow-touched men.”

CHAPTER FIVE

The Gnomon

“What did he say?” One soldier panted.

         “Nothing.” Kirill shrugged.

         “No, tell us, what did he say?”

         “Some superstitious nonsense.”

         “He said you’re all shadow-touched men!” Artyom goaded them.

         “What the hell does that mean?” The soldier looked around in a panic.

         “It’s something we say… where I’m from.” Said Snell, as he returned a curious look from Artyom. “It means it’s coming for you. It means you are all marked for death!” Panicked murmurings broke out among the soldiers. “I did not kill that man. But I know what did.” The air was stifled. “You need to let me go. Let the both of us go. Because it’s coming back, and I won’t be able to save any of you.”

         “Save us?” Kirill chuckled. “For too long we’ve been told to wait to be saved. No more. We shall save ourselves.”

         “Why is he still alive?” The soldier asked, and the men jeered in agreement.

         “Why are either of them?” Another replied.

         “I say we shoot them both and be done with it.” All the men were roused in accord at the prospect of killing Artyom and Snell.

         “And Kirill can join them if he stands in the way.” A third soldier stepped forward, this one bigger than them all, ready to challenge Kirill.

Artyom found his chest heaving, rapidly, and was not able to calm it. Yet all the while, Snell was fixed on something else entirely.

         At the edge of the room, where one of those tall windows stood, a darkness was beginning to dim the light. As though there were an inverse curtain, the light that entered from this window retreated from its foot, upwards. But, of course, there was no curtain. Some object was rising to block out the eastern sunrise. And as it continued to envelop the window, finally did the men take their attention from Kirill, and to their grief, turn it towards this creature that had risen from the dust.

         The entity loomed before them. A gangly void of stringed tissue. Nine-feet of this creature had risen, and nine-feet of darkness was given mass. It seemed as though meat passing through a grinder, but that the grinder was space and time itself that it had ground itself through. An eclipse made flesh. And yet, there was some hollowness about it that in some angles it was permeated by some translucent grey shine.

         “Don’t attack it.” Snell warned them. The instincts of the men betrayed any sense they had. Kirill fired the first shot, and the men immediately followed.

         BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG.

         A flurry of bullets flew across the room creating a thunderous crashing that scattered around as the window was blown to pieces; and outside, birds took flight from the shrieking explosions.

         Seconds passed and the firing stopped; but the clicking of the soldier’s pistols kept ringing. CLICK CLICK CLICK CLICK CLICK CLICK CLICK CLICK… with no bullets firing from them. All the soldiers’ eyes were tightly shut for fear of looking upon the heinous beast, and so they had not realised they were all out of ammunition.

         Even though the Gnomon did not have eyes, it looked about the room as if it could see; and even though the Gnomon did not have lungs, it contracted its sinews as if it could breathe. And with that breath, its sinews darted at Kirill, wrapping around him as it pulled the doomed man closer to it. His wails of terror and instinctive spasms were useless against that awful power that gripped him. First the torso, then legs, then constricting the head as it finally engulfed Kirill’s body, whole.

         “Look away…” Snell said. “Artyom, look away.” For it is poor luck to look upon the gallows. “The Gnomon,” he warned, “… is not a bit tame. The Gnomon will cast its shadows.”

- - - - - - - - - -

Its sinews flared, but this time the void bloomed. The vacuum, in the turns of a clock, streaked throughout the room.

         The first soldier was stood in front of the fire. The darkness beamed and he was petrified in an instant as that roaring fire was extinguished; and for a moment his body was suspended in the air along with cups, cards and die, as the Gnomon’s shadow rested on him. Then the man plummeted to the floor as the Gnomon retracted its shadow.

         The soldiers’ shrieks were like howls of tormented banshees. Some ran towards the doors, but the shadow was faster than a bullet. The dark beam was unleashed and retracted faster than they could fathom. Ordinarily this would be a mercy, as the brain of a living organism would die before the body could alert it to any pain. Watching their comrades die impossible deaths, however, was its own kind of pain. The Gnomon was an expert marksman, for as soon as it unleashed the vacuum, its target would fall in the exasperated and contorted shape he was frozen in.

         Just as Snell asked, Artyom looked away and had kept his eyes shut. But he could still hear them. Each and every one of the men dropped with a thud, like a sack of meat. THUD THUD THUD THUD THUD THUD THUD THUD THUD. Artyom flinched at each one - his chair shaking and scratching against the floor as his body recoiled. He braced for the next thud, but it did not come. And for a minute longer he kept his eyes closed in case one damned man, who could not hide forever, was inevitably found. But still, it did not come. Artyom inched his eyes open in trepidation. They were all dead.

