War of the World Makers

by Reilly Michaels

  "Temujin Gur chose them. He wanted you to be in pain over it. You did not kill them!" Zolo said, reaching out and shaking her slightly by the shoulders. He did not wish her to feel guilt. Pain was unavoidable, but guilt not necessary.

  Freddie closed her eyes again. More pain came to her. When would it end? "And what of Babette?" she asked, concerned and looking for some measure of relief.

  Zolo's face went quiet and dark. "She ... she—"

  "What?"

  "She has vanished from the castle. No one knows anything. I have been using Mother Yarrow to search and we cannot find her."

  Freddie jumped from the bed, and gripping Zolo by his shirt, yanked him to his feet also. "I will not lose, Babette! I have lost enough! I will NOT LOSE BABETTE!" she shouted furiously at him. "If Mother Yarrow and you cannot locate her, it means she is covered by a spell, and no one here has the power to hide her from a Mother Yarrow but Temujin Gur."

  "Yes, I know. I thought that also," Zolo said, trying to stay calm.

  "He must be holding her hostage! We must act!"

  "I do not know. We—"

  Freddie blew up in rage at Zolo's calm and confusion before he could explain himself. She hotly stared at him and yelled, "What do you know about anything? You are a fool! My father's life was in your keeping. You let him die! You were squashed by a bug while all of those poor people perished in front of you, and you could do nothing! And now Babette has been kidnapped on your watch. Another failure! What good are you? To speak of democracy? What matters that now? For us? … For anything?"

  Zolo faced her, stunned to no movement. His face a solid expression of shock, as if he had just witnessed the death of his beloved mother Avizeh.

  Freddie let go of his shirt and turned from him, trying to get herself under control so she could think. She said to Zolo without turning around, "You must leave me now, and do not return until I have summoned you. And do nothing unless I command it."

  Zolo did not reply.

  She continued. "Do you understand?"

  Zolo ignored her and silently walked to the rear of the bedchamber to access the secret door and escape her madness. She watched him go, her eyes narrowing with anger. "Do you understand?" she called after him. He did not reply, only vanished within the walls of Bärenthoren.

  Within less than a minute, Freddie realized the wrong she had committed, and for an instant, even imagined herself a younger version of Princess Johanna. She gasped. Such a thing could not be possible, and yet, the first step towards that condition could not be denied.

  Atonement was necessary. But first things first.

  * Оверман *

  HER ARIA WHISPERED BABETTE IN ALL PLACES, from beneath the smallest leaf in Anhalt to mile-deep crevices in Earth, from the shore of Normandy to the peaks of the Alps, but no voice answered back. Using Mother Yarrow to assist in the search, she had flown unseen from the castle upon Zolo's departure. While she searched in a state of desperation, afraid to lose someone she'd dearly loved since a child, she still thought to ask Maria of Pozzuoli about their betrayal to Master Godfellow. She wanted a quick answer, if possible, and she would deal with the details and consequences later.

  Maria would only say, The fault is not mine.

  This response puzzled Freddie, though no time to pursue the matter. She also could not address the guilt now nipping at her mind over yelling so harshly at Zolo. No time for that either.

  Damn everything else!

  About a half hour later, well beyond the lands of Anhalt, she heard violin music in the air. Skanda, yes! It played the dream-creating music, the same tune she'd heard before going to Saravastra for the first time. It emanated from a place deep in the dark forest below her. Without hesitation, she dived straight down for hundreds of feet into the thick branches of the trees and found the music box, the one from her bedside table in Bärenthoren, found it sitting on a thick branch of an old oak above a forest brook. All her hopes for the return of Babette focused on that box, and on what lay beyond in Tibet more than a hundred years in the future.

  Master Paganini will know Babette's fate, or he will help me save her. He must!

  She reached out to the box as the violin music filled her ears, and as she touched it, her hand also touched a man's face. His skin was a light brown hue in the sunlight, and he smiled at her with a face of soothing warm water. Four golden buttons inscribed with yarrow symbols, the size of small coins, fastened in his flesh: one to either side of his upper cheeks, and two more, one atop the other above his brows. On his head he wore a half moon hat, and on his body, an orange robe. She recognized him as one of Saravastra's spell captains.

