by J. R. Rain
The dark-haired boy takes a deep breath… and pulls hard.
Once again the circular room rotates, revealing the secret chamber beyond. The dark-haired boy watches, stunned. Then he takes in the chaos. There, lying on the floor, is the same girl he had seen earlier. And beyond is the boy—who’s fighting a sword wielded by no one.
“Bloody hell?”
And there, most disturbing of all, is something old and clearly from a world of nightmares.
He stares for only a moment before springing into action. He dashes through the doorway and finds another sword on a nearby wall. He grasps it, pulls it down. So far, the ancient wizard hasn’t noticed the newcomer, so intent is he on compelling the magical sword to fight the boy.
Now the dark-haired rescuer creeps up behind Merlin. Monique awakens now, turns her head, watches the scene unfold. She stifles a gasp.
The dark-haired boy is suddenly not sure about this plan. He pauses, swallowing hard. The sword falters, shakes. But still he raises it over head—
And just as he does so, the wizard turns to face him.
Too late. The boy is already swinging his weapon as hard as he can—
The wizard raises his hands—
The sword flashes as bright light erupts from Merlin’s fingertips.
Wizard and the boy stare at each other.
In the back of the tomb, Clifton’s disembodied nemesis promptly clatters to the ground as an angry red slash appears across the magician’s throat. A throat that has been looking younger and younger.
Now the red slash turns into a stream of blood.
And the wizard’s head promptly falls off to the side, and the body collapses.
Clifton, out of breath and sweating, dashes over to his cousin who’s still prone on the floor. He lifts her head, cradling it. Her skin rapidly reverts back to normal, and young Clifton watches in fascination and relief as her aged face grows young again.
“Clifton?” she mumbles.
“You’re going to be okay.”
He helps Monique sit up against the arched opening, then heads over to the dark-haired boy who still holds his sword as s he stares down at the wizard’s headless body.
“Thank you! But there’s no time to waste. We need to light the candles again. And get him back in the sarcophagus.”
“The what?”
“The big casket.”
“Oh right.” But the dark-haired boy still sounds dazed. “Why?”
“Just trust me.”
Using the torches, the two boys relight the candles. Next, they drag the headless body back to the coffin. A grim business. Finally, Clifton nerves himself to pick up the head by its long hair, holds it out before him, and looking away, carries it back to the ancient casket. He tosses it inside, and the boys close the lid.
“Let’s get out of here!” says Clifton.
No one disagrees. The three exit the hidden chamber, Clifton supporting his cousin. Once in the circular outer room, the dark-haired boy promptly pulls the lever/torch in the wall. Almost immediately, the room rotates again, sealing Merlin’s chamber closed—and opening the far tunnel. Their exit.
Before entering it, the dark-haired boy breaks off the tip of the wooden torch within the opening, jamming the lever. He looks at his handiwork, grins. “That should do it.”
Torch in hand, they head back to civilization. As they near the winding stairs, Monique has regained her strength enough to climb on her own. Long minutes later, each is out of breath when they reach the altar. The dark-haired boy kicks open the secret entrance.
“Come on!” he says. “I know another way out of here!”
As the trio dash through the sanctuary, the older boy snatches up his sketching pad. He leads them through a side door, down a hallway, and soon the three emerge into an alley—and the afternoon sunshine. They keep running and soon turn down a busy street, where melt into the throngs of people.
A short while later, the they enter another alley, each hunched over, winded, and laughing.
“Thanks for helping us,” Clifton says once he catches his breath. “That was really brave.”
“And you were really stupid,” Monique puts in, elbowing her cousin.
The dark-haired boy grins. “No problem.”
“I’m Clifton. This is my cousin, Monique.”
The dark-haired boy grins and shakes their hands. “Pleased to meet you,” he says with a German accent. “My name’s Adolf. Adolf Hitler.”
The young Hitler holds up his drawings of the church’s interior. The drawings are surprisingly wonderful. He smiles, but there is a distant, haunted look in his eye.
“I’m an artist.”
he wind carried the smell of the sea as the young man squatted motionless on the edge of a cliff. Behind him, the town was ablaze. His town, his home town. Before him, the sea was in turmoil, the great whitecaps crashing against the black rocks far below.
He was tall and lean, and had many times been compared to the giants in the far north. He had never seen these giants, for theirs was a sheltered life, a simple life.
His clothes had been burned from his flesh, and he stood naked in the chilled wind from the sea, yet still somehow felt the waves of heat from the fire that had engulfed half his town. A fire he had walked through. There was nary a scar on his skin.
A fire he had walked through.
He recalled again running from the stable, his clothing falling free from his body, burning away like bark from a birch in a hearth. At first, Gravere thought he had been extremely lucky. But as he checked his body and found no burns, no damage of any kind, he knew something was very, very wrong… and that his life was about to change forever.
And as Gravere had burst through the burning doorway, gasping and screaming, he caught the wide-eyed stares of those rushing to fight the fire. Their rush had immediately ceased when they had saw the young man emerge from the conflagration unscathed. Gravere had naturally fled, all the way to the cliff’s edge.