         The once splendid ballroom of the Palais Todorovsky was ruined. Where the Gnomon had thrown its shadow, a black scorch had run from the floor up to the walls and ceiling revealing numerous coats of lead-chipped paint. There were sixteen of these such scorches that blighted the ballroom, and all around was the cool mist of dry ice.

         The Gnomon did not have feet, but used its tar-like slimy sinews to motion itself like a slug in its corporal form; and now it did so towards Artyom and Snell, leaving behind a trail of mucus that crystallised, and from which more icy vapours emanated.

         “You didn’t have to kill them.” Snell said, soberly.

         And although the Gnomon did not have a mouth; still, it spoke:

         “Snell…” A raspy tone vibrated through its tissue. “You have intervened.”

         “That’s my right.”

         “You… have… no… rights.” It stretched and contracted with each word, as though it were angry. “You have intervened. And so, I have intervened.”

         “And if I say otherwise?”

         “The judges have ruled. The sentence passed. The boy is condemned.”

         “So what? All these years? You’ve been watching me? My whole life?” Artyom was surprised at the courage he mustered. The Gnomon turned to him.

         “Thirteen years.” The Gnomon hissed. “Thirteen years, you were given to live… for the sins… of your father.”

         “What sins?”

         The Gnomon did not answer.

         “What sins? If you’re going to kill me, I deserve to know why, creature, so speak! What sins?” All the fear in Artyom had changed to anger, and he looked upon the Gnomon in defiance.

         “Blood sins. Which must be paid in kind.” The Gnomon replied.

         “I still don’t understand,” Artyom persisted. “He’s dead now, so what do you want with me?”

         “Thirteen years ago… three thousand years hence… he lives.”

         “Enough!” Snell barked. “Enough of this. There will be no more death today.” He promised Artyom. “I’m going to stop it.”  And as the Gnomon returned to its shadowy form, it uttered:

         “You may try.”

CHAPTER SIX

Brothers in Arms

The Gnomon was gone. Dissolved back into the aether. Much of the icy mist was being expelled through the window, but the chill remained.

         “We need to get out of here.” Said Snell, sliding his chair backwards to one of the scorches that ripped through the room. He pressed the rope that bound his hands against the icy black crystals of the markings, and suddenly the rope froze. Snell flexed his muscles, and with a huff, broke his bindings apart, freeing his hands. He undid the knots that tied his feet, then got to work on Artyom’s. “Try not to breathe in the vapours, you’ll catch a dreadful cold.” But Artyom was paying no attention. “Artyom, let’s go.” He did not respond. “Are you quite alright?” Snell persisted.

         “What aren’t you telling me?”

         “Artyom,” Snell said in a rather patronising tone. “We need to go.”

         “I’m not going anywhere-”

         “We don’t have time for this!”

         “… I’m not going anywhere until you tell me.”

         “You’ll catch your death in here.”

         “It’s a better death I would get than out there.”

         “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

         “No, no I don’t. Because you, a madman, purport to want to save my life. Which is in danger, for reasons I cannot even comprehend, from the obelisk that has stalked me since I was a baby. And for a crime, allegedly, my father committed-”

         “He committed no crime.”

         “How could you possibly know? You don’t know my family. You don’t know me. And you certainly didn’t know my fath-”

         “HE WAS MY FRIEND.”

         Artyom looked Snell straight in the eyes, and could see his tears, fully formed, glow with bloodshot sorrow.

         Snell took a deep breath, gathering himself, then picked up a chair and placed it opposite Artyom. “We used to…” Snell gulped. “We used to work together. Well, if you can call it work. There’s this city, in the future-”

         “The future?” Artyom gasped. “How far in the future?”

         “Just as the Gnomon said… ‘three thousand years hence’”

         “And this is where you are from? This city in the future?”

         “Not just me. But your father… and…”

         “And me?” Artyom asked.

         “And you.”

         Artyom turned away and stared out the window for a short time before asking: “And the man - the one who raised me, the one who was shot dead last night…” Artyom turned back to face Snell. “You mean to tell me that man bears no relation to me at all?”

         “No.”

         “Well.” Artyom huffed. “Two fathers. One a coward and the other a criminal.”

         “Aldous was no criminal!” Snell pointed, accusingly at Artyom. “We were betrayed.”

