Wolf of the Tesseract

by Christopher D Schmitz

  Time was short and Rob evaded the question. “We have to go, quickly.”

  Jackie shot Claire a surprised look. Claire raised her eyebrows in response to her nonverbal question and tugged at her shirt collar as if the temperature had suddenly increased. They both spun on their heels and followed; Rob quickened the pace.

  Just as they arrived at the necessary stone, they heard a whistle above the dull crowd noises and spotted the frustrated security guard; he searched vainly for his quarry amid the groups spread across the grounds. Their eyes picked out the source of the screeching signal: another security guard pointed down to the bloody handprint they’d left on that monument. He’d used a whistle to alert the other sentry.

  The guard holding the scanner, the one they’d fooled with a kiss, dropped his scanner to his side and put his hand on a holstered stun gun. They knew there was only one location that their prey would be headed to.

  Claire, Jackie, and Rob huddled behind the pillar. “We’ve got to get to the inner circle, and fast,” he said as he smeared another bloody handprint upon the stone. It seemed to hum gently with an otherworldly power, but they didn’t hear the sound with their ears, rather some other undiscovered sense detected it.

  “But they know we’re here! They’ll catch us!”

  “There’s only the two of them… I think,” Rob tried to reassure her. “I didn’t expect a heavy contingent, here. This portal doesn’t lead anywhere a sane person would ever want to visit. We’ll make it if we go quickly!”

  Jackie reached into Rob’s khaki pants’ pocket and pulled out the knife. She unfolded it quickly and decisively.

  “What are you doing?” Claire demanded.

  Wincing, Jackie dragged the sharp end of the knife across her palm, drawing a long rivulet of blood that dripped down her hand. “Giving you a diversion!” She turned and darted away from the stone, making a beeline towards the central circle. She kept a keen eye on the guards.

  They spotted her immediately and began to hastily make their way towards her. Jackie struggled against the crowds, intentionally letting them slow her down so that her hunters would catch up.

  Claire watched in horror as the vyrm closed in from opposite sides of a small crowd. They would have her in a matter of seconds.

  Suddenly Jackie yelled in a loud, piercing voice, “Bomb! There’s a bomb!”

  Pandemonium erupted. People scattered in every direction. Others in the panicked mob took up the call warning, “Bomb! Bomb!”

  The enemy agents tried to pursue Jackie through the throng which she suddenly proved more adept at picking her way through. All persons had one goal: to get away as far from Stonehenge as possible. Her diversion cleared the traffic and turned all watchful eyes momentarily away from the center circle.

  “Come on,” Rob insisted, taking Claire by the hand.

  They made a mad dash towards the middle; as soon as they hit it, their bodies seemed to disintegrate in a flash of light and a wisp of ozone. But nobody was near enough to see it.

  . . .

  Nitthogr stormed through the stone corridor; his footsteps echoed down the hallway, announcing his arrival to his loyal army. At every station he passed, he found his loyal vyrm kneeling before his presence and whispering reverently, “Herald of Sh’logath.”

  The sorcerer strode up to General Regorik who stood in salute, personally guarding Bithia’s cell door. Regorik cocked his head. He’d hoped an opportunity to tease Caivev would have presented itself. “Your lapdog did not accompany you?”

  Nitthogr grinned; “Caivev is leading a different sort of mission at this moment,” he stated as he let the nearby door fall ajar. “Hello, Princess,” he greeted her seditiously.

  Bithia was tied to her chair at the center of the room; a vyrm psychic in each corner surrounded her. The warlock moved his face so close to hers that she could feel his breathe. She still refused to look at him.

  His rage suddenly overtook him and he slapped Bithia ferociously, splitting her lip. She still would not look at him. Nitthogr balled his fists and struck her over and over, drawing blood and tears from her face. Finally, he slugged her in the belly; she gasped, choking for air.

  Nitthogr stood back and admired his handiwork. Drool dripped from his petite prisoner’s mouth while she wheezed in pain. Already, purple and blackish bruises had begun to swell; but she still maintained an aura of supernatural beauty and dignity. That very thing only further enraged him.