  The kindly Bodhisattva reached up and placed his hand on Freddie's arm. He pulled her to the ground beside him, as one would a birthday balloon that had floated carelessly to the ceiling. An early morning sun rose in a light blue sky above her. She stood atop a red-tiled patio of some kind, long and wide as the Great Hall, and in the distance, the peaks of the snowy Himalayas. Was she atop a building in Saravastra?

  On the surface of this floor, scores of orange-robed Bodhisattva spell captains in their half-moon hats formed a one large yarrow pattern of curls and crescents, sticks and dots, and they all chanted in a low tone, their arms enfolded before them within the broad sleeves of their robes. The sound of a calming Skanda drifted on the wind from the Himalayas—Paganini's 4th Caprice, melancholy in parts, yet hypnotic. Freddie felt at peace as she listened, then an immediate pang of guilt for such thoughts of peace.

  How could she allow it? Babette was still missing.

  From among the chanting Bodhisattvas stepped Master Paganini. He did not play the violin, yet the music continued, flowing along with the chanting. He wore an orange robe and a half moon hat, just like his spell captains. He did not smile as he approached Freddie, and if she did not know better, she would believe him angry with her. He did not seem a friendly man in the first place, only now, a new edge was visible.

  Does it involve the Battle of the Somme? Mars? Master Godfellow?

  He beckoned her with his eyes to follow him. They strolled to the east end of the landing, well beyond the big yarrow symbol formed by the spell captains. He stopped and faced her. The sun blazed into her eyes, just above the head of Paganini as if it had arisen from his mind, freshly formed and life-giving, yet ready to burn her to char for her trespasses.

  "We have a terrible task ahead of us," he said. His eyes bored into hers so strongly that the sun was forgotten. Perhaps his eyes alone would burn her to char. "We must face the pain of those we love, and rise beyond."

  "What do you mean, Master Paganini?" she asked, her voice trembling a bit.

  "People we love are in terrible pain. And we must end it."

  "Yes, but please tell me. Where is Babette?"

  "Once Gur summons us, you will know, and that will be very soon."

  "Us? You are coming with me, back to—"

  "I am with you, my future Czarina. All of us are with you now" he said, lifting an arm and sweeping his hand to indicate the chanting spell captains of Saravastra. "We will be close, with Mother Yarrow Maria as our bridge."

  "Then we cannot lose?" She wished to believe that.

  "You should know, nothing is certain. The best plans go wrong, even with strong wills and arms behind them. You do understand that now, do you not?" he asked, his eyes and voice telling her he knew about the failed plan to kill Master Godfellow.

  "Yes," she replied, her eyes falling from his gaze. She suddenly felt ashamed.

  "Gur will cross the Nicholas Line. He will use your World Maker aria to hide the two of you from the chrono-defense satellites that Edison and I placed in orbit tens of millions of years ago. He will then resurrect the Lord of The Bow at his necropolis in Mongolia and bond with him."

  "Bond with him?"

  "Gur intends to place a portion of his soul in the newly resurrected Genghis Khan, so that he may live out the life of an immortal man who will rule the new world with
a savagery that will surpass all prior savagery. Nothing could make Gur happier, and once his hero is restored, he will force you to use every drop of your remaining power to destroy our satellites so that no one will ever use them to undo his plan."

  "And his plans for me?"

  "He will cook you and serve you to the Mongol aristocracy."

  "What?" Freddie flared with anger. "I shall eat that monster first! ... But what of Mandukhai?"

  "She is loyal. She is in love with him."

  "That does not matter now. Send me to Babette. I will kill Gur once—"

  "No, you will not kill Gur."

  Paganini explained the plan. Freddie will do Gur's bidding, help him resurrect the Khan at the Necropolis, but once done, proceed to defy the Mongolian by putting Genghis to death following his resurrection, and of course, whatever else necessary to force retaliation, to stir the Mongol into such a blind rage that he will unleash his full force to annihilate her.

  "Gur's temper has always been his fatal flaw, and his hatred for Europeans runs deep. He actually loathes you more than anyone else," Paganini said.

