The Architect King

by Christopher Schmitz

  “Perhaps.”

  “I think we need more research… and we also need more input, maybe from outside sources. It would be nice to get some perspective from the Veritas, but they are such a secretive lot,” Respan lamented.

  “Should we bring in Sam Jones to ask about our theories? He seems like an intelligent and skeptical sort of man. He may have divergent perspectives based on his experience and background.”

  Respan shrugged. “Perhaps, though he is quite taken with Shandra of the Veritas. They have been spending much time together, lately. He may have lost his impartiality… then again, he may be able to access unknown information through Shandra.”

  “Excellent,” Tay-lore said. “Surely he could get secret information from her or perhaps he could sneak a data collector onto Shandra so we could gather information from within the Veritas’s headquarters? For the sake of data collection we would not want her to be aware of it.”

  Respan leaned back and looked at him screwy. “No. No, I don’t think we will ask that of him. It could ruin our relationship with him for asking; it would certainly ruin her standing within the Order if a spy device is discovered.”

  Tay-lore cocked a head, failing to understand. The android found human relationships difficult to understand.

  Respan had promised to help his robotic friend unravel the humanity mystery and so he explained, “It would be an overstep to ask such a thing of him and it would feel like a betrayal to Shandra if he asked. She expects that Sam will know and understand her well enough to know her thoughts and feelings without being told…”

  “Even if she has not made them known?”

  “Right,” Respan said.

  “I don’t understand. Does Sam have psychic rapport with her?”

  Respan grinned. “No. He does not know what she is thinking.”

  “But she expects him to know, anyway?”

  Respan nodded.

  “Humans are confusing,” Tay-lore lamented, worried he’d never figure it out.

  “Humans, yes. Love? Even more-so. The more time they spend together, the more interest they have, the greater their bond, the more the two will walk in step. They won’t know what the other thinks… but it will seem like it because they want the same things and share the same goals and dreams. Their feelings, mind, and bodies are braided together with purpose and commitment.”

  Tay-lore said nothing. Analogies and word-pictures often eluded him, but not this one. Despite people’s opinions and thoughts regarding the android, Tay-lore knew love. Respan made perfect sense to him; he’d long watched over Zabe and Bithia, ever since they were children, in fact. He’d experienced their sorrow when Zabe and Zahaben had lost Zurrah and also when Bithia merged personas with Claire. Tay-lore had watched the changes in them as they came into their own and pursued each other romantically; he felt their joy. Recently, he’d lamented further changes; something was different between Zabe and Claire. With Zabe’s absence, he felt the need to remain as close as possible to the princess. There was no doubt in his robotic mind, Tay-lore loved the princess.

  “Speaking of the royal couple,” Respan changed the subject, “Has there been any word yet of Zabe’s whereabouts?”

  ***

  The Desolation

  With the steady cadence of a glass beetle, Trenzlr walked across the broken and baked tiles of the Plains of Neggath. The wasteland spread out across the main continent and down the slopes and away from Limbus: Basilisk’s capital city was a three-day journey east under good conditions. Brushing the sand from between his scales, the reptilian wanderer lamented the deplorable condition of his world.

  He did not look up. Nobody ever looked up in the Desolation dimension, a broken place and fallen realm which had once been known as the promised land of Edenya. Its green and lush landscape had long since burned black, corrupted by war and rot. Above it all hung the dark pall: the lurker on the veil. The Great Devourer, Sh’logath, hung on the edge of reality; the anti-god was not real, but was nearly called into existence during the Syzygyc War, so many generations ago.

  In the distance, Trenzlr spotted the rovers’ tents in the foothills near a mountain range of Kortath. “So many,” he mumbled aloud. “They must have all gotten the message, too.”

  Trenzlr put one foot in front of the other and kept walking. He would arrive before nightfall. The vyrm was tempted to look up and gauge the time by the sun’s position, but he did not. He trusted his gut.

  A memory wafted through as he slogged through a patch of fine sand: an unpleasant memory from childhood. Even for the Seekers of Maetha, the keepers of truth and of the old ways which predated the wickedness of the Sh’logath cult, kids would still be kids.