  “It will never work,” she coughed between ragged breaths. “The Inversion Pendant…”

  He cocked an eyebrow in response.

  “Because I do not hate you.” The strength of her voice convinced him of her truthfulness. “The amulet will never make her love you because what I feel for you is pity, not despise.” She let a smile momentarily overtake her in that small victory, knowing that the opposite of pity was apathy. She hoped this would be enough to free Claire Jones of Earth from his hold. “How twisted you are—she will never love you; you don’t understand the concept. Because your plan hinges on so divine a notion as love, you will never succeed.”

  She hung her head, exhausted, expecting either unconsciousness or another furious beating to overtake her. Nitthogr fumed at her accusation and its probable veracity. He walked circles around her, staring down at her helpless form as the red haze of rage threatened to blind him. He clenched and unclenched his fists, ready to unleash a hail of blows upon her when he caught sight of something in the corner of his eye.

  Nitthogr stood up straight and stared right into the face of the Vyrm psychic nearby. He remained at attention in the corner, helping to trap Bithia’s spirit on this realm and keep her eidolon from again contacting Claire Jones via one of many other avenues open to talented astral projectors. The psychic kept his gaze straight ahead. He looked at nothing in particular, staring directly through the Sorcerer.

  The warlock spotted it, clear as day. A tiny octagonal tattoo just behind the guard’s left ear: barely the form of a serpent at this size. Nitthogr snarled. The guard broke his repose and tackled the warlock.

  “Tarkhūn!” Nitthogr roared, igniting his hands with brilliant flames and grabbing at the spy’s throat.

  “Traitor!” the rogue screamed against the burning at his windpipe. Dagger in hand, the doomed Tarkhūn vyrm stabbed the Sorcerer, over and over. Each blow found its mark; the blade repeatedly buried itself deep within Nitthogr’s chest.

  More furious with each blow, Nitthogr’s hands glowed ever more intense until both combatants burned themselves out in a climax of rage! The Tarkhūn’s body collapsed upon the sorcerer, dropping the bloody dagger even as his skull melted in upon itself forming a viscous, red puddle, like a crude cup of liquefied meat. Nitthogr’s arms fell to his sides and he panted heavily, leaking bright crimson blood all around him.

  Regorik and his troops burst into the room; the entire altercation only taking a few seconds. He slid to his master’s side and flung aside the destroyed body of the spy with one powerful arm; he cradled Nitthogr in the other and checked his vitals.

  “I will live,” the warlock croaked, glaring at the crippled Bithia nearby. “My hate sustains me.”

  The vyrm captain helped him to his feet and let Nitthogr lean on his strength while they walked from the room, leaving a trail of blood in their wake. As Regorik shifted his master’s weight onto two other soldiers, Nitthogr gave him one final command, breathing painfully through the spurting chest wounds. “Ready a contingent. If my brother wishes to change the rules of our game and up the ante, then we will respond in kind and visit retribution upon the Tarkhūn, demanding a payment in blood!”

  Regorik nodded. His face more serious than ever; he watched his faithful soldiers escort the Herald of Sh’logath towards the infirmary.

  Claire gasped as her body simultaneously ripped apart on Earth and stitched back together on a new plane of reality. It felt like a spear of ice impaled her—but there was little pain, merely a sense of shock and intense cold tha
t no person could prepare for.

  Immediately a hand clamped over her mouth to keep her silent—Rob’s hand. She huffed repetitively and her nostrils flared as she tried to keep her heart rate under control following the portal jump. She suddenly realized that she’d been screaming. Her hot breath steamed in the vapid cold of the place; their breaths were the only nearby sounds except the faint echo of her initial cry.

  As Rob released her, sure she wouldn’t scream again, Claire turned a slow arc. The sickly green sky appeared dead and the sun seemed to have collapsed inward upon itself; it more closely resembled a black-hole than a luminary body. Currently, they found themselves within some sort of ruined city. Their surroundings resembled a village market; a set of structures similar to Earth’s Stonehenge surrounded them, jutting up from the surrounding foundations. Still, everything felt very alien in origin.

