by Jim Stein
“Ed, wait!” Quinn called out just as I reached for the opening synthesizer chords of “Chalk Outline” and shaped the spell.
She looked frantic, but no monsters bore down on us. I had to complete the spell before asking what was wrong. Fire flared, touched music, and—the song vanished, replaced by plucky notes incapable of merging with any element.
I scrambled to grasp the Three Days Grace tune, but it sank away beneath the inane string of notes that rose to loop through my head. Fire lashed, hot and angry—replacing my body heat with cold dread. Out of control and with no music to guide it, I was in real trouble. Looking inward, I grabbed the flames and shoved them down, deep—not a proper grounding, but I managed to wrestle the element back to its resting state.
My teeth chattered uncontrollably while those alien notes ran through my mind, over and over, never relenting. A new ant-creature emerged from the cave. Shorter than the others, it wore an elaborate headpiece and had plates of armor strapped to one shoulder and forearm. Pouches and flasks dangled from a belt riding low on the narrow waist. The masked face turned to me, the music flared, and darkness swept me away.
***
I again looked through gray mists onto my father’s fire ring. I gotta stop blacking out. The vortex swirled out of control, eclipsing the teepee of logs and spreading into the clearing proper. Koko sat cross-legged in the sand off to my left still looking like crap. But at least the old man was awake and aware. He held his ruined staff before him, and the intact symbols below the melted end glowed with power. Pina sat by his side, watching closely.
Others crowded the oasis that was Kokopelli’s domain. Uktena was by far the largest. The serpent faced the flames and vortex. His head swayed high above Koko, and those yard-wide coils disappeared into the darkness beyond. The red jewel between his massive horns glowed painfully bright. Power flowed from Uktena, Koko, and the score of others ringing the fire. The energy pushed against the vortex, trying to force it back, to keep it from expanding.
I sensed that without their constraining energy flows, the swirling mass would explode outward to consume the clearing. That so many entities could merge their powers effectively was a miracle. Each flow had a different flavor to it. Koko’s smacked of echoing flutes, while Uktena’s oozed the primal energy and raw confidence of the hunt. The other streams varied greatly, but one of the strongest held a cool imperious energy vibrating with a smugness I recognized.
I traced that cold power back to its source, a tall elegant woman on the far side of the clearing. Tia, the Goddess of Peaceful Death, held forth a manicured alabaster hand as if daring the rip in the veil to approach. So, the Neutral Council had joined the effort in spite of their proclaimed indifference.
Her dark eyes drifted in my direction, as if to acknowledge my revelation before turning back to concentrate on the task at hand. It must have been a trick of my imagination because despite my shouts and waves no one else noticed me, not even my own father.
With the Light Court and Neutral Council joined in battle to hold the worlds apart, Koko no longer bore the burden alone. More than just those standing before me aided him. Energy flowed from beyond the clearing, spiraling out from many of the distinct landscapes rising along the skyline—sort of like pocketed domains crowding close against Koko’s own. The realms of man and gods alike were forced together as the vortex gained strength and the world veil weakened.
An incredible amount of power opposed the vortex—yet it wasn’t enough. The sickly green maelstrom bulged and contorted, the suppressing energy coming in from my right faltered, and a grating rumble shook the ground. A skyline of majestic towers and sweeping castle parapets canted sideways into an adjacent mountain region covered in blue ice and snow. Everyone in the clearing staggered and forced more power into their spells as the sound grew in a deafening crescendo.
A blinding blue flash like a spot welder eclipsed the colliding landscapes, and the ground stilled. Even here in a dream, I blinked water from my eyes, trying to clear magenta afterimages. My eardrums throbbed at the sudden silence. When my vision cleared, there was a gap on the horizon. Both the castle and mountain realms were gone.
18. Abide the Dark
“Y
OU SONS of bitches!” Manny’s scream brought me awake with a jerk.
