Parallel Worlds- the Heroes Within

by L. J. Hachmeister

  “Wait!” The robed man’s voice rung with wavering authority. A clear sign he was in command, but my performance had left him shaken. He held out a hand as if to stay me while he lowered his cowl.

  He had the features of a razor: cold, straight-edged, and mercilessly sharp. I’d seen warmer looking stones in the night of Markham than sort of gray I found in his eyes. His skin was without flaw, much like the baroness. No flecks of gray stood out amidst the wash of wheat-colored hair lining his face and atop his head. A faint glint along his throat drew my eyes to a gold chain. Emeralds the size of my thumbnails studded the necklace.

  I arched a brow, regarding him and the still standing cultists. “Baron Coldwater.”

  He said nothing.

  “This isn’t the sort of thing high ranking lords and ladies of Markham should be up to in the late of night. It’s bad for one’s reputation.”

  The man’s mouth spread into a smile as thin and severe as the rest of his features. “Our reputations are what hold this broken and perverse city in check—stable. We are Markham’s backbone.”

  I matched the baron’s smile. “Her back’s strong enough without you sort. And”—I gave the altar and children another look before settling on him again—“the only broken and perverse things I see are you.” I gestured to some of his companions. “Let me guess: Lady Viean, Lord Prevek, Lord Vocle.”

  The figures bristled in unison but made no further move.

  “Every city needs their caretakers.” The baron pointed toward the caged children. “We’re cleaning some of the rabble from Markham and, in turn, we’re restored so we can continue doing our good work.”

  “I’m in a similar line of work myself.” I bared my teeth. “Removing the filth.” My fingers dug into the flesh of my palms, small bones cracking as I balled my fists.

  The baron’s eyes widened at this. “And what do you think you’ll do here tonight?” He let out a short bark of laughter. “Save them? From whom? What do you think happens if you succeed? Who will the constabulary believe?” Baron Coldwater touched a hand to his chest before waving to his group. “You’re an umbra elf—the sort of thing people know all-too-well for stealing children away in the night and doing dark things with them.” His smile managed to grow thinner—colder.

  “It’s not about what I believe.” I nodded to the children. “They would know the truth. They would be alive to appreciate it. And that’s enough. And maybe one day there’ll come a day people won’t fear someone like me simply because of this.” I waved a hand to my face.

  “We’ll see to it that you’re seen as nothing but a monster. That, should you survive this, you’re branded as the fiend that took these children. The city will hate you. Fear you. They’ll hunt you when and where they can.” The baron’s hand slipped into the folds of his robes.

  “They already do. It won’t stop what I have to do.” I took in the subtle motions made by the remaining cultists. Each of them shifted slightly, brushing aside their robes so they could easily reach within. Daggers. Not much else they can have in there. I braced myself for the possible exchanges to follow.

  “And what’s that?” Coldwater sneered, pulling free a slender blade—curved and serrated like the one on that altar. He lunged, blade arcing toward my throat.

  The cowl slipped from Lady Viean’s face, revealing a woman sharing enough of the baron’s sharp features they could have passed for relatives. She closed in with a similar knife. Another of the robed figures drew a hooked blade that looked more suited to gutting fish than combat.

  I rushed to meet them, slamming the side of a wrist against the inside of Coldwater’s. His fingers loosened over the knife and let it clatter to the floor. Lady Viean’s blade closed in, threatening to sink into the meat between my ribs. I shifted, clapping my open hands against her forearm in quick succession, managing to bat the knife out of her grip. A snap of my foot caught her behind one of her knees. She buckled, letting me turn in time to catch the hook-blade in the muscles of my left shoulder. I gritted my teeth, silencing the mounting scream.

  The cultist snarled as they twisted.

  I moved with them, lashing out with my fingers toward their eyes. Markham’s luck was on my side. I struck one of the organs, causing the robed figure to break their hold before they could tear the tissue in my arm any further. My weight shifted and I pivoted, twisting to thrust an open hand into the base of the figure’s chin.

