The Ouroboros Lock

by Mark William Chase

  The horse was too slow. I roared at the beast as a lion might roar, pounding my heels and whipping the reins as though my terrible will could somehow propel the animal into flight. My ardent fervor only threw her into a panic, and her gallop became a wild charge that no four-legged thing could maintain on such a dark and muddy road. The horse lamented a fitful whinny and everything spun suddenly askew. I saw the ground, the ebon sky, and the ground once again as I tumbled violently through the air. My shoulder hit hard and I rolled. One boot slipped off, hung on the stirrup. There was no pain, only rage. Blind, seething, white-hot rage!

  The world fell silent once more. I opened my eyes and pushed my hands into the filthy mud, shaking as I forced myself off the ground. I spat and sat up, then staggered half-dazed to my feet. Pain crawled down my right shoulder and arm, then across my back and thighs. Battered and bruised, my clothes torn and covered in mud, I limped back to my horse to have a look at the wretched animal. Her chest heaved with every breath and her large black eyes stared at me accusingly. Her right foreleg was clearly broken.

  “Useless beast!” I exclaimed, bringing my foot down on her head. A quiet whimper was all the protest my scolding received. I kicked the creature once more and turned away.

  The city gate was half a mile away. I picked up my pace despite my limp, hoping I could arrive before Macey made his escape. Depending on when he had left the party, and whether he traveled on foot or by horse, my chances of catching him ranged from merely bad to outright impossible. What I would not have given for the Grand Grimoire that I might summon a spirit to convey me home without delay!

  Onward I hurried, cursing the night, the Fates, and the foul weather that had rendered the roads so perilous. Through the darkness and in the distance, I saw the warm and golden glow from the countless windows and streetlamps of the city. The muddy road gradually became better, and eventually my boots padded on rain-slick cobblestones as I entered the city proper.

  With no time to spare, I turned down Hospice Street, which would take me through the low-class slums that any proper gentleman would steer well clear of—especially at this hour of the night. Remembering that I still wore the face and hair of the Green Man, I focused my thoughts, bringing up my right hand and gesticulating the mystical signs as I whispered the transformative spell I had memorized from the Munich Codex of Sorcery. But instead of restoring my own comely appearance, I conjured to mind the scared and knobby visage of a street rough who once had the fatal misfortune of accosting me. In moments, my hair and face shifted from the vines and bark of the Green Man to the dour features of the long-dead ruffian.

  Soon, I was passing through the worst of the slums, and I glanced at the shadowed alleyways as I pulled my torn and muddy garments around me. Just as I suspected, more than a few muggers and footpads were out and about, but all who saw me slunk back into the shadows, seeing me not as some hapless popinjay strolling through, but as a threatening street rough. A quarter mile later I was clear of the slums, and again I conjured the transformative spell, this time restoring my features to the refined countenance I called my own.

  Continuing on, I hastened down Coronach Hill to Maywell Street, my breath rasping with fatigue and my nerves burning with anxious apprehension. Thankfully, the front door to my shop showed no sign of a break-in, nor were any of the windows open or broken. Of course, if Macey was here, he would have used the Main-de-Gloire to slip inside. I went for the keys in my pocket, only then realizing they were in the coat that I had left at Voger’s manor!

  Cursing my own incompetence, I rushed around to the back of the alley, splashing through puddles of filth and stale water. I saw no sign of forced entry at the back door, either, but when I turned the knob and pushed, I found the bolts unlocked. Grimacing, I pushed the door the rest of the way open and stepped into the dark interior of the cellar storeroom. The silence and dusty darkness greeted me, and I stood listening for a moment, at first hearing nothing. Then there came a faint bump and scuff from upstairs. Panic clenched my stomach. I hurried around the crates and boxes cluttering my cellar to the stairs leading up to the shop and apartment above.

  By now, Macey had surely discovered the Ouroboros Lock in my book-strewn study and was probably reading through my notes. If he heard me approaching, he would simply grab the device and be out the window in an instant. Moving as slowly and silently as I could, I ascended the stairs, creeping past the shop level and pausing to listen before continuing on up to my apartment. The dim glow of candles flickered from the edges of the half-opened door to my study, and I heard the barest whisper of a laugh, followed by the faint mutterings of Macey’s voice.