  Trenzlr recalled the group of children that had grown up with him. He and the other whelps had all dared Klyrtan, the tribal chief’s son, to stare at the lurking form of Sh’logath for a full ten-count. None of them had been very old, and the game had been around for generations before them. Nobody ever actually did it—nobody could look fully upon the face of the madness in the sky and remain sane. Except Klyrtan had. After being taunted for cowardice after merely pretending to look, which was what all kids did anyway, Klyrtan stared straight into the eyes of madness.

  Nobody ever looked for real—but Klyrtan did, Trenzlr chastised himself for old sins. Klyrtan had collapsed after ten seconds with eyes turned milky white and mouth foaming. The eyes eventually cleared, but he’d had to re-learn to speak.

  Trenzlr swallowed the pang of guilt in his gut for his role in the events. Klyrtan, much to the dismay of the tribal chief, had remained a simpleton ever since. Soon after Trenzlr pushed those dark thoughts from his mind, two vyrm waved at him from the distance, giving the tribal signal of welcome—a test to see if the visitor was friend or foe.

  Recognizing them as Hirdac and Klyrtan, Trenzlr gave the proper response and hurried to meet them. Hustling, it took only a few minutes to cross the gap.

  Hirdac put away his spyglass and embraced Trenzlr. Klyrtan followed suit; Klyrtan always did whatever Hirdac did. The elder vyrm, a graying widower and faithful Maethan, had made it his life’s priority to watch after poor Klyrtan.

  “Praise Maetha,” Hirdac said. “We were unsure you would get our message. That you are alive at all is a miracle.”

  “Praise Maetha,” Klyrtan echoed behind them as he faded lockstep into the background.

  They walked together and chatted. Trenzlr explained how he’d been accidentally flung through an activated dimensional gate while he and his family were on an expedition. A party of tarkhūn hunters had attacked their party and only he had survived, as far as he knew.

  Hirdac nodded solemnly. He filled in the gaps in Trenzlr’s knowledge, realizing that the lost vyrm had been trapped in a foreign realm for years, now. “A few of your relation got away and returned to us, but most of your family perished. Of course, your cousin still lives.” His breath caught in his throat as he spoke excitedly.

  Trenzlr chuckled and shook his head, “Of course Gerjha lives. He has been on that mountaintop forever.”

  “The circle is broke,” Klyrtan said in a detached sort of way that both vyrm ignored.

  “Tell what happened,” Trelzlr said. His cousin had been in the mountains for nearly all his life, confined to a circle as large as he could draw in the sand while staying in its center. Gerjha had proclaimed himself a prophet of Maetha after receiving a dream when he was twelve. He’d dedicated himself to remaining inside the circle and devoting himself to prayer and meditation for almost two decades, now.

  “Gerjha says all things are shifting. Something new is coming,” Hirdac explained.

  “That sounds like Gerjha, speaking as cryptically as usual. He usually sounds like he’s giving revelation but actually says nothing, claiming that Maetha has ‘nothing new yet to say.’ So what is different about it this time?” Trenzlr asked.

  Hirdac looked him fully in the face. “Gerjha has left the circle and come down from the mountain.�
�

  Trenzlr rocked back on his heels. “He did what?”

  Hirdac nodded enthusiastically. “He came down from the mountain and claimed that the end will arrive soon: something new is in motion, he says—I guess he really means it.”

  As they grew closer to the edge of the village, a sense of hope seemed to ripple through him at the size of it. They had grown exponentially.

  Basilisk’s tarkhūn would not dare to attack such a gathering and he’d never seen so many Seekers of Maetha gathered like this before. “This… this could really be it?” Trenzlr whispered as he walked through the camp. Optimism and zeal seemed to ripple through the community. At the center of it, Trenzlr spotted his cousin Gerjha standing next to chief Klewdahar and an unknown vyrm with a puckered scar across his neck; he did not recognize the scarred one.

  They made quite the scarred pair. Trenzlr recognized the chief’s scar that raked from forehead to chin; he could never forget a mark like that and how he’d gotten it. Klewdahar had been captured by enemies as a young adult and been given a permanent reminder of their opponents’ hatred of the rovers.

