Obsidian Blues

by J. S. Miller

  I marched off alone toward the sound. The trail became even easier to follow when I came to the edge of the burnt fields and noticed a broad trail of ash stretching toward the horizon, marking the path like a morbid eight-lane interstate. Guess I really was on the highway to Hell.

  Just before sundown, the trail led me to the outskirts of yet another forest. Its purple trees matched those found in the area labeled Newton’s Hollow on Arthur Rundale’s map. Could this be yet another section of the same enormous woods? Or were these the only kind of tree that grew here?

  The ash trail lay in a broad trench through the trees. Any that had stood in the way had been uprooted violently, their massive roots reaching skyward. I slipped in among those that still stood, staying off the literally beaten path and avoiding wide open spaces. Alerting whatever had bulldozed all those thick-trunked purplewoods ranked relatively low on my alternate universe to-do list.

  I walked late into the night before finally catching a glimpse of firelight through the underbrush. Moving as quietly as possible, I broke from the trees and sneaked up to the edge of the ditch, which created a small, artificial hill overlooking the area. The source of the light made me momentarily forget how to breathe.

  Stretched out before me was a camp, although that word fails to describe the reality of that place. It conjures images of pup tents and kids covered in merit badges roasting s'mores around a campfire. This was an encampment, and it encroached upon the forest for miles in every direction. When it needed to expand, they simply tore up more trees and flattened more earth.

  Creatures wearing masks of bone over crimson scales roamed the area, some the size of dogs, others the size of elephants. They ambled among structures made from the skin and bones of their comrades. Bonfires tore bright gashes in the landscape, and I didn’t want to think about what fueled them. The place had a hasty, slapdash feel, and it smelled as though they hadn’t bothered cleaning their friends properly before pitching tent poles in their hides.

  OK, I’ll admit it. I tossed my cookies. Can you blame me? The camp was like something from a John Carpenter adaptation of H.P. Lovecraft. I’m probably lucky I didn’t go batshit crazy just looking at it. Although maybe I did, given that my first thought after puking wasn’t “I better get outta here,” but rather “how do I get in?”

  Elena was in there. So, being the brilliant tactician that I am, I drew my gun and walked straight toward the camp. The ashen terrain was smooth and easy to traverse. What disturbed me slightly, however, was the way the moonlight dimmed the closer I got to the camp. Praying it wasn’t more supernatural bullshit, I looked up … and saw clouds of flies blotting out the moon. Suddenly I longed for some supernatural bullshit.

  Dark shapes lumbered in the glow of the fires. I darted in among the tents, careful to stay out of sight. The stench of rot and decay was nearly overwhelming, but I did my best to keep down what was left of my lunch. I had to stay quiet. Whether those beasts were on patrol or just wandering aimlessly didn’t matter much; the consequences were the same if they caught me. I wished I knew more about them. How well could they see in the dark? What was their hearing like? Did I need to worry about them picking up my scent, or relative lack thereof?

  An idea struck, and I reached into the rune satchel for one of my scent vials. I developed them, in theory, for hunting, creating enhanced versions of distinctive smells to confuse, repel or attract specific animals. I pulled a dull brown cylinder from the bag and loaded it into the Chemslinger. I thought about firing immediately to create a diversion, but I had no idea how the formula would react here, considering every other vial I’d tried had turned a Zippo into a flamethrower. It might just cause a stampede, getting me trampled and ruining my stealth run. Best to save it for an emergency.

  Approaching footsteps pulled me back to the task at hand. Whatever was coming my way sounded big. I ducked through a nearby tent flap and instantly regretted the decision. I may have avoided the guard, but inside the carcass, the smell multiplied tenfold, and the bugs were practically buzzing inside my ears. But that was before I spotted the barrels.

  They sat in rows, stacked three high, their purple planks wrapped in bands of black iron and etched with runes that told an old, popular story called “How to Make Fire.” The barrels must have contained alchemical agents — likely the kind that went boom. After the guard passed, I exited and checked inside another tent. More of the same.

