Urban Gothic

by Stephen Coghlan

  “They’re shooting at you!” the Lieutenant screamed, but his words barely registered over the ringing in Alec’s ears.

  “They haven't hit me yet! Hold on, I’m clamping the artery—"

  Another buzz, and a bullet missed Alec and plunged directly into Kosi’s head, spraying his brains all over the ground. Enraged, Alec grabbed his rifle and fired at the approaching enemy. Bodies fell as he panned from one target to the next, toppling over as bullets slammed into them. This mission was supposed to be a simple task; the convoy was on their way to reinforce a forward operations outpost. Everything was routine, and their route through the village was supposedly safe. Everything had been going as planned until the lead and rear vehicles had simultaneously exploded.

  Someone charged from an alley, covered in white robes with a knife in hand. Sylvain shot him in the legs, and the would-be martyr fell screaming to the sand-choked alleyway.

  “I’m marking our position!” Frederick called as he popped a smoke grenade. “Air support is inbound.”

  His own weapon empty, Alec picked up Kosi’s rifle. He paused to close his friend’s eyes and break his I-Disk in half, whispering well wishes to his battle brother’s soul…

  “Alec, you must stop.” Whose voice was that? Was it Kosi? Frederick? Sylvain?

  Alec was walking home from the bar, having tried to drown out the memories. He had failed. Sylvain was dead by his own hand. His friend had never been able to leave behind the horrors they had shared; and two days ago he had left his wife and child at home, jumped in his car, and driven away. They had identified his body that morning. He had been found sitting in his car down a country road surrounded by empty bottles of booze, an empty vial of sleeping pills resting on the dash. When Alec told Frederick as his old CO lay in a drug induced stupor, a tear had rolled down Frederick’s face. After paying his respects, Alec wandered alone. He could not talk to his father, who hadn't ever served, he had no girlfriend to console him, and Veteran Affairs had issued him a new doctor he didn’t feel like he could talk to. The rest of the local legion had already called it a night as they had jobs to go to in the morning.

  Someone stepped out of the alley, knife in hand. He heard a voice demanding money, shouting, but Alec was back in the sands among shitty mud shacks. All he saw was the charging youth in white robes, only this time Sylvain wasn’t there to put him down. Alec snapped the boy’s elbow, dislocated his shoulder, broke his knee, and finally smashed his face into a brick wall. The judge later ruled it excessive force and attempted manslaughter, but he sympathized with the troubled soldier and was lenient. He issued the minimum sentence and ordered him to take the medication that would ease his emotions, but rob him of his dreams…

  Weeping, Alec shut the book and threw it as far from him as he could before collapsing to the smooth stone floor. He did not notice the Librarian plucking it from the air with a slender tendril to replace it on the shelf in its proper order.

  Veleda knelt and gathered him into her arms, stoically cradling her guardian like a maternal effigy as he wept like a child in her embrace. He drifted off to sleep, and for the first time in ages he dreamed. He said goodbye to his fallen comrades, and when he awoke again, he was born anew.

  CHAPTER 9

  Frederick and M’lanth still waited outside, nervously facing the night. The sun had risen, climbed across the sky, and set again. Frederick himself had gone and returned, abandoning his doppelgänger for some time before returning to find nothing had changed. The sounds of footsteps behind them caused M’lanth to turn, her blades drawn. Frederick gripped his spear, holding it at the ready.

  The knight that stood before them was adorned in living, pulsing armor. The emerald plate of it gloriously reflected the moonlight, shining with its own ethereal glow. After pausing a moment as if he was seeing the world anew, Alec hurried to take Frederick's cheeks in his palms and leaned forward to press a gentle kiss against his lips, a salty tear shared between them.

  They parted from their intimate moment, and Alec pressed his forehead against his friend’s as he wept unashamedly.