  Their feet left the ground by an inch. They landed shakily, rocking once before collapsing against the unyielding body of the altar.

  Coldwater eyed me, unmoving. Lady Viean’s attention turned to one of the fallen blades. The intent sat clear on her face.

  I kicked out, sending a heel crashing into her face. Cartilage cracked with a sharp wet sound that stirred some of the drowsy children. The woman slumped unconscious from the blow, leaving me to face the baron and the remaining cultist by his side. “This isn’t going to go the way you think, Coldwater.”

  He managed to keep a thin smile on his face. “I was going to say the same to you.” The baron held up a hand in an effort to stay me. “If we don’t return, people will look into our disappearances. It won’t be so hard to make it look like you were behind it all. It won’t be merely blame. It will be worse. Umbra elves through the city will be hunted down and executed. Or…” Baron Coldwater trailed off, giving me a sideways and knowing look.

  The words were nothing more than a ploy. I knew that much. But every moment he spoke meant the children were safe from harm. It was another second for them to rouse from their stupor. I arched a brow, keeping my face an impassive mask. “Or?”

  “Or you could leave”—his smile widened—“with something in tow, of course.”

  Of course. A bribe.

  The baron gestured to caged children. “Take them.”

  I inhaled, slowly turning my attention away from the cultists. A chance to take the little ones away. And all without bringing down everything the nobility could muster against my people. I cared little for their threats against me. But other elves wouldn’t be able to bear the repercussions. Sparing my kind now meant leaving more children to suffer later. That decided the matter for me.

  “I’ll take them—”

  “Perfect.” The baron’s mouth curved into a smile of self-satisfaction.

  I waved him off. “I’m taking them, and I’m bringing you in as well.” His smile faded as I rushed him.

  The remaining cultist stepped before the baron and acted as a shield. His cowl slipped from his head, revealing a pinched face more suited to a rat than a man. Thin hair, ruddy brown in color, clung tightly to his skull mostly from sweat. His eyes were the same color and narrowed as his face pulled into a mask of rage. He drew a short knife, lunging toward me.

  A cloud of white powder filled the space between my face and my assailants. A point of hot pressure exploded between my ribs, acute and the size of a pin-head. I winced and brought a hand to the spot as the knife pulled out from the hardened leather around my torso. The weapon had pierced the piece of armor, burying itself into the barest bit of my flesh. It wasn’t lethal, but the suddenness of it pulled all of my focus from my surroundings.

  The assailant brought the hilt of the knife down on my skull like a makeshift club.

  A streak of brightness, unlike any light I’ve ever seen, lanced my vision. I staggered, lashing out on instinct and training to where the blow had come from. My fist collided with the soft mass of his belly and drove him to double over. A kick struck my right shoulder, throwing me off-balance. The baron’s strike had been halfhearted, more an attempt to gauge my condition after the paltry stabbing and clubbing. I recovered, reaching out to grab Coldwater’s collar. I hauled and sent him staggering past me. The break in the fight gave me the moment to capitalize on the winded cultist. I grabbed his wispy hair, pulling tight enough to draw a sharp yelp from him. A twist and launch of my knee brought tough bone to the side of his skull.

  He collapsed.
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  I turned to face Coldwater just time.

  The baron charged me, a manic light filling his eyes that brought iron hardness to them. His shoulder crashed into my sternum and renewed the minor heat throbbing from my knife wound. The baron’s momentum drove me back until the altar slammed into my spine, drawing a pained breath from me. Coldwater didn’t relent in his bullish action, pushing harder against me as if trying to crack my between his own mass and the solid table behind me.

  I gritted my teeth with enough force to threaten chipping a few. My knees worked like a pump, moving with mechanical effort as they slammed into his waist and gut. I met resistance in the form of flexible metal—chain or scale mail—keeping the blows from felling him.