  Regardless of the melancholy he felt when he saw the wounds his people had received, something warm swelled in Trenzlr’s gut. Finally. I am home.

  ***

  Earth

  Jacob Sisyphus walked through the hall of the German high-rise. He and his Heptobscurantum cult owned the building as part of their corporate holdings. The uppermost floors held a secret; it hid Doctor Pietro Walther’s laboratory and the cultist’s private quarters.

  “Good afternoon, Doctor,” Sisyphus said in his trademark voice. As a mountain of a man, he towered over the average-built and middle-aged scientist. Sisyphus was more than a wealthy business mogul and avid cultist. He’d become the most powerful sorcerer on earth thanks to his blending of science with the arcane. Even during his professional wrestling days he had been a powerful specimen of humanity, but now? He bordered on godly.

  Walther’s eyes lit up as they always did in Sisyphus’s presence. He’d been Sisyphus’s biggest fan when he’d been a mere upstart pro-wrestler, ever since the early days. Walther knew most of it was fake, but Walther had always been a fan of the stories, the athleticism, and the pageantry of professional wrestling. “I heard on the fan forums that you purchased your old wrestling association. Is there any chance you will return to the ring?” he asked excitedly.

  Sisyphus shook his head slowly. “No. Those days are far behind me, my friend.”

  Walther was disappointed only momentarily by the revelation. Being called friend by his hero quickly smoothed over any sadness he felt. “That is too bad, but how may I help?”

  Sisyphus grinned. “Doc, I know you’re a man of science and that you can see science doesn’t have all the answers. You’ve witnessed what I can do with magic and you’ve broken through into the other dimensions with your equipment. I’m admitting that magic can’t provide all the answers, either. I need your help, Doc.”

  Walther beamed. “Of course; I’ll do whatever you need.”

  The wrestler smiled. “You and me, Doc. We’re gonna take reality by force and bend it to our will. There are whole other worlds out there, whole other fights to win. Power to gain,” his growl shifted ominous. “After Caivev’s departure, it’s important that I know who I can trust.” He leaned down and pinned a tiny button to the scientist’s lapel identifying him as a member of the Heptobscurantum.

  Doctor Walther lit up. “Of course,” he said. “Whatever you need.”

  Sisyphus grinned. “Magic is potent stuff, my friend.” He unrolled a sheet of paper with a sketch on it and a second leaflet fell out; it depicted a metallic pendant dangling from a string.

  Walther rushed to grab it for his hero. He turned it over in his hands. Strange, foreign words which seemed written in an unearthly tongue had been scrawled near the drawing.

  “I do believe I’d like to acquire one of those to make sure I have adequate protection from others like myself,” but his primary attention was on the larger scroll.

  The scientist looked at him quizzically.

  “Wizards tend to possess both great aspiration and resources.” He tapped Walther on the shoulder and showed him the larger manuscript. The stained, ivory papyrus contained more of the mystic writing and a full, detailed sketch of a cheval-style mirror, except that it stood on a solid mount which would not swivel.

  “You need a mirror?” Walther asked. “I have one you can borrow.”

  Sisyphus shook his head.

  “Not a mirror then… it provides something—a power or an ability? What does it grant you?

  Sisyphus looked at it covetously. “Anything I want.” A devious grin spread across his face. “Fire up your machine, Doctor. An old pal gave me a lead on where we might find this particular artifact.” He channeled his best theatric, wrestler voice, “And you’re gonna have a front-row seat to the rumble of the century!”

  ***

  Cerci Heiderscheidt flashed her partner a pixie-like grin. She turned her Houston Astros baseball cap backwards and pulled her shielded goggles down over her face. “I have solved science!” she cackled and threw a switch.

  She was in her mid-twenties and possessed a perky kind of air, though she was prone to wide swings of mood.

