My confidence fled when I caught sight of the dungeon’s guardian. Even across the chamber, the hulwolf was a towering mass of teeth and claws. I repeated a calming mantra to stop myself from following my confidence and readied myself for the fight.
The hulwolf sniffed the air and its head snapped to my direction. A low growl reverberated from the demon’s muzzle as it bared rows of razor-sharp teeth. Chanting my mantra, I met the hulwolf’s gaze calmly and kept my stance loose, not threatening, but not fearful, and the demon paused. A hulwolf could be killed if struck through the left eye, but without the element of surprise, that was almost an impossible task.
The demon prowled deeper into the dungeon where the scant light of my torch couldn’t reach. Its black fur was enveloped by the shadows. All I could discern were its amber eyes, puzzling whether I was prey or predator.
With a growl that erupted into a roar, the hulwolf launched toward me, its clawed feet cutting grooves in the stone floor with each bound. Dropping my torch and withdrawing my sword, I danced out of its path and ducked beneath its spiked tail. The demon struck again, but I dove to the side, rolling along the dungeon floor as it shattered the stone behind me. Leaping to my feet, I felt the brittle crunch of my ribs as the tail struck me and launched me across the dungeon.
I looked down at my body and gasped at the deep wounds illuminated by the distant torchlight. Dark blood was running down my chest, and my back and shoulders were on fire. The demon prowled toward me and I tried to rise, but my strength was gone. My sword fell from my grip, too heavy to lift. Knowing that I had failed, I hummed the mantra of requiem, greeting the dark lady as a Hulsung warrior should.
When I returned to being Marcus Nguyen, the habits of the Hulsung were still deeply ingrained in me. I immediately assessed the position of the sun. Seeing that it was setting, I panicked and attempted to barricade the windows and doors. Even in my confused state, with my instincts commanding me to action, I knew that Marcus Nguyen was no Liashi Hulsung, and could not defend himself from the demons that roamed the night. I explained as much to the Judas, and screamed for mercy as he wheeled me out into the night, but not half as much as when he sold me to the mad doctor.
I have been imprisoned in this cell for a week now, and although I have adjusted back to the real world, it’s already too late. I have revealed too much to the mad doctor. She claims that I am a paranoid schizophrenic and feeds me the pill of the day, every day, in the name of keeping me ‘sane’. Despite her claims, I know she’s seeking information about my powers so that she can harness them for evil.
Using my talents gleaned from my life within the Thieves’ Guild, I pilfered a notepad and pen from the mad doctor. With the use of these tools, I am now documenting my days, so that I don’t lose myself in the flow of my lives. So far, I have been successful in secreting my journal beneath my wheelchair. Like most people, the mad doctor and her lackeys seem to have the same aversion to disability as vampires have to silver. Just in case though, I’ve taken the added precaution of coding my journal in Elvish.
Captain’s log 002,
Sunday, April 8th, 2015
Today, the mad doctor wanted to test the extents of my powers and asked me to read from the Senior Mathematics textbook. I was skeptical; textbooks don’t have protagonists after all, but I was more misguided in my belief than Napoleon was when he decided to march on Russia. Every high school textbook in creation is filled with stupid stories and comics meant to make learning engaging and fun. If I could pass on a message to Arthur .G. Brultin, the author of Senior Mathematics, I would tell him that there is nothing fun about calculating how many minutes you will be waiting for a 7.72485km long train, travelling at 120.701kph, to pass by you from the time it enters a crossing, until it has exited.
Calculating that is the opposite of fun! It is the equivalent of facing down a hulwolf armed with nothing but a wooden spoon! The answer is 3.84 minutes, which the mad doctor was interested to learn that I could now work out in my head. Even if the knowledge has a practical use in the real world, hell, any world, it wasn’t worth enduring that nightmare for. When we were done, the mad doctor muttered something about possible autism.