  I took a moment to mentally mark the location of the explosives caches. Then I made a quiet, careful beeline for the biggest thing I could see, near the center of the camp: a huge, shadowy shape with banners flying from flagpoles around it. Seemed like a good place to start looking for Elena.

  No sentries patrolled around the large tent, which looked more like a raised circus pavilion made of mammoth skin. Only a single bonfire raged before it, casting flickering shadows on the eerily still scene. As I approached, the banners came into focus. They too had been cut from scaly red flesh, and someone had painted them with crude images of the sun.

  My alchy sense was tingling, but I’d come too far to turn back now. So I centered my power, raised my gun in a poor imitation of the breech-and-clear stance you always see in movies, and climbed the steps to the grisly big top.

  Chapter 22

  When I pushed aside the flap, a blast of cool air blew my hair back and dried the sweat on my brow. Inside the tent, bright red curtains hung everywhere, cascading from the ceiling down over the walls, and incense burned in clay mugs. Persian rugs lay upon the floor, and atop them, at the room’s center, sat a long table. On it, someone had assembled a pyramid of black glass ingots.

  I crept around the table and noticed another familiar item lying beside the glass: a thin, dog-eared paperback titled “The Ancestry of Alchemy.” It was old alchemy text Vincent had tried to get me to read more than once, but genealogy had always put me to sleep, and I’d never gotten around to it. Plus, the lack of an author’s name on the cover didn’t exactly scream credibility. The alchemist who wrote it had probably needed the paycheck.

  I picked up the book and flipped it open, hoping not to see what I feared might be there, wishing even now for it all to be some crazy coincidence. No such luck. At the top of the first page, “West Muller” had been printed in the precise lettering of a boy just out of penmanship classes. My original copy. It had been gathering dust on a bookshelf in the lab for years … until that shelf had disappeared, replaced by a tunnel that had led me here. But why go to all that trouble? You could find newer editions in any Academy-certified bookstore.

  The rest of the room held little in the way of answers. Just the table, ingots, curtains, rugs … and, in one corner, a four-panel dressing screen, the type ladies of yesteryear had used to feign modesty. A lamp or candle glowed dully behind it. The shadows projected on the screen showed the slow, steady rhythm of something breathing.

  I slipped the book into my jacket’s secret pocket, raised the Chemslinger, and approached the impromptu projector screen as silently as possible. Then I sidled past it, ratcheting back the gun’s hammer.

  “Whoa!” the man on the other side exclaimed, sitting up on a cot and lifting his open hands. “Don’t shoot!”

  Round-rimmed glasses glinted on a bookish face. His short hair was mussed, making him look like he’d just woken up from a nap. I lowered the gun.

  “Max?” I asked. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “That’s a tad embarrassing, actually,” he said. “But I sure am glad to see you.”

  “What happened?”

  “Captured, right after you left. They sent more of those monsters to Astoria, and I guess they figured they could use me as a bargaining chip. I am the city treasurer, after all. Keys to the vault and all that.”

  “They have an army that could sack an entire planet. Why go for political leverage? Was there something else they wanted?”

  “Not entirely sure, friend,” he said. “Tall, creepy guy brought me here — might’ve
been the Outrider himself. You’ve met him, right?” He visibly shivered. “Gave me the willies. He set me down, pointed at that glass over there, and left. Couldn’t make heads nor tales of it.”

  “Maybe he found out you were a scientist,” I suggested, trying not to show my frustration at now having to sneak two people out of this hellhole. “Wanted you to run some tests on it.”

  “That did occur to me, but I haven’t had much luck. It looks like obsidian, but it’s unlike anything on Earth’s periodic table. It’s completely alien.”

  “Fascinating,” I said. “Do you know where they’re keeping Elena?”

  He blinked.

  “Elena? What do you mean?”

  “She’s the whole reason I came this far.”

  “You mean … you didn’t come to rescue me?” he asked, chuckling. “That hurts, brother.”

  “Well, I’m here if you still feel like getting rescued.”

  “Lead the way.”

  When the tent flaps parted, I froze at the top of the steps. White masks floating in a sea of red had encircled the tent. The creatures stood motionless, giving us a wide berth but sending a very clear message: Max and I weren’t going anywhere.

