The Zombie Knight

Morgunov blinked, then couldn't help snorting a laugh. "You're tellin' me that you're a Primordial? Are you serious?"

"Indeed."

His bullshit detector was practically exploding, but he kept it in check with another laugh, this time with more energy behind it. He was actually curious, now. "Okay, then, little missy. I'll bite. Which Primordial are you claiming to be, huh?"

"It matters not. Your perception of us is so minuscule that my true name would either mean nothing to you or give you a completely false impression of your current situation."

"Mm. Not one of the famous ones, eh? Don't want to be embarrassed when you reveal your big, scary identity and I don't even recognize you. I get it. That actually makes your claim more believable to me."

"As I said. Ignorance."

"So what, are you like Cocora's ugly stepsister or something? The one nobody ever pays attention to? That's a shame. Jealousy is a difficult monster to tango with. I feel for you."

A glow arrived in his peripheral vision, and Morgunov saw that it was coming from Asad. From his torso, more specifically.

"Sister," arrived another voice, this one more masculine. "There is no need to be so rude. This repulsive man has done us a favor, has he not?"

"I am Rasalased. It is interesting to meet you, Young Demon of Abolish."

"I learned them the same way you did," the voice said.

Morgunov tilted his head, trying to lean more into his curiosity than his frustration. His vision was returning, at least. The world of white was fading back into the Pit Chamber.

He soon noticed that something was amiss, however.

The Pit was no longer active. The containment field made of pure fire and ardor was gone, and the only glimpse of the golden glow was now all over his body.

Asad and Qorvass were still there, both strapped down and apparently unconscious. Good thing, too. The reaper might have been able to escape just now, while Morgunov was both blinded and distracted.

Strange. He hadn't told the Pit to power down. It could have decided to do that on its own, though, if it had determined that its job was done.

He didn't see any physical form for this voice, however. Not that he expected to.

First things first. He moved over to Qorvass in order to make sure the reaper was indeed secure.

Before he got there, the voice spoke up again. "You wished to meet a god, did you not? A so-called Primordial?"

That made him pause. He didn't remove his gaze from Qorvass, though. This voice seemed to be coming from within the tattoos themselves, as he could feel the physical vibrations of sound carrying throughout his body.

Not telepathy, then. Which made sense. He built up his defenses against that long ago. He would've clocked a psychic intruder right away.

But then how did the voice learn those old words? And now these new questions? If the voice hadn't pulled the information out of his mind, then...?

"How did you know that?" asked Morgunov.

"A dull question from a dull mind," said the voice. "Ask something more intelligent."

Hoo boy. Trying to annoy him, eh? Such tactics usually didn't affect him, but he had to admit, he was struggling. Whoever this was, she'd caught him off guard.

For the first time in a long while, Bool's mind was actually playing a significant role here. Keeping him balanced. He needed not to lose his cool.

"That won't work, little missy," said Morgunov. "Deflect all you like, but one way or another, I'll find my answers. It'd be better for you in the long run if you just cooperated, otherwise I might get a bit vindictive later."

So much information. The flow wanted him to see it all.

And impulsively, he wanted to let it. To absorb everything. But he knew better. He had to rein it in. He was in charge here, not it. He couldn't let it lead him by the nose, because it would try to take him everywhere and nowhere, which would disperse his mind and kill his soul. Bool's, too, if the reaper didn't realize what was happening and release him in time.

Not that the reaper even could when Morgunov was in full control like this. There would theoretically be a window--right at the end--in which Bool could pull it off, but the only way to know that for sure would be to test it. And doing that couldn't even be considered insane so much as just stupid.

So he solidified himself. His mind. Gathering his thoughts, emotions, sensations--his flow. He would not be repelled. The tattoos, glowing with a golden power, snaked their way up his arm and spread across his body.

Yes. That was better.

Now, maybe--

A distinctly feminine voice arrived.

"Malen'kiy Durak," it said.

And Morgunov stopped, frozen in place at the sound of those words. At their cadence. Their delivery.

So piercingly, hatefully familiar.

He'd not heard those words said that way since...

"As ever, you meddle where you should not," said the voice, now in Mohssian--or at least what sounded like it. And then again, in his old, native tongue, "Malen'kiy Durak."