Captain’s log 003,
Monday, April 9th, 2000
The mad doctor didn’t bring any wormholes with her when she came to run her experiments today. She said that after my breakdown the day before, I needed a break from my travels. The way she said it, I almost believed that she actually cared for my health.
She asked me questions about my past lives, both real and within the wormholes, then grew disappointed when I couldn’t answer her. What does she expect? She’s asking questions about things that happened lifetimes ago; I bet she doesn’t even remember how much she paid the Judas for me.
After she left, one of her lackeys, Phili, brought me a plate of rice and beans. I noticed the gold crucified Jesus bobbing on her dark cleavage, like a castaway on a raft, and told her that I was catholic as well. Despite my limited French, I believe that she has taken a liking to me. She refers to me as ‘mon chou’, which I guess is an affectionate term, and calls the mad doctor ‘putain,’ which doesn’t need a translation. She may be one of the mad doctor’s ploys to break me, but I believe I have found a potential ally in this prison. My life in The White Tiger has taught me that religion and hate can cement stronger bonds than monetary gain.
Captain’s log 004,
Monday, April 10th, 2000
The mad doctor visited me again today and we sat in silence, regarding each other across the room. Silence is a powerful interrogation tool when used correctly. It can ask the right questions when words fail, or even the questions that an interrogator doesn’t know to ask. But to one who has lived as a professional criminal, it is a powerless tool.
Phili also visited me with a slice of homemade tart in addition to my customary meal of plain rice and vegetables. My instincts scream that she can’t be trusted, but it’s been so long since I’ve eaten something that didn’t taste like cardboard.
Captain’s log 005,
Sunday, April 16th, 2000
The mad doctor hasn’t brought me a wormhole in over a week now and I’m starting to feel the effects. I haven’t been trapped in this crippled body for so long since I discovered my powers.
The mad doctor still comes to see me each day to interrogate me about my past. I believe she’s trying to squeeze my origin story from me, but I was trained in Zolithia and my patience will outlast hers.
Phili brings me my meals each night after the interrogations. Although our communication is limited to a bastard language born of broken English and French, she is a welcome distraction from my prison.
Captain’s log 006,
Sunday, April 22nd, 2000
It is difficult to describe the life that this one lived within the confines of As below as Above. This one did not exist as a single human but as a brood of alliandi. This one was born within a subterranean cavern, along with a score of broodlings. Driven by instinct, we battled with claw and tail. When only the four strongest remained, we devour the corpses of the weak for their precious nutrients.
Afterwards, we ingested the soil of our birth chamber. The earth mixed with the acid in our stomachs and we regurgitated the mixture, encasing ourselves in a stone cocoon. There, we hibernated, our minds becoming one while we awaited our queen’s commands. Once our queen had need of us, we emerged from our haven as brothers with one hive mind.
Following our queen’s commands to explore the territory south of our birth chamber, we swam through the earth with the ease of migrating ducks following a silent call that only we could hear. Eventually, we came to a wall of rock that our claws could not breach.
Our queen commanded that we swim to the surface and investigate the impenetrable wall. Immediately, we left the comfort of our domain, erupting onto the surface world at the base of a mountain. The sky above was a dark black, speckled with brilliant spots where stars tried to burn through with the
ir stinging lights. The queen informed us that in time, a great day-star would rise into the sky and would scorch us until nothing but our armored husks remained.
One brother turned back to the earth, his mind screaming through ours that he would not risk such a fate. Immediately, we forsook him before his fears could infect our communal consciousness. There was no room for weakness in our brotherhood. One brother coiled his serpentine body around the forsaken one’s slender waist, snaring his legs and vicious tail. Another brother entrapped the forsaken one’s arms, and this one devoured the forsaken one’s skull before we fell on him, careful to avoid his acid sacks as we devoured his precious nutrients.