He charged the circle of Ant People, fire blazing in each hand, eyes wild. No one else had moved so I couldn’t have been out long. He smashed into a pair of the bug-like creatures. These beings were incredibly strong, but Manny swept them aside with brute strength and fire that left our captors staggering back and batting at their burning clothes.
“You killed them all!” His hands blazed white hot as he reached for the elaborately dressed leader.
I had a vague notion of trying to prevent what unfolded, of keeping him from starting an all-out war we couldn’t win. But whatever had set Manny off opened an opportunity. We surged forward, following our unstoppable companion as he bore down on the creature standing between me and my staff.
The leader raised his left hand and leveled the narrowest of those oddly padded fingers at the enraged man bearing down on him. The gesture was casual, as if pointing out an interesting bird, but the fire raging in Manny’s hands winked out.
Manny stumbled to a stop, staring at his hands in confusion, and the rest of us damned near plowed him over. Before we knew what was happening, a hooked staff circled each of our necks. The leader shook his head, turned, and walked into the entrance.
From then on, our treatment was none too gentle. We were pressed into the entrance behind their leader, forced to keep up a grueling pace through the tunnels thanks to the ants pulling us along by our necks. When the dirt walls and dripping roots widened to stone, we walked three abreast with an ant to each side and two hooks to keep us from making a run for it.
The push and pull had my neck aching. We’d all be bruised from chin to shoulder, but Manny had it worst. He screamed and fought every inch of the way at first—either due to the madness that had overtaken him or from the touch of what must have been cold iron on his skin. We’d all be bruised, but Manny’s skin blistered and burned. Not long into the trek, he collapsed in spite of our captors trying to keep him walking. They trussed him into another litter and we kept moving.
It was a long, uncomfortable walk. After a time, we funneled back into a narrow stretch only to pop back out on the surface. The trees had thinned, replaced by rock outcroppings and hard-packed dirt.
Rather than offering the opportunity to escape, we emerged in the midst of another legion of monsters marching—I presumed—toward the vortex. It looked like the groups would ignore each other, but a troop of trolls vectored out to block our path, forcing the Ant shaman into a discussion with one of the sand-wielding demons. The creature pointed back at where we huddled among the ants. The demon grew agitated when the rumble of engines ripped the air and our four-wheelers careened toward us—each under the expert guidance of an ant.
“They’re using up all our gas,” Pete muttered.
That this tribal society could even operate machinery was impressive, as was the shaman’s calm demeanor in the face of rising tension in the troops blocking our path. I couldn’t make out the discussion—even if we were close enough it seemed unlikely these strange beings would speak in English—but the demon clearly made demands concerning us. Our captors were just as clearly unwilling to comply.
The tense confrontation ended anticlimactically when the demon puffed out its chest, spun around, and motioned his troops onward. The trolls looked at one another in confusion, but after some prodding from a large brute who looked to be in charge, the stone goliaths shuffled away to resume their trek—as did we.
“What the fuck.” Quinn’s voice washed back as a harsh whisper.
Our travel arrangement didn’t allow for easy conversation, but I sucked in a breath at what she’d spotted. Boulders rose to either side of the path as we climbed in elevation. Far ahead, the irregular stone blended
into smooth, flat walls with broken windows. A majestic building rose at the far end of the city street. Its rectangular base of stone and concrete supported a five-story-high clock tower topped with a slender cone.
Long ago there would have been a statue at the pinnacle of its crumbling roofline because that’s what all the historic photographs showed whenever you looked up Old Philadelphia’s city hall. The ancient structure certainly hadn’t been there a moment ago, and neither had the corridor of building fronts lining the street. The latter merged with the rocky terrain in a Frankenstein blend of alien landscape and ruined city.
With my attention diverted, I stumbled. The hooks tightened into a choking hold, hoisting me up by the neck and preventing me from falling flat on my face. I got my feet under me and glared at my handlers. In that short expanse of time, the path ahead reverted to rocks and scrub brush; the buildings were gone.
