by J. F. Penn
A Mapwalker Trilogy
Map of Shadows, Map of Plagues, Map of the Impossible
J.F. Penn
Contents
Map of Shadows
Quote
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Epilogue
Author's Note for Map of Shadows
Map of Plagues
Quotes
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Author’s Note for Map of Plagues
Map Of The Impossible
Quotes
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Author’s Note for Map of the Impossible
Enjoyed the Mapwalker trilogy?
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About J.F.Penn
Acknowledgments
"It is not drawn on any map; true places never are."
Herman Melville, Moby Dick
Prologue
Michael Farren sat at his desk in the old map shop, an antique parchment in front of him portraying the ancient city of Bath. An oversize globe sat on a low table nearby, its sepia tint displaying a seventeenth-century world that no longer existed. The borders had moved, the names of the countries had changed, and yet he kept it here to remind himself of what had once been.
And what could be again.
His shop sat on Elizabeth Buildings, around the corner from The Circus, a circular terrace built around one of the porous gates into the Borderlands. Every day, Michael sold vintage maps to tourists. Every night, he watched and waited, a silent guard over the city. His gnarled hand held the fountain pen used for a lifetime of cartography as he traced over fading lines on the parchment map with a fine nib.
Michael's hand shook as he etched the lines he knew so well with ink of blood and pitch. He tried to concentrate on the arc of the Royal Crescent, the straight line of Brock Street and the curves of The Circus. They were ancient symbols, a crescent moon attached to the sun by a narrow ley line, a power running deep beneath the earth.
The Circus was modeled on Stonehenge, the outer circumference matching the temple of Druidic power not far from Bath on Salisbury Plain. The Mapwalkers had protected the border for so long, but now, something was coming. It had been building in strength, biding its time, waiting until the Ministry was weak. Now there were only a few pure blood Mapwalkers left, and the Shadow Cartographers were rising.
The clock struck one and the cry of a night bird sounded outside Michael's open window. The air smelled of summer, elderflower and honeysuckle … But then, something else.
Sulfur.
The air crackled, and the wind picked up, blowing into the shop. The maps on the walls lifted, their rustling sounds speaking of change and borders redrawn.
"No, no," Michael whispered as he traced the lines faster, trying to restore the integrity of the carefully planned city. His pen slipped as the ink began to rise off the page, a thick black ooze that obscured the precise Georgian streets. In the mirror of its shine, Michael saw the shapes of Borderland creatures, teeth bared as they slunk through the trees. The map began to change, the streets of Bath shifting as darkness crept through ornate squares and gardens.
He reached for the phone, pressing a key code he'd only used once before back in darker days he had hoped never to see again.
"It's weakening," he said to the Ministry official who answered. "I'm going to perform the ritual. Send Bridget as soon as you can, but I'll get started. There's no time to wait."
Ignoring the protests on the other end of the line, Michael hung up. He grabbed his leather satchel and walked out of the door into the little pedestrianized street. Clouds scudded across the night sky above him, and a sudden freezing wind whipped his coat around his legs, blustering down between the buildings.
A howl rose up, a feral sound of wild creatures with no right to be in this city. Michael quickened his pace, almost jogging to the end of the street, past the art gallery and left towards The Circus, only meters away.
A dense fog, a mist of undulating grey, obscured the circle of tall plane trees in the center of the Georgian terrace. The street-lamps flickered as Michael walked into the round, taking a breath as he tried to see within.
Thunder rolled overhead, and a flash of lightning lit up the sky, arching over the mist as it began to rain. There were shapes within the fog, slinking bodies with sharp teeth, pacing at the edges of the grey as it pushed out from the inner circle.
Michael's heart raced. It had been a long time since he had faced Borderland creatures, since he had drawn so deep on his blood magic. He had hoped that the sacrifice of his family line was finished and that renewing the lines on the map would be enough. But now, the edges of Earthside were blurring, and if they were to protect the city of Bath and this version of the world, then he had to go in there. It was one level of magic to etch protective lines on a map, but another to inscribe them into the earth itself.