  They walked in silence for a few minutes, getting a lay of the land. Claire kept glancing at Rob. Even in the dark and threatening surroundings, she saw his confidence brim. Her mind kept returning to that kiss. The new and sudden river of feelings it unlocked brightened her on the inside, even despite the dreary surroundings.

  Everything nearby seemed painted in tones of the subdued: greys and blues, as if the spectrum of light in this place had suffered some critical breaking. The ground had cracked and peeled like old, baked mud; it crunched underfoot. Dust and soot covered everything in a thin layer.

  They marched a few blocks from the portal where a skyline opened between two broken structures. Distant mountains loomed on the horizon, but most menacing of all was the giant, obsidian polyhedron which hung in the sky.

  Rob put a finger to his lips to indicate silence. He pointed upward and whispered, “Sh’logath.”

  The sight instilled supernatural, abject terror when looked at for any amount of time. Even catching it in the corner of her eye greatly unnerved Claire.

  Sh’logath appeared to lurk on the threshold of the planet, only just coming into existence; the object shimmered glossy as if it phased between reality and nonexistence. The sky glowed red and burned around its edges, flaring as the atmosphere ignited against the almost-touch of the petrifying agod.

  “This way,” Rob whispered. His muted words sounded like shouts as they broke the silent, dead air of the charred planet. He led her around a corner and into a dilapidated construction where he unzipped the duffel bag and withdrew some warmer clothing.

  “Where are we?” asked Claire. But even as she asked, Bithia’s memories crawled through her mind. The ruined realm, the site of Syzygyc War… the place where reality’s destruction had been halted so long ago.

  “We are in the Desolation.” He looked around with trepidation. “I believe that we are in the city of Limbus, specifically.”

  “Limbus?”

  “The Dead City, we call it. It’s the capital of the Desolation, under minority control of the ancient houses of the vyrm. But they, the Tarkhūn, are still dangerous: a ruling caste born of ancient lineage. There was a civil war many years ago. The majority of Tarkhūn pledged fealty to Nitthogr’s brother. The Black, the common, proletarian class, sided with Nitthogr.”

  “So we are safe here?”

  “Claire Jones, you have never been in more danger than you are right now,” he whispered. “The Tarkhūn have waged their own war against the blackborn vyrm and Nitthogr, but you are nowhere near safe. The Tarkhūn would gladly kill us or use us for their own plans.” He did look at her sympathetically. She should have known all of this after merging with the princess, but for the vyrm poison and its psychic amnesia only let through snippets of information.

  “Then why did we come here?” Claire asked fearfully.

  “This is the place where Nitthogr has the least influence, ever since the majority of his followers escaped through the portals so long ago. It’s the place where he’d least expect us to go. Realistically, he’d expect us to try and sneak onto the Prime where I might find support among any of my remaining kin in the hill country. It’s unlikely that he could have conquered them while retaining control of the castle.”

  “So what then, we wait in this cold, damp darkness?” The environment’s creeping grey already began to crush her spirits.

  Rob shushed her. The silence cracked in the distance; stones broke off the face off a mountain and crashed ominously amid a far-off lightning storm.

  “I do have a plan. But it’s a very dangerous one.” He had her attention. “We must keep you safe and hidden away from Nitthogr. Perhaps my kin have galvanized against the warlock—we might fight back, rescue the Princess? There is no other way… if he possesses both you and her, he will conquer the whole of reality, corrupting the Tesseract with his malfeasance. If he controls only one of you,” he pointed to the hideous object in the sky, “he will destroy everything! The only way to ensure reality’s survival is to protect you both.”

  Claire nodded, understanding that this was a last-ditch effort to save her planet, her people, and every other person in existence, too. “Lead the way,” she said, emboldened.

  They rose to depart. No sooner did they exit the destroyed building than a heavily armed contingent of vyrm sprang up around them with weapons drawn. They maintained a cool demeanor, neither talking, nor overextending their posture.

  Rob and Claire raised their hands in surrender. The vyrm leader silently pointed to the ground and held up two pairs of manacles.