Now from his vantage point, Gravere could see perhaps half of the town going up in flames. As he watched, cold and scared and certain he was dreaming, a bright light suddenly lit the darkened skies above and descended slowly to the ground before him.
It looks, thought Gravere, edging a half-step backwards toward the cliff edge, as if someone set ablaze a boulder. A boulder that shines with a light as white as my gran’da’s hair.
“You are my son,” came a voice from the white fire, a voice that crackled like the sound of so many burning sticks.
Gravere could barely make out the words, what with the crashing surf, thundering wind, and the crackling fireball before him. Still, he edged further out onto the cliff, his right heel now hovering in space. A brisk wind rode up the face of the cliff and really gave his fanny a chill.
The flame glowed even whiter, a white so deep, it brought to him visions of the linens of the gods. That is, until the flaming white rock dropped to the moist soil below where it proceeded to crackle and hiss like an irritated poisonous chicken snake. The white fire promptly went out.
What remained was a charred, lumpy mass that began to take on the shape of a man. A longish man who was, in fact, now lying face-down in the mire. The man raised his mud-stained face. “How come I can’t ever get this right?” Whether or not the question was rhetorical, Gravere had no ready answer for him; at least, not an answer that would be useful. So the young man remained silent, which is what his ma always told him to do when he had nothing of importance to say.
The man sat up and sluiced his face clean with the edge of his hand. As he did so, Gravere recalled the man’s words… words that Gravere, until now, hadn’t quite pieced together.
“Sire, did you say something about being my father?” Gravere’s voice was surprisingly calm, considering he had recently walked through fire and now stood at the edge of a cliff after witnessing a burning man descend from the sky.
The man continued scraping his face clean. “I said you were my son. The
re’s a difference.”
“What’s the difference?” asked Gravere, noting that his toes were growing tired supporting his entire weight like the toes of those lithe dancers, the ones who came to his town at the beginning of each Spring and at the end of each Summer.
“The phrase ‘You are my son’ was spoken to you allegorically, a sort of metaphysical kinship from one soul to another, expressed most accurately with the ‘son’ declaration. ‘I am your father’ conjures images of physical paternalism and religiosity and—in a universe not too far away—a popular movie, all of which are unrelated to this situation.”
“What’s a movie?”
“Never mind that,” said the once-burning man. “I am here to spare you from death. No need to thank me, for I am just doing my job. However, I wasn’t supposed to come into your life until years from now. But I made a judgment call. I felt you were due an explanation before you did the final deed.”
Gravere frowned, somehow even more at a loss. “What ‘final deed’, pray?”
“Why, you were going to cast yourself from this very cliff.”
“Actually, the thought never crossed my mind.”
“It didn’t?”
“No.”
“Then why are you so close to the cliff?”
“I do my best thinking here.”
“I see, well, never mind all that. Take my hand. Let’s get you away from that edge. You’re making me nervous.”
Gravere, against his better judgment—after all, he still didn’t know who or what this entity was—held out his hand. A yank later, and Gravere found himself face-first in the cold mud. Gravere never cared much for mud, and he certainly didn’t care much for falling face-first in the stuff. He stood, wiping himself clean. “What manner of being are you, and why are you here?”
The fire-spirit smiled, and his pearly teeth gleamed in the night. “There’s some spunk in you yet, my boy! My name is Chianti, and I will be your mentor.”
“Mentor for what?”
“All in due time, lad. For now, you need only to know that you are part of something much bigger than either of us, so big that few mortals and only a handful of immortals could ever wrap their minds around it.” Chianti smiled and some of that inner fire seemed to shine through his skin. “Why, a grand plan played across the biggest stage of all, a grand plan of epic proportions, and you, young sir, are at the center of it all. You need only to take my hand… to begin this marvelous journey.” The fire-spirit reached out his hand.
“I have some questions first.”
The spirit’s hand wavered a little. “Yes, of course.”
“What if I don’t want to be part of something so big that few mortals and only a handful of immortals could ever wrap their minds around it?”
“You can’t not be part of something so big when you are already part of it.”
“But who says I’m part of it?”
“It has been written.”
“By whom?”
“By the gods.”
“Where is it written?”
“Upon the Sacred Scroll of All That Is.”
“I would like to see this Sacred Scroll.”
“Well, you can’t. No mortal can see it until the end of the Last Age.”
“I’m not going anywhere until I see this Sacred Scroll.”
“Ah, I see the confusion. You see, we’ve barely begun the First Age—”
“Then how do you know what’s on the scroll?”
“I’m not a mortal, you see. I am a fire elemental.”
“So, you have seen this scroll?”
“Er, no. But I have it on good authority—”
“I’m not going anywhere until I see some proof.”
“But… but your destiny awaits.”
“All the more reason for me to want to see the scroll for myself.”
“But, no mortal—”
“Can see it until the end of the Last Age, I get it. Fine, what is my destiny, then?”