  Coldwater launched a fist into my side, hammering away without any signs of relenting. The briefest of pauses came—not long enough for me to take advantage of—and the baron drew a makeshift weapon from another fold of clothing. He held it between his first two fingers, its base resting comfortably in the seat of his palm. The tip of the weapons might as well have been an arrowhead, broadened a bit and clearly thickened to aid it in puncturing hide and leather.

  I grimaced and took a fistful of the baron’s hair in hand. The weapon sank into the meat between my ribs effortlessly, parting my cloak and leather like they were nothing but wet parchment. I swallowed the mounting scream, tearing free a chunk of hair at the root from the baron’s head.

  He yowled and retaliated in kind. Coldwater drove the arrowhead into my flank like a child poking holes in the dirt—frantic and thoughtlessly.

  Each stab threaded my side with strings of fire—searing and all-consuming. I shut my eyes, picturing the children not too far from me. The thought pushed me. I let loose the scream I’d buried earlier, seizing the baron’s shoulders. My ribs followed suit in mimicking my pained cry as I wrenched. Our positions switched, Coldwater slamming mercilessly into the altar with a jarring crack at his shoulder. I plucked the weapon from his slackened grip and sent it into a shallow across the baron’s face.

  The sliver of metal split his lip at a harsh angle, clipping the edge of a nostril, and stopping just below his left eye.

  He screamed, choking off as he pawed gingerly at the gash.

  I seized hold of his neck with one hand, bringing the tip of the weapon to the side of his throat. “One more cut. One. That’s all it takes to end you—end this.” I nodded to the children. Some of them had awakened in full, eyes widening as they took in their surroundings. The faint beginnings of words filled the mouth of one youngling, not quiet making their way into anything coherent. I looked away from them, placing a bit of pressure on the edge of the blade.

  A thin red line beaded into life along Coldwater’s throat. His lips quivered out of control, blood tinging his teeth as he flashed me a macabre smile. “Do it.” He coughed, red spittle flecking my cloak and sleeve. The tissue of his lips split further under the strain. “It’s the only way to stop this.” Coldwater winced once, regaining a hint of his composure. “We won’t stop. Tonight, tomorrow, a month from now, I’ll be free of this. We are Markham. It’s our blood and sacrifice that keeps it going.” More blood pooled into his mouth, leaving just as quickly as he sputtered. “There is only one way to spare yourself, the children, and your people.” He managed to give me a knowing smile, devoid none of the cruelty he’d shown earlier. Quite the feat considering the state of his face.

  I held the weapon firm, but my hand shook almost imperceptibly. “My people know suffering. Anything you can do, we will bear—proudly, without complaint—knowing it’s for a reason.” I tilted my head back toward the children. “I’ll make sure the word spreads. Every child you try to take, I will find. I will stop it. Tonight. Tomorrow. A month from now. Always. And I will do it my way.” I snarled, tossing the weapon aside.

  It clattered against the far edge of the altar before tipping over onto the ground.

  I pulled the baron close enough to feel my breath—to look into the yellows of my eyes. “I am nothing like you. I have the face of a monster, but it’s a mask. The same can’t be said of you. A man with something far worse inside him.” I pulled him by the hair again, dashing his head against the wood of the altar until the coldness faded from his eyes, leaving nothing but fog and cloudiness.

  I released my hold and let the man slump to the ground. The following moments passed in a blur of anguish and weariness coloring my movements. I searched Coldwater’s unconscious form for a key to the cells. Finding that, I took the time to bind each of the cultists with torn strips of their own clothing, going as far as braiding the lengths of fabric to ensure they wouldn’t free themselves.

  My hand twitched, almost as if regretting not slitting Coldwater’s throat. One action could have spared me and the children from reliving this. One action would have set me down a path no different than the baron’s though. It always starts with one choice.

  I looked to the children, closing in on their cages to free them.

  As I did, I knew I’d made the right choice.

  I could live with it.

  I unlocked the first of the cells, wincing as a child threw the whole of their weight against me, lighting up my wounds again. They held me tight in a hug, exhibiting the unrestrained strength only a little one could. I returned the gesture, relieved my appearance and state hadn’t frightened them. “Are you fine?”