         “And so you were condemned? By the prince of this city?”

         “Condemned to death by the Gnomon’s shadow. But it’s not just death. Their justice is no justice at all.” Snell seethed. “It’s vindictive, and callous, and cruel. They weren’t content with killing him, they wanted the end to his entire bloodline. But they baulked at the prospect of killing a baby, and so decided to let history do their dirty work for them. Because really, behind all their hubris and self-satisfaction, they’re cowards. They threw you into a time where your destruction would be assured.”

         “And what about you?”

         A solitary tear streamed down Snell’s face. “He saved me. And I promised him,” Snell’s voice broke. “He was like a brother to me, and I promised Aldous that I would save you. Because you’re all that’s left.” Snell was sitting with his head in his hands, sniffing up the snot that was running down his nose. “Six years… six years I’ve been looking for you… I won’t fail him.”

         Artyom looked at him, this man who had strode out of his floor with the gait of a king, reduced to tears. And Artyom’s subdued fear that had been bubbling underneath him since first thinking Snell the devil, dissipated. Snell’s gay nature had disarmed him, but now his candour had endeared him to Artyom. And though he knew this tale of a future city and an unknown father and blood sins was unbelievable; somehow, he believed it. Artyom trusted him. Perhaps it was the knowing that the revolution would eventually hunt him down and he would have no means of escaping them, perhaps it was this that spurred his readiness to believe Snell - that his life depended on it; but also, there was something else. Whether a feeling in his gut or the calm of his heart, his body gave him a sense of peace in putting his life in Snell’s hands.

         “Aldous?” Said Artyom.

         Snell looked up.

         “His name was Aldous?”

         Snell wiped his nose, nodding.

         “Thank you, Snell.” Artyom smiled. “And we won’t. We won’t fail him.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

The Chamber and The Antechamber

“So,” Artyom sighed. “How do we stop it, Snell?”

         He gathered himself, dutifully. “There’s only one way to stop the Gnomon.” Snell looked outside. “Cut off its power source. The stars are where it draws all of its power from. Gnomons are genetically engineered to not be able to survive without a power source. Well, so is everything else, but the Gnomon immediately dries up.”

         “That’s quite the design flaw.”

         “It’s not a flaw at all.”

         “What do you mean?”

         “Think about it? If you create the perfect executioner, and give it sentience, there’s every probability that it’ll one day want to work for itself, and not for you. Best outcome is that it takes up watercolours. Worst outcome? World domination.”

         “So they have to control it somehow?”

         “Exactly.”

         “The second a Gnomon goes rogue, it’s encased in a prison. Literally, a tomb where no wavelengths can get in or out. There are hundreds, maybe thousands of them wasting away. Still conscious.”

         “That’s barbaric!”

         “Some say they feed on themselves to survive, and go insane from the toxins of their own flesh. But do you know what I think?”

         “What?”

         “I think they’re dormant. Just waiting, patiently to escape. All it takes is one cock-up. And we’re all screwed.”

         “That’s a terrifying thought.”

         “It’s kept me up on many a night.”

         “But Snell? The lead? Wavelengths don’t travel through lead, and this house is full of it.”

         “I thought of that too as soon as I saw the chips. But it’s not nearly enough to block out the sun. And you really must call me Horace.”

         “No, it’s not just the paint. I mean this house is literally full of it!”

- - - - - - - - - -

The pair of them bolted from the ballroom, ran up the grand staircase to the second floor, and made their way to the heart of the Palais Todorovsky. Snell was astonished. He stood on the landing, and in-front of him, was a room whose walls were thick with lead. He opened the door to see that the wall was at least fifteen centimetres thick.

         “Why would anyone build such a thing?”

         “I don’t know. Mummy thought my father went mad when he did. He said the radio waves damaged the art.”

         “Unless he knew? But how could he possibly? That doesn’t make any sense.”

         “Why don’t we wait until after we’ve survived to figure that out.”

         “But how could he know about the Gnomon?” Snell tapped on the walls. “He’s built a radiation shelter. Or the perfect prison.”

         “Snell!” Artyom jolted him out of his enamoured state.

         “Maybe it’s just a coincidence.” Snell continued examining the room. Up above, in the middle of the ceiling, was a domed skylight made of glass, and adorning the walls were grand oil paintings in gold frames, packed together. “This place is a bit small for a gallery.”

         “This is just the antechamber. Only his favourites are in here. That room ahead.” Artyom pointed to the next door leading out of the room. “That’s the main chamber.”