  Behind every false smile of Gur, a boiling rage of ancient bitterness, an undying hatred for those he thought harbored a notion they were superior to him, for those he believed to despise or distrust his Mongol ancestry. In his mind too, Freddie symbolized European entitlement and arrogance. Gur will reason, in the flow of mounting anger, that he can deal with the satellites, in one way or another using his own resources, and then he will turn his magic into a lethal and unstoppable blow that will scatter her atoms to the edge of the galaxy. And once he commits to the blow, "We will slow the march of seconds, and march forward with our own power." Saravastra's spell captains and Mother Yarrow Maria, Skanda and the mighty aria of the Princess von Anhalt, will combine their Tao with the colossal force of Gur's rage, and at the moment before strike, Skanda will open a gate to Dubai in 2038 and War Tracker will be incinerated with enough force to burn the moon to vapor.

  "War Tracker, yes ... I should have known," Freddie said, dazed by the knowledge of Paganini's plan.

  "Yes, War Tracker, my precious World Maker," he said, his face softening to a look that resembled true affection. "The goal has never changed. Only the accursed Gur, working with us, can enable success. He will actually do a good thing, and for the first time in his life."

  Freddie paused, and upon considering her overall situation, said to him, "It's odd, Master Paganini, but it seems as though the more World Maker power I acquire, the closer I come to death."

  "That is so, and you have already died once. Is that not enough?" he said, his face cooling to stone. "But we will be with you, and Gur will know nothing."

  "And Babette?"

  "She is alive, but only through the death of Gur will she be safe. As we focus on War Tracker, Gur will be consumed by the fire he helped create. We have much pain ahead of us."

  "Much pain, Master Paganini?"

  "We will suffer the pain that comes to those we love. All of us here will feel that pain, young woman, through you."

  Freddie stared at him. To her, he now appeared as if warming to concern. Was he really though? They both knew nothing was certain. The plan might work, it might not. But if she helped to destroy War Tracker and thereby save her loved ones, she will have accomplished something worthwhile, at long last—or so she wished to believe.

  The chanting and violin music brimmed to the front of her consciousness once more. She breathed deeply and walked around Paganini to look down thousands of feet and across to the dreaming cityscape of Saravastra. As before, white gulls of human being, hundreds of them, glided and soared between the soft golden towers, through the sunlit mist and drifting puffs of cloud, and beyond to the snowy mountains. A godlike city on the verge of eternity. All was poetry and peace, in a harmony so far beyond the presence of war that she could not believe it possible.

  * Оверман *

  TEMUJIN GUR GAZED FONDLY UPON THE SCREAMING VIRGIN MARY cocoons rattling in the old torture dungeon deep below Bärenthoren Castle. One screamed with the voice of a man, the other with the voice of a woman. Only minutes before, both occupants had been slammed and nailed inside. In time, Gur knew, their screams would dissolve to whimpers and groans as the iron points piercing their flesh from eyes to ankles drew ounce after ounce of blood, and the relentless, unbearable pain sapped the strength from their naked bodies. Temujin Gur therefore needed to summon the Princess von Anhalt as soon as possible, for he wished her to be a part of the fresh agony. He desired the European bitch to hear the screams, see the quivering Virgin Mary cocoons and the blood running from their toes, and know the people she loved most in the world were dying slowly and painfully while she watched, helpless to prevent it.

  A bonus source of pleasure for Gur resulted from the anguish of a Mother Yarrow, her voice calling out to him from across the centuries, begging him to stop. He ignored it, of course, and only smiled to himself. Soon enough, the whole of accursed western civilization would be begging him, The God of The White Mongols—not only for an end to death and pain, but for all manner of things. And they would have to beg, on their bellies, grovel like pitiful snakes. Let one stand and defy him and that one would be tossed into a Virgin Mary. All the bravest and best of white Europe, locked and dying horribly in the Virgin Mary. Tens of thousands of them scattered throughout the countryside from Bavaria to Normandy. Entire forests of Virgin Mary bleeding Europe into the earth.

  Yes, yes, the Virgin Mary Forest!

