The Well of Many Worlds

by Luke Metcalf

  “I had to stand up for our country, our people! Can you not see that?”

  Marigold gazed at Mitchell. “Yes,” she said. “I do understand. And I love you for it.”

  Mitchell stared at her for a moment. Then, he took her in his arms and pressed her body against his. His desire for her, ignited by her beauty and the warmth of her flesh, so close to his, pulsed through his blood. They kissed luxuriantly.

  “And with your father removed from power, nothing will stand between us,” Mitchell said after a few moments of bliss.

  “Is that what this is really about?”

  “You are mine!” He grabbed her by her shoulders. “I promise I will not harm your father, but he must be removed from power, and then you will be my wife. I will let nothing stand in the way of that.”

  Marigold gasped with excitement at this display of all-consuming passion. Mitchell reached over to an ornate wooden box on a nearby table. He opened it and took out the pearl necklace with the ruby-and-diamond pendant Emily remembered from her dream and from the chapel.

  “Happy Birthday, my love. I wish your eighteenth birthday could come under better circumstances.”

  As Mitchell secured it around her delicate neck, tears rolled down Marigold’s cheeks.

  “It’s beautiful!”

  The danger that Mitchell was about to walk into was suddenly agonizingly clear to both of them, and the possibility that this might be the last time they would see each other in this life filled them with terrible dread.

  “I love you more than life itself,” he said. “You are my heart and my soul and my everything, just as we swore, in this world and in all worlds, forever… and time and death cannot touch that.”

  He took her in his arms and she reached up to him for one last kiss.

  Emily’s memories changed again. It was a few hours later and she could see a large group of knights gathered in front of Mitchell’s castle, their brightly colored banners waving in the breeze. The late-afternoon sun shone down on the meadows that spread out from the castle in gently rolling waves, a golden light shining upon green hills. Along the edge of the nearby wood, a fox crept past, its tail swishing above the long midsummer grass as bees buzzed dreamily among the wild flowers, blissfully unaware that within hours, those peaceful hills would be drenched in the blood of dying men. Behind the force of knights were hundreds of peasants, equally ready for battle, armed with their axes, hammers and pitchforks.

  Mitchell was wearing armor and sat, grim and motionless, upon his white stallion, Sunalus. The blare of trumpets broke the silence as a great force of knights appeared, marching up the main road toward the castle. Leading the group was the captain of the guard. Emily could see that these troops outnumbered the castle’s forces by at least three to one. When they were a few hundred yards away the trumpets blew again and the knights halted.

  “Throw down your weapons. Surrender and the Lord Protector will be merciful upon you!” cried the captain of the guard.

  The men did not move from their positions. From up the road, behind the Lord Protector’s ranks, a dark, cloaked figure rode into the empty field between the two forces. The captain of the guard looked on, surprised. No one spoke or stirred. For a moment, only the chirping of birds could be heard, the hum of insects, the breeze through the grass. Then a slim, white hand emerged from the cloak and drew back the hood to reveal the fair face of Marigold.

  “Stop!” she cried out.

  Mitchell’s heart surged at the sight of her. The silence continued as warriors from both sides stared at her and exchanged confused looks. She sat up proudly in her saddle, her chin held high. Mitchell had never seen her look so beautiful. She was an angel, parting a glittering ocean of swords and spears. She faced the captain of the guard, holding up an official-looking scroll.

  “My father commands you to return to the palace at once. There will be no battle here today.”

  The captain considered her for a moment. “And why, may I ask, are we being called back to the palace? Why did your father not send his official messengers?”

  “You may ask him yourself when you return. Here, read his command,” she held out the scroll and stared at him with a calm, steady gaze.

  The captain approached her slowly and took the scroll, breaking the wax seal and reading it. He thought for a moment, and then burst out laughing.

  “She is lying! A pretty forgery though, Milady.”

  “How dare you!”

  “How dare I?” His eyebrows were raised, smug. “Well, Milady, I searched your bedchambers and found love letters from the son of our enemy.” He pointed at Mitchell, as gasps and grunts of disapproval spread through the warriors. “She is a traitor! Seize her! I will bring her before her father myself.”

