Cronica Acadia

by C. J. Deering

  The first thing he noticed was the clerk just inside the counter. It was as if his face was a bad drawing. It was bent in a horrendous frown, or maybe his face had begun to melt.

  The shelves were mostly bare and dusty. It was one of those businesses that looked like it couldn’t have existed unless it was run by a charity or a criminal front, or a gift shop during the off-season at the worst amusement park ever. But one book did draw his attention, breathed at him through the cobwebs. (Something made the cobwebs heave above it.) He wondered how many people had passed by it before. Then he thought about the incongruity of the whole situation and wondered if no one had passed by the book before, never stepped foot in the shop, never even saw it.

  He liked the cover art. Some Boris Vallejo rip-off with a massive swordsman in victory pose and a chained girl on her knees next to him. (On closer inspection she wasn’t human. But she wasn’t bad either.) And he couldn’t help but think that the triumphant swordsmen looked a bit like him, if he was to be depicted in such fashion by a second-rate Boris. The book appeared unread but still had yellowed with age the way cheap paperbacks will. Cronica Europa it was called, and he slipped it into his back pocket.

  Regicide wasn’t in the habit of shoplifting—usually too much risk for too little reward. But he wasn’t against criminality and liked to keep in the practice. And there certainly weren’t any security cameras in this hovel. And he seriously doubted Picasso-face was going to make an issue out of it. Could he even see out of those drooping eyeholes?

  And so he looked directly at the clerk as he exited, but the clerk only displayed his inscrutable melting frown and said something unintelligible as if muffled words said by a real mouth behind the drooping and dead mouth of the false face.

  That night Regicide began to read the yellowed book. And within a few pages, he was so astonished that he went back to the bookstore that very night to question the clerk before he melted away completely, only to find that the bookstore was already gone and had been replaced by an alley and a dumpster and a power pole with a hundred buzzing electric tentacles.

  He went back home and continued reading the Cronica Europa and its magical history of this world that was known to few and forbidden to all. He learned how magic had been subjugated in this world since the Schism. And he learned about Acadia, the companion world that existed just beyond the unseen barrier.

  He learned that there had been a valiant attempt in just the last century to wield ultimate power, and it had begun brilliantly. The Leader had dared to use the words and signs of magic in his pursuit of world domination and in quick fashion conquered Europa. But flush with victory, he deferred to his generals. He allowed machina to become the dominant force of his war, and magic was reduced to a ceremonial component because the generals knew machina and did not know magic, and it was not considered by them that their ancient race knew magic long before it knew machina. And so his tigers and panthers, named for the White School but built by the Blue School, ultimately failed against the overwhelming industry of the enemy. Western machina and Eastern horde bore down on his capitol, and the Leader died, never surrendering, in his underground keep. It marked the end of the last great effort for ultimate power.

  Not even the ancient emperors who ruled the world and proclaimed themselves gods wielded the power that Regicide sought. For the closest example of that power, you would have to go back to the old king. Not the sanitized king of Sunday school but the unexpurgated king of forbidden history. The polytheistic, polygamous idolater. The king of supernatural lifespan, unparalleled wisdom, and unimagined wealth. The sorcerer on the magical throne who commanded demons to construct his temple. The king who wielded Sarrum Shuhadaku, the Sword of Kings, that would make its last appearance in this world as Caliburnus, in the hands of a crowned cuckold who thought himself good and would not wield the sword to its potential. The same sword that the old king, finally and completely corrupted by darkness, used to cut in half a baby that was claimed by two mothers. This story made a lot more sense to Regicide than the bowdlerized version, which only works if you believe one of the two bickering women would have been satisfied with half a baby. But the king’s jealous god, who had commanded that he have no others gods before him, finally smote him.

  And Regicide read further and learned about Acadia. A passageway was discovered through magical accident by ancients who carved and painted their knowledge on their own skin and any other surface that would hold a rune. That portal was finally destroyed by superstitions that would try to purge all magic from this world and would make knowledge of the other world so unreal and forbidden as to become myth and fantasy. Regicide knew that Acadia lay just behind a veil, but how to lift it?

  When the game Cronica was introduced, Regicide was astonished. Someone else must have known about Acadia. He knew this was his key to lifting the great veil. He played it fanatically and became expert at it. He immersed himself completely in the virtual world, his avatar, game lore; and he programmed himself to dream about Acadia. In time his mind bled through to the other world, and he contacted and seduced a great troll witch, the Necromancer Princess Gykoja. The trolls now controlled the ancient sites in Nemetia, and it was she who was able to summon him to the new world. It was his first seduction, his first step into bringing about his quest for ultimate power.