  “I was told that if I love, and let myself be loved, I could dream again. I was told that dreaming could let me feel, and I do. I feel hope for the future, hope for a cause, and hope for us.” The Crafter laughed even as tears rolled down his cheeks. He fought to keep speaking through the emotions that ran shudders through his body like the tremors of an earthquake. So used to feeling nothing, he was overcome by how acute everything had become under the influence of the heart.

  “I only wish I'd known you felt the way you do about me a few months ago,” Alec whispered, “then maybe my life—our lives—would be different.”

  Fighting back his own tears, Frederick asked, “How? I'm trapped in a useless shell, and you aren't even in my reality anymore.”

  “We’ll find a way. We found each other here,” Alec promised, kissing Frederick again and smiling with joy for the first time in years. “But first, I'm going to right my wrongs, so I need you to wait for me for one more night.”

  “Let me come with you!” Frederick pleaded, his hands grasping the shoulders of the man he loved.

  “No, I can't. If anyone other than Veleda and I enter the grounds, they will be executed on the spot. Find a safe place, and we’ll let you know once we've succeeded.”

  Frederick seemed about to protest, but then the commander bit his lip and turned his head. Saying nothing, Alec drew him into one more embrace before he began walking purposefully towards the wandering glen that awaited them beyond the sands surrounding the library.

  Left alone, the commander raised his hand in salute as he watched the others walk out of sight. It was too painful to say goodbye, as everyone knew it may be their last.

  Soon, the trees of the wandering glen replaced the once sand-swallowed lands.

  * * *

  They walked out of the glen, and Alec stopped, shaking his head in disbelief. “Casa Loma? Really?” What had been a palace of luxurious opulence adorned with gothic architecture in his former reality had become a fearsome and towering citadel in this one. Armed guards stood in abundance along buttresses teeming with artillery. A moat filled with acidic sludge was stirred by long, ropey worms that surged into a frenzy of motion to feast on a bird that had flown too close to it The fountain was now a deep fenced-off reservoir. High overhead, an airship was docked at a spire, a painting of a whip emblazed upon its side so that all who saw the grand balloon knew whom to fear.

  “I see my other self is not one for subtlety,” Alec said with a hint of admiration. “So, do we waltz through the front door; or is there a way we can sneak inside?” he asked, looking back towards the Seer. He paused as M’lanth drew a bloodied finger across Veleda’s face, hiding her tattoos with fresh crimson.

  “The servants’ entrance is your best chance,” the shadow-knight said. “It is the least guarded, but most taxing point of entry.

  “The Scourge forces all of his arrested servants to pass through a tunnel that is too short to stand upright in, making them to crawl for hundreds of feet, past frescoes of his greatness. The only way to graduate from there is by winning favour, and the egress route is even lower in height.” M’lanth’s tone was matter-of-fact now. “I am honored to have fought by your side, creator. Come what may, you have earned my respect.” She stepped back to admire her work. Veleda blinked, making sure no blood ran into her eyes.

  The grate of the servants’ entrance was not hard to find. It was a heavy portcullis that one had to lift and slide underneath if they wished to pass. The whole contraption was recessed into a pit, and as they watched, three feeble laborers struggled with it together in order to head to their duties. Two brutish guards hurried the trio along with the sting of their whips, so distracted that they failed to notice the intruders’ approach until it was too late to raise the alarm.

  Dropping an unconscious soldier face-first into a puddle of mud, Alec hissed, “Let’s go.” He slid past the grateful trio of
servants and bent to lift the gate, but Veleda stopped him.

  “You don’t have to do this,” she said slowly. “There's still time for you to return, time for you to find Frederick and share your lives together.”

  Blurred images swayed across Alec’s vision, the final faint ghosts of his past reality. To pass through this door was to seal his fate.

  Reaching into his pocket, Alec withdrew the phial and held it before the Seer’s eyes before hurling it as far as he could into the waters of the reservoir.

  “I refuse to return to somewhere where I was dead inside,” he said. “Besides, if I succeed, we will share our dreams. Are you coming?”

  He waited as shadow-knight and Seer held forearms and tenderly kissed each other’s cheeks. As they parted, M’lanth threw her robe over Veleda’s shoulders.