“In short, you are to be the next great Fire Lord.”
“Fire Lord, you say?”
“Yes.”
“And what, exactly, does the Fire Lord do?”
“Why, he does all manner of things, boy. He is the lord of all that burns. He commands all fiery elementals in this world and the next. But you must learn to master the power within before you can save the world. That’s where I come in.”
“Excuse me, but save the world from what?”
“From the Dark Three, who are amassing a great army in the wastelands to the south.”
“And you know this how?”
“My master has told me, of course.”
“Who is your master?” asked Gravere.
“I am not at liberty to say, but rest assured, he is a great demigod who lives in the heart of the Frosted Mountains to the far, far west.”
“I am not assured, and I am surely not rested. I would like to speak to your Master.”
“He is away.”
“Away where?”
“Seeking counsel with the gods.”
“Then I shall wait here until he is finished.”
“But time means nothing to my master and the other gods. A day for them is ten years for us. It is better that you come with me—”
“Come with you where?”
“To the Moaning Swamp at the base of the Tranquil Tor, where your training will begin.”
“Training to be the Fire Lord?”
“Yes, of course.”
“What does my training consist of?”
“All shall be revealed upon your arrival, as it is written.”
“Upon the Sacred Scroll?”
“No, this has been smitten upon the Templar Tablet, carried down from the Mountain of Pain by the Children of the One.”
“The One what?”
“The One Soul—look, are you coming or not?”
“Maybe. Now, this One Soul… where can I find him?”
“Her. And she is found in the Land Between Lands, in the Time Between Time.”
“Now we’re getting someplace. Where, exactly, is this Land Between Lands? And when, exactly, is the Time Between Time? Hey, wait! Where are you going?”
For the fire elemental had begun ascending into the sky again. “Back to the Enchanted Realm of Dancing Flames. I’m too old for this shit.”
“But I still have more questions. Now, where is this Enchanted Realm of Dancing Flames… and why is it that your skin glows white… and how do you float on the air in such a manner… and who are the Children of the One… and why is it called the Mountain of Pain… and…”
nce upon a time there was an old vampire.
He lived in a big castle in a forgotten forest, far, far away from any humans… and any unhumans, for that matter.
He lived a quiet, uneventful life, feasting on the rodents unlucky enough to inadvertently reveal themselves or to even squeak behind a nearby wall. The old vampire could, after all, command them to show themselves… and, once compelled, they would scuttle right up to him, usually shaking with fear. Yes, mice can shake with fear. The old vampire had seen it and, secretly, quite enjoyed it. Perhaps too much.
However, the old vampire did not enjoy death, which is why he killed the vermin quickly, plunging his teeth into their necks and biting off their little heads, flinging them off to the side, where they would roll about like so many marbles.
Okay, maybe he liked death sometimes, but certainly not enough to kill humans. Okay, that was a lie. He loved killing humans, too, which is why he had forced himself to live in this castle, far away from anyone, especially humans. The old vampire, you see, loved seeing fear in the eyes of men—and women and children, too, for that matter. He also loved to see the sweat on their brow and loved, perhaps too much, when they sometimes pissed or shit themselves in fear. He would, of course, never admit to the latter.
Anyway, he loved death and killing and fear too much… so much so that he had nearly wiped out a small village
in a remote Alaskan harbor. Which is how he ended up here, in a castle in the forest, far, far away from all those lovely humans who could sweat and show fear and piss and shit. The old vampire thought he was doing a noble thing, giving up human blood. In fact, he had convinced himself he could live without it. And so far, he had lasted, precisely, nine hours.
This was, after all, his very first day in his new castle in the damnable woods that were just too far away from prying human eyes. Eyes that could show fear. Blessed fear.
Once upon a time there was an old vampire who lived, precisely, nine hours and fifteen minutes in an old castle in a forgotten forest far, far away from any humans… an old vampire who put said castle on sale just before feasting on his real estate agent… and everyone else in the office.
closed the office door behind me and sat in the straight-backed chair. I crossed one leg over the other and straightened the seam of my pants. The polish of my shoes reflected the halogen lighting overhead. The chair was too small for me, but I was used to that. My gun ground into my lower back, but I was used to that as well.
The man sitting before me watched me carefully. His hands were clasped before him on the desk, a pencil protruding like an extra finger. The eraser was worn down, almost to the metal jacket. The eraser was black and useless. But still, he used it, and would go on using it until there was very little left. No one would ever accuse Lieutenant Hollander of government waste. Hollander was a big man, too big for his small office, which seemed proportioned for someone perhaps half his size. The office was fairly Spartan, with just a few photos of his family and some case folders stacked here and there. The brightest spot in this bleak room was an oil painting hanging on the wall behind him, signed in the bottom-right corner with a single name: Sara.
“How are you, Alan?” he asked.
“Just fine.” Quietly, he manipulated the pencil in his hand, flipping it over once to tap the eraser end on his desktop.
“Before I get to the reason why I called you into my office, I just want to say how sorry I am about Sara.”
