Battle Across Worlds

by Dean Chalmers

  He turned to watch the corpse-like Reverend Mott, who stood in the corner unmoving, making no sound other than his slow, raspy breathing.

  Starks didn’t understand why the Guardian was so loyal to his new Master who lived in the pit. The Guardian often talked of a new era coming, all of mankind becoming one, and Starks just nodded and smiled and followed orders.

  But the Guardian was kind to all of his servants—Starks and his missus in particular—and so he could overlook the oddities of the last few years. He felt proud that he was trusted over most of the other servants, anyway. He’d even been taught to work a few of the new silver machines.

  The contraption which held the young man was connected by a thin cord of woven silver wire to that thing in the pit. The way Starks understood it, the new Master wanted to take the lad’s soul. Or rather, replace it with a reflection of his own.

  Starks really didn’t understand all the gibberish about aona and ambia that the Guardian was always going on about. But it definitely had to do with putting some of the Master’s soul-stuff into other bodies.

  Poor Reverend Mott had been the first test. But that hadn’t worked well. Turned out the Master couldn’t see very well through Mott’s eyes, and then there was the problem with his flesh getting holes and all. The Guardian had been disappointed. This time was supposed to be different, but Starks had his doubts.

  He looked to the boy and shook his head. “Why are you fighting it so?”

  The youth moaned and his lips curled back over his teeth.

  Starks sighed. “Nothing personal, lad, but it’d be better for all of us if we could just get this over with, eh?”

  #

  HATE HATE HATE HATE HATE.

  They betrayed me!

  The voice hissed in Ed’s mind, the force of its hatred threatening to twist the center of his consciousness into something that was no longer Ed Bocke, no longer even human.

  Alone alone alone.

  I hate them!

  Ed saw the red-eyed demons, thousands of them, all mocking him! But no—they weren’t mocking Ed, they were mocking the demon called Krotan.

  This rutting Krotan was trying to get into his head, force his way into his soul! Krotan’s hatred was so very strong, the monster wielded it like a hammer, breaking down Ed’s barriers …

  “Betrayed!” hissed the Krotan-demon voice.

  More thought-images assailed Ed’s mind, more scenes from the demon’s centuries of mad hatred, the emotion so terribly strong.

  But Ed had felt emotion that strong before. Hate just as strong.

  My own hate, damn you!

  Hate, anger, jealously, embarrassment—all those painful emotions that churned in his mind day and night—maybe Ed could use those to fight back …

  He knew the taste of betrayal from his own life. He could remember his torments as well as Krotan could, he could feel the pain as sharply. He dug down deep into the sorest, most painfully tender parts of his memory …

  And the demon in his head would have to watch as—

  Ed is five years old. He sits in the front row of the local Stefanite church with his mother and his two brothers, looking up at the pulpit from which his father, Reverend Danael Bocke, preaches.

  His father reads from the Holy Book: “Thou shalt bear the burdens of thy flesh with grace.”

  Leaning forward and smiling at the congregation, he explains: “The pains in our bodies, the diseases which rack these fleshy shells of ours—all are tests. We must endure them, never wavering in our devotion.”

  Then, he glares at Ed’s mother, motions with his hand. She looks a little frightened, but she guides Ed up to the pulpit and gives him to his father, who stands the boy up on the pulpit for all to see.

  Reverend Bocke pulls the layered stockings from his son’s foot and reveals the boy’s deformity to the congregation.

  “Behold!” he declares. “Here is the burden of my flesh, and I must bear it!”

  The people all stare and Ed and his bad foot, nodding somberly.

  Young Ed doesn’t quite understand what is going on. But he knows that this “burden” is a word that somehow means he is bad and ugly, and he starts to cry.

  His father cuffs his ear, and the people nod their approval, watching him as he cries, they stare and stare and stare …

  Staring at me!, Ed thought. Mocking ME! Ed Bocke, cripple! Cripple cripple cripple! Hate, you want HATE, you want to feel ALONE—

  Ed sits in shadows. He is thirteen years old, and he has grown accustomed to skulking in hidden places.