  “You look like the soldiers I left behind,” the dark one said, handing the Seer the dagger that Alec had claimed as his own when he had first crossed over. “If you get close enough, do not hesitate.”

  “I won't.” Veleda promised.

  “Guardian,” M’lanth whispered, “keep my Lady safe.”

  He smiled and nodded in affirmation before he forced open the heavy iron gate and followed Veleda inside.

  CHAPTER 10

  His armored fingers beat a heavy staccato rhythm against the arm of his throne. The polished steel of his gear was dented and scratched from many a brutal campaign, and the points of the fingers were so claw-like that each touch dug tiny gouges into the stone.

  Watching nervously were his generals and council. They knew why their king was anxious, and they prayed he did not lash out recklessly. The Scourge’s temper was well known—the victims of his fury were now little more than stains upon the marble floor of his throne room.

  Pointing, he spoke, his voice carrying for all to hear, “If the Librarians don't acquiesce within the next five minutes, set fire to the books.”

  “Yesss, my Lord,” a thin reptilian officer hissed as he bowed.

  After rising from his seat of power, The Scourge paced back and forth across the floor. His ornate metallic armour bore decorations of his victories, which remained clearly visible despite the wear of countless battles. The plates were intricately linked, and despite their bulk, posed no hindrance to his movement. No cape nor lanyard hung free from it, and no ornamentation protruded from the carved plates themselves. It was armor designed for war—gilded, but baptized in blood.

  Staring out of the throne room’s grand window, which opened to a balcony, he dismissed most of his subordinates with a wave. Only his four bodyguards remained still. The protectors were dressed in plain versions of his armor—each suit bereft of the grandeur of his own—and stood in separate corners of the rectangular hall. Two slept where they stood, while the other two were alert.

  Another figure entered, their heavy footfalls echoing around the vast space. Scars crossed his face, and blackened, charred flesh clung to his arms and hands. The sword he wore strapped on his back was more of a butcher's tool than a blade designed for combat.

  “Report, Sylvain,” The Scourge demanded, not having to look to know it was the doppelgänger who, like him, had lost his Crafter.

  “The glen still protects those it embraces, but it won’t for much longer, sir.” The voice that replied was raspy and garbled as the doppelgänger fought to speak through the scars on his throat. Before his Crafter had left the dreamscape forever, the dream-form had endured manifestations of his creator's guilt, suffering constantly every time the human dreamed. “Permission to join the troops and finish the job?”

  “Denied.” The Scourge’s response was light, almost cheerful. “I may have need of your talent for execution if a certain package hasn't arrived when the sun sets in a few short minutes.”

  Clothed in simple rags with their faces shielded and their vision occluded by strips of leather—so as not have their vile gazes sully the room—eight indentured servants carried in the Font of Focus; a tool of long-distance communication The Scourge had stolen as his own. Each bearer was bound at the neck with loops of untreated hide that had been tied together to form a yoke, and all were guided by the pull of a sole shadow-knight.

  Walking slowly towards them as if he were enjoying a stroll, The Scourge laughed. “You know, Sylvain,” the leader said lightly, “in hindsight, I should not have underestimated the love of family. You know of the deal I made with the Lady of Neviah?”

  Grabbing one of the bound, The Scourge examined the young woman’s features. He squeezed her face, forcing her lips outward in his powerful grip as he leaned down and kissed them softly. He searched for signs of welcoming or disgust, but when all he tasted was fear, he let her go and moved onto the next servant.

  “I am aware.” Sylvain watched with detached emotion as The Scourge inspected a young boy, tousling the lad’s hair in passing.

  “Then know that I'm sorry.”

  A hulk of a man quivered under his ruler's touch, and The Scourge moved on.

  “Apparently,” As The Scourge removed their blindfold, an elderly androgynous person stared calmly back at him. Pausing, his hand at the ready on his blade, The Scourge looked back at his friend. “I called you here for naught.”

