Wolf of the Tesseract
Copyright 2016 Christopher D Schmitz
Published by Christopher D Schmitz at Smashwords
Smashwords Edition License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your enjoyment only, then please return to Smashwords.com or your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
© 2016 by Christopher D. Schmitz
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publishers, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a newspaper, magazine or journal.
The final approval for this literary material is granted by the author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
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For my kids – Don’t stop Reading.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Epilogue
Glossary
Dear reader
About the author
Discover other titles by Christopher D Schmitz
…The Prime…
“There!” Zabe shouted to his men. “They’re coming in at our side!”
Explosions ripped through the western wall of the fortress—not at the main gate where they’d expected it! Shrapnel and debris scattered through the army’s unprepared flank. The royal military had amassed at the castle’s front gate, expecting an attack at the least durable barrier, but the enemy came in at the side walls instead and threw the plans into disarray.
Zabe barked orders to his troops atop the parapet and they swung the massive laser battery to target the encroaching enemy; they swarmed to the breach in the wall. These walls were supposedly impenetrable, and yet the warlock’s troops had managed to rip them open with some new alchemy the vyrm forces brought from another dimension; the reptilian, humanoid race traveled from a forsaken dimension far beyond the Prime and brought their poison with them to besiege the Prime’s capital.
Enemy forces poured through the yawning hole in the bastion wall, trampling over the wounded; they violently dispatched those still resilient enough to resist. Zabe whirled in a panic to assess the situation from his post high on the wall. The armor clad enemies crashed in waves against the royal forces as they streamed through the broken side-wall of the royal keep. His instincts tore at him, his first impulse was to drop from above and rush to aide his overwhelmed comrades. His eyes darted to his father, Zahaben, master at arms and personal security chief to the royal family; Zahaben led the Guardian Corps: those charged with protecting the heirs of the Architect King and all the royal secrets. Stuck at the main entrance where they’d expected the brunt of the assault to occur, his father struggled to get the elite forces to the newly drawn battlefront.
Zabe rejected his instincts and turned back to the laser turret. It pummeled the forces surging beyond the wall, flinging hot energy bursts which tore through the enemy; a fiery blast crippled a crude trebuchet in the distance. Scorched wreckage erupted near impact craters, ripping seams through the endless array of marauding vyrm. A black banner of their nega-god, Sh’logath, wavered and fell as debris cut down the standard bearers. The vyrm hissed defiantly as he collapsed.
Another detonation rocked the fortress foundations. Dust flew up, caking Zabe’s sweaty face as he struggled to keep his balance. He hesitantly stole attention from his post again and turned to the main gate. The royal forces had repositioned to defend against the ruptured wall of the castle flank.
With dire groaning following a minor eruption, the immense front entry shifted on its hinges. An alchemical bomb eked destructive reagents in massive spidery webs of corrosion. The doorway crumbled in a heap of chunks burned by acerbic fire.
Zabe coughed as the acrid dust invaded his lungs even at this distance. His eyes searched eagerly for his father amongst the dust-borne silhouettes. Those seconds proved too long and the raging battle demanded his full attention. He whirled back and gave the order for his troops to unload their full complement of munitions on the mass pressing in upon the bastions.
“But sir! They’re too close to us!”
“Rain hell upon them! I know the risks, Wulftone,” Zabe spat the order at his cousin, even as their entire rampart shook from another explosion. Such heavy damage to the battlefield at so little range might weaken the integrity of a wall that still afforded some protection to the castle. “All towers, full barrage!” He growled the order into his communications array. “Empty your reserves and then fall back! The perimeter is already lost to that snake. Protect the interior!”
Even as he spoke, Zabe’s eyes locked on the enemy commanders at the edge of the battlefield; he put a scope to his eye to double check. Their leader, the inter-dimensional warlock, Nitthogr, and he were no strangers. The figure in the distinct crimson cloak could be none but the sorcerer; the tall and muscular vyrm to his side would likely be his chief general, Regorik. At this distance, even with the scope, it was impossible to tell, but he could swear that his enemy grinned at him from beneath his scaly, red hood.
Nitthogr shimmered and suddenly disappeared. No! He could be anywhere, Zabe thought. His mind panicked only slightly as his eyes darted across the war-torn battlescape. He had to be somewhere nearby. For all the power of the crafty sorcerer, the arcane arts were still a kind of science, and likewise had rules to obey. Nitthogr was present somewhere—and likely very near!
The thundering of the tower defense cannons’ heavy shelling matched the rapid beating in his chest. Zabe’s heart sank deep into his gut. His metallic gauntlet clacked against the breastplate of his Guardian Corps’ uniform as his fist rapped upon his breast and bowed slightly in salute. “Wulftone! You’re in charge of the cannonade.”