         “Ah.” Snell said, curiously.

         “Well, then? Will it work?”

         Snell smiled. “There’s only one way to find out.”

- - - - - - - - - -

Artyom and Snell were seated in the chamber for hours. The room was painted dark green and furnished with long and elegant couches, a piano, and an old oak grandfather’s clock that stood as the centrepiece. Every now and then, Artyom looked upon the antechamber with dread. Snell had cooked up a cockamamie plan to stop the Gnomon. And Artyom was to be the bait. He wondered if they could truly gain the upper hand against this creature that devastated all that stood in its way. But when he would turn his head to look out the window, another distressing thought darkened his mind. Who am I? If not the son of the man who raised me. If not a Russ. If not the Grand Duke Artyom Todorovsky of Russia… Well, he thought, that was taken from me some time ago. What will I have left to call my own? And no answers came to him. Perhaps this was divine. What need does a dead man have of a name, of a father, of a title and fortune… of a people. All dead men are anonymous in the end. And yet, still, he asked himself: -

         “Who am I?”

         “What was that?” Snell pried his head from a book he was flicking through.

         “Nothing.”

         “You’re awfully quiet.” Snell walked over to Artyom. “Of course,” he chided himself. “It’s a lot to take in.” Artyom nodded but kept his gaze on the forest that lay beyond the bounds of the palace. “Penny for your thoughts.”

         “A penny?” Artyom scoffed. “Why on earth would I want a penny?”

         “Sorry, stupid idiom.” Snell laughed nervously. “What are you thinking?”

         “I’m thinking that I’m going to die. That I’m going to die without knowing my family. The one I grew up with, or the one stolen from me. I’m thinking I will die without ever knowing love. Without ever seeing my country beyond Saint Petersburg, let alone seeing what the rest of the world has to offer. That this little corner of creation, that’s been built over a thousand years, will be washed off the face of the earth by the revolution. And all that I do know, which is very little indeed, will fade to nothing in no time at all.”

         “Ah.” Snell tapped his knee and looked about the room, not knowing what to say.

         “But tell me, Snell. What was he like? Aldous?”

         Snell smiled, and with tears in his eyes said, “he was brave.” Artyom wiped his face and jumped onto Snell with his arms wide, giving him the tightest hug he could muster, and Snell embraced Artyom just as fondly. “He was brave.” 

CHAPTER EIGHT

The Dial Strikes One

Artyom was stood in the antechamber. The door before him and the door behind him were shut. The white light of the sun streaked in from the dome up above. All was silent. Artyom closed his eyes, meditating on what was to come. But then he did hear a sound. The chirping of birds flying all around the many trees that populated the Palais Todorovsky. And in that moment, he found a bliss that was so uncommon to him. He forgot where he was and imagined an altogether different world. A world where forests stretched further than any man could walk. Where oceans beckoned to moored ships. Where impossible towers pierced the skies. But then:

         BOONNGGGGGGG

         Artyom was shaken awake.

         BOOOONNNGGGGGGGGGG

         The grandfather clock had chimed.

         BOOOOOONNNNNNNGGGGGGGGGGG

         The dial struck one.

- - - - - - - - - -

Where the central shaft of light was pouring in, a gaseous darkness materialised. At first it moved softly like a cloud, then it soon began to whirl. It was as if there was a pressure shifting it around. And then the dark gas was gushing like a wind, as though steam shooting from a kettle. And this whirlwind rushed about, but like a fire. For all the oxygen was being consumed. Artyom tried to steady himself against the force that prevailed against him, but he flew backwards and smacked his head against the door, then fell face-flat on the floor. Artyom covered his face with his arm, wheezing, but still managed to look up, and behold the Gnomon’s terror: The gas was made solid as sinews swarmed into being from the particulates. And in one large motion, the stringed mass formed into bodily tissue. The entity hunched itself, for the ceiling was too low for it to stand upright. And so it bent itself double, gazing down at Artyom. And in that grotesque, mucus-lined, raspy voice, rattled: “…make your peace.”

CHAPTER NINE

The Appeal of Artyom Todorovsky

“No.” Artyom protested. “No!”

         The Gnomon recoiled, as though perplexed.

         “I do not know your world. I do not recognise your justice.”

         Its sinews flared, as if snarling.

         “Thirteen years! For thirteen years you have stalked me.” Artyom said, as he regained his footing, and stood to face the demon. “And what do you know of me?”

         “I need know nothing of you.” It growled. “What hath the sickle to know of the wheat?