And admittedly, it was difficult for him to maintain his composure.

Those words. Said in just that way.

No one should have known them. He never should have had to hear them again.

Because he had killed everyone who had ever spoken them to him in that manner.

Madly, his mind entertained the notion that this voice might actually belong to his mother. It was truly, utterly impossible. But in a single, trembling moment, he couldn't help himself, couldn't help the thought from entering his mind.

And then, hatred.

Hatred of a kind he had not felt in an Age.

It filled his mind.

Clouding his thoughts. Dispersing his reason.

Until he felt Bool there. Bringing him back. Returning his calm. Returning himself.

He breathed, finding clarity.

"That's a neat trick," said Morgunov, only just able to keep the anger out of his voice. "Who are you? Where did you learn those words?"

How scary. His better judgment was telling him not to do this. Which was a good thing, he supposed. Despite what the world thought of him, he must not have been totally mad. At least part of him still knew when he was thinking crazy thoughts.

And yet.

In the raging storm of his mind, his better judgment was not the prevailing wind. He could sense that much, too. In this fleeting moment, when his racing thoughts were bleeding into the swirling power of the fusion forge--with its emboldening, euphoric effects--Morgunov could tell that he was about to make a very unwise decision.

Because why shouldn't he, hmm? Was he not the Mad Demon of Abolish? The Maniac of Maludona? The Whackjob of Warway?

...The Lunatic of Lotorevo?

Yes. He had embraced such things long ago. Cowing in the face of danger now would be silly. Pointless. And a self-deception, besides.

Sure, this might well be one of those moments that historians liked to go on and on about, when a famed intellect finally went too far and ended up destroying itself. Hoisted by its own petard.

But such nattering ants would never understand, anyway. Cautionary tales? Playing it safe?

These were not how knowledge was accrued.

Morgunov breathed even more deeply than before--perhaps even more deeply than he ever had in his entire life, for that is how all of the ardor flowing into him made it feel. And with his mind, he seized control of the flow, both within himself and by extension, the flow all around him.

Like a fishing line, he reeled the flow in. More. More. More.

The flow within the tattoos was there. Part of the line. The part he was most interested in. Slowly, they peeled themselves off of Asad's body and followed along the stream toward Morgunov.

Such energy. Strength. Enough to make him sick.

No. He held. Had to.

Closer. Closer. Closer, still.

There. They were right there. Right in front of him. About to touch him.

He braced himself further. The first tattoo contacted his outstretched hand.

And the world went white.

But he was still aware. Still holding together. Not deterred. He couldn't see, but he could sense. The flow. The tattoos. The forge. Everything, actually.

The whole room. The whole building. The rocky land around it, and the crust of the planet below him, extending down, down, down.

This time he could get at the flow of ardor within the tattoos themselves. Where before, their secrets had been thoroughly concealed, now he sensed them. Through Qorvass, the Pit gave him an inroad.

Fascinating.

This woven flow. The way it could flex and bend... was it reacting to his observation of it? Didn't like being seen this way, eh?

Ah.

It was a memory structure. A pseudo-consciousness. Even more sophisticated than he'd realized.

Masterful work.

Rare were the times when he could look on and marvel at the accomplishment of another integrator, especially with how old he'd gotten, how much he'd seen before.

These patterns were something else. How were they so efficient? They looked a bit sloppy, but the flow was not leaking in the slightest. No ardor being lost. As perfect as the flow he'd just created using the Pit.

It made no sense.

Efficiency was not a trivial issue. In fact, where inventions were concerned, the efficient flow of ardor was arguably the most important subject of all. Many integrators would spend a hundred years or more just trying to master that one thing--and still die before managing it.

But this. This was something special. A perfect flow that did not appear so? How could that be?

He was missing something. Some element of its composition must've still been concealed from him.

Damn! Such an enticing mystery! Here?! Now?! He didn't have the luxury of time on his side. He needed to remove them.

But this magnificent structure... it would be a shame to destroy it. A true shame. In fact, destroying it before uncovering the depth of its secrets would not only be a shame... but a crime, in Morgunov's mind.

An intellectual crime. Absolutely.