  “Let all that’s hidden be revealed, let all that’s closed now be unsealed! Let those who guard more deeply sleep, let those who thieve their vigils keep. At the spell of the dead man’s make, dream as the dead for the dead man’s sake!”

  Macey was not stealing the Lock, I realized with horror. He was using it! Did he know what he was doing? Did he realize what would happen if he opened the Lock? He, like my idiot thrall, would be lost to that endless void between the limitless dimensions of time and space. Worse still, he would take the newer Hand of Glory with him, and I required both it and the older one to have any hope of becoming the true master of the Ouroboros Lock.

  “No!” I screamed, bursting through the door of the study. “The hand! Drop the hand, you cursed fool!”

  But I was too late. The mechanism spun, a whirling, clicking, clattering maelstrom of cogs and gears. I had scarcely entered the room when, in a blinding flash of light, Macey vanished from sight, still holding the Hand of Glory. All was lost! Without Macey’s newer Main-de-Gloire, I had only the older version, with just a thumb and an index finger. I would only be able to use the Ouroboros Lock twice and then no more. A universe of possibilities slammed shut before me, and I threw myself to the floor, burying my face in my hands, and the Lock wound down. I had failed.

  Then I heard a voice, meek and unsure—a stark dichotomy to Macey’s own confident demure. “M-master? Is that you?”

  I could scarcely believe my ears! I opened my eyes and looked up. There before me stood Limus—my mindless idiot of a thrall who had gone missing half a year before. In his hand he held the Main-de-Gloire.

  “Limus, the Hand of Glory!” I yelled, jumping to my feet. “Give me the Hand!”

  Limus did not immediately obey. He looked at the remains of the Main-de-Gloire, and then I saw it too. The tiny flame burning on the thumb flickered out, and that last remaining digit crumbled into dust, its power spent. Five fingers, five uses, and now no more.

  “What happened?” Limus asked. He dropped the burnt-out Main-de-Gloire and blinked, as though waking from a deep dream. “How... how did I get back here?”

  I stared deeply into his eyes, hoping to cow him into submission. In truth, I had no idea what had happened. Limus must have jumped forward in time, arriving at the exact point when Macey opened the Lock. This confirmed my hypothesis that the Lock was a gateway that must be opened at both ends for travel to occur.

  I looked behind me to the desk, to the version of the Hand of Glory that Macey had brought me half a year ago, with only the thumb and index finger. If Limus had used the lock in Corbin’s house last October, and swapped spots with Macey, then Macey had just appeared in Corbin’s house. The Hand Macey had taken with him back through time was missing only the pinkie and ring finger. It would now be missing the middle finger as well. That meant the Hand Macey had just left with was the very one now sitting on my desk, and the hand Limus had originally brought was also the same one, but having only the thumb. All the Main-de-Gloires were the same Main-de-Gloire, moving backwards and forwards through time, propelled by the Ouroboros Lock.

  “My theory was correct!” I exclaimed, my heart racing. “You have done well, my thrall, and you will be rewarded.”

  A moment passed, but Limus just blinked, looking around. Why was he acting this way? Was he disoriented from his passage through
in time? What had he seen or experienced across the vast gulf of eternity?

  “Over a year has passed,” I informed him, scowling as I spoke. “While awaiting your return, I learned much about the Ouroboros Lock. It is a wondrous device, and once I have mastered its power, I will rule the very ebb and flow of time. Yes, my thrall, you stand before the foreordained god of time and fate itself!”

  I expected my misshapen servant to lay himself prostrate in awe, yet he only shifted his weight in apparent befuddlement. Then he spoke, brazenly out of line, for I had not yet sought to question him. “I r-recall...” he stuttered. “I recall this... conversation... from before.”

  Limus seemed to be growing lucid. Had the journey through time somehow affected the potion I had used to enslave him?

  “I have no patience for your prattle,” I said, brushing him off. “Your room awaits you. Remain there until I summon you.”