  And though only his soul made the crossing, he arrived to Acadia in human form. He set about making himself revered with the humans and the dwarves and the elves, and he did so by demonstrating courage and strength and wisdom. And he did all this alone, without the friends and allies that accompanied Dangalf. In time he rose to the rank of captain and devised a plan of attack against the hated witch Gykoja. He led a company of dwarves and humans that marched into Sylvania and attacked Gykoja’s castle. Gykoja retreated but still struck down the humans and dwarves as they approached her in her throne room. And those she struck down she raised again as lichs and immediately set them to work against their former comrades. It was slow going, but Regicide broke through to Gykoja herself. He was close enough to cut her head off and send her lich army back to the grave. So drained was she by her own frantic spell casting that she fell back helplessly on the ground before him. And then, to the dismay of his troops, he took off his helm and kneeled before her. Gykoja understood. Her electroplasm recovered, she spoke black words that killed him, and she raised him and set him to work killing his own troops. Those that could escape did. They were few, fewer still that made it back to the free north. At least one escaping dwarf left an arm behind. It was as Regicide had planned.

  Regicide allowed himself to be killed and raised from the dead, and Gykoja had agreed. But she was unaware that Regicide had tricked her and would retain his free will even during necromancy. And he knew of another ceremony that would allow him to be born again to living flesh with the infusion of human blood. And once a lich becomes again alive, he is immortal. And unlike the dilettantes before him, Regicide knew to first make himself immortal before he conquered the world. For ultimate power cannot be wielded by a mortal.

  Regicide seduced Gykoja’s she-troll minions, who now served him. And he stole from Gykoja her Cronica Oceania, which he knew contained the secret to the pool of life, where his rebirth must take place. But he would need blood from humans of his home world. He convinced Gykoja to summon the rest of the Keepers to Acadia. With that great spell expended, she was vulnerable, and he imprisoned her while she slumbered.

  So what if Dangalf and Doppelganger now knew that he hunted them? He had an insurmountable advantage over them. He had rediscovered this world five thousand years after the Schism. He had accessed his race memory and, without classical training or proximity to the still-sacred sites, reached out to Acadia. He had brought himself to this world when they were still playing computer games. Dangalf and Doppelganger and Elftrap and the dwarf that had replaced him were nothing but his invited guests.

  But he was concerned that they would make others aware of his ambitions, and t
here were some of this world that could still stop him. He knew he should not dwell on that and visualized instead his ultimate success. He would get his otherworld blood, and he would take the she-trolls to Oceania for his rebirth as an immortal. He had promised them carnal pleasures the likes of which they could not imagine when he was reborn of immortal flesh. He told them that when he ruled this world, they would be at his feet, most special among all his slaves. But he wondered if the she-trolls suspected a trap—that the ceremony for his rebirth required a sacrifice of that which he held most dear.

  They did not know. But what Regicide did not know was that the murderous she-trolls would be more difficult sacrifices to make than he anticipated. For they kept a dark secret that no living creature other than they knew. For those living creatures that had known their secret—their parents, their tutors and trainers, and other unfortunates—had all been killed by the sister assassins.

  XCI

  Dangalf, frozen and exhausted, had finally reached civilization. He was back at the bottom of the Ten Thousand Steps, and he was met by guards who were on high alert due to recent events. After he pulled the ripcord on his flying cloak, he had coaxed it to float him as far away from Regicide and the trolls as he could. It was just as well, since he saw them at various times circling overhead as they searched for him. But unfortunately it also meant he had taken himself miles away from the entrance to the keep—miles compounded by the mountainous terrain.

  The guards looked suspiciously at him as he dragged his unfurled flying cloak behind him. It would have made travel easier to cut it loose, but he did not carry a dagger with him, a mistake he vowed to correct. When he told the guards his name, they knew it and put him into a basket, and he was lifted up to the road to Bran Keep. Once he’d been unloaded from the basket, other guards saw to his transport in a delivery cart, which was fortunate because his frostbitten feet were in no condition for walking. He supposed he might have kept walking if he hadn’t stopped, but once he stopped during his ride in the basket, his feet refused to carry him any further.

  At the gate to Bran Keep, Dangalf was taken by stretcher to the hospital. There he made his report to the captain of the guard. Dangalf’s feet were healed enough for him to walk again, and he returned to the room from which he had been kidnapped. No one was there, and he thought to do a reading with his divination deck while Dusty stretched out on a bed.

  “Dangalf!” Ashlyn said upon entering. “Where’s your hat!”

  “Forget about my hat.”

  “Forget about your hat?”

  “I have an important story to tell you,” said Dangalf, still reading his cards. “I’ll tell you on our journey to find Doppelganger.”

  “But Doppelganger is miss—” She paused. “You know Doppelganger is missing?”

  “Gone but not missing. Could you take a look at my feet? We have a lot of walking ahead of us.”

  Ashlyn kneeled before Dangalf. He hissed painfully as she removed his bandages.

  “Frostbite,” she said, and then she began to heal him further.

  “All of my initial readings from the divination deck have come true,” said Dangalf. “Doppelganger was the last one. He reached the crossroads that I predicted, and he had to make a choice.”

  “Let me see your hands,” she said standing. She healed the frostbite from his hands. “What choice?”

  “Oh,” said Dangalf as Ashlyn ran her finger down his nose, returning blood to the starved appendage. “Um, this,” he said, holding a divination deck card featuring a knight with a white rose on his shield.

  “The Order of the White Rose,” she said.

  “He has gone to become a Templar,” said Dangalf. “Let’s pray that the warrior fog is lifted from his mind and our friend is returned to us.” And then casually he added, “So what happened while I was gone to make him leave?”