The queen commanded that we scale the mountainside, and so we entered into a maze of cracks and chasms in a world of sloping granite walls. Sometimes the path was narrow, and we were forced to press ourselves against the rough stone, shuffling cautiously along precipices, the only thing between us and a deadly fall being the shallow grooves our claws could find in the granite walls. Sometimes the path was broad and we could walk side by side, but the ground beneath our feet was forever hard stone, not something we could succor in as the day-star rose.
Our pace quickened as the stinging stars converged into the scorching day-star, brightening the entire surface world. Our instincts cried for us to turn back, to throw ourselves down the mountainside and succor in the earth before it was too late, but our queen commanded, and we continued to ascend the constantly rising mountain.
The brother ahead of this one collapsed, and knowing that he would not rise again, we forsook him. This one closed his jaws over the forsaken one’s skull and devoured his precious nutrients without pause.
By the time this one had ascended the peak, this one alone remained, and wore his last brother’s shell above his body as feeble protection from the day-star. Looking down from this one’s vantage, this one could see that the mountain was hollow and that molten granite boiled within its core. Having discovered the information that the queen desired, she abandoned this one to his fate. Without the energy to descend the mountain, and not wishing a slow death via the day-star, this one threw himself into the mountain’s bowels so that his precious nutrients might nurture it.
The mad doctor has decided that this one now suffers from multiple personality disorder, and in a way, this one cannot disagree.
Captain’s log 007,
Sunday, April 29th, 2000
Merde! Today the mad doctor brought my old journals with her. While most are coded in various conlangs, the first was penned when English was my only tongue. The Judas also visited me, for what reason I cannot ascertain. Maybe he regrets selling his only son, and all my secrets, to a mad doctor for a bag of silver. In any case, I refused to talk to the traitor.
He watched on with tears in his eyes as the mad doctor forced me to read my journals, even as I begged them not to. I hope it hurt him to see what his greed has subjected me to.
The wormhole ripped me back to where it all began. The hero sat back in a foldout chair, decked out in so many winter clothes that she looked like a rent-a-Chewbacca. She had a fishing rod in her hands with the line cast into the small hole she had cut in the ice. She had told me to step away from the hole, but I ignored her. In my twelve-year-old ignorance, I had thought myself invincible.
I peered down into the fishing hole and watched something stir in the dark waters below us. The ice crystals and gloom concealed the creature’s form, but it bucked and heaved, sending bubbles to the surface. For a moment, everything was calm. Then a squeal split the air and a tentacle erupted from the hole. Fine ice stung my face and I tried to run, but the limb wrapped around my body. It ripped me through the widened hole and freezing water flowed into my clothes like a living thing that devoured my warmth. I kicked my feet, making futile swimming motions, but it was useless. Everything went dark.
I awoke in a boiling bed, sweating like crazy. I tried to kick the blankets from my body, but they were too heavy for my legs to shift. The Judas entered the room, followed by a woman who was not the hero. He took my hand and together they explained that the hero and I must have fallen through the ice. They told me that the hero had miraculously carried me to the hospital before she fell into a coma.
The next few days passed for me like the torturous last seconds of class before school holidays. I lay in the bed next to the hero, unable to stand by her side as I counted the endless seconds between each of her shallow breaths. When the seconds drew into minutes and she passed from this world, leaving me to discover my powers alone, the Judas offered me a tiny, useless tissue. He pressed his brow to mine while I soaked the cloth with my tears. When neither of us could stop crying, he crawled into the bed beside me and cradled my head against his chest. Stroking my hair, he spoke brokenly of the hero, and all his wife had meant to him.
The instant I returned to the real world my Zolithian calm shattered. I missed the hero with a terrible, physical clenching in my chest. I squeezed my eyes shut, determined not to cry in front of the mad doctor. Never before had I hated her. I had lived a life similar to hers, and it is difficult to hate a person whom you understand, but at that moment, I came close.
After repeating a calming mantra, the pain became a distant thing, a suffering that I was aware of but was not part of me. The mad doctor was close to winning. If she hadn’t already, then she would soon begin experimenting on others to replicate my powers. Her most recent interrogation has led me to believe that whatever answers she is seeking within my journals have eluded her. It is likely the only reason I’m still alive.