  This particular place is a thick stand of pines at the corner of the village green. The trees here grow so close together that there is a space under and between them, making a sort of shaded hollow carpeted with pine needles.

  Sometimes, in the evenings, lovers will sneak under here together. During the day, however, Ed likes to sit here, hidden from view and out of everyone’s way. It gives him someplace to go on warm days, since his schooling is done and his father doesn’t want him about the house until after sundown.

  Now, Ed sits there staring at the street, watching carriages wheel by, thinking of nothing in particular. Brooding.

  And then he sees her, walking jauntily by in a green cotton dress: Elsbeth Kreeks, a young girl his own age who used to be in his class at school.

  She has a pert upturned nose, big green eyes, and freckled cheeks. Her chestnut curls bounce as she walks, glowing in the afternoon sunlight.

  Two summers ago she smiled at him, a glorious event which Ed has never forgotten. No other pretty girl has ever done that. He’s wanted to talk to her for so long, has been aching to see if she would smile for him again. But she is never alone, always with her brothers or her parents or her friends.

  This time, however, as she steps briskly down the street on some errand, basket in her hands, she is by herself. Unescorted.

  Taking a deep breath, he stands and leaves his hiding place, approaching her, trying to form his numb and nervous mouth into a smile, trying desperately not to limp on his bad leg.

  Her pretty little nose scrunches up in distaste when she sees him. The first few words of his stuttered greeting are barely out of his mouth before she starts laughing.

  The sound sends chill tremors through his heart.

  Later, as Ed slumps home, two large boys block his way.

  It’s Tom and Larren Kreeks, Elsbeth’s brothers. They shove him hard, push him down.

  “Don’t you ever even look at our sister again, cripple. Don’t you even!”

  They’re laughing then as they punch and kick and press his face into the dirt …

  Pain, pain running hot and cold, all sorts of pain.

  Betrayal, humiliation … Ed has tasted these flavors of agony and knows them well.

  And yes, it has made him hate.

  But it is HIS hate, his pain. How he hates his father, his brothers, the Kreeks and the Grenadiers and all his tormentors. Hates them for making him hate himself. Hates them but he will turn the hate around, use it, someday show them, prove to them, and then—

  Ed is nineteen. One evening, when he sits down for the evening meal, his father places an envelope before him.

  “There’s been a minor miracle,” he says. “I’ve gotten you an appointment.” He wears a look of sinister smugness.

  Ed opens the letter and reads it. “Constable on the Isle of Briars? The island of exiles?”

  His father shrugs. “A young man with your flaws cannot be picky, can he? As the great book says: ‘Taketh what is given to thee, and be glad of it.’”

  Two days later, his things packed, he stands by the door.

  His mother is crying but his father is in a joyous mood.

  “You’re a boil on the skin of this family,” he says. “We’re glad to get rid of you.”

  Ed shouts over his father’s shoulder, hoping that his mother will hear: “I’ll write soon.”

  His father leans close, his eyes wide with a sudden fury. “Do
not ever taint this house with your words or your presence again, do you hear me? We are through with you, you crippled parasite!”

  Ed’s own temper flares up hot. “Someday you’ll regret this!” he shouts. “You rutting bastard, I’ll make you take that back!”

  His father laughs. “You would need a commendation from the Lord Protector himself before I would admit to having any pride in you, boy!”

  And then he spits at Ed’s feet, and turns away.

  Regret this, regret!

  Hate wells up inside Ed, hot and strong.

  I’ll show you all, call me cripple I’ll show you show you rutting bastards all of you!

  ESPECIALLY YOU, KROTAN, YOU RED-EYED CROTCH-SUCKING CRINGING LITTLE PIECE OF DEMON SHITE!

  And suddenly the force in his mind is gone. The hissing voice is silent.

  Ed’s head pounds, he can feel his body shaking, but he does not want to open his eyes. Someone is screaming and it is the shriek of something dry and dead … and yet very, very angry.

  #

  “He won’t stop screaming, Sir! You see?”

  Mister Starks was shaking now, his nerves rattled nearly to pieces.

  First the boy had begun convulsing, then he had stopped moving and slumped down, then the God-forsaken creature Reverend Mott had started shrieking from the corner, emitting an unending wail like a howling wind from a miles-deep cave.