  “This can’t be a good sign,” I said.

  “You’re sure you don’t know where Elena is?” Fen asked behind me, his voice strangely unconcerned.

  “What? No. Why would you ask that? We have more pressing matters to worry abou—”

  Fen planted a foot between my shoulder blades, and I took a nosedive off the steps, landing face down in the dirt and ash. I coughed and wiped soot from my eyes. My vision was blurry, but I could sense the nightmares closing in on me, staring down at me with their black eyes. I could hear Fen limping down the steps, and when he spoke, it was obvious that a hard, menacing smile had replaced his usual jovial grin.

  “Well, there goes my plan,” he said. “I was really hoping you’d lead me back to her. She is amazing, isn’t she? Couldn’t believe it when she lost me in that forest. I understand why you went after her, I really do. But you were just following me …” He laughed, and it was higher, wilder, not at all the same sound from moments before. “Like a couple of dogs chasing each other’s tails.”

  “Dogs chase their own tales,” I said. “Don’t worry, I’ll add a book of idioms to your Amazon wish list.”

  “If only you were as qualified in search and rescue as you are in sarcasm, Sir Alchemist,” he said. “Although I must admit, it was impressive the way you dispatched Charley Denton. Good job, brother. Gold star for you. Not that it matters a whole hell of a lot.”

  “But you … you’re still human. Why are you helping him?”

  Fen sighed theatrically.

  “Come on,” he said. “The mild-mannered bookkeeper act fooled you, too? Maybe I did overestimate you after all. But I suppose it is hard to believe until you witness the transfiguration with your own eyes. Keep in mind, it can get a little … intense. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  With that, he pulled a handful of sparkling black powder from his pocket and shoved it into his mouth like popcorn. He started chewing, and my entire being recoiled at the sound of glass being ground into dust. When he smiled again, his teeth were coated in dark, oily blood.

  Fen’s face began to excrete slippery white foam. It congealed into a hard mass as his limbs extended, stretching into grotesque, gangly branches. Clothing and flesh tore away to reveal red, scaly skin. As he started laughing — and it was the same laugh, the one from the sewer, the sound that had burrowed into my mind and pupated there, breaking open now to release scuttling waves of terror — an absurd memory came to me of Fen whining about trying to save money on shirts.

  “One … more … chance,” he rasped through the bone mask. “Where … is … she?”

  “Go to hell,” I said. “Bonehead.”

  I lifted the Chemslinger, aimed it at The Laughing Man, and pulled the trigger. For the space of one breath, my enemy flinched.

  A cloud of noxious gas poured from the gun … and then just floated there around me, doing nothing other than slowly drifting skyward. My nose picked up a stench that was like if rotten eggs had body odor. Oh, right. The scent vial.

  Fen started laughing again. Not a single monster reacted to my enormous alchemical fart, which I supposed made sense. The masks didn’t have nose holes. Should’ve thought of that.

  “Kill … him,” Fen said.

  Without checking what was in the next chamber, I aimed the Chemslinger at the cloud now hanging 20 feet above us, channeled more energy, and fired again. Lightning struck up into the fumes, and the gas ignited. Green flame swept over the camp like volcanic storm clouds, setting tents ablaze and causing my captors to stumble back in fear and surprise. I knew I only had seconds before they recovered. I got to my feet and ran.

  As I raced through the encampment, my wounds screamed at me to slow down, but the maniacal laughter had already returned, chasing me through the darkness. Fear overshadowed pain, and I ran faster.

  I took winding paths between the tents, trying to make my way back to the forest. Navigating this labyrinth would have been difficult at the best of times, though, and soon I was lost. I ducked into a random tent to catch my breath … and discovered more rows of purple barrels. Had I found my way back, or were these all they were storing here?

  I reached into my satchel and removed Dragon’s Breath. Imbuing the liquid with a spark of energy, I gently cracked the vial and set it on top of a barrel. A single droplet fell and sizzled on the wood. It would take a few minutes to eat through, and I wanted to be far away when it did.