  “I really think you’re over-doing it,” Zurrah said, returning a playful grin. Skinny, but still muscular, the boy laughed at Cerci’s mad-scientist bit. He knew it could be true, even if he’d only recently learned what a mad-scientist was from Earth movies—she could be a mad scientist. He’d been trapped for many years inside the time-tomb of the Hidden Temple, kidnapped and secreted away by Nitthogr only to discover later that his father had died and his brother had grown up to take his place.

  Within the mystic stasis room, he’d remained a teen for a decade, and then Cerci, a scientific genius and underling of Doctor Pietro Walther, befriended him through the door. After becoming trapped in the Darque dimension for many more years, which only passed like days for Cerci Heidersheidt, his body had finally aged up to about nineteen after a dimensional chaos wave hit him. In truth he was older than her by three years and he’d nearly caught up to her, now.

  “I would never over do it,” she spoke in sarcastic, theatrical tones. “I am the great Cerci Heidersheidt—genius of a new age!”

  Zurrah grinned. “Well, I think you’re pretty great,” he winked at her.

  Cerci kissed him. “You’d better. Or I’ll leave you hanging over there.” She threw the final switch on her contraption built inside a loading dock of the immense, empty space littered with discarded sports paraphernalia. The machine whined and a triangular aperture split the air near the beam emitters and widened.

  Zurrah slapped her on the rump as he walked by. “I thought you wanted an adventure?” he asked. “So why are we spending all this time stealing and pulling heists?”

  “This is an adventure,” she laughed from the controls. “Besides, we’re only robbing from people who can afford it and I’ve still got a mountain of debt to repay. Student loans cost practically more than the parts for the Dimension Cracker.” She paused, recognizing another cultural norm he had no exposure to, “I’ll have to show you Robin Hood right after I teach you about baseball.”

  He paused in front of the energy gate and fixated on the first part of her speech. “Seriously? We are going with the ‘Dimension Cracker?’”

  Cerci shrugged with a chuckle. “Hurry through the hole, sweet cheeks. Mama’s got a loan to pay off.”

  “You know I’m actually older than you?” he bantered as he stepped through.

  “Shush, now. This is my fantasy… don’t ruin it for me or I’ll ground you.”

  The room Zurrah entered was well lit and well-provisioned. Cerci shouted to him through the portal between space. “Oh. Grab that, and that!” she pointed to the two heavy sacks of cash and a tray filled with stamped gold bricks.

  Zurrah spun a small circle, taking stock of what else m
ight be within this rich man’s vault. Only those few items he’d already thrown through were immediately valuable and easy to liquidate. Rows and rows of shelving contained all manner of ancient books, idols, and other kinds of arcane fetishes.

  “What in the world is this place?” he wondered aloud. “It looks like the Sacristy Vault in the temple of the Veritas,” he mused.

  “I don’t know what that is,” Cerci said. “Time to get back. I think we got everything of value—at least valuable to us and our creditors.”

  Zurrah nodded, but then paused right before leaping through. A massive page hung on one rack. Three feet tall, it boasted ornate drawings upon the enourmous sheets of vellum. Two other pages were present, but his eyes were drawn to the one. It bore an illustration of a wolf-man stepping through a triangle-shaped door and into another world.

  “What are you waiting for?” Cerci hissed.

  Zurrah cocked his head, still looking at the page. His father had been known as the werewolf protector of the throne, and from what he’d gathered about his brother, Zabe, from Cerci, his brother had gained that ability as well. Zurrah snatched the page from its place and rolled it up into a manageable scroll.

  He ignored the other pages left behind and abandoned the other items of immense power. Zurrah knew that Cerci had a mind for science and the arcane held little interest for her… but the ancient graphic called to him. It seemed too relevant to his family to simply abandon it.

  Zurrah flashed her a smile and stepped through the triangular portal. “Mission accomplished,” he said, and then kissed her while the energy gate winked out of existence.

  Chapter 3

  The Prime

  Gita leaned on the crutch as she walked out of the hospital. Jackie walked alongside her diminutive friend just in case she faltered. “I’ll be okay, you know,” she said. “The physicians said I’m basically fine… only a little sore—more than usual at least, given the way Zabe makes us exercise on drill days. I guess that being shot will do that to you.”