  Two guards dragged her from her horse, carrying her to the rear of the army.

  “Marigold!” Mitchell shouted, moving his horse forward, but the knights on either side of him held him back.

  At that moment Mitchell’s father swept out his sword, rose up in his stirrups and thrust it high into the air.

  “FOR OUR PEOPLE!” he shouted in a voice filled with the pride and power of his lineage.

  With a great cry, the heavy cavalry charged straight at their foes. Mitchell led the right flank, sweeping off to the side of the main force, but his eyes never left the spot where they had taken Marigold. With each enemy he ran through with his sword, he was fighting his way closer to her. Hundreds of riders, led by the duke, crashed into the ranks of their enemy. Many were impaled upon the gleaming spears. Shields dented and broke, men shrieked and died, horses reared and fell, swords stabbed, hacked and slashed. Arrows whistled overhead. The duke charged through a breach in the wall of shields and, with a mighty shout and sweep of his sword, he slew the captain of the guard, his strength fueled by anger.

  Mitchell was leading his men in their charge when he heard a terrible cry. Instantly he knew what had happened. Dread sank into the pit of his stomach as he located the source of the sound. He saw his father clutching his neck as he continued to fight valiantly, a well-aimed arrow had pierced his throat. His father’s horse collapsed to the earth a moment later.

  “Father!”

  The duke’s elite guard tried to reach him in order to drag him out of the fray, but they were overwhelmed and surrounded by more enemies. A whirlwind of fury rose inside Mitchell and he broke ranks, galloping headlong into the thick of the battle like a comet streaking across the battlefield to his father’s rescue. He descended upon the enemy, as though summoned from the pits of Hell, breaking through their ranks, hurling their warriors back. His magnificent horse, Sunalus, used his powerful chest as a battering ram, smashing aside the enemy’s horses and bursting through a wall of shields, as Mitchell cut their soldiers down, one after another. His sword sang as he brought it down upon them again and again, sending their blood spraying into the sky. Fourteen soldiers he slew before his beautiful steed was killed beneath him. As Sunalus fell, Mitchell sprang from his back and landed beside his father’s body. To the west, the sun sank in a bloody bath of clouds.

  Mitchell rose to his feet and saw a strange storm rising. It seemed to emanate from a dark figure standing on the hilltop where they had taken Marigold. All around this figure the air turned an ugly brownish hue, and ominous rolls of thunder pealed across the land.

  A massive soldier wielded his sword down upon him. Mitchell raised his shield to block it, but the force of the blow broke the shield in two, the blade opening up his chest just below his collarbone. He cried out in pain. The soldier raised his sword again for the kill. Air as dark as a murky swamp turned the skies black. From the swollen clouds, a great bolt of lightning shot out, bursting between the spears of two nearby soldiers. A blinding flash ripped through the atmosphere, and a booming sound crashed as if the very molecules of air around the soldiers had burst asunder. The two soldiers fell to the ground and Mitchell seized the moment to thrust his sword through the heart of the soldier attacking him. �
�For my father!” he cried.

  The soldier fell onto Mitchell, blood gushing from his wound. The skies opened up, clouds like enormous black sacks of water slashed apart and a torrent of rain poured down. With a great shout, the duke’s men charged and fought to reach Mitchell and his father. Lightning crashed in different spots all around them, explosions of thunder became so numerous and deafening it seemed as though the whole world had fallen into the maw of some massive, roaring beast.

  Mitchell shoved the body off him and struggled to stand, covered in his enemy’s blood. He turned to the lifeless body of his father. Everywhere around him were the bodies of the dead and dying.

  “Father!” he cried, rising to his feet, but four more of the enemy soldiers were immediately upon him. One thrust his sword through Mitchell’s side, and he cried out with blinding pain. Another tried to bring his axe down on his skull, but he parried the blow with his sword and the axe merely grazed his brow, knocking off his helmet and cutting his forehead open. The third stabbed him through the thigh and punched him in the back of the head. Mitchell howled again and was knocked violently backward onto the sword of another who had crept up from behind. In a burst of ferocity Mitchell killed them all but suddenly, out of nowhere, a dagger hurled with superhuman strength plunged into his chest and he sank to his knees. His eyes rose to the small, grassy hill overlooking the battle.