Zabe drew the sword from across his back and checked the holstered sidearm strapped to his thigh. Then, with a whirl, he leapt from the ledge and hurled himself towards the frenzy below.
His emotions raged unchecked. He could only think of the safety of the Princess. Just before the vyrm army encircled them he had been with her, asking her the most important question. Zabe had to make haste in order to arrive before the evil sorcerer who had long set his intentions upon the daughter of the Architect King. I’ve got to get to Princess Bithia!
Zabe whirled around the corner and quickly spun back the way that he had come. Vyrm soldiers flooded the passageway leading to the royal chambers. Smoke crawled along the ceiling, spilling upwards and seeping through the archways, nagging at Zabe’s nostr
ils. The vyrm paid it no mind; oily fumes rolled off their scaly skin.
He peeked around the corner once more and counted them: too many! He steeled himself for a mad charge that would likely be his last service to the crown. Zabe exhaled a stiff huff; he straightened up, poised for a zealous dash.
“Psst!” A loud, distinct tone grabbed his attention.
Zabe caught sight of a hand motioning behind the edge of a broken and blackened portcullis. Clad in the colors of the Guardian Corps, the armored forearm insistently waved for him.
Cautiously, quietly, Zabe snuck behind the wall to join his comrade. Only once crouched safely behind cover did he recognize General Zahaben. “Father,” he whispered, “what do we do?”
Zahaben jerked and tugged at the armor pieces covering his large forearms. He unstrapped a simple, leather wristband that was branded with a variety of their family sigils—the figure of the wolf branded most prominently. Zahaben flopped the simple, yet precious heirloom onto his son’s lap.
Zabe looked to his grim-faced father. He knew what it meant.
Zahaben stood and winced, skillfully masking any further admission of pain behind his tight lips. As chief of the royal guard, charged with protecting the monarchy, he had earned his position by both trial and birthright. In that moment, as he stood straight, battered and bleeding yet determined, Zabe understood the meaning of duty and honor.
The elder checked the charge pack on his pistol and tore a thin piece of metal from the zipper on his boot. “I know what I have to do. But you, son,” he glanced at his eldest from the corner of his eye as he worked, “you must find the princess. Rescue Bithia; preserve the royal line at all costs! If the line fails, falters, or if you fail, then all may be lost. We must keep the vyrm, especially that hybrid Nitthogr, out of the Chamber of Mysteries.”
They stood and faced each other for what seemed a long pause. The moment ended abruptly when a nearby vyrm explosives unit overwhelmed a nearby blast door. The ground buckled and shook with the detonation; dust flakes and debris rained from the ceiling.
Zahaben jammed the metal splinter into a tiny port on the blaster’s charge pack and put a palm upon his son’s shoulder, ignoring the shrill whine his hand-cannon emitted. He nodded to his son, and then spun around the corner and charged into the enemy group, bowling over the surprised vyrm and scattering the squad. The whine peaked, chirping urgently.
Zabe stood frozen and watched him chuck the complaining device into the thick of the crowd while slashing with his sword. The blaster exploded in a concussive burst, flinging smoldering vyrm warriors to the floor. Zabe finally looked away from the fray as his father took on twenty soldiers simultaneously in martial combat.
His father’s last order repeated in his mind and he darted down a nearby hall as stealthily as possible. His father’s sacrifice would not be in vain.
. . .
Pressing onward through the castle grounds like a wraith, Zabe slashed through each pocket of resistance within the keep with cold, hard precision. He sprinted across the observation deck he’d just cleared of vyrm troops and leapt across a yawning chasm that divided the defensive perimeter from the castle wall. Sailing across the opening, he fell several feet before colliding with the stonework of the tower. His hands grabbed a firm hold on the lattice-like vines that ensconced the spire.
Urgently, he scaled the vertical wall until he arrived at the level where Bithia’s window overlooked the embattled stronghold. He worked horizontally until he verged upon her casement. He could see her there, standing rigidly, facing down some unseen enemy. Her eyes barely darted to meet Zabe’s; he was certain she was aware of his presence.
Voices. The wind and sounds of the fighting below muddled the words, but he could hear the tone of them and recognize the notes of Bithia’s distinct voice. It brimmed with defiance, so like her! The warlock must have found her first!
Zabe’s eyes scanned the small, visible part of the room he had vantage of and spotted a small vanity mirror. The reflection showed a group of soldiers led by Nitthogr. Zabe’s strong hands squeezed the vines in frustration; the rage in his heart urged him to fly into the room at her defense.
As if she knew exactly what he had in mind, her eyes darted to their corner once more. They warned him against that course of action. There has to be another way.
The breeze died just enough for Zabe to make out the ageless sorcerer’s voice. “Take her to the dungeon.” This time, he could not avert his eyes from the tragedy. Vyrm soldiers shackled the insubordinate princess and led her away.