The next mirage appeared ten minutes later off to our left. A low line of storefronts nestled under an overhang flickered as if illuminated by faulty fluorescent lights. The buildings were in better repair than the town hall had been, which made sense. Most of the shops were abandoned, but picking out Marge’s store was easy because I regularly stopped by her bakery. As with the downtown scene, one moment a half-block of New Philadelphia encroached on the arid landscape and the next…nothing.
It wasn’t in my head. Quinn definitely had spotted that first one, and all heads turned as we marched by the latest vision. The desert and vortex had claimed those areas back home. If our worlds were physically merging, this might be a foreshadowing of things to come—pieces of our reality dropping into this one. Teasing out the thought made my head hurt. Forcing solid matter together didn’t seem like a good idea. Or maybe rocks and trees from here would phase back into Philly to balance things out. All we could do was keep our eyes open and try not to get caught up in any future confluence.
The canyon walls grew steeper. At the narrowest point, the shaman called a halt by raising one of those flat, oven-mitt hands. Our hooks were removed, and I rubbed my neck. But our newfound freedom was short-lived. A guard pulled my hands down and worked his pad-like fingers around my wrists, forming white mesh shackles. The ridges on those pads felt rubbery where they touched my skin. The new restraints thickened as he worked and drew my wrists together tight with the same material that had secured Manny and me to our litters.
The others received similar treatment. My second guard moved among us, building a tether so we were all linked by our shiny new shackles. I didn’t sense any magic so figured they made the material like spiders spun web. Manny slept on, but was secured with more webbing across knees and chest. His outburst and the fact he remained unconscious worried me. The shaman had to be keeping him under on purpose.
Though humiliating, this new arrangement made walking easier. Even the pace proved more reasonable as we climbed rocky terrain to a vista overlooking a wide valley. A road wound down toward a shimmering blue ribbon. The river ran slow and shallow along the length of the valley, curving around more hillocks and mounds reminiscent of the tunnel entrances we’d used. But as we wound our way down, the structures resolved into modest dwellings.
The construction reminded me of Koko’s adobe halls, except these were reddish-brown and curved instead of rectangular. Even the base of the red cliffs rising beyond the water was riddled with openings, and people moved between them along narrow paths. My mounting excitement that this might be the shield’s resting place from Koko’s holographic map died as I realized the cliffs weren’t grand enough. Plus, neatly cultivated fields bridged the gap between cliffs and the river’s bend.
Our odd procession worked down among glares and muttered curses. Hideous forms squatted in front of the huts along the trail. Discounting the shaman, distinguishing individuals among our escorts was virtually impossible. We weren’t treated well, but neither were we harassed by the straight-laced contingent. By contrast, waves of malice rolled off those we passed.
This hunched and misshapen race bore more resemblance to the demons and trolls—or maybe gargoyles. Thicker of body with no two identical, they presented a Picasso rendering of swollen faces and grotesque features. Missing eyes, thick scars, and dangling limbs attested to their aggressive nature. Our flanking guards provided a buffer, and the masses lurking along the road seemed content to glare and leave our fate in the hands of the Ant People.
After winding to the river, we clomped over a wooden bridge. Fields of beans lay to either side as we marched toward the buildings lining the cliff’s base. It seemed unlikely the mixed denizens would have time for farming. The shaman and his soldiers would be off fighting or scouting most of the time, and the “people” lining the streets looked to be more of the raw-meat variety. I caught Pete studying the fields and shared my skepticism.
“Might be other farm hands.” He shuffled up close, but our guards didn’t seem to mind. “Either way, they’re crap farmers.”
“Why do you say that?” The carefully tilled and planted fields looked well laid out, and with the river so near they certainly had ample water.
“It’s all blighted. See those spots on the stems and how the beans curl? I don’t know why it hasn’t reached the leaves yet, but give it time. I doubt they’ll get one harvest out of this.”