Yes. Abruptly, his priorities shifted. He could not allow these tattoos to be destroyed. Without a doubt, he had to, in some way, preserve them.

But how? Agh.

He racked his brain, thinking. Their flow's patterns were too complex to simply memorize with how little time he had. Well, then again, with the benefit of Bool's immaculate memory on his side, it might be possible.

But no. He had a better idea.

Rather than destroying them, the solution was to transfer them to a dummy body. Then he could study them at his leisure another time.

Or...

Or?

Or he could use his own body. Transfer them himself.

Eheheh... wouldn't that be astonishingly dangerous?

Why, yes. Yes, it would.

The purity before him. The brilliance. The wonder. It took him all the way back. Hundreds of years. To the few, fleeting instances of curious innocence from his childhood.

That's what this felt like to him. Curiosity incarnate. A glimpse into a Higher Realm, perhaps.

It was what he lived for.

The flow was truly perfect now. He went over it slowly, taking his time as he walked the full length of the bowl, observing every inch of the containment field in order to be certain.

The fiery glow needed to be just right. Not for any calculational reason. He simply needed it to be. It was a matter of achieving perfection. So much had just been risked, and so much might now be gained. Rare moments like these needed to be savored to the maximal extent. It would likely be quite some time before he had a good reason to push the Pit so hard.

There. A coruscating red-orange glow with just a hint gold in the middle of each flaming stream. They were not unlike ribbons, tied into a great sphere, shining and otherworldly in their luster.

Almost done, now. A thought which saddened him. But he knew he should not linger too much more. The Pit could handle the load just fine, but it would grow antsy with him if he stopped working.

As much as it had in common with him, in this way it differed immensely. It cared not for its own magnificence. It wanted only to make progress.

Morgunov's normally silver gaze was now burning with red and gold as his eyes fell upon Asad and Qorvass. They seemed to no longer be struggling. If they'd fallen unconscious, then that was a shame. The perfected containment field would actually be neutralizing any pain now. Even the imminent removal of the little Lion's tattoos would not hurt. Instead, it would feel akin to a simple sensation of peeling. And perhaps even be oddly satisfying, too.

Theoretically, anyway.

Morgunov raised his hand and set to work. From the top of the containment field, one stream grew downward, snaking a red-gold path toward Asad Najir.

When it made contact with his skin, the glow magnified for a moment into a brilliant flash, then engulfed the man's body entirely.

The tattoos resisted. They, too, were of a golden hue, though darker and more intense.

Morgunov had of course seen this before and been expecting it. Those buggers were stubborn, to be sure, and were no doubt intending to block his progress yet again.

But this time was different.

But in the end, he had gotten it to work. And that incredible power, while certainly dangerous, could also be considered a boon. Like a wild horse, it was just a matter of taming it.

Plus, it came with the added security of no one else in the world ever being capable of using the Clown Pit against him. It would immediately reject and obliterate anyone who dared try.

He breathed in deep, taking some of the ardor into his own body. This, too, was a supremely dangerous tactic, requiring a well-practiced hand with ardor manipulation and also the kind of bodily resilience that only an emperor possessed. But it was worth the effort, because it allowed him to become part of the flow itself, meaning that he could even more easily guide it.

It was almost like making the flow of ardor an extension of his own will.

It was exhilarating. Euphoric. A raw feeling of power and freedom. Of living energy. If he could've stayed like this indefinitely, he very well might have.

Every time he did this, he recalled the tales from his mentors. Tales of the great inventors of old, of how they had used this very same technique to tap into untold power from the planet itself. Exceeding beyond themselves, beyond their own genius, into a greater height of knowledge than was perhaps otherwise possible on this plane of existence.

He'd thought that such tales were exaggerated. And perhaps they were. But in moments like these, he could see at least a glimmer of truth in them.

He didn't know about tapping into any genius beyond his own. That part still seemed hyperbolic to him. He never felt like new ideas were coming to him here. But the drunken feeling of power? The sheer potential? And the creative spark to go forth and build more wonders?

Those were all there.

The storm was calming almost totally, now. And it was beautiful. The lightning was gone entirely, but the fire was still there, though it was now orderly. A nearly perfect stream, flowing in repeating, algorithmic patterns all around the bowl, creating a visible containment field around Asad and Qorvass.