Moments later, Zabe crawled into her empty room, seething with impotent fury. There has to be another way.
Not Long After...Earth...
Franklin caught a glimpse of himself as the museum’s glass enclosure briefly reflected his image under the flashlight beam. “Momma always said a woman loves a man in uniform,” he mumbled to himself. “At least a security guard’s outfit is better than a burger flipper’s.”
He panned a swath of light from left to right across the dusty exhibits as he meandered through the labyrinth of sarcophagi, ancient monuments, and glass-boxed artifacts. He normally did rounds only out of sheer boredom and habit. He thought that doing them might be yet another way he had lied to himself: it was the only task that made him feel like he had any real significance to his employers.
“Who would rob a museum anyway?” he asked aloud. Franklin always assumed that the sort of person who robbed museums was probably independently wealthy already. She could just buy whatever she had her mind and heart set upon. He assumed all museum thieves would be women. Cute women. He sucked in his gut the next time he caught his reflection. Maybe I’ll get lucky and find an intruder?
Still, despite his braggadocio, something started to buzz in the back of his mind. He thought he heard the shuffle of feet in the dark as he neared the research labs. His hubris suddenly fled.
“Man,” he muttered under his breath. “Why did I ever pick up this stupid night shift?” he swung the beam from his flashlight in a wide arc. His breath came shallow, now, as he held half of it in. “Oh yeah, to pay for my wildly expensive college classes,” he reminded himself, while also chiding his younger version for partying away his first three semesters at the University—the kind of lifestyle that landed him in extra courses and with no student aid.
He shuffled slowly towards the language research pod. Franklin’s peripheral vision kept playing tricks on him; shadows seemed to loom just outside his blind spot every time he turned his head. A single bead of hot sweat rolled down his right temple.
That internal buzzing kept niggling at the edge of his consciousness. Something was not quite right.
His instincts spun and tightened his guts; he stepped gingerly into the document room. That buzzing—his heartbeat thumped in his ears—if there was an intruder, she must be very near! His eyes jumped from shadow to shadow. Franklin slapped the light switch just as his senses locked onto the ethereal, humanoid form he was sure had invaded. Illumination ripped through the darkness with all its fluorescent glory.
Nothing. Shadows. Desks piled high with notes, books, and research materials.
Franklin spat a giddy sigh and his arms tingled with the aftermath of the adrenaline surge. Finally releasing the full contents of his lungs, he felt ridiculous for chasing ghosts through the night. He turned with a chuckle, reaching again for the switch.
A man cloaked in a red, hooded robe suddenly barred his path. Franklin’s endorphins coursed through his veins in an instant; his heartbeat nearly deafened him. He was poised for action, but Franklin couldn’t move—couldn’t even breathe! The intruder’s glowing, yellow eyes had fixed upon him so fiercely that the security guard fell under his utter control. Even breathing was impossible without the stranger’s permission.
The mysterious figure regarded Franklin with curiosity as he walked a slow circle around his prisoner. “You are not Gerald,” his gravelly voice stated the obvious.
Franklin’
s eyes pleaded for mercy. His lips locked shut and his chest burned under the asphyxiating gaze.
With a wave of his finger he released Franklin’s lungs. He looked over the guard’s body for some identifying mark, yet ignored the faux gold nametag. “And you are not one of my other Heptobscurantum.”
Air rushed into his chest with a wheezing gasp. He coughed, “Gerald called in sick.”
“Most unfortunate.” He paid him no further mind, leaving the guard immobilized. He shuffled through the stacks of ancient manuscripts, papyri, and books on the research benches. The intruder worked methodically, but remained nonchalant about his prisoner. He spoke in a rhetorical tone, “I’m looking for something. A book that once belonged to me. Something that was stolen from me by my brother… long, long ago.”
“Who are you?” Franklin asked against his better judgment.
The invader had a sudden look of delight as he uncovered an old manuscript. He pushed the nearby materials away and gently dusted off the book labeled Grimmorium Nitthogr. Lazily leafing through the pages, he smiled at each turn. He frowned ever so slightly as he fingered the slight gap where a swath of pages was missing. Caressing the tome’s wound, he bit back his rage at the defilement of the ancient text; it contained information he didn’t need at the moment, however—information he’d pioneered millennia ago—forbidden knowledge he’d acquired at great expense.
He took the heavy, leather bound volume and slipped it within his crimson robes. Leaning close he whispered, “I am Nitthogr,” and then he was gone, vanishing along with the poor security guard’s ability to breathe.
“Ugh, why don’t you cheer for a real sport,” Vivian rolled her eyes in disgust as she plowed her way into Claire’s apartment in the early morning hours. Vivian shoved a box of Krispy Kreme doughnuts and the morning paper into Claire’s hands and walked in like she owned the place.
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