Chronicle Worlds: Feyland

by Samuel Peralta

  They ran as fast as they could, mostly ignoring the weeping people and the destruction surrounding them. They only stopped to fight Pishacha, and then only just long enough to kill their bodies and send their spirits scurrying along. It seemed like they would be doing this for the rest of their days, just trying to catch up to the king, but never actually reaching him. But they came around a corner and saw the crowds before them. The Pishacha were clever—or more likely the Dark Queen had given them a clever plan. They had not rampaged all around, but only behind the king on his parade route. Before him were cheering throngs celebrating Onam, but behind were demons seeking flesh and souls to sate their hunger.

  Together they rushed down the sloping street toward the king. Ranjeet saw the wisps of demon-smoke being absorbed into the king’s back as he waved to the crowds. There were no more Pishacha in sight, so he had hope that Jennet was holding firm in her defense of Samir-the-gateway. But the lack of Pishacha meant that the crowds—both the audience and those marching in the parade—blocked them from getting to the king.

  Daru started to go first, as she had in the game, but in the real world her size and strength were diminished to mortal levels. She slammed into the back of a man intricately painted to look like a tiger and he barely moved. Though Ranjeet wasn’t much larger than Daru, he was more adept at working his way through crowds, since his father’s disgrace had forced him to walk and use transit to get around. He turned himself sideways and forced his way between the tiger-men, pulling Daru behind.

  They inched closer to the king, but it seemed as if they would never actually get to him. People dressed in all sorts of colorful costumes danced and cavorted in front of them as Ranjeet and Daru struggled forward. They were both panting when the crowd let out a collective shriek. They looked up to see the king, no more than fifty meters ahead, with demons boiling from his back and leaping into the crowd.

  “We’re too late!” Daru cried.

  Ranjeet didn’t bother to respond, he just ran through the now open street toward the king. Pishacha snarled at him, but Ranjeet didn’t even slow down to kill them, he ran straight forward until he reached the king and stepped in front of the man who looked like a mixture of Samir and King Mahabali.

  The vast smile on the king’s face faded beneath his luxuriously thick mustache. His eyes dropped to Ranjeet as the technical support representative—tier-one—stopped in front of him and raised his hands. Ranjeet had forgotten that he still held a crossbow in his fist. The king glanced down at the weapon and, with the flick of his wrist, knocked Ranjeet across the open square to land in a heap.

  Daru ran up to Ranjeet a few moments later. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, just bruised. Let’s go.”

  Together they ran toward the king, who had only gotten a few more meters down the parade route. Before they got in front of him, Ranjeet dropped his crossbow to the ground and swatted the axe out of Daru’s hands. They both stepped in front of King Mahabali and, without thinking about it, Ranjeet reached out and took Daru’s hand so they formed a blockade of the route.

  “Honored King,” Daru said, “We’ve come to ask a favor!” The words came out in a rush, but Mahabali paused and looked at her. Ranjeet marveled at her wisdom and at the same time cursed his own stupidity.

  The legends that he’d learned as a child all made one thing clear, King Mahabali was famous for granting favors. It was that very thing that had sentenced him to an eternity in the underworld. Vishnu had become jealous of his reign in Kerala and took on the avatar Vamana to ask a favor of the king: just three paces of land. The generous king granted the request, but before Vishnu took a single pace, he cast off the avatar and swelled to a vast size. With one step he paced off the earth, and another encompassed the heavens. King Mahabali offered for the third pace his own head so that Vishnu would not destroy everything in existence. Vishnu stepped on the king and sent him forever into the underworld, to return only once a year, at Onam, to visit the people that he loved and had ruled so benevolently.

  “You may ask one favor, my daughter,” the voice of Mahabali was as distant thunder promising rain on a sweltering day.

  “My King,” Daru bowed, “I ask that you return to the underworld and visit us no more this Onam.”

  “Why, my daughter, would you ask such a thing? I have only these four days to walk amongst my subjects and bestow my blessings.”