  “Marigold…” he muttered. He glimpsed her watching him in horror, hands covering her mouth. She had seen her father’s soldiers cut Mitchell down. Her terrible, piercing wail echoed over the battlefield. Mitchell tried to rise but fell back down to his knees. Marigold did the same, collapsing unconscious to the ground, her world destroyed.

  As the battle continued to rage around him, Mitchell was blinded by the streams of blood flowing into his eyes from the gash on his forehead. All was confusion and chaos. As he knelt in the mud beside his father’s body someone appeared over him. It was the strange, dark figure from the hilltop peering down at him. It must be an apparition, he thought, for the man wasn’t dressed as a soldier of any kind, nor did he resemble any of the local peasants. He wore a long black cloak made of the fine threads of a nobleman and superior black leather riding boots. His hair was brownish red and slicked back, his skin was deathly pale, and his eyes were like burning Hell.

  It’s the Angel of Death, it has to be, Mitchell thought. Peace washed over him, knowing he would see his father, brother, mother, sisters and Marigold again one day in the afterlife. He only wished he could hold his beloved in his arms and look into her royal-blue eyes one last time. He prayed silently for her soul, for his family, to be granted eternity in paradise, and that they should all be reunited there. The wind picked up and the rain now fell in great horizontal sheets, washing the blood from his face. The storm reached a new intensity, with a renewed frenzy of thunder and lightning, as he blinked through the rain pelting his eyes. The strange man smiled down at him. His voice was filled with malevolent pleasure.

  “Well, my brave warrior, you truly have the heart of a lion!” He gave a low, mirthless chuckle as he pulled the dagger from Mitchell’s chest and sheathed it. “Now, you will feed that lion’s heart on the blood of the world!”

  The dark figure looked up at the clouds and slowly raised his hands as though embracing the whole sky. He spoke strange words that Mitchell did not understand. Twin bolts of lightning burst from the clouds, as if the man was commanding them, and he laughed triumphantly.

  “Isn’t it magnificent!” he cried, staring at Mitchell with crimson, glowing eyes. “The glorious blood of thousands of brave men pouring onto the earth! And these rich and fertile lands drinking it up! Mezzor drinking his fill, drinking all that is rightfully his!” He cackled with devilish glee, abnormally long and sharp canines exposed as he threw his head back.

  Mitchell slumped sideways, lying on his back, feeling the life force weakening inside him, draining out through his wounds. He stared at the being before him and understood now that it was not the Angel of Death – at least, none he had ever learned about from the holy books. But what it was he could not imagine. Then, so quickly he didn’t even see the man move, the dark figure was upon him. Sharp fangs sank deep into Mitchell’s neck, piercing his jugular vein. Mitchell cried out in burning agony and tried to struggle, but the man’s grip was like an iron vice. Mitchell felt the last waves of blood pumping out with each heartbeat and knew that this pale man was gulping them down in a frenzy. The world around him seemed to grow steadily quieter – no more shouts of soldiers, no more thunder crashing. Mitchell felt himself floating, rising up above the carnage. He was dying, he knew, and everything felt both distant and tranquil. Below him, he saw his body lying on the ground as he hovered above. The strange being ended its blood-drinking feast and gazed down at him. When it spoke, Mitchell heard nothing but its words. No sounds of trumpets, no swords striking cold metal shields, no screams of agony. Nothing. The rest of the world ceased to exist. He closed his eyes.

  “Now drink. Drink deep, and you will truly walk with the kings. It is the Feast of the Gods of which you will partake!”

  With that, the creature slit its own wrist with his dagger and pressed the wound to Mitchell’s lips. At first Mitchell resisted but then the blood filled his mouth, running down his throat. Trying not to choke, he instinctively swallowed and felt a wave of power and life rush through him like an electric current. He drank deeper.

  “Yes, already so thirsty,” the creature chuckled.