  Limus met my gaze, then glanced away. He walked past me, to the door leading out of the study. Thinking he had finally consented to my orders, I stepped up to the desk where the Lock sat in haunting silence. There beside it was the older Main-de-Gloire, the one Macey had given me last year, and which I myself had used to briefly journey through time. Only the index finger and thumb remained, and it could only be used two more times before expending the last of its magical virtue. Twice, and then no more.

  I was pulled from my ruminations by the sound of shuffling and a glimpse of sudden movement from the corner of my eye. I began to turn, then heard a sickening crack, my vision exploding with stars as something hard and heavy slammed against my skull. My body falling limp, I dropped to the floor, and the dazzling sea of swimming stars faded to the murky blackness of unconsciousness.

  I awoke some time later, my head pounding with every beat of my heart. I blinked, straining to focus in the dim candlelight, and saw a dark shape standing at the desk, his body hunched and malformed. My hands were bound to the chair, but such restraints were of no consequence to a magician such as myself. I tugged at the ropes, moving my fingers in an arcane sign that was sure to unwind them.

  Nothing happened.

  “Swine!” I hissed between my teeth. “You will...” I stopped, feeling suddenly woozy. “You will...”

  Limus stepped from the shadows into the dim candlelight. He held one of my black grimoires and a cup of some inky black liquid. “I remember!” he exclaimed. “Yes, I remember this—all of this! It has happened before! Again! Now! And will once more!”

  I shook my head, but my vision only swam with nauseating vertigo. “What are you gibbering about?”

  Limus set the book down, then yanked my head back and poured whatever vile brew was in the cup into my mouth. I coughed and sputtered, trying to spit it out, but most had already gone down.

  “It was your magic that enthralled me!” Limus barked. He pulled out an ornate dagger—the same dagger I had first found him with and which I had given him on his botched burglary half a year ago. “But once you are gone, I will be me again! Yes! That must be it!”

  I pulled at my restraints, trying to work the knot free. Something was wrong—I could no longer remember the motions. Everything was a blur, like waking from a dream, yet still being trapped stubbornly within it.

  Then Limus did something I thought he could never do. He picked up the grimoire and began to incant a spell. The words were Latin, a language quite familiarly to me, and yet I could not understand them. Why could I not remember? What had he given me to drink?

  Completing the invocation, Limus whipped the dagger through the air, tracing the outline of a pentagram, then stabbed the point through its invisible center. A sharp pain gripped my body, my flesh twitching, my muscles burning, my gut wrenching as though torn inside out. I bellowed in agony and shock, but was still more shocked when I saw Limus similarly afflicted. Cringing, he backed against the desk, shaking and holding his stomach. For a moment, I thought the spell had backfired on him, but when he began laughing, I realized the magic had worked exactly as he had intended.

  “The master was the slave, but now the slave shall be the master!” Limus screamed.

  With that, he spun away and returned his attention to the Ouroboros Lock.

  I had nearly managed to work one hand free of the ropes, but the surging pain and muscle spasms impeded my effort as my body twisted and contorted with the sickening sound of popping joints and grinding tendons. Limus lit the remaining finger and thumb on the Hand of Glory and set the grisly artifact beside the Lock. Raising his arms high, he began a second incantation, this time in English.

  “Hear me, O' Daughters of Nyx, thou who was born from the blackest womb of Our Mother of Shadows! Clotho, Atropos, Lachesis, dark sisters of Fate—I conjure thee and entreat thee! By the power of this Glorious Hand and the virtues instilled within, open forth the Gate of Space and Time and grant me entry into thy Eternal Kingdom!”

  After unraveling the last of the knots from my wrists, I freed my legs and sprang to my feet. The Ouroboros Lock began to spin, a wild, whirling storm of clicking cogs and backward-ticking gears. Limus still held the ritual dagger. I knew I could reach it if I just moved fast enough. As the traitor put the dagger down to pick up an obsidian statue of Nyx, I made a desperate lunge for the weapon. Seizing the dagger, I drew back to thrust the blade into the belly of my foe.

