The Well of Many Worlds

by Luke Metcalf

  “I would imagine she was not amused.”

  “Not amused at all. She smiled graciously, while thrusting a dagger deep into his heart. She and her handmaidens then hacked him to pieces until he leaped out the highest window in her castle tower.

  “He returned a week later and kidnapped her mother. He removed the poor lady’s organs and nailed her liver to a tree outside Princess Katharina’s castle, her heart to another, her stomach to another, her kidneys to another.”

  “Fiend.” Mitchell curled his lip in disgust.

  “Certainly. The princess returned home heartbroken, as one would expect, and then she began her pursuit of him. They battled for many years, neither able to get the better of the other.”

  There was a knock on the door and Fionn raised an eyebrow, requesting permission to answer it. Mitchell nodded his assent and stood, preparing himself to meet this formidable lady. Nothing, however, could have prepared him for the embodiment of grace and beauty that Fionn escorted back across the room to greet him. She looked as though she was in her late twenties, tall and imperious with high cheekbones, long, white-blonde hair, and vibrant blue eyes. Her midnight-blue gown perfectly accentuated the color of her eyes and a fortune of exquisite pearls tumbled around her neck. Mitchell could not tear his eyes away from her.

  “Princess Katharina, I would like to introduce you to Mitchell Keats.”

  “A pleasure,” said the princess with the slightest of nods and a look of amusement in her beautiful eyes, as if she could see all too clearly the effect she was having on him.

  “An honor to meet you, Princess,” Mitchell said with a bow.

  The princess gazed at Mitchell’s handsome features for a moment, and then sat in one of the thrones, elegantly crossing her legs with a swish of fine silk.

  “I shan’t be staying long, Messieurs. I have been traveling all over the northlands, searching long and hard, visiting hundreds of villages in pursuit of rumors and folk tales about the first vampires and the Well of Many Worlds.”

  “And what have you found?” Fionn asked.

  “Unfortunately, just rumors. I still have not been able to unearth any reliable information as to what happened to them in Transylvania or where they went afterwards, just some fireside stories and suggested names.”

  “Transylvania,” Mitchell interrupted. “Is that not the land from where that legendary warrior came? The one you told me about? Vlad Tepes? He was of the Order of the Dragon, was he not?”

  “Yes, Vlad the Impaler. The Dracul,” Fionn replied.

  “Do you think…?” Mitchell began, but the princess read his thoughts before he was able to articulate them into words.

  “Yes,” she said, “I believe the most ancient one changed him into a vampire. But it seems the Dracul was destroyed long ago, unfortunately, so we will learn nothing from him.”

  Fionn frowned. “I am confused as to why, if the original vampire was from another world and returned to that dimension, the Well of Many Worlds did not go with him.”

  The princess smoothed an invisible crease from the silk of her gown as she spoke, showing Mitchell the outline of her leg. “It is surmised that the Well replicates itself in whatever world it transports the user to, so that there is one in each world, acting as a bridge. Perhaps the user must somehow command it to return to the other world upon leaving, or else it will remain behind as a permanent bridge between itself and the original from which it replicated itself. So it is possible a bridge has been open between Earth and this other world, Magella, for hundreds of years…”

  “So,” Fionn said, “is it also possible that the one he turned before he went back to his world figured out how to command the Well of Many Worlds and decided to use it to follow him, to travel to this other world, Magella, taking it with them, thus closing the bridge?”

  “Certainly. But that does not change our task. As long as the Well might still be here on Earth, we must do all that we can to find it before Baelaar does. That is the reason I wished to meet with you tonight. The only lead I have points to Russia. I am notifying you that I now intend to expand my search for the Well there.”

  “You must do what you feel is best,” replied Fionn. “I have every faith in you.”

  “It was a pleasure seeing you again, Fionn, and meeting you, good sir.” The princess stood, gave Mitchell a brief nod and then faced Fionn.

  “One star in sight,” said Fionn.

  “One star in sight.” The princess smiled, then left.

  “What does that mean?” asked Mitchell.