         “I am the Grand Duke Artyom Todorovsky-”

         “Your titles…” The Gnomon constricted, and in that moment, it seemed like a dragon about to breathe its fiery breath. “…mean nothing.”

         Artyom looked up to the glass dome and whispered “… of Russia.”

         He saw Snell on the roof, swiftly pulling a great lead lid across the dome, and suddenly the antechamber was engulfed in darkness.

         Artyom could not see. He reached around the floor, patting as he went like a blind man, until he found it. The two cymbals pressed together. He grabbed it with a ferocious speed, and pulled apart the two bronze discs, revealing the shine of Snell’s lamp. A small purple flame illuminated him. He would not give into his fear, he knew he must look upon the beast. He turned the lamp up to glance at the Gnomon, and like a snake, one of its thick sinews darted towards him with a snare. Artyom ducked, managing to dodge the attack. Another sinew lashed towards him with the speed of a viper, but Artyom jumped, avoiding its strike. Now five of the muscular threads attacked from different directions. Two of them pounded the lead wall, two tore upon paintings, but one nicked Artyom’s leg as he dived for cover. With a scream, he tumbled to the floor; clutching his ankle, he crawled backwards to lean on the wall. Artyom was cornered. But so, it seemed, was the Gnomon.

         “Have you figured it out yet?” Artyom heckled the creature as it scratched at the walls. “… It’s no use.” The creature’s sinews desperately slammed against the walls and scurried against the corners. And now it made a new sound that neither Artyom nor Snell had heard from it before. A kind of moaning, a pouting void that whimpered like a whale estranged from its mother. “You’re trapped in here.”

         The Gnomon dashed to Artyom and wrapped its tentacles around his neck. His legs were lifted from the floor as he choked - the Gnomon’s slimy grip tightening.

         “If… you… kill… me…” Artyom coughed out his strangled words. “You’ll be trapped… here….” The Gnomon’s sinews flared as it rattled with a septic shriek. “… forever.” The beast relented; and releasing its hold, Artyom fell to the floor. He held his throat to soothe the bruises - gasping for air as he did. “Snell will-” A cough interrupted him. “Snell will make sure of it, Gnomon.” The creature twisted itself, as though confused. “Yes, you may not care to know me. But I know you, Gnomon. I know there is nothing…” Artyom pushed himself up against a bench and hopped on the foot with the un-maimed ankle. “…nothing you fear more, than captivity.”

         “Justice…” The Gnomon hissed. “… is inescapable.”

         “Perhaps. But it can be delayed!” Artyom proclaimed. “Or so I’m told.” The Gnomon once more twisted itself, as if to say, what do you propose?

         “I want to appeal. You go back to your masters, and you tell them. Artyom Todorovsky is appealing his case. You tell them! I want to talk to the highest authority. Because I want to know, what charge is levelled against me! I want to know why I must die! I want to know who dares condemn me to death, without the nerve to look me in the eye as they do it! Because I will not die.” Artyom declared. “Not without knowing why I must. I demand an appeal!”

         The Gnomon twisted about, once more in conversation with itself. Its tissue squelched and rolled and tumbled until finally; it grew still, and tranquil, and tame, and then calmly said: “I submit.”

         The door to the chamber creaked as the heavy locks were undone from the other side, and with a heave, the door opened.

         How do I know the Gnomon won’t go back on its word? Artyom had asked Snell. And Snell had responded with an uninspiring shrug which only meant, you don’t.

         And with its escape assured, the Gnomon pounced! Smothering Artyom in its gangly void.

CHAPTER TEN

The Eschering

When the Gnomon enveloped him, Artyom had pleaded with whatever god that could hear his voice, that his death would be a quick one. How surprised he was, then, to awake in his room. The same room he had grown up in for thirteen years. The same bed, the same tapestry on the wall, the same rugs and chairs. Was it all a dream? He thought. But he felt different. Somehow. He lifted his legs and sat up on the edge of his bed. There was something off. He touched his head, rubbing a sore spot. A headache? Never had a dream given him a headache before. More so a nightmare. A nightmare that stressed his every nerve. The more he moved, the more his head pained him. He stood up, and staggering over to the mirror, nearly lost his balance as he caught sight of himself.

         He had his limbs, his torso, his face and all its appendages… but something new… an eyepatch! A golden eyepatch adorned his left eye. He had thought that his vision was somewhat strained, but that is usually the case first thing in the morning. Although now he saw why.