  With each gulp of blood, a wave of renewed strength rolled through Mitchell’s body and the whole world about him transformed. It appeared as though everything was made of blood and he had a burning thirst for more. He felt like he could drink the whole world.

  After a few more moments the being pushed him away. Mitchell felt the droplets of blood streaming from his mouth, bubbling out over his lips and his mind reeled as if waking from a terrible dream. He had been drinking this creature’s blood! He recoiled in disgust. Then a series of shocks convulsed his body and he began writhing and howling.

  “Enough!” smiled the pale being. “More than enough.” He stood and laughed, gazing down at Mitchell as if he were his own child. “Now, young lion, I have broken the chains of your mortality. I unleash you on an unsuspecting world! Yes, yes! THE BLOOD OF THE WORLD IS THE BLOOD OF THE GOD!” he shouted. To Mitchell, his voice boomed louder than the thunder that rattled the ground. It split his ears like bolts of lightning exploding through the sky.

  Twenty-Eight

  South of England July 1564

  Marigold was carried off unconscious to the castle of her father, the Lord Protector. She came to as she was being taken through the main gates. “Her father has given orders that she be hung at dawn for treason,” she overheard one of the soldiers say.

  Marigold screamed and struggled until she broke free of the soldiers who were carrying her. She rushed through the doors of the tallest tower, slamming and locking them behind her. Up the stairs she flew and a few minutes later emerged at the top of the tower overlooking the battlements and surrounding countryside. Thunder boomed and rolled above. The winds bent the trees and rain pelted down. Marigold stood looking out over the landscape, tears mixing with the raindrops as the wind blew her hair. Her looks were pale and wild.

  “Hell, vengeance, death, madness!” she cried. “All is cursed! Rise tempests, rage and blast this wicked world with your thunderbolts!”

  Lightning flashed and thunder crashed all around.

  “Unleash your dreadful wrath and burn all with Hellfire! Smite this loathsome earth with its serpent heart that feasts upon the doom of all that live and love!”

  Eyes blazing, she spread her arms and shouted with strength and authority. “Let my voice travel upon the gale. Hear me all powers of darkness and of light. I conjure you and any who would take up my offer. Bring my Mitchell back to me!”

  There was another blinding flash of lightning and thunder exploded a split second later. “I challe
nge the angels above and all the fiends of Hell’s dismal deeps; if any of you dare to bring back my love to me I will pay the price!”

  There was another flash of lightning and blast of thunder.

  Meanwhile, back on the battlefield Mitchell was racked by agonizing pain, like being devoured from the inside. It was as if every cell, every fiber that had been human was now dying, and his body was expelling its past self like toxic waste. He writhed in the mud as the battle swept over him, until, finally, it was all over, and he felt completely transformed.

  When he sat up he found that most of his father’s forces had retreated inside the castle walls, which were now surrounded by the enemy. The rain had abated but sheet lightning still flashed among the clouds and every few moments ominous thunder rumbled overhead. Great fires had sprung up all about the castle and the Lord Protector’s army was rolling up catapults, battering rams and other siege engines. Corpses lay everywhere, but his father’s body had been removed from the battlefield.

  Mitchell pulled off his armor and undershirt to inspect his wounds. To his utter astonishment there wasn’t a mark on him. Not a scratch.

  “Is this some sort of dream?” he murmured to himself. “Or am I dead? Yet, if I am dead, why am I still here? Am I a ghost?”

  He moved his tongue around the inside of his mouth and gasped when it grazed against something long and sharp – his own canines. Crawling to his feet he gazed around at what should have been a familiar world but now felt completely alien to him. What a darkly magnificent world it had become. It was like he was seeing it for the first time. The fires, the sheet lightning, everything seemed so vivid, the colors so rich, the indescribable beauty and magic of the night. His eyes captured it all with a clarity never before dreamed of. He could see the undercurrent of life in all things as a vibrant energy field. Not just in organic, living beings, but in everything. He detected the life force in the rocks, the wind, water and fire. He could perceive the intense uniqueness of each individual thing. Every pebble, tree, plant… Each object was unlike any other. Each seemed to have its own awareness.