  Ranjeet lost patience with the formalities. He grabbed the revered king of Kerala by the shoulder and spun him around. Mahabali raised a hand as if to send Ranjeet flying again, but the sight before him made him pause. The street was writhing with Pishacha that had leapt forth from Mahabali’s back. They had fallen to all fours as they galloped away from the parade to ravage the people of Thrikkakkara.

  “No,” King Mahabali whispered, “it cannot be.”

  Daru stepped around to face him again. “My King, dark forces have conspired to use you as a gateway into this world. If you continue, it will grow much worse. You must return the spirit of this man and go yourself back to the underworld. If you do not, these demons and more will roam free on the Earth.”

  Ranjeet admired her words and her calmness. He could barely form coherent thoughts in the face of ravening Pishacha and legendary royalty, but Daru remained stolid and thoughtful. Mahabali did not respond to Daru. He stepped between her and Ranjeet and inhaled deeply before spreading his arms wide and shouting out words in, what Ranjeet guessed to be, the Pishacha tongue. It sounded odd to have the guttural, demon-words coming from the tongue of a man possessed by Mahabali. His voice boomed out and echoed off the buildings.

  The first Pishacha halted and turned to see the king staring at them, but they soon tried to flee his gaze. He continued to shout out his commands in their vile language. The demons slowed and then, though their feet and hands clawed furiously at the street, ceased moving forward. Another shout from the king and they started moving backward as if pulled by a powerful magnet. He inhaled more deeply than Ranjeet thought humanly possible and then let out a bellow that shook the very ground.

  The Pishacha lost all hold on the earth and flew through the air as if their bodies had become the smoke of their slain brethren. As each struck the chest of the king it sizzled and smoked before winking out of existence. More and more came, from all across Thrikkakkara, until King Mahabali was surrounded by gray skin and red eyes all falling into his body.

  When the last one disappeared into him, he turned back to Daru and Ranjeet. His skin had grown pale and ashen, his eyes were ringed in red and he nearly stumbled before righting himself. He spoke in a hoarse whisper saying, “Your favor is granted, my daughter.” And with that, he collapsed to the street.

  * * *

  Ranjeet had the few personal items from his cubicle packed into a box. His boss, Mr. Narang, stood over him like a guard. As he knew would happen, Ranjeet had arrived at work only to be fired. Mr. Narang’s son already had his login set up on Ranjeet’s computer and was just waiting for the cube to be clear before starting work.

  Ranjeet had told Amit the entire story, but had also secured his vow to not complain to anyone about his termination. Ranjeet knew that no one would believe what had happened. They would blame the destruction on gangs or drunken revelers, not anything supernatural. But Ranjeet couldn’t let the warning to Amit go unsaid.

  Mr. Narang followed Ranjeet to the elevator and stepped around him to press the call button. The silence as they waited for the lift to arrive was one of the most awkward Ranjeet had ever experienced. He knew Mr. Narang took pleasure in firing him, not just because it made room for his son, but also because his boss had never liked Ranjeet’s desire to solve puzzles instead of simply reading the assigned script.

  The chime sounded and the doors parted, but instead of facing an empty lift, Ranjeet and Mr. Narang stood face to face with Daru and a woman that Ranjeet knew could only be Jennet Carter. She wasn’t as tall or regal as her character in the game, but her features were the same. She
was unmistakable.

  “Mr., uh, Narang, is it?” Jennet said.

  He nodded, “Yes? And who are you, miss?”

  “My name is Jennet Carter. You might recognize it.”

  A look of confusion passed across his face until Jennet held up her tablet and showed it to Mr. Narang. His look of confusion changed to fear. “Yes, Ms. Carter. What can I do for you?”

  “There’s really nothing you can do for me. I just wanted to let you know that I will require Ranjeet’s services. Unfortunately you will no longer have his skills at your disposal. I apologize, but I simply cannot do without him. You understand, of course.”