  “You must join the order of the Niveus Gladius to know what our secret codes are.”

  “At least tell me if you have shared with me the sum total of what we know of the Well of Many Worlds? Or is there something you are hiding?”

  “Mitchell, all we know is that after the vampire from Magella came through the Well of Many Worlds and turned the first vampire on Earth, then went back to Magella, the first one on Earth then traveled throughout Europe. We believe he took the Well with him. He certainly went through Transylvania at some point around the year 1440, and then disappeared. That is all we know.”

  “I am going to Russia after the Well of Many Worlds,” said Mitchell.

  “We must destroy Baelaar first,” Fionn reminded him.

  “Only if we can find him soon. If not I will still go to Russia,” said Mitchell grimly.

  The next day the whole of Paris descended into a state of alarm. Riots ripped through every street and the Bastille was stormed. The gleeful mob had beaten, stabbed, and decapitated Governor Marquis Bernard-René de Launay, placing his head on the end of a pike and parading it about the city. The city was in the grip of a fully-fledged revolution. When the sun finally set on the terrible scenes Mitchell was sitting in his apartment with Sylvain and Fionn.

  “I would like to train you to be a knight of the Niveus Gladius,” Fionn told Sylvain.

  The younger vampire laughed. “I am much obliged for the offer. However, I have no interest in being a member of any club. I prefer to go my own way and live by my own… passions. Speaking of which, I have a plan for this evening, which I think you will both find quite amusing.” The other two men exchanged looks but said nothing. “I sent word out, promising a prize of one hundred thousand gold pieces for the most beautiful woman in Paris. Of course, I will be the judge, and I will be testing all of the applicants.”

  Mitchell looked as if he was about to interrupt.

  “Do not worry,” Sylvain continued, “I will abide by the rules. I won’t kill any innocents or let on that I am a you-know-what. I trust you will both be attending my party for Mitchell tonight? After plundering the coffers of our friend the banker and his wife I am now in possession of wealth beyond my wildest dreams. With the promise of high-paying mercenary work and free food and wine, I have enticed fifty of the most dreadful murderers and scoundrels in Paris to come to a certain ballroom I have rented for a great feast. I neglected to inform them that they are to be the feast.” Sylvain laughed and clapped his hands, obviously delighted with himself. “I promise that I will not be killing any of the lovely ladies.”

  “A party for me?” Mitchell scoffed. “I think not. You are throwing this thing for yourself.”

  “That is not true.” Sylvain pretended to be affronted by the very idea. “How about you, Fionn?”

  Fionn shook his head. “Unfortunately, I have pressing business.”

  “Mitchell?” Sylvain grew serious. “Please, I really want to do something for you to show my appreciation. You seem bitter and filled with rage. You choose not to share your personal life with me and that’s fine. You would prefer to brood by yourself, that is your choice and that is also fine. You refuse to explain what this madness is about you wanting to use the Well of Many Worlds to go to the realms of devils and demons – fine again. But you have shown me such kindness and given me so much that when I see you are in some kind of inner torment I want only to bring some fun and joy into your existence
. It is the least I can do. Besides, perhaps you will be able to get valuable information from some of the mercenaries who will be attending.”

  “That is true. I will come,” Mitchell said. “I may be able to get some news on Baelaar’s movements.”

  Two hours later Mitchell was making his way through the drunken, rampaging mobs on the streets to the address Sylvain had given him. Secreted behind anonymous-looking wooden gates, the ballroom was lavishly decorated with flowing swags of priceless black silk and hundreds of blood-red roses. Along the center of the room an enormous dining table stretched out, laid up for fifty or more people, laden with a feast fit for kings. The settings were of the finest linen and china. Crystal and silver glistened in the candlelight. Heaped dishes of every kind of meat and fish sat alongside the finest wines, interspersed with platters of exotic fruits, cakes, and pastries.

  The “guests,” being led in by servants were the grimiest crowd of mercenaries and cutthroats Mitchell had ever clapped eyes on. For a moment they were struck dumb by the sight of the feast. They had obviously never seen such opulence and were unsure which way to look or which succulent delicacy to lunge for first. Mitchell stood off in a corner and watched as their courage grew and they began to salivate visibly as they attacked the food and drink. He began to read their minds and found only filth and degradation. The host himself was nowhere to be seen.