She has tried to convince me that I suffer from a psychosis born from the trauma of losing my mother and that my powers aren’t real. She said that my psychosis holds grains of reality seeded within it, and that if she can help me sift them from fantasy, she can cure me. Her words were artfully crafted in the cadence of a helpful doctor, and her claim made sense, which didn’t decrease my mistrust of her. I told her what she wanted to hear to buy myself time to come up with a plan, but the smile she gave me makes me feel like I’ve rolled into her trap.
Captain’s final log,
Monday, April 30th, 2000
Phili visited me last night after the mad doctor’s interrogations. At first, I was skeptical of her, but she has proven to be a valuable ally in this prison. Her small, frequent gifts have kept me sane through the longs weeks of deprivation from my wormholes. Using all my powers of persuasion, I managed to convince her to take me to the great library where the mad doctor retrieves all her wormholes. As somebody trained in the Temple of Silence, where speech is forbidden and communication must be deciphered through a person’s stance and facial expression, I believe myself to be a master of interpreting falsehood. If Phili is loyal to the mad doctor, then she is a master actress and I take solace in having been fooled by the best.
If all goes as planned, she will return tomorrow night at the customary time of my meal, and take me to the library. Once there, I can barricade the door and lose myself in wormholes until I find a way to defeat the mad doctor and free myself, and Phili, from her ruling.
Captain Marcus Nguyen, signing out.
Addendum: I curse the person who decided that French wasn’t important enough to teach in Australian public schools. If it was, then I would be feeling fresh air on another face, instead of the stale air in Marcus Nguyen’s cell. Phili came for me at the agreed time, but instead of whisking me away to the mad doctor’s library, she took me home with her.
I sat at her dinner table, enjoying the delicious blend of tomato, onion, and capsicum. I pushed my sausage to the side of my plate, though. As much as I missed the taste of meat, I had lived as too many animals to ever eat it again without guilt. Phili and her family attempted to include me in their conversations, but with my limited French, their friendly attempts just made me feel all the more like an outsider. When the meal was finished, I used a mixture of our bastard language and hand signs to ask if I could read one of their books. Funnily e
nough, it was Phili’s daughter, Ouchou, who understood my meaning and supplied me with one of her picture books.
I was hesitant to read it at first, dreading being trapped in a child’s book, but I needn’t have worried. The foreign language barred me from entering the wormhole. I was still trying to sound out the simple words when Ouchou fell asleep in my lap. Phili eventually carried Ouchou to bed, then came back for me. I begged her in our bastard language not to return me to my cell, but she only shook her head and tapped her watch. I can’t blame her, though. She has a family to support and was only securing her own job. Besides, I’m thankful for a last meal that didn’t taste of microwaved cardboard.
With my failed attempt at escape, there is no doubt that the mad doctor will improve her security and I won’t get another chance. As she has my journals and has not disposed of me, I can only assume that she’s seeking my secrets through her interrogations. I won’t let that happen.
I’m writing this final log in English, doctor, so that when you find it and scour its pages for my secrets, you will know that I have won. I do not regret my sacrifice and know that God will forgive me. I have lived many lives, and everything I have ever done, and everything that was ever done to me, has led me to this point, where like my mother, I could die a hero. This final time, I will wield my pen as mightily as I ever have the sword.
Captain, Marcus Nguyen, signing out.
THE END.
ECHOES OF THE FALLEN by Shaun Robinson
Chapter 1
The Golden Boy Returns
Sytre felt cold and empty as he walked through the crowds of Silverseat. They were cheering for his return from another successful campaign beyond the Borderlands. He knew the sun was warm on his skin and that the people praised him with victory but he couldn’t find it in himself to share in neither of their warmth.
9 Tales From Elsewhere 10 Page 10