  “Y-yes, Ms. Carter. Thank you. Is there anything else?”

  She smiled at him, “No, thank you. Keep up the good work.”

  Daru, Jennet, and Ranjeet got into the elevator. Apparently Jennet had already explained things to Daru because she said, “Congratulations.”

  Ranjeet turned to look at Jennet who stared straight ahead and smiled.

  Daru continued, “I guess you’ll have your own Full-D system to do your simming on now. Ms. Carter told me that she has a special project for you. I guess you’ll be the first member of the Indian branch of a thing called the Feyguard.”

  Ranjeet looked from Daru to Jennet and back again. His mind searched for a grip on this new information. His mouth worked to form words that his brain refused to supply. Shock stole from him his reasoning and, for the first time in a long time, he felt truly and completely puzzled.

  Daru went on through a widening smile, “She told me the Feyguard stops things like what happened, but they didn’t know there were different realms. You get to figure out what all the realms are and help with future trouble.”

  Ranjeet swayed as the import of Daru’s words seeped past his shock.

  “She also told me that you’ll be getting a pay increase. A significant one. One that will probably mean my father will have to ask you a question in the near future.”

  Ranjeet dropped his box, his paltry possessions scattering on the elevator floor as Daru let out a musical, beautiful laugh.

  A Word from James T. Wood

  I wrote a story about Tinker Bell with tattoos; that’s not this story.

  My critique partner thought I should see about including the Tinker Bell story in an upcoming anthology that was going to be all about the land of Fey. So I followed up the lead and found out that it wasn’t going to be about the land of Fey but about Feyland. Oops.

  After a few clarifying emails with Samuel, he was gracious enough to invite me to submit a story for the Chronicle Worlds: Feyland anthology and offered me a chance to play in Anthea Sharp’s world. Don’t tell Anthea, but that wasn’t something that appealed to me. I like making up my own worlds with my own rules. But Samuel was gracious and the Future Chronicles have been great, so I decided to give it a go. I am so glad I did.

  Reading Feyland and then carving out a niche in that world was a beautiful challenge. Anthea created a rich, imaginative world with so many possibilities (you can tell her that part). My brain kept chasing around the edges of what would happen when a video game like Feyland hit the market, especially what the tech support calls would look like for people that slipped not into the game world, but into the actual land of Fey.

  The parts about Ranjeet loving puzzles and working in a mind-numbing call center where he wasn’t allowed to solve puzzles are autobiographical. I was that kid who couldn’t give up on a puzzle and I was that adult who worked in a call center to pay the bills, hoping to spend my days solving puzzles but instead reading from a poorly written script to frustrated callers. For the record, though, I never had to fight demons.

  Most of my writing is about solving puzzles. I play what-if games with myself and run them until they break. The ones that don’t break often turn into stories (or blog posts or technical articles or relationship advice or whatever else I happen to be writing at the time). The way the world works, or doesn’t, fascinates me; it’s a puzzle that I’ll never stop trying to solve.

  If you like puzzles, questions, thinking, and doing all of that in a playful manner, there’s a good chance you’ll like my writing. For me, puzzles are about perspective. Each attempt to solve a puzzle is a chance to look at the problem from a different perspective until, eventually, if you’re really tenacious and don’t give up, you find a perspective that works.

  You can find me online at jamestwood.com where I have links to my books and stories. Find me on Facebook and get into a conversation about what’s wrong with society, comic book movies, astrophysics, theology, neuroscience, or how to make the best peanut butter and jelly sandwich on earth. Your perspective might be the one that helps me solve a puzzle or mine might help you!

  Brea’s Tale: Passage

  by Anthea Sharp

  THE GIRL SAT upon a stone, dangling one leg into the water. Fish nibbled at her toes, heedless of the runes marking the rock. Her gossamer-spun dress reflected the sunset hues suspended between sky and wave.

