torg 02 - The Dark Realm
Page 5
"Nervous?" the large form asked. It was Scythak, one of the Gaunt Man's hunters, and his tone had a definite mocking quality to it.
"Step aside, Scythak," Thratchen ordered. "I have business with the Gaunt Man."
"Yes, you do," the giant agreed. "I don't know what you've done, but the master has been in a dreadful rage. Perhaps when he's done with you, I'll be given your rank."
"Don't count on it, shapeshifter," Thratchen said as he shoved his way past. He could feel the glare of Scythak's eyes upon his back as he moved into the great hall. He shut the doors behind him.
The hall was dark this day. The heavy curtains were drawn tight, and only the dancing flames in the fireplace provided light. Sitting in a high-backed wicker chair was the Gaunt Man, flickering shadows played across his skeletal features. Across his knees rested his ever- present cane. It had a dragon-head top (the Carredon's head, actually, Thratchen noted), its jaws opened wide. Caught firmly in those jaws was a small blue and red stone — a piece of an eternity shard.
"You summoned me, master?" Thratchen asked, dropping to one knee and bowing his head before the being who claimed the title, Torg.
"I am disappointed, Thratchen," the Gaunt Man said, his voice like the fetid gust of an opening tomb. "I have felt the failures in Core Earth, but you must tell me the details."
Thratchen swallowed hard. He had to be careful with this game he played .His position was not as secure as he liked, and the wrong word or phrase could spell his destruction at the High Lord's hand.
"The Carredon is dead, my lord, killed by Tolwyn of Aysle and an Earth priest named Bryce," Thratchen explained. "Her sword and his use of an eternity shard were more than the dragon could withstand."
"I do not understand this!" the Gaunt Man raged, slapping the cane across his lap. "The Carredon has never failed, never even been seriously injured. Who is this woman that she frightens Uthorion and slays the Carredon? Who are these stormers that can use raw possibilities without the aid of a focus device?"
"Perhaps they do have a focus, master," Thratchen said quietly.
"Explain yourself."
"Perhaps they are able to focus the possibilities through themselves."
The Gaunt Man dismissed the notion with a wave of his elongated hand.
"There is more, High Lord," Thratchen continued. "Malcolm Kane is dead, as well. And the stormer from Kadandra still lives."
"What were you doing during all of this, Thratchen? Tell me why you survived so that I may kill you for your cowardice."
"I arrived too late to help either the Carredon or Kane," Thratchen lied. "All I could do was observe as the battle came to a conclusion. But the runes of never life and never death were placed within one of the stormers. The one called Decker, I believe."
"So, he must have refused my gracious offer," the Gaunt Man mused, obviously trying to sort through the recent events and all there possible consequences. "I shall enjoy studying his life as it enters my machine. But what of Kurst? What was his role in all of this?"
Thratchen thought for a moment, deciding on the best way to salvage the situation he found himself in. He decided that redirecting the Gaunt Man's anger could buy him the time he needed to finish his observations.
"I cannot be sure, since I arrived so late, but I believe that your hunter was helping the stormers," Thratchen finally said. "He shifted into wolf form and battled at their sides."
The fire that erupted in the Gaunt Man's eyes was more intense than the heat from the flaming hearth. When the High Lord spoke next, the tone caused a chill that effected even Thratchen's cyber implants.
"Leave me, Thratchen," he said with menace and implied destruction. "I must determine the next course of action. But know this: the stormers shall pay for these affronts. They shall pay with their very souls."
17
Julie Boot looked up, startled, and realized she had been dozing off in the muggy warmth of the Twenty nine Palms Marine Hospital, baking as it was in the heat of the double-length day. Somewhere off, she heard the roar of a plane engine, which signaled the departure of the strange group that had arrived over a week ago. She eased her back from the stickiness of the chair, crinkling vinyl as she stood and stretched out the kinks of several hours straight work with a slow T'ai Chi routine. Nearby, lying still and deathlike on the bed, was Congressman Andrew Jackson Decker, who she had come to consider her patient, even though she was only a nurse and not a full-fledged doctor.
Decker's face was pale and gray, and his eyes were closed, the muscles flicking with little convulsions. A light cover was drawn up to his waist, crisp and white and still military clean, despite the emergency setup. But in his chest were the two staves of metal, glowing rods that resembled twin daggers thrust into his dying body.
He probably should have been in ICU, but the beds were full and his companions had flown him all the way from the Grand Canyon without killing him. The tall one, Tolwyn her name was, had said something about his not being able to die, even if he had wished. "The runes," she had said, pointing to the shafts in Decker's chest. "He will never die; he will never live." Then she had said no more, until the priest, the only unwounded one among them beside the teen, had gone to comfort her.