Michael took a step towards the mist, clutching his leather satchel tight against his chest, the instruments of the Cartographer inside. He opened the flap and pulled his antique five-pointed compass from within. It was silver in a turned ivory pocket case, made in the seventeenth century, a time of exploration when the Cartographers carved up the earth, drawing the borders that would shape the future geopolitical landscape. This compass had been present at the division of the Borderlands when his ancestors had shored up the boundary. Its needle had pointed true north since that day.
But now the needle spun around, wildly oscillating back and forth, unable to discern the right heading. Michael tucked it inside his waistcoat pocket and took another step forward, steeling himself to enter the haze.
Tendrils of mist curled out towards him, wrapping around his feet, a subtle pressure, probing, testing. A chill ran through his bones and he gasped at its touch. He sensed the influence of a Shadow Cartographer here, one of those who sought to redraw the boundary and
open the border to the feral horde beyond. He had to get to the center of the circle before it was too late.
He stepped into the mist, and the city of Bath receded, the curved terrace disappearing as he walked further in. The circle of trees was only a few meters across, but it was as if he stepped into a dense forest. Heavy trunks loomed over him, leaves dripping with rain as it pelted down from above. The air was thick, and Michael's breathing became labored as he struggled to inhale the viscous atmosphere. It stank of the Borderlands beyond, a fetid soup of diseased and dying, rotting flesh and the rubbish of those clustered in the camps without hope. So unlike the pristine civilization of Bath that he and the Ministry lived to protect.
A howl came from further in, echoed by another, calls from wild wolves that had once roamed this land. They had been driven into the Borderlands, hunted to the edge of extinction like so many species in the realm beyond, waiting for their opportunity to roam free again. But they did not belong here, and Michael would not allow them to run loose in his city.
He caught a glimpse of one behind a tree, its powerful body motionless as it stared at him with yellow eyes. It growled, baring its teeth. The sound sent a shiver down Michael's spine, the call of the predator triggering ancient fear inside. But this was his realm and he still held power here.
He pulled a ritual knife from his satchel, the yellowing ivory blade bound with a leather strap, tied into a series of knots around the end. Passed down from the time of the Druids, the blade had been used to sacrifice for many moons, and each drop of blood strengthened its power. The Blood Cartographers used such blades to mark the borders of Earthside and tonight, Michael would use it once more.
He faced the wolf, drawing himself up to his full height, broadening his shoulders. He met its eyes, holding the knife out in front of him. The wolf sensed something wild within the man and backed away, slinking behind the tree. Michael knew it would return, along with its pack and these predators were only the forerunners of what lay beyond. They were sent as scouts, testing the boundaries of how far the Gate could be pushed open. This time, he feared it was wider than ever before.
He didn't have much time.
Michael walked to the center of the ring of great trees, reciting the longitude and latitude of where he stood, the geographical coordinates that anchored the Gate to Earthside. His voice grew stronger as he spoke, turning the numbers into an incantation. He planted his feet strongly upon the ground and rolled up his sleeves, baring his arms to the chill mist. Vapor curled around him, almost clawing at the scars that patterned his skin over faded tattoos. His veins ran with the pure magic of the Blood Cartographers, and now Michael knew he must call upon it once again.
He put the ritual knife against the flesh of his left arm and began to carve the lines of the Gate, the circle and the crescent joined by a ley line of power, as he chanted the numbers that bound this place to the physical realm. He fell to his knees, dropping the knife beside him as he dipped a finger in his wound and painted the ancient symbol of the five-pointed compass, the sigil of the Illuminated Cartographer, onto the ground.
The storm broke overhead. The wind lashed the branches of the trees into whips that buffeted the old man as his blood dripped upon the earth.
Michael’s strength began to fade, a heaviness creeping over him as the chill mist descended. Dark powers swirled about him and his voice faltered, hesitating as the numbers flickered in his mind. His fingers paused over the earth, his blood dripping out. He was suddenly paralyzed, unable to speak.
A figure stepped from the trees, his features obscured by the tendrils of mist that wound around him. He wore a cloak of wolf pelt, an artifact from the Borderlands, but underneath, Michael could sense he was of Earthside origin. This man strode between worlds, a Shadow Cartographer, one of those who sought a new world order by remaking the maps. There was something about him, something familiar, but the mist pressed into Michael's mind, clouding his vision, making him forget.