  Outside, the alchemical vortex raging above had somehow summoned rain. My feet thudded on the wet earth, and I reloaded the gun’s five chambers as I ran. Treetops emerged above the tents. Hope kept my feet moving. I might still get away.

  I rounded a corner and nearly crashed into a wall of leathery red flesh. A crimson insect the size of a Labrador lunged at me with long, black pincers, but they glanced off my jacket. I turned and pulled the trigger twice. Superheated liquid light melted the bug and set the thing behind it ablaze. Two down. But there were so many … they were everywhere.

  Energy swirled around me as I put a pillar of blue light through the midsection of a trunkless mammoth. A pair of leonine beasts darted toward me, black claws extended, but I glued them together with a single blast of Stoplight green. Something huge that bore no resemblance to anything I’d ever seen reared up, and I blew off its head with a crimson firebolt.

  Shock and awe were working. The creatures were shying away each time I raised my weapon. I had an advantage, despite their numbers. Time to make the most of it. I put another monster in my sights and pulled the trigger.

  Click.

  Shit. I reached down for more ammunition, but a clawed hand swiped at my head. I ducked to avoid it, and a tail swept my legs out from under me. I toppled forward onto my face, muddy ash stinging my eyes. A heavy weight settled onto my back and pinned me to the ground.

  Laughter filled my ears. It was a wheezing, angry sound now, but it was unmistakable. I blinked, and rain cleansed my eyes. I instantly wished it hadn’t.

  The Laughing Man stalked toward me through a swarm of devils. In one hand, he clutched a crooked knife carved from black glass. The other reached down and dug claw-tipped fingers into my scalp. Hot droplets of blood rolled down my face. I screamed as The Laughing Man lifted me off the ground. This was it. I’d lost.

  “Silence!” he hissed, sounding as if he were only now adjusting to his new set of vocal chords. “Now … join us.”

  He jabbed at my stomach with the black knife, but it stopped against my coat like safety scissors poking at extra strength plastic wrap.

  “Ah,” he said. “Of course.”

  He removed the rune satchel, and it fell to the ground. Then he unzipped the leather coat, wrenched it off, and examined it for a moment before tossing it aside. Without further delay, he pushed the black blade into my
stomach.

  Pain radiated through my body, the most intense, blinding, violent pain I had ever experienced — but, to my surprise, it didn’t last long. Instead, adrenaline chased it out of me, making my blood boil and hum. Dark smoke began pouring from the wound in my gut.

  The Laughing Man stopped laughing. I wasn’t going to get another chance to catch him off guard, so I threw more fuel onto the fire, concentrating on what was left of the pain and centering what little energy I could cobble together. The knife inside me exploded, and flame burst from my wound. The Laughing Man stepped back, dropping me. For a moment, he stared in stunned disbelief. My body, my blood, had rejected his metamorphosis. Return to fucking sender, asshole.

  The Laughing Man grunted, but it was a sound of exasperation, like that of an irritated child denied access to his favorite toy. I tried to reach for the satchel, but he snatched it up, and a circle of hands, talons, pincers, and paws pinned my arms and legs to the dirt, making me feel like the hub of the world’s most fucked up wagon wheel. I struggled, but there were too many, and they were too strong. The Laughing Man approached, holding my satchel above my head.

  "If I cannot turn you …” he said. “I will turn your tools against you."

  He shoved one hand into the satchel, extracted a fistful of vials — which still pulsed with light from all the energy I’d been throwing around — and extended them over my head. Oh God, no. Not this. Anything but this.

  I screamed and struggled against the creatures holding me. The universe hummed, responding to me in a way it never had before, and I felt a surge of strength. I wrenched my left arm free and swung it wildly, catching one creature on the side of the head. I felt bone crack beneath my fist. It cried out and drew away.

  “Such spirit!” Fen rasped, that horrible laugh burbling beneath his words. “And such a waste.” He reached down with his empty hand and caressed my face. There was a flash of light in my mind, and suddenly he was gone. All of them were gone.

  I was somewhere else. The grassy hill. The throne. It was here, on this world, mere miles away from the moon city these savages called Astoria.