  Starks had summoned the Guardian immediately, of course. His employer did not seem pleased.

  “The Reverend’s screaming because the Master is connected to him and the Master is hurt. Hurt and … angry,” the Guardian explained, his hand cupped to Starks’ ear so that his servant could hear him over Mott’s screeching.

  “What about the lad?” Starks asked.

  The Guardian leaned close to Ed, studying the bound youth’s face. “He’s coming around. Damn, but he fought it off! That shouldn’t have been possible! Certainly, the Master didn’t think it so.”

  “Should I knock him out again, maybe use the tool on his head?” Starks only hoped that he hadn’t ruined the experiment somehow …

  “No. He’s weak. Take him to the cell for now. We need to find out more from him, how he resisted the Master. It could show up a flaw in our plans.” The Guardian rubbed his brow and sighed. “I have to attend to the Master. See to the boy.”

  The shrieking continued, Mott’s lipless mouth gaping wide to spit out the echoing rage. The sound made Starks queasy.

  As he moved forward to retrieve the boy from the device, Starks saw the burnt-out stump of a candle on a nearby table. Grabbing up the tallow, he rolled it into two balls and used them to plug his ears.

  Blessed, he thought, but that’s a little better, at least.

  -18-

  A nervous Ralley Quenn held Princess Taxamia’s hand as they entered the torch-lit royal hall leading to the throne room. It was a vast place, with high limestone walls sloping inwards to a gilded ceiling upon which gigantic snakes and falcons and other fearsome creatures were rendered in relief.

  “Quite impressive,” Jack Chestire said. “There must be more gold up there than in all of Garatayne.”

  Ralley was now dressed in the local fashion, in a simple white linen tunic and sandals of woven leather; Taxamia wore a similar outfit, but with a light blue sash.

  Surprisingly comfortable, Ralley thought. I feel like I’ve worn this all of my life.

  Jack was at his side, the Dragoon’s right arm bandaged under his scarlet coat, which had been returned to him by the guards. He still wore his plumed hat, which had come through their adventure little worse for wear.

  The bald, dwarfish Xai Ashaon, Jarlus Sanreeven, followed close behind them. Ralley could practically feel the pressure of the man’s stare on his back.

  “Princess,” Jarlus said, “I think you should rest before we bother with all of this. I can have your father meet you in your chambers.”

  Taxamia shook her head. “No, Jarlus—but I thank you for your concern. I have been waiting for this moment for a terribly long time.”

  She looked to Ralley and a blissful smile crossed her face. “I cannot wait to introduce him to father.”

  I hope he won’t be disappointed, Ralley thought. He wished the fiery state was upon him right now.

  As it was, he was anxious and sweaty and his mouth was dry. He felt a tune rising in his throat—it was the aria from the gallows scene from “The Judgment of Prince Ethert”—and he had to choke it back down. Now was not the time for idle humming, and that particular piece was an ill portent.

  “The Princess will be fine,” Orcus Gaelti added, coming up beside them. “The synergy created by the close proximity of their linked aona should more than compensate for any mental or muscular fatigue.” He turned to look back at Jarlus, his eyes hidden by his wooden eye-shield, the rest of his face showing little emotion.

  “Really?” Jarlus growled. In contrast to Gaelti, the Xai Ashaon was radiating emotion; even the skin on his bald head seemed to crease with anger. “And since when are you an expert on the welfare of the royal family?”

  “Enough,” Gaelti whispered. “Pai Phaedon approaches.”

  “Is this it?” Jack asked. “The King?”

  Ralley nodded. “It’s her father. Phaedon Arcaeon Culcras.”

  Jack smiled. “Well. It is good to be back in a monarch’s court, after all this time.”

  The Phaedon emerged from the far doorway, and they all bowed—Jack removing his hat first and giving a little flourish with his arm, obviously enjoying himself.

  Phaedon Culcras a larger man than Ralley had expected, powerfully built, his muscular arms adorned with golden bracers. The beaded braids of his grey hair hung down to his waist. His eyes were damp with tears, but there was a smile stretched across his broad, boyish face.