  * * *

  The blade was drawn so fast it barely had time to flash in the light before the king stabbed it into the suddenly empty cloth. As if ejected from the garment, Alec sank low and slid across the chamber with a bent knee and one hand on the polished floor before slowly coming to a controlled stop; the fading daylight glinting off of his emerald armor.

  “Did you honestly think I wouldn't sense your presence?” The Scourge sounded insulted. “We were once one, you and I, and unlike you, I never forgot that.”

  Alec stood and brushed casually at his armor. “Maybe we were united once, but you are nothing like me anymore.”

  “I accept your compliment.” The Scourge snapped his fingers, urging the shadow-knight to remove the remaining blindfolds from the slaves. He kept his eyes on Alec, confident that his orders would be carried out without question, but the shadow-knight turned on him. Her dagger flashed as she prepared to hurl it at his back, only for it to be knocked from her hand by the unnaturally fast slash of an enormous cleaver.

  She had barely realized what happened when the burned and battered Sylvain collided with her. The shadow cloak’s hood fell back, revealing Veleda’s face, filled with surprise at the savagery of the attack. In moments, she was pinned to his body by his terrible strength, the heavy cleaver held just under her throat. Seeing that Sylvain had everything under control, the guards, who had barely had time to tense, relaxed.

  Turning to the Seer, Alec’s doppelgänger extended his hand. “Your family shall live, child; but for your offence, you shall not. Sylvain, keep her restrained. I'll deal with her once I'm done with my Crafter.”

  “You mean once I'm done with you,” Alec sneered.

  “You are me.” The Scourge laughed brazenly. “You are the original who fully embraced Banality and forgot whimsy, casting me aside; yet I refused to die. Though I was once your shadow, I embraced what you had made me. I am the greatest parts of who you were, and in minutes, I will be grander than anything that has ever walked either this realm of Fancy or the realm of Banality.”

  Crafter and doppelgänger began to circle each other like beasts, each sizing up their foe, searching for a weakness, and waiting to see who would strike first. The emerald champion and ebony king moved slowly, their orbits drawing them closer to each other.

  “You think yourself superior?” the doppelgänger laughed, “You are a hollow imitation of the man who forged me. I was molded after granite, yet my spies and soldiers tell me you are as brittle as gypsum.”

  “The men who faced me died; I highly doubt you should let the whispers of corpses guide your plans,” Alec said with a wry smile.

  The Scourge laughed bitterly again. “You are nothing more than a neophyte dreamer.”

  “I’m still a
Crafter,” his creator said. “I’m a threat to you, and you know that.”

  “You’re still figuring out how to be a god, but I already am one,” spat the king, snapping his fingers.

  The fountain in the center of the chamber burbled as water shot into the air, and Frederick’s beaten and bloody body became visible. His arms were tied to a yoke, and he rested on his knees, his battered lungs gasping for air as his voice wheezed, “He knows now. He is coming to get you. You will all pay…”

  “Fred!” The pain in Alec’s voice radiated throughout the throne room. Taken aback, Veleda clutched her chest.

  Enraged, Alec swelled to his full height, rolled his shoulders back, cracked his neck, and then spoke in an icy whisper, “What did you do to him?”

  “Ambush,” his doppelgänger shrugged. “Frederick may be a decent fighter, but he’s a healer first. He almost always holds back from the coup-de-grâce. It makes him easy to exploit, especially given he stayed behind to protect the library when he felt us coming.”

  Stretching as if staying combat-ready had left him tense, the doppelganger added, “Did you know he screams like a bitch?”

  The Scourge knew his words would elicit a reaction, but he still seemed taken aback by his Crafter’s savagery as it was unleashed. Growling like a feral dog, Alec swung, but it was a wild attack. Despite its speed, The Scourge easily blocked the punch and replied by driving his own clenched fist directly into Alec's chest. The blow was so strong that its impact flung the Crafter through the nearest wall in a cascade of broken stone. As he landed, Alec could see his shadowy twin striding towards him through the billowing dust of the collapsing masonry.