  “What do we do?” Claire asked. Worry permeated her voice.

  “We lie on the ground and pray the Tarkhūn are merciful today.” No sooner were they clapped into crude restraints than a soldier stepped over each of them and clubbed them behind the head with a retractable baton, rendering both unconscious.

  . . .

  Rob’s eyelids fluttered and opened. His eyes hurt despite the dim quality of the light in the prison cell. Mostly the pain came from the base of his skull and radiated forward from where he’d been hit with the club. His arms, chained at the wrist, twisted behind his back so he sat on his butt and watched over Claire.

  Similarly bound, she lay on her side. Rob noticed a smile on her face; Claire’s eyes seemed to move beneath their lids. She was dreaming, he deduced. He didn’t know how long he sat motionless in the dead, musty air, watching Claire: a long time… perhaps an hour? His thoughts turned to the subtle differences between her and Bithia. It was his turn to smile.

  “Whatever it is you’re dreaming of, enjoy it,” Rob whispered. “When you wake up, the nightmare begins.”

  For several long minutes more she slept. Rob occasionally glanced at the vyrm guard posted just beyond the cold, iron bars that locked them within their cell. Then, Claire stretched and awoke with a yawn.

  Before she opened her eyes she whispered, still half dreaming, “I had the wolf dream again… the old one that ends the way it’s supposed to.”

  Rob smiled and then turned his attention to a new guard who approached briskly.

  The massive vyrm leaned against the bars. “On your feet,” he hissed. “The master wishes to see you.”

  Rob stood and helped Claire to her feet. Together they would face the inevitable. Slowly, they shuffled out from the crumbling dungeon and onto a cobblestone footpath that wound through the city. Old statues of terrified vyrm citizens adorned the walks at random intervals; the roadside, stone figures were as common as highway advertisements on Earth.

  “These vyrm are all so big,” Claire whispered as a question. Most of them appeared taller and more muscular; this breed seemed more reptilian in nature. Many had necks so thick that their tendons bulged from shoulder to chin as they held their proud heads high. These vyrm would have difficulty using only makeup to disguise their appearance if they infiltrated Earth’s population.

  “The Tarkhūn are superior, genetically speaking,” he whispered back. “A stronger, ancient breed, less diluted in the gene pool.”

  “And the statues?”

  “Old… from long ago when the civil war
originally—”

  Their rear escort gave him a prod in the small of the back. The glare he shot Rob told him enough. It said be quiet… or else.

  The trail coiled through the ashen, desiccated city. Still, there were signs of Limbus’s proud and ancient origins. Here and there doors would open and close as vyrm onlookers came out to silently watch the prisoners parading by. Those openings gave tiny peeks into the vyrm living quarters; their culture blended highly advanced technology with ancient lifestyles. LED style lights illuminated the interiors enough that they could identify stone tools and other artisan items intermixed with circuit boards. Still, everything remained quiet under the pall of the sky-bound monstrosity.

  Slowly, the road rose and curled around a hill. The guards lead the prisoners through a less decayed part of the city where the path climbed steeply. It emptied just outside an immense, pillared building. Claire’s eyebrows rose as she took it in; it reminded her of so many Greek temples she had toured with her father.

  Claire sulked momentarily as the ground leveled off at a large garden of detailed stonework. Surely her father must be worried about her. By now he must have been notified that she had gone crazy, or else he’d been told whatever story James had fed the media in his efforts to hunt her down.

  Rob frowned as he looked from statue to statue in the rock garden. Not all of the statues were of vyrm; some were other types of humanoids from different planes and many of them were human. Some humans wore their garments in styles that indicated that they were from The Prime. Rob slid his hand over the form of a soldier who wore the old-style royal uniform his people wore during the Syzygyc War.

  “They’re so real looking,” Claire noted as they passed by, wandering as if through a maze.

  “They are real,” Rob stated, prompting another shove from the guard. They continued their march in relative silence.

  . . .

  Vivian spotted her prey from deep inside the canopy of the jungle. Heat and humidity clung to her like a wet blanket and plastered her hair to her face and flushed her cheeks.