A low growl came from behind him, and the wolf stepped from the shadows to stand by the Shadow Cartographer, its teeth bared. Behind it, the pack waited, eyes fixed on their prey.
"You're too weak this time, old man. Your kind is ending, and the Borderlanders will soon take what you have kept from them for too long."
Michael heard the words as if from afar, the sound muddled by the heavy atmosphere. In earlier times, this man would not have dared face him, but now he knew the truth. He was old and tired, his magic faded.
The wolves circled closer, sensing his weakness. Michael picked up the knife again, his movements slow as if underwater. The blade was heavy in his hand, strength draining from him as his blood ran onto the ground. One wolf darted in to lick at the ruby drops. Michael spun with his knife, slicing at the beast. It ducked away unharmed as another ran in to bite at his legs, its heavy body tipping him off balance. The pack formed a circle around him, teeth bared.
Two of them darted in behind, growling as they tore at his clothes, ripped through to his flesh. Michael spun again, but another two ran forward.
He was outnumbered.
Perhaps that had been the plan all along, after all, he was the watcher on this Gate. It was his responsibility. He thought of Bridget on her way up from the Ministry. He couldn't let her be taken as well.
He had one chance left to close the Gate, even though it would only hold a short while. But for now, it was the only way. He looked up at the dark man watching from the shadows, sensing triumph at the victory to come.
But it would end here.
"For Galileo," Michael said, his voice strong as he spoke the words of the Illuminated Cartographer.
The wolves snarled and leapt towards their prey. Michael spun away from them, using the last of his strength to push through the pack.
He turned the blade, pressing it against his chest and hurled himself at the largest of the plane trees. Its hard trunk pushed the knife deep into his heart as Michael wrenched himself sideways, ripping himself open as he fell to the ground.
Agony flashed through him as his blood pumped out, soaking the tree roots and the earth where he lay.
But his sacrifice renewed the Gate.
The mist curled into a vortex, and the wolves howled as they were sucked back inside the Borderlands. Michael lay panting with pain, trying to hold on long enough to witness the end.
The Shadow Cartographer stood watching him for a moment, resisting the swirl of the wind. "Your kind is ending," he whispered. "Your death only buys a little time before the change to come."
He bent to pick up Michael's five-pointed compass, slipping it into his pocket as he spun away, stepping back through the Gate, trailing the last of the mist behind him. The grand Georgian buildings emerged once more, and through the branches of the plane trees, Michael could see the stars above. This was his earth still, and Bath was safe.
For now.
As his blood pulsed more slowly, and his skin grew cold, Michael thought of his granddaughter, Sienna. He hadn't seen her for so long, staying away in an attempt to shield her from a future he wouldn't wish on anyone. But now it seemed that she might be the only hope to close the borders for good.
1
Sienna Farren’s footsteps echoed in the long corridor, acres of books in racks either side stretching into the shadows ahead of her. Dim lights came on as she walked, triggered by her movement.
It was like a bomb shelter down here. The world could be ending above ground in Oxford, but below the streets, she would be cushioned by the padding of ancient tomes. Sienna smiled, lost in thought. She could build a shelter in the underground stacks of the Bodleian Library. A den of ripped pages and a fire to keep her warm from words once considered special but now merely fuel. And she could read all day and half the night. Who could be lonely when there was so much to learn?
She passed into an older part of the library. The functional metal shelving gave way to wooden stacks with carved lintels and wheels on the end to move them closer togeth
er. Sienna frowned. She didn't recognize this section. She stopped and tugged on a cord to turn on brighter lights and bent to read the sign on the end of the nearest row. Geopolitics of Borders and Boundaries. She frowned and looked down at the retrieval slip in her hand. This was nowhere near where she was meant to be.
Sienna sighed. It was only her second week working in the library, and once again, she was lost. She should have turned left at Metaphysics, but she must have walked straight past the stack. By the time she retraced her steps and made it back over there, the Head Librarian would be tutting and looking at his watch, frown deepening in his furrowed brow. Books first, readers second, and lowly library clerks most definitely last. She turned and looked back the way she'd walked. The stacks stretched away, seemingly endless, darkening to shadow.