So they had taken a chance and put him in a regular room, and either she or a doctor or one of the companions had had him under observation since he was brought in, the metal staves glowing obscenely in his body like electric eels feeding at carrion.
Julie crossed to the window, looking out over the compound and beyond, northto where one of the local marine units was even now driving back an invading army. They'd been doing well, but just lately, as though the attackers were running out of momentum after their incredible initial surge. Julie shuddered, squinting into the ash-dimmed sun as if she could see a hundred miles and judge the marines' progress. She'd seen some of the attackers — nightmare creatures out of a museum, bipedal dinosaurs and ape-men and other things too horrible to name. She shuddered again, remembering that one of the invaders had arrived with Decker and was now a guest of the base. Tal Tu, the companions called him, and the lizard man actually used human speech.
She checked on Decker again, but of course there was no change. She gazed at him for a long time, something about him troubling her aside from the obvious facts of his injuries; something about the set of his face, the feelings emanating from him. Even in his coma-like sleep, he was handsome and dashing looking, but there was something ... a sadness, a pain that was not related to his wound. It was etched in his face as if by long years of use, like laugh-lines that ran in the wrong direction.
Decker's eyelids pulsed, the eyeballs moving quickly back and forth in REM, Rapid Eye Movement, a type of sleep that indicated the dream state. She wondered what a man who was dead and not dead could be dreaming of.
18
Andrew Jackson Decker dreamed he was walking along a beach, listening to the waves wash against the shore. He knew he was dreaming, but it was the most realistic dream he could ever remember having — very much like his dreams of the Heart of Coyote. With every step he took, he felt the sand shift beneath his shoes, felt the salty spray of the ocean upon his face. And still he walked, choosing to climb one dune or to go around another, content to simply let the dream run its course.
He reached the top of the next dune and paused, tilting his head back to catch the sun. The warmth felt
good against his cheeks and forehead, and he closed his eyes and sighed. But his reverie was short lived, for a strange voice broke through the calm.
"Come, come, Mr. Decker," said-the accented voice. It reminded Decker of a British accent, but there was an undercurrent of some older, darker brogue. "You've made scores of choices to get to this beach, and now the true work must begin."
The voice belonged to a man sitting in the sand some few yards off. He wore a Puritan-style coat and shoulder cape, and a wide-brimmed hat rested on his head. His outfit was totally black, and Decker wondered how he could stan
d the heat in such garb. Then he remembered this was a dream, and that made the scene more understandable. As Decker walked closer, the dark- cloaked man stood up. He was skeletal thin and very tall, and he grinned evilly from the shadows beneath his hat. He carried a walking stick with an ornate head carved in the shape of the Carredon, the creature that had wounded Decker and caused him to be trapped in this unending dream.
"How can you wear such clothing in this heat?" Decker asked.
"Heat does not concern me, Mr. Decker," the tall man replied, twirling the cane so that the congressman could see the blue and red stone that the carved Carredon held in its open maw.
"What does concern you, mister ...?"
"Lord Byron Salisbury, Earl of Waterford," the tall man said, mocking Decker with a slight bow. "That is one of the names I am known by. Others call me the Gaunt Man. But you may refer to me by my newest title."
"And that is?"
"I am the Torg."
"A unique title. I'm surprised my mind conjured up such an image for this dream. When the Carredon mentioned you I pictured someone much ... different."
"This is a dream, stormer," the Gaunt Man laughed, "but it operates by my rules, not by the feeble workings of your paltry mind."
Decker didn't like the direction this dream was taking. He tried to conjure up a different setting, but the scene refused to change.
"You should have accepted my offer, stormer," the Gaunt Man declared. "Instead, you chose the runes."
The Gaunt Man gestured and Decker looked down. Twin staves of metal jutted from his chest, and he remembered the last moments of his battle with the Carredon. There was no pain associated with the staves, only a draining feeling as though they were letting something slowly leak out of him.
"Those make you mine," the Gaunt Man continued, obviously pleased with Decker's sudden discomfort. "They connect you to a very important device of my own creation. A machine that sorts possible outcomes for later use. Much too technical for you, I'm sure. But with those staves, you become an integral cog in the mechanism. Behold!"
The Gaunt Man nodded toward the beach that stretched past the dune. As he did so, dozens upon dozens of doorways appeared. The doorways looked out of place without any walls, just standing in unorganized rows along the sand. But they beckoned to Decker, taunting him with their hidden secrets. Open us, they seemed to say. See what lies beyond our closed doors.
"They call to you, Decker," the Gaunt Man teased.
each door wants you to choose it over the one standing beside it. As for me, I really don't care which of them you open. Just as long as you do open one."
Decker tried to hold himself in check, tried to turn away and walk back across the beach. But his legs stepped forward and his hand shot out to grasp a door knob.