         Artyom slowly lifted his hand to the left eye. The closer he got to it, the more his hand trembled for fear of what he would find underneath; and now it was trembling so much that he had to throw his hand away from his face. Surely not… he thought. But he had to know. In one quick motion he ripped the eyepatch off his face as though it were a plaster.

         He roared a terrible scream, gazing at what had become of him. In place of his left eye was a dark hole. An absence. Artyom’s eye was gone!

         Artyom slapped the eyepatch back onto the gaping hole where his eye was supposed to be. He threw on his gown as he ran to the door. And as he swung it open, he beheld another impossibility.

         A cosmos lay beyond his threshold. Grand marble staircases swirled in every direction among the stars. Upwards. Downwards. Sideways. Every which way, staircases crossed each other, and parted, and conjoined. At least two dozen that he could count. For a great many of them, doors were found at the top or bottom, but others seemed to go on forever. Artyom stepped out into this impossible hallway. If it can be called a hallway.

         “Am I dead?”

         The staircase had no banister, but he stepped out onto the landing all the same and slowly walked down a flight.

         A soft caw came from below, and suddenly, up flew a great white creature. Its head was that of a hawk’s and at least two meters in radius. Its body, however, was that of a fish. Its silver scales glittered against the starlight, and Artyom could make no sense of how it flew without wings, or even arms and legs, but saw its body run for over one hundred meters, dipping and diving through all the meandering staircases.

         The sheer speed of the creature knocked Artyom off balance. He slipped backwards, flailing his arms in search of something to cling onto, but found nothing, and fell over the edge.

         Artyom plummeted downwards to the depths. Down and down to no end. The wind rushed through his hair as he gasped for breath. And now he was able to see a floor rushing up to meet him. But then, there was the caw again. That splendid beast shot down from its great height, and in no time was plummeting right next to Artyom. It manoeuvred itself underneath him, and Artyom clung onto some feathers that grew from the creature’s head, and just before meeting the floor, the creature pulled up and swirled around the room they found themselves in.

         Snell lounged in the middle of the room on a silver throne, and behind it were four twelve-foot dark panels. The room itself was not very big. Certainly not big enough for the large creature to land, and so it floated its body in the air, and rested its head on a platform for Artyom to jump off onto. The space was part office, part parlour, part throne-room. Snell had had his feet over the rests of the throne, lost in some large tome, but now he jumped up to greet Artyom:

         “Ah, you’re up! I see you’ve met Lars.” He went over to pet Lars’ hawkish face as Lars leaned into Snell’s hands. Then the creature lifted itself, looked up, and flew up and up - off into the distance.

         “What is this place?” Artyom asked.

         “This? Welcome, my friend…” Snell ran back to his throne and jumped up to stand on it. “For this,” he proclaimed. “This is The Eschering!” Snell’s voice echoed out far into the reaches of the infinite sky. “But I like to call it home.”

         “But… my room?”

         “Ah, yes. I hope you don’t mind. I built a replica. I thought you’d feel more at home. Or maybe you’d like to create your own room? Something new?”

         “I don’t understand.”

         “Oh. Where to start. Well, good news, you didn’t die. Which is wonderful! I thought you were a goner for a minute there. But… bad news, which I’m sure you’ve already figured out.”

         “My eye! It took my eye!”

         “Yes. Taken as a token of your accord. You’ll get it back, of course, once you fulfil your agreement.”

         “To stand trial?”

         “To stand trial.”

         “But it’s not all bad. Now you get to wear a very cool and scary eyepatch. No one would mess with you with that on.”

         “Is that where I have to go now?”

         “Ah, so, more good news. This castle is… something of an irregularity.”

         “I’ve noticed. Where are we?”

         Snell grinned. “In the time vortex. We are everywhere, and nowhere, all at once.”

         Artyom looked up into the stars, his jaw agape.

         “And so,” Snell went on. “If you want, you don’t have to go right away. You could stay for very nearly as long as you like.”

         “Very nearly?” Artyom asked.

         “They’ll catch up with you eventually.”

         Artyom’s smile faded.

         “But ‘eventually’ can be a very long time, indeed.”

         And Artyom’s smile returned.

         “So what do you say? Would you like to stay?”

         Artyom jumped on Snell, wrapping him in his arms. “I would.” He said. “I would like that very much.”

         “Well then, Artyom Todorovsky…” Snell clapped twice, and the sky turned purple as the staircases began to shift, and rise, and multiply. “Welcome to eternity.”

FINIS