  Soon, the entire rabble were feasting, drinking and laughing, continually toasting the health of their “noble benefactor,” as they called him, calling out for him to make himself known to them. Only once they had stuffed themselves full and drunk themselves into a stupor, however, did Sylvain make his grand entrance in velvet jacket, breeches and elegantly buckled shoes. He exuded wealth, style and power.

  “Gentlemen,” he declaimed, arms stretched wide. “I trust the refreshments were to your liking.”

  The men cheered and pounded on the table with their fists and feet.

  “Tonight, you will all have the opportunity to become wealthy men.”

  Again the men cheered and toasted their host. Sylvain held up a large sack of gold coins and shook it, further delighting his guests. “Here is enough gold to keep you all living in luxury for the rest of your lives. All you need to do to get it is… cut off my head!”

  Silence fell, as the guests looked at each other in dribbling, inebriated confusion. Sylvain dropped the sack of gold on the floor.

  “In that box,” he continued, gesturing to a large wooden crate in the far corner of the ballroom, which his servants were now opening, “you will find swords. There are more than enough for all of you. I command each one of you to select a weapon and attempt to cut off my head. I will fight all of you at once, using only these.” He held up two daggers with exotically carved handles.

  The men stared at Sylvain and then at each other. Mitchell stayed entirely still, reading their vicious, puzzled minds, waiting to see what would happen next.

  “If you succeed in killing me, the survivors may divide up the gold as they see fit.”

  Still, the men sat motionless, assessing the situation, trying to work out if they were being tricked.

  “Do you know why I am not afraid of you?” Sylvain asked as he sauntered over to the dining table, casually flipping a dagger in his right hand. “Because you are peasants, and I am a nobleman!”

  Mitchell laughed at his young friend’s arrogance. Some of the men were now grinding their teeth and grumbling to one another. With the social and political tensions boiling over throughout France, Sylvain was playing upon their deeply held resentments, goading them as though they were mad dogs just waiting for an excuse to attack.

  “You pitiful fools dare to condemn us for our love of wealth, the finer things and sensual pleasures. You accuse us of excess, greed, and depravity. Libertinism! But I look at you – in fact, I look through you – and all I see are hypocrites.”

  The anger of the crowd was growing beneath the taunts. Soon, Mitchell could see, they would explode with rage and pounce. The eyes of all the scoundrels and murderers stared at him as Sylvain strutted about in an absurdly exaggerated way, taunting them.

  “Every one of you would switch positions with me in an instant and you know it. Do you think that pride, covetousness, lust, anger, gluttony, envy and sloth are really that different for the rich and the poor? No, no, no my honorable and gentle friends. Riches to rags or rags to riches, it is the same man, just in different stitches.”

  “What is this ridiculousness?” growled Mitchell, stepping out from behind a column. “Why are you taunting them with this demonic aristocrat act? I have no time for this foolishness. When a fool plays the fool, he doesn’t fool anyone.”

  Sylvain strolled over to him. “Except for his fellow fools, who comprise the better part of humanity. Yes, it is a sad state of affairs when the worst comprise the better part. But here we are.”

  “There are many good folk in this world.”

  “A fool that means well or a fool that means ill are still both just fools and sometimes one must play the fool to fool the fool who thinks they are fooling you.”

  “Ah, I cannot speak to this man,” said Mitchell waving his hand dismissively. “Why do you insist on being such a clown?”

  “Perhaps I am mad, what of it?”

  “Some are born mad, some have madness thrust upon them and some achieve madness through self indulgence.”

  “Self indulgence is my favorite pastime.”

  “I am not referring to that kind of self indulgence.”

  “I am not breaking any rules, Mitchell, read their minds and you will see they are all murderers. You were absolutely correct. The reign of terror has begun. Come on, my friend. We are going to have such fun, you have no idea! First we will feast on all of these idiots in a battle royal, and then just wait until you see what I have arranged for dessert!”