We were led down to a hard-packed dirt circle surrounding a fire pit. Our ATVs arrived before us and were parked in a neat row off to the left. The red wall towered over us, rising perhaps a hundred feet. In addition to ground entrances, doorways opened in staggered levels a third of the way up the cliff. The craftsmanship struck such a resemblance to the original stone that it was difficult to tell if the dwellings had been built out from the rock face or tunneled into it—perhaps both.
I expected we’d be the center of attention, but only two guards stayed with us while the shaman and the rest carted the injured Ants forward. They lowered both to the ground on either side of an over-sized doorway that opened onto the circle. Someone—or something—moved inside. The shaman stepped up between the stretchers to meet…the shaman.
An identical Ant leader strode out of the shadows and exchanged a few whispered words. The lack of hard consonants and rolling vowels told me they didn’t speak English. They wore identical armor, and I searched for some physical difference, irrationally worried they might shift about leaving me uncertain which one was “our” shaman.
“Our dude’s a lefty,” Quinn said with a flip of her head. “Check it out, all his gear is on the left arm and even the feathers of his headdress angle off to that side. The macho guy has everything strapped on his right.”
How she knew they were male was beyond me, but Quinn was correct. With the Ants facing each other, I hadn’t caught that their ceremonial regalia sat on the same side and therefore was worn on different arms. In typical Quinn fashion, she’d also nailed the newcomer’s attitude. The pair might look like carbon copies, but our shaman acted like a self-confident, reasonable individual, while the new one swaggered and postured, clearly going for intimidation. Asshole.
Lefty waved his people forward, and two of our guards carrying a linen sack dumped its contents in front of the pair. Weapons, rations, and my staff spilled out.
“We need that.” I gaped at the staff.
“Not exactly in a position to stroll up and grab it,” Pete said. “What are they doing to those guys?”
“Buying us time. Ralph!” I called to the imp in a hissed whisper.
Ralph still lounged between the handlebars of our ATV as if our capture was just part of the plan. At my call, he hopped down and strolled toward me while the shamans chanted over the injured guards. Each pulled various items from his belt and waved them over their respective charge in a kind of ceremonial show. Foreign words flowed in a constant sing-song stream as the ritual stretched on. The others stood back, giving them room to work and leaving our pile of supplies unguarded.
“Enough with the eating!” I couldn’t help snapping at the little
guy as a strip of licorice appeared in his balled fist. “See my staff over there?”
I pointed to where our supplies had been dumped. Ralph frowned at his candy, stuffed it in his mouth, and turned to study the foot of carved wood jutting from the pile. He chuffed out excited little breaths and bobbed his head in what I’d come to realize was a nod.
“Get it for me.”
“And the knife,” Quinn added. “So we can cut ourselves free.”
“And the knife, but be careful—you know, sneak over like when you borrow Piper’s toothbrush.”
Again the bouncing nod. I grinned at Quinn’s wrinkled nose and scanned the circle for our follow-on move. Keys still dangled from each ATV. We’d have to race along the river and get out of the valley downstream to avoid all the creatures that had nothing better to do than line the road we’d come in on. I shot a glance at the road manager, still comatose and strapped to his stretcher.
“Can you two wrestle Manny onto the back of Vance’s ride?”
Pete and the deputy gave a curt nod. The Shamans’ ritual wailed on, enthralling everyone—including our two token guards. This could really work. Once out of the valley, the staff would point us in the right direction and we’d leave the ants in the dust. After Ralph came back with—
“What are you waiting for?” Ralph hadn’t budged. “Get going, boy. Bring back the staff and knife.” He bobbed and turned toward the pile of gear—and still didn’t move.
I gave him a little nudge forward. The imp could be fearsomely strong in a fight, but it seemed impossible someone under two feet tall could suddenly become so heavy. I pushed a little harder urging him forward. He blinked up at me like I was some kind of idiot, plopped down onto his butt, and turned his attention back to the show—a long flat strip of pink-striped taffy clutched in his little gray fist.