Tears welled up in his eyes, wavering against the encircling whirlwind.

This always happened to him. He couldn't help it. Witnessing the majesty of any fusion forge at the peak of its ability never ceased to move his heart.

Ah.

Yes. A fear, indeed. The great pillar was of crystal. Of quartz, by Morgunov's estimation.

Interesting.

The Pit was afraid of the little Lion, was it? Or rather, of the dormant power that Morgunov was seeking to unlock. It had picked up on the danger here. Of course it had.

Such a warning was unnecessary, though. Morgunov would certainly be displeased if his favorite workshop ended up obliterated, but this was a risk that needed to be taken. The Dry God was his best lead on the whereabouts of the Primordials.

Plus, Morgunov just really wanted to talk to him. Thinking about all the crazy things the guy might be able to tell him was making him more excited by the moment.

He had to cull those feelings, though. Right now, the task at hand required the entirety of his focus.

Heh. Perhaps the forge knew that and was seeking to distract him. Wasn't gonna work, but what a cunning jerk, if so.

If anything, he was more certain than ever that he was on the right path. The power depicted in the vision could obviously not come from Asad Najir and Qorvass by themselves.

He was so close now.

The flow of ardor shifted. He could sense it. Yes. Smoother. More efficient. Good. Fewer sparks. Fewer gouts of fire. Fewer cracks of lightning. The guidance was working. Slow but steady.

The current goal was to create a perfect flow. Optimally efficient. No cracks or leaks.

That was usually the main sticking point with the Clown Pit, due to the way he'd designed it. The open air above the bowl was the cause. That was why forges typically had some type of central containment, so that situations like this--where the ardor ran wild and threatened the user directly--could be avoided.

But Morgunov had wanted to try something different with the Pit. Granted, it was still technically contained by the greater chamber that was the entire room, but that was more to protect it from the outside world than anything.

Truthfully, he hadn't even been sure it would work. So much open space ran counter to all of the core design principles that he'd learned from his mentors. Perhaps that was why he'd wanted so badly to pull it off. As proof of concept, at least to himself.

And indeed, the Pit had been a real problem child during its creation. With the ardor able to flow so freely, it could whip up such furious energy storms that it threatened even to destroy itself.

The key was to not be straightforward in his approach. Trying to overpower the Pit during times like this was a fool's errand. It had pride, which he needed to respect, or else it would rebel and attempt to establish its dominance over him.

He'd made that mistake only once.

It had taken him a year to fully recover, because it had ripped Bool away from him like the cheese out of a ham sandwich--and then continually used the reaper against him as a hostage. Getting the Pit to trust him again had been one of the most difficult and obnoxious things he'd ever done. It involved a lot of gifts and even more negotiating--and finally, another fight in which Morgunov had been able to reassert his own dominance again, thanks to many, many preparations.

That same trick wouldn't work on him again, of course, but Morgunov did not wish to test the Pit's ingenuity. Just as he had grown and changed over the years, so had the Pit. In fact, because he had grown and changed, so had the Pit.

At this point, it was most certainly a reflection of himself, in many ways. Disrespecting it meant disrespecting himself.

And he hated being disrespected.

So no. While Morgunov might normally consider something like this a challenge to be overcome, the Clown Pit was different. Special. Deserving of his fear and admiration. But also counterbalanced against his own pride, lest the Pit see weakness and try to reestablish its dominance again.

A difficult balancing act, to be sure.

Here and now, he had to guide the forge's raging energy rather than oppose or smother it with his own. A gentle touch. This spark here. That bolt there. This flame over there.

Walking through the inferno like this, time was almost a non-factor. It slowed. Or bent, perhaps. Stretched. In accordance with his and the forge's unified wills.

He let the flow speak to him. The Pit was telling him a story. He needed but listen. He needed to hold truth. To understand.

A memory. No. A fear? Yes. A memory from the future, one might call it. Easy to mix up.

He saw a great pillar filling the sky, rising up into the clouds. Where had it come from? He looked toward the base. Its foundation. Down and down. So far down.

At length, he recognized the area. It was this same place, the area around the compound that housed this very workshop.

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