  “Mia!” he shouted, his voice booming down the hall. He ran forward to embrace his daughter, pulling her off of her feet and kissing her forehead. “My heart bursts with joy. If I had lost you …”

  “Ralley Quenn saved me, father,” she explained. “He is the one I have waited for.”

  “My lord,” Jarlus whispered to the Phaedon. “She’s been through an ordeal, perhaps we ought to be gentle?”

  “Of course.” Phaedon set Taxamia back onto her feet, placed his hand on her cheek. “Ah, Mia, forgive me, I forgot myself in my excitement.”

  The Phaedon turned to Ralley, still smiling, his big yellow eyes admiring him as if he were a pleasing work of art. “Red hair and everything, it’s true! Mia always said … And the prophecy, of course! I’m sure you know about old Oberkion’s prophecy, son. Ah, after five hundred years, my daughter and yourself are part of it!”

  “Um … Sir,” Ralley said, bowing, “I know just a little of the prophecy. Or rather, well … there are bits and pieces of it in my head. But I am afraid that I am rather ignorant of the whole. Truly, what brought me here was my need to be at your daughter’s side.”

  At this, Jarlus, glared up at Ralley, his eyes narrowed in scrutiny. Despite his lack of physical stature, the little man did have a presence, and Ralley had to suppress a shiver.

  “I understand,” the Phaedon said, nodding vigorously. “Such love is a rare and powerful thing! And yours is the kind that Kokytian sailors sing of to warm themselves during storms. The stuff of very large paintings and very long poems, yes? Legendary! But who is this?” he swept his arm toward Jack.

  Jack doffed his hat and bowed again. “Just a humble soldier, my lord.”

  “This is my friend Jack Chestire,” Ralley explained, knowing that Phaedon could not understand Jack’s words. “He is a soldier from my world. Without his help, I never would have been able to rescue your daughter.”

  “Aha!” The Phaedon clapped Jack hard on the shoulder—hard enough to make even the seasoned Dragoon flinch. “The sturdy soldier is always to be admired. Have you met our own Xai Ashaon?” He nodded towards Jarlus, who was still scowling.

  “This old hall is ve
ry drafty,” Phaedon continued. “Come! The throne room is warm and we will have beer and food and you can tell me everything that has occurred. And I shall be most proud to host our da’ta se!” With that, he squeezed Ralley and Taxamia together in a crushing embrace.

  “Well Ralley, I may not speak the language … ” Jack said, “But I do believe this means, ‘Welcome to the family.’”

  Ralley nodded, trying to put himself at ease as they followed the Phaedon down the hall.

  But Jarlus was beside him now. The Xai Ashaon watched him as they walked, showing his teeth in a silent growl.

  “Ralley,” Jack whispered. “Do you know what ails that small fellow?” he indicated Jarlus. “From the expression on his face I might assume that he had a constant sour stomach.”

  “I don’t know,” Ralley replied, shaking his head. “I think it’s because I’m so close to the Princess. He doesn’t trust me.”

  But why not?, Ralley wondered. Had he done something that might indicate he could harm the Princess? That wasn’t likely …

  Indeed, Jarlus had been suspicious of him ever since they’d first met in the valley of the tombs. Perhaps it’s this Oberkion prophecy that he’s suspicious of, the whole idea of the da’ta se?

  “Do you think he’s going to make trouble for us?” Jack asked.

  “I hope not,” Ralley said. But what would they do if he did provoke things? Was there some way that he could earn the Xai Ashaon’s trust?

  #

  Lanaya’s hands rested on the raised panel at the front of the craft, an array of crystals glowing under her fingertips.

  Every so often, she made a slight motion with one hand or another, and the flyer turned to one side, or dropped or climbed in the air.

  It was as if she was one with the machine. Sitting behind, her, Brace Aubren watched her closely, studying every move while he admired the lines of her back and her tightly muscled arms.

  Much of the crystalline craft was nearly transparent from the inside, so that he could see the verdant green of the jungle rushing past below. The shadow of the flyer on the trees was the shape of a tapered axe-head, with the narrow part where they sat in front and the curved broad “blade” trailing behind.