  Sylvain flashed Mitchell a toothy smile, strutted off and continued his speech. “We aristocrats respect ourselves in all that we do. We move through the world with grace and sophistication especially when we kill and steal. You would slash a man’s throat for a handful of pennies. But we value art, education, fashion and quality workmanship for if we are going to bear the insult of birth into this crude and savage world at least we will hold our heads high and walk through it with STYLE!”

  At the exact moment Sylvain shouted the world “style” he swung round and plunged a dagger through the eye of an older man sitting at the end of the table. The man let out a blood-curdling shriek and fell forward, dead, upon the table. Sylvain returned the stare of the shocked crowd, mocking them, imitating their foolish expressions.

  “Well?” He laughed in their faces. “Would none of you care to kill for money?”

  A brute of a man stood up, chuckling, walked over to the box, picked up a sword, and approached Sylvain. “If I kill you, I get that gold?”

  “Indeed you do.”

  The man laughed. “I have killed for far less than that.”

  “I am certain that you have.”

  “You really believe that you can defeat even one of us?” scoffed the mercenary. “You look as soft as those fine threads that you wear. If we were in the streets I could come upon you from behind and you wouldn’t know it until I had separated your soul from your body and you were looking down from above” – he glanced at the other mercenaries with a wide, rotten-toothed grin – “or more likely up from below.” All the mercenaries laughed.

  “Come at me from behind?” laughed Sylvain, looking the brute up and down. “Well if it were you that came at me from behind I would wager it would be a minor irritation.” Sylvain roared with laughter and stumbled backward pointing at the mercenary. “Ah ha! Minor irritation!” he howled.

  The man growled and lunged at Sylvain, who stepped aside with lightning speed and then did a ridiculous dance. Mitchell caught an image from the man’s thoughts that made his hair stand on end. The man was thinking of how Sylvain reminded him of someone else h
e had met recently: he had the same pale skin and glittering eyes. His memory was of a conversation he had had a few nights earlier with Baelaar and Squire Griffith.

  Mitchell probed deeper into the man’s befuddled mind and saw Baelaar handing him a small sack of gold coins. He wanted to probe further.

  “Sylvain!” Mitchell shouted, but Sylvain ignored him. The mercenary launched a sweeping strike at his host’s neck. Sylvain easily ducked the clumsy movement and slashed his attacker’s throat open. Blood gushed from the hideous wound and the man gurgled as he clutched his throat and sank to his knees and on down to the polished wooden floor.

  “Yes?” Sylvain asked, turning to Mitchell, casually licking the blood off his dagger as the man writhed in his final agonies on the floor, then became still.

  Mitchell looked at the dead man and shook his head. “Never mind,” he said, turning his attention to the minds of the others.

  “Who will be next to try and profit from murder?” Sylvain asked the group, all of whom were staring at the dark lake of blood spreading around their fallen colleague.

  Three men seated at the table rose to their feet and ran from the building. Two others walked over to the box, picked up swords, and, without a word, charged at Sylvain. He dispatched them in moments, then busied himself cutting off the heads of all three slain bodies. Once their heads were off, he lifted one in each hand and pressed their lips together as though they were kissing. “Muah, muah, muah.” He mocked the sounds of refined courtship. “Who would have thought one would find such tender feelings between two such villains?” He roared with laughter.

  Picking up the third head he began to juggle with them, laughing with childlike glee. Becoming bored with his own show he kicked each head into the crowd. One landed in a plate of pheasant, another struck a mercenary in the face while the third landed on a dessert platter, sending strawberry, pistachio and coconut macaroons flying lightly into the air.

  “Let’s all get him!” bellowed one of the brutes. “He cannot fight us all!”

  Having found a leader, the mob leaped up as one and ran to the box, grabbing swords. In an angry, disorganized throng, they rushed at Sylvain. Even though many of them were highly skilled swordsmen and ruthless killers, they were clumsy, slow, and foolish when pitted against the speed, focus, power and agility of a vampire.