  A delightful plan, a dreamy concept. His magic would make them live for many more days. More days of suffering and bleeding, whimpering and screaming. White Mongol poets and bards would record his glory, sing of him to the world. Tapestries would be woven depicting the Virgin Mary Forest and himself as The Lord of The Bow, Genghis Khan, floating above it, frowning down like an angry god. Or he might prefer glorious rays of light beaming from his head, like a wise and benevolent god.

  To realize this fondest dream though, he must first summon the Princess von Anhalt.

  Gur hated that he must depend on her. That shriek of a white creature! He despised the noble feline more than anyone else on the planet. Her defiance and arrogance, her dramatic concern for the wretched serfs, her "born to the royal gold" made him desire her death, and in a most horrible way. Nothing had been more satisfying than the morning he lashed her viciously and bit into her head, whipping her back and forth like a lion with shred of meat. His soothing vision of cooking and eating her with the Mongol aristocracy at once filled him with bliss. What vision could be more satisfying? What revenge more complete? And he would enjoy every savory bite. Her bones would pick his teeth and her skull would weight down papers on his London desk, for he believed some administration of the White Mongol Empire would be necessary—though he detested such matters, being a man of the wild open steppes in his heart.

  So it begins!

  Temujin Gur allowed the screams of the woman in the Virgin Mary, the nanny of Anhalt, to leak out of the torture dungeon and into the surrounding countryside. Her piteous cries would be heard all the way to the Cathedral of Magdeburg. Gur knew the hated Euro-bitch was nearby, searching, most likely begging help from the accursed Paganini. The sounds of her nanny in deathly pain would bring her flying in soon enough, lure her down to the depths of his personal Hell. Besides, what more fitting place to begin the transformation of the world than among symbols of European savagery and barbarism?

  * Оверман *

  FREDDIE HEARD THE PITIFUL SHRIEKING OF BABETTE even before she left Saravastra. The sound pierced the ears of her body, sitting in that tree, and it shrilled in her as she turned to say farewell to Master Paganini. He heard it too, through her, and his eyes filled with sympathy. A tear rolled down his face. His words, "much pain ahead" suddenly translated into reality. She let out a gasp and cried out, "Babette, no!" The knowledge that the woman she adored was in such terrible pain drove a cold lance through her. She shook for a momen
t before she vanished, and Master Paganini would never forget that wide-eyed expression of shock on her young face.

  Less than a moment later, Freddie’s legs thrust her body up with such violent force that the thick oaken branch, over a century old, snapped and crashed to the ground. Her body sprung from the tops of the forest and into the air, leveling out at two thousand feet and bearing down on Bärenthoren Castle, meteoric as Eréndira plummeting down from the Martian sky.

  And while she soared, the anguished screams of Babette filled the world.

  Thousands and thousands of birds scattered from the trees and rose to form big black clouds throughout the lands of Anhalt, the birds darting in frantic circles before flying to safety faraway as Saxony. Flocks of grazing sheep and cows for miles around began running and crying as if chased by a pack of wolves. Serfs in the fields froze where they stood, baffled and terrorized, and the residents of castle Bärenthoren behaved in similar fashion. Many knew the screams belonged to Babette, and they crossed themselves and muttered prayers for their own protection, and even the shrewd and murderous Empress Elizabeth, and the tyrant of Anhalt, Princes Johanna, felt the true ice of terror touch their black souls.

  Landing in her bedchamber, Freddie followed the screams into the walls. She did not bother to open the secret panel door. She simply smashed through the stone and exploded into the dark hallway that led to the staircase. The entire castle shook with the force of it, and in the distance, the maidservants could be heard screaming. Freddie had caught a fleeting glimpse of Alexander the Great as she sped through the room. She saw his spear and focused on that.

  I will be a spear. Yes!

  She would pierce the heart of whatever foul thing hurt Babette.

  Down the stone staircase she ran, shouting, "Babette! I am coming!" and in moments found herself in the dungeon doorway, smelling the odor of blood and staring at two Virgin Mary cocoons, their metal glimmering in the firelight, trembling with the death-shaking of those imprisoned within.