  Then I froze, seeing Limus’s face. Before me stood not the meek, pale-eyed visage of my disfigured thrall, but the strong countenance of one whose dark eyes and platinum blond hair were as intimately familiar to me as my own reflection. Although I had no mirror, I knew what travesty of grotesque deformity the spell had bestowed upon me. Limus had used a more potent version of my own transfiguration spell to swap his appearance with my own!

  Furious, I thrust out with the dagger. Limus jumped back, laughing. He swung the small statue at me and missed. With his left side vulnerable, I plunged the blade through his ribs and into his heart. Howling, my former thrall swung the other way and the heavy statue smashed into the side of my face, tearing skin and cracking bone. Pain showered my sight with an explosion of color. I crashed against the desk, numb and senseless, the dagger still clenched in my fist.

  Staggering away, I shook my head and glanced around, trying in vain to cast off the sickening vertigo. On the floor at my feet lay a lifeless body. But the body looked nothing like Limus, instead being a perfect likeness to my own. The ringing in my ears gave way to the clicking and clattering of the Ouroboros Lock, spinning faster and faster with every passing second. A brilliant white light formed in front of the device, instantly growing into a swirling vortex of energy.

  Realizing I had to stop the machine, I seized the Hand of Glory and stepped forward. The room stretched out before me and vanished to a distant point of light. The world spun, and I was pulled in some impossible direction that could not exist in our rational dimension, falling faster and faster through a limitless void. Then, as quickly as it had begun, everything came to a stop.

  I tumbled onto the floor, racked by the pain of the impact and the agony of my own twisted and malformed anatomy. I opened my eyes; everything was dim. Where was I? Who was I? Blood ran from a throbbing gash on my side of my head. Where had that come from? Forcing myself to my feet, I stumbled into a table, knocking over tools and scraps of metal. A workshop... I was in a workshop!

  There was a bloody knife in my hand, and in the other I held a withered, wax-covered hand—its index finger crumbling to ash even as I watched, leaving only the thumb. I tucked the knife in my belt and held the hand to my chest as I stumbled for the door.

  Outside, the night was dark and cool, and I made my way to a road leading back into the city. Maywell Street... Yes, I had as shop or home on Maywell Street... I had to get back there, but I could scarcely remember the way. Crippled and deformed, and barely conscious of where I was, I blundered down the road and into the midnight streets of the city like a destitute drunkard.

  Somehow, I found my way through the city and
back to the shop. Woozy, my knees gave way and I fell against the door. I struggled at the handle, but the lock was secure. Having no keys and lacking the strength to break in, I slammed my hand against the door, again and again.

  Footsteps approached from inside and someone fumbled with the lock. The door swung open and I fell through, landing in the waiting arms of whomever had saved me. A voice spoke, but I could not discern the meaning, and he quickly deposited me on a couch inside.

  Time passed, and I faded in and out of consciousness. I thought I saw my own face looking down at me and heard my own voice uttering a few words of condescending reassurance. A cup pressed to my lips and I swallowed a foul and bitter-tasting drink.

  “The Lock...” I muttered deliriously. “The Hand... the Ouroboros Lock...”

  “Shhh,” came the voice again. “Drink more.”

  I drank, though I could hardly swallow. The foggy grayness began to lift, but only an empty void remained—a deep, black void, hollowed out from my crumbling mind. “Where am I? Who... who am I?”

  My blurry vision cleared, and I saw a man with platinum blond hair and dark black eyes. He seemed oddly familiar, but I could not remember him.

  “Such curious artifacts you have,” the man said. “A Main-de-Gloire, is it not? And a fine ritual dagger. You seem to have forgotten who you are, but the initials on the hilt read ‘A.C.L.’ What does the ‘L’ stand for? Limus, perhaps? That is Latin for sludge, you know. Soon your brain shall be no better than sludge.”

  I blinked, feeling all doubt fade. “Who... who are you?” I asked.

  “I am your master,” the man said. “Soon, my thrall, you will recover from your stupor and serve me until the end of your days. But first, tell me what you were babbling about in your fever. Tell me of this Ouroboros Lock.” He grinned. “Tell me, that I might seek it.”