  The child nodded, mucus and a hint of drool streaming down one side of their face. A likely result from the substance used to subdue them.

  “Let’s get the rest of you free and take you home.” I smiled.

  The child returned it and help me set about releasing the rest of taken.

  Markham would see they were taken care of, just like she did for me. And she’d see the wicked punished. I’d make sure of that.

  BIO

  R.R. Virdi is a two-time Dragon Award finalist and a Nebula Award finalist. He is the author of two urban fantasy series, The Grave Report, and The Books of Winter. The author of the LitRPG/portal fantasy series, Monster Slayer Online. And the author of a space western/sci fi series, Shepherd of Light. He has worked in the automotive industry as a mechanic, retail, and in the custom gaming computer world. He's an avid car nut with a special love for American classics.

  The hardest challenge for him up to this point has been fooling most of society into believing he's a completely sane member of the general public.

  A story from his award-nominated urban fantasy series, The Grave Report, is scheduled to be in Jim Butcher’s upcoming urban fantasy anthology, Heroic Hearts. TBA.

  LINKS

  Author Website: https://www.rrvirdi.com

  Amazon Author Page: https://www.amazon.com/R.R.-Virdi/e/B00J9PZ1YW/

  Twitter: https://twitter.com/rrvirdi

  Davy Crockett vs. The Saucer Men

  David Afsharirad

  I heard Mom call me from the kitchen the first three times, but I didn't come to the table, much as I wanted to. I could smell pancakes, my favorite, and my stomach was rumbling, but I had to hold strong.

  "David, I'm not going to—" Finally, it clicked with her, what she was doing wrong. "Davy, breakfast is ready."

  Like a runner at the starting gun, I was off, my sneakers slapping the wooden floor of the hallway, skidding to a halt just outside the kitchen. I pushed through the swinging door and walked in at a respectful, indoor pace, but Dad still muttered something about no running in the house, from behind the paper. I sat down at the table in my usual spot. Mom brought over a plate of pancakes and a glass of milk, and I dug in, trying to keep from watching Ronnie, my little brother, in his baby chair. He was learning to feed himself and his face was covered in drool and bits of pancake. Disgusting. Other kids' moms spoon-fed their little brothers and sisters mush, but Mom and Dad said it was better that babies learned to do it themselves. Better for the babies maybe, but it was a sickening display to anyone trying to eat in the same room.

  I was halfway through my short stack whe
n Dad set the paper aside and got up from the table. He taught English at the high school and was out for the summer same as me but was picking up some extra work teaching driver's ed. He kissed Mom, then gave Ronnie a peck on the top of his head. Ronnie just gurgled the way he always did.

  Dad ruffled my hair. "See you tonight, David," he said.

  I cleared my throat real loud.

  "Sorry. Davy." He winked at Mom and she smiled. "So, what's it going to be tonight, do you think?"

  I knew he was talking about Disneyland, my favorite television program. Since it'd first come on last year, my whole week revolved around Wednesdays at 7:30. It wasn't like other shows, where they had the same characters doing the same thing week to week. It changed up all the time, but it was always something good.

  Best of all had been the three programs about Davy Crockett. I'd never heard of the frontiersman before—they never teach you anything good in school—but after "Davy Crockett, Indian Fighter" came on Disneyland, he'd replaced the Lone Ranger as my role model. For Christmas, Santa had left me a coonskin cap, same as Davy's, and Mom and Dad had bought me Ol' Betsy, Davy's gun. Ol' Betsy was just a toy, didn't shoot, not even b.b.s, but that was all right with me. She was a real beaut. Since then, I'd saved up my allowance and bought a Davy Crockett folding knife, and Mom had made me a genuine buckskin shirt, with fringe and everything, out of an old flour sack. I'd taken to only answering to "Davy" around the house, though I couldn't get any of the guys to go along with it.