  The cool touch of the waves soothed her, though her mind was full of confusion. One moment her world had been full of splash and glimmer and then, mid-leap, something had changed. She had changed.

  She’d had a name, once. It slipped, elusive as a minnow, into the shadowed corners of her mind, but she was determined to lure it out.

  Tangled memory made her frown as she stared down into the waters. She was certain she had not always had legs. The lazy movements of the fish were as familiar to her—more familiar, in fact—than the sight of her own two hands. She held them up and stared at the long, unwebbed fingers. Who was she? What was she, and how had she come here?

  A soft wind brushed strands of her dark hair across her face, and with the touch came remembrance.

  Brea.

  She was Brea Cairgead, fisherman’s daughter. And daughter of a sea-wild woman who carried magic in her blood. Magic she’d given to her daughter, though it had come nearly too late.

  Memory returned in a hot, painful rush, and Brea bent, arms wrapped across her stomach.

  Her father was dead, her village had banished her, and she had barely managed to escape the brigands who had robbed her, and wished to do worse. The ache of remembrance washed over her in a heavy wave, but in its wake came gentler memories: the healing silver current, the sibilant songs of the sea, the cool touch of water cradling her.

  Brea drew in a deep breath and straightened. Surely her life had held sorrow, but also peace. Now, though, what did the future hold? It was a very human thought, one that her finned self would never consider.

  “Ah, she has awoken,” a merry voice said. “Welcome to the Realm, sometime-girl.”

  Startled, Brea looked up to see a small fellow dressed in tatters and leaves sitting cross-legged upon the nearby bank. She opened her mouth, but the taste of words was foreign on her tongue, and the air rushed in, making her cough.

  “Steady now,” the figure said. “You’re new enough into this form that you must go slowly. Allow me to introduce myself. I am the sprite called Puck.”

  He rose, then kept rising until he floated several handspans above the grassy bank. Eyes twinkling, he bowed, turning the movement into a somersault in midair. Then he conjured a bright green hat with a jaunty plume. Jamming it over his tangled hair, he strode across the empty air between them until he was close enough to touch.

  Brea shrank back on her rock and considered plunging back below the surface. But this little fellow was, although a bit startling, not terribly frightening. Carefully, she rolled words out of her mouth.

  “Where… am I?”

  “As I said, you’re in the Realm. The Realm of Faerie. Don’t be afraid. You belong here, Mistress Brea Cairgead, silver fish girl, breather of both air and water.”

  She still wondered if she ought to slip off her rocky perch and into the cool, familiar safety of the water. It was home to her, more recently than the thatched cottage she’d once inhabited. She did not know how many turnings of
the moon she’d spent in her other form, but she suspected the time could be measured in years. Perhaps decades. Yet something had prompted her transformation back to a human-seeming girl.

  Magic, or fate, or even loneliness—she did not know which. Perhaps all three.

  “Am I a faerie now?” she asked, afraid to hear the answer.

  Puck tilted his head and regarded her a long moment, eyes bright. The wind riffled the surface of the water, and she smelled mint and thyme on the breeze.

  “You are a curious creature,” the sprite said. “You were never fully human, but you are human enough that you cannot be entirely one of the fey folk. As I said before, you are a girl of two parts—water and land, fey and mortal. As such, you have a part to play in things to come.”

  She did not like the sound of that. Brea hugged her knees close to her chest. “What if I do not want this fate?”

  “What do you want?”

  The answer was lodged in her heart, but she hesitated to speak it aloud. Still, Puck regarded her with kindness in his wild and merry eyes, and despite her wariness, she answered.

  “To belong.” It was what she’d always wanted, and what she’d never had.

  Even as a village lass, she’d been too different. And now she realized there were none of her own kind. The selkies might tolerate her presence, but the merfolk would laugh at her ungainly human legs, and if she transformed she would not be able to speak with them.

  “You have to make your own belonging,” Puck said, a deep melancholy in his voice, as if he, too, were the only one of his kind.