  “Oh,” said Ashlyn casually in response. “He had a big fight with Nerdraaage.”

  “Is Nerdraaage all right?”

  “He’s fine,” she said smiling. “He’s a sturdy little guy.”

  “Anything else?” asked Dangalf a little less casually.

  “No,” said Ashlyn, lying very well. “He left our communal gold as well.”

  “Well, prepare to leave and hear the story of my kidnapping by troll blackguards!”

  “Kidnapping!” said Ashlyn with a gasp.

  “Oh, it get’s much better,” promised Dangalf. “Find Nerdraaage! Doppelganger is in great danger! Meet me in the tavern. I have to feed Dusty and myself. But mostly Dusty. She saved my life.” And he departed.

  Ashlyn shook her head in confusion. She looked at the table where Dangalf had been reading his divination deck. Of the exposed cards, one stood out. It depicted a satyr ripping a woman’s bodice. She resented that she lied so well only for Dangalf to have known the truth before he even asked.

  Ashlyn found Nerdraaage and brought him to The Wee Hours, where they sat down with Dangalf and Dusty. Dangalf regaled both with the story of his kidnapping by the she-trolls and his flying escape from the Cronica player turned black knight, Regicide.

  “Black adamantine!” enthused Nerdraaage. “That stuff’s worth a fortune!”

  “Hm,” said Dangalf. “That’s an interesting takeaway from everything I just told you.” His story continued down the hall and back to their room while they packed to leave in pursuit of Doppelganger. Ashlyn and Nerdraaage had many questions, and Dangalf answered those that he could. “We should send Doppelganger a message,” said Ashlyn.

  “I thought of that,” said Dangalf. “But Doppelganger can’t read.”

  “He what?”

  “I don’t know that he always couldn’t read, but I know he hasn’t been able to read for several weeks. It must have been quite frustrating for him. But his brain shut down to only those direct functions that benefited the warrior class. And that apparently does not include reading.” They rode the speeding mining cars down to the keep floor. It was still nerve wracking for Dangalf even after his jump from the mountain.

  There was a great commotion on the main level, and even though it was their intention to leave expeditiously, they were swept up in the moment and momentum. A great crowd had gathered outside the royal palace, including many hundreds of dwarves, all wearing uniform tabards and standing in military formation. The mob was so great that the Keepers walked around to the side, where they were able to get much closer to the palace steps, even if it meant they had to watch on a sharp angle. Nearby a dwarf, who seemed in decoration and demeanor to be some sort of commander, spoke loudly with the elf and human ambassadors. “You can’t unilaterally undertake such a belligerent action!” said the human ambassador. “What do I tell the Supreme Allied Commander?”

  “Tell him he can come along if he wants,” said the commander. “And you, elf! Do your people know we are coming through your lands?”

  “They are expecting you, Marshal Uallas,” said the elf ambassador. “But the Crimson Wall does not accommodate invasions in either direction.”

  “We’ll dig under it.”

  “The roots of gravewhisper are as deadly as the vines, and those of the Crimson Wall grow deep.”

  “We dug the Profundity!” shouted Uallas. “We’ll get past your shrubbery!”

  The Profundity! They had walked past the heavily guarded entrance. “I am such a fool,” said Dangalf.

  “What?” asked Ashlyn.

  “The Profundity. It’s supposed to go to the very center of the earth. And Bran Mountain is the tallest peak in Acadia!”

  “So?” added Nerdraaage.

  “Princess Dymphna!” answered Dangalf. “She said we would find the one who summoned us where the center of the world meets the sky. Bran Keep!”

  “Oh,” said Ashlyn and Nerdraaage.

  “I should have devoted more thought to her vision,” lamented Dangalf. “She is a very good seer, even if she doesn’t keep up with her studies. And Regicide must have his own seer, who led him right
to me.”

  “He might know where Doppelganger is headed!” said Ashlyn.

  “If the decision was made spontaneously, maybe not. At least not yet.”

  “Shite,” she said. “We’re no match for a lich knight and two assassins, especially if they have a seer who tells them where we’re going.”

  “We can no longer follow the paths so clearly laid out for us,” said Dangalf. “We need to add an element of randomness to our actions.”

  Trumpets interrupted their conversation as only trumpets can do. The chattering crowd grew silent. Even the commander and the ambassadors gave their attention. “His Majesty, the king,” was announced.

  A large dwarf in royal furs and silks and carrying a gold hammer adorned with goblin teeth descended the steps. He was Taog of Clan Bluebeard, midway through his reign as king. Ashlyn thought he looked trashy because his shirt was sleeveless, and she wondered if he had them tailored that way because he had big guns. She remembered what Dangalf had told them about Dwarven governance. Every thirty years the five clans put forth their best and brightest to be the next king. The contest between the five best and brightest was settled by arm wrestling, causing some skeptics to suggest that the royal clans weren’t nominating their best and brightest so much as they were nominating their best arm wrestlers.

  “Before the elves even climbed down from their trees,” boomed the king.

  “We went up into trees,” said Ashlyn. Nerdraaage shushed her.