"Yes, Decker," the Gaunt Man laughed. "Yes, stormer. Choose!"
And Decker swung the door he chose wide.
And the dream of choices continued.
19
James Monroe stepped off the bus into the heat of a Californian desert. Even with the ash cover, the temperature was soaring. Along with the rest of the passengers, Monroe was directed toward a long, one- story building. He hoped the air conditioning was working.
He was a tall man, on the young side of forty, and he had left his home in Philadelphia to escape the invaders that had taken New York. But it was just his luck that his flight had been one of the last commercial planes allowed to land in San Bernadino before air traffic had been prohibited. Now he found himself in the Mojove Desert, impressed into military service on a base not all that far from where the same invaders were attacking in the west.
He glanced around at the other people that had ridden with him, all professionals from a dozen different fields. But he hadn't gotten to know any of them during the brief indoctrination and the drive into the desert. He had other things on his mind.
Specifically, his thoughts kept returning to a woman
with emerald eyes.
Monroe entered the building, relishing the brief burst of cold air as it hit his skin. But the relief it provided didn't last long. While the interior was cooler than outside, it was far from comfortable. Even military air conditioners designed for use in the desert couldn't keep up with the simmering heat. He stood for a moment, looking around the large room that had been converted into a reception area, when a uniformed soldier with a clipboard approached him.
"Your name, sir?" the soldier asked.
"Monroe. James Monroe."
The soldier scanned the list on his clipboard, then made a check mark with his pen.
"Welcome to Twentynine Palms Marine Corps Air Ground Combat Center, Dr. Monroe," the soldier said. "Your personal belongings will be transferred to your sleeping quarters. Is there anything I can do for you?"
"Yes, you could get me a ticket on the next plane out of this war zone," Monroe said, hoping that he was making it clear how much he detested being here.
The soldier ignored the sarcasm and calmly replied, "Twentynine Palms isn't in the war zone, Dr. Monroe. It is being used as a staging area and as a backup hospital, however."
"Look ..." Monroe started to say, but a woman was suddenly standing beside them, clearing her throat. She wasn't decked out in full uniform, like the soldier. Instead she wore a green T-shirt and pants to ward off some of the heat. Her brown hair was cut short, and she was pretty in a frazzled sort of way.
"Private, did I hear you say this gentleman is Dr. James Monroe?" she asked the soldier with the clipboard.
The soldier saluted. "Yes, Major Boot."
"Doctor, if you'll follow me ...?" the woman asked, l>ut her tone indicated that it was an order.
Monroe nodded to the soldier and followed the woman. She led him back out into the heat and across I lie compound to another building. When she opened I he door to the building, Monroe was assaulted by the familiar smell of antiseptics that marked all hospitals I he world over.
"Funny, you don't look like a major," he said at last.
"That's all right. Drenched in sweat, you don't exactly look like a Philadelphia doctor," she shot back casually. Monroe liked that.
She stopped in front of a door and gestured for Monroe to enter. He looked at her questioningly.
"The locker room and showers, doctor," she sighed, somewhat perturbed that she had to explain it to him. "Get cleaned up. Then I'll take you to meet your patient."
He started through the door, then paused. "You're putting me to work already?"
"Dr. Monroe, there is a war going on out there."
He started forward again, then turned to her once more. "I don't even know who you are."
"Major Julie Boot," she introduced herself, "head nurse of this facility. Now please, doctor, go get ready."
20
Dr. Hachi Mara-Two was in the cockpit of the transport, watching the pilots manipulate controls. She had a learning chip in one of the slots beneath her ear. It was recording every movement the pilots made so that she would have a textbook to refer to later. Or she could download the data during sleep to facilitate learning. Probably, Mara thought, she would do both.
She asked a question, and the copilot answered her.
As she listened, her hand went to the data plate in the pocket of her jumpsuit. On the plate were microcircuits filled with her memories, images of the world she left behind. Plugging in the chip allowed her to ease her homesickness for a time, and adding memories to it kept her occupied during lulls in their activity. But there was no lull now.
"Might I try?" Mara asked.
The pilots glanced at each other, shrugged. Then the copilot rose and offered his seat to the teen.
"Well, little lady," the pilot said, "if you can fly half as good as you know the theories behind it, you shouldn't have any problem."
Mara smiled. Data flowed across the inside of her eye, calling up details she had recorded earlier. Then Mara did as the pilot had done ...
... and the plane jerked and buc
ked like an ornery animal. Mara's eyes went wide. She had done just as the pilot had. She replayed the data and tried again. And the plane jerked again.
"You can't just imitate me," the pilot explained. "Flying requires the right touch as well. Here, try this."
The cabin door swung open and Father Bryce pushed his way into the cockpit. His face was red and sweat had gathered on his bald forehead. He looked nervous, and his voice was filled with anxiety.