Into the Realm

by R W Foster

  “Seems you have made a friend,” said Mordecai.

  I grinned as Angriz nodded and showing surprising gentleness, shut Lady Orwen’s mouth with his left hand. Without uttering another word, she turned on her heels and continued towards her family’s home. We walked across the sturdy wood and stone drawbridge and approached a second tremendous fortification. The portal here was protected by crisscrossed thick iron bars. The vertical pieces disappeared down into the ground, the horizontal ones shifted left, into the wall. The striated adamant door spiraled open. ‘Cool.’ We passed through, entering the outer bailey.

  The clash of steel had me peering about, attempting to locate the source. When I didn’t, I continued my examination. I discerned the grounds were well cared for; flourishing flora and fauna of myriad varieties. Off to the right was an abbreviated thicket of trees, their lush and green branches neatly trimmed. To my astonishment, one got up and walked further in towards the castle!

  “Whoa, is that a treebeard?” I wondered out loud. I could barely contain my excitement at seeing monsters from BattleHammer as living creatures.

  Mordecai answered, “Yes. That one is called Caretaker.”

  I took in the tree man’s movements and marveled how he was able to stroll about and yet keep in full contact with the earth. He appeared to be gliding though the ground like a boat would through water. ‘I wonder if the guys would think this is as amazing as I do.’

  Angriz tapped my shoulder. I glanced back, he motioned to our left. I rocked to a halt when I spotted what I thought to be a corral for horses. I grinned as I realized the ring’s purpose: a training area for infantry. I asked if we could go closer, and when Lady Orwen smiled with a nod, I raced to the oak log walls of the ring.

  Two soldiers, wearing only leather pants and boots danced around each other, swinging dull, heavy swords. One brandished a longsword and shield. The shorter dual wielded with a short sword. The metal of the weapons clashed in rhythm. I recognized it as the clanging from before. The only additional sounds were grunts of effort, the scrape of boots on dirt and an occasional curse as one scored a hit. The dust they kicked up obscured the view on occasion. I was annoyed by the dirt cloud as I enjoyed watching their expert use of weaponry.

  A gentle shower began to fall. Within moments, the precipitation was a heavy downpour. I failed to notice, mesmerized by the conflict. Soon the rain was more obfuscating than the dust had been. Still the two battled on, ignoring the elements. Angriz tapped my shoulder and indicated we head inside.

  “May we stay a while longer?” I asked

  He shook his head. Concentration broken, I felt the chill through my sodden clothes. I saw for the first time that everything seemed grey and washed out. I followed the half-dragon at a brisk jog into the castle proper. My soaked clothing clung to me like another layer of skin, making me shiver. The tower walls muted the pounding rain to a gentle thrum. Angriz led me into a tower up the spiraling stairs, past several landings. At the top, he swung open a six foot pine plank door. He gestured for me to enter first. I found myself in a large, beautiful room. The stone floor was covered by a hand woven rug, depicting a hunt. An antique, hand-carved armoire stood across from me, doors wide open, outfits swinging from the rods and others folded upon its shelves. No telling what was in the drawers. More garments, I assumed.

  On the right, two comfortable chairs sat in front of a big fireplace. A blaze roared within, warming the entire room. To the left, perched at the top of four steps, was an immense canopied bed ringed by emerald curtains. They were drawn, allowing a view of numerous bright colored silk pillows stacked at the head, pulling my eye upwards to the family herald hanging above. A stoic cedar chest resided at the foot of the bed. To the left, was a well-worn mahogany roll-top desk. The long forgotten Slitter reminded me of its presence when it leaped from my shoulder to the desk and began cleaning itself like a hamster. I made a mental note to ask Lady Orwen why this one had adopted me and stopped drooling while sitting on my shoulder.

  “Please make yourself comfortable, Carter. His Majesty Redigar will return from his hunt soon,” Angriz informed me. “You might wish to bathe and dress in proper attire for your audience with him. I must attend to Lord Mordecai. Pull the rope by the bedif you have need of anything.”

  I nodded, too overwhelmed for words. He exited, pulling the door shut after him. I noticed a large book shelf that had been hidden by the angle of the open door. Over a thousand volumes must have rested on the shelves.

  3

  I kicked off my soggy clothes, walked over to the chest at the foot of the bed, and squatted, knees popping, to lift the lid. Peering inside, I found a thick section of angora wool, which I pulled out and used to dry myself. While I squeezed the excess water from my hair, I heard the door swing open. I snatched the mohair from my head, and wrapped it around me, half covering my nakedness. A small female child dragged a large copper bathtub into the room.

  With the tub positioned to her satisfaction, she turned and looked at me. She had shoulder length black hair and deep green eyes. She was about 129 cm and maybe 20 kg, barefoot and wearing a simple, unadorned white dress. She tipped her head and offered a friendly smile.

  “Excuse me, little girl. May I help you?”

  Her grin vanished, replaced with a moue of disgust. “I is no girl child!” she exclaimed. “I is Tweeter. I is a Snebbli!” Her small hands were on her hips, and her feet were wide.

  “I see; my apologies.” I frowned, my head tilted to the left. “What are you doing in here?”

  “I is bringing you bath,” she snapped.

  She drew a wand from her sleeve and tapped the tub which filled with steaming water in an instant. A double tap of the wand, and bubbles covered the surface. I had to grin at that. At my smile, her own returned.

  I nodded. “Thank you, Lady Tweeter.”

  She chuckled. “I is no lady. I is servant.”

  “You may not have the title but you have the manner.”

  “Thank you, Milord.”

  She went to the armoire and selected clothes for me. She seemed surprised I still stood beside the tub, wrapped in wool, when she glanced over her shoulder.

  “Why is you just standing there?” she inquired. “Get in you bath.”

  “Not with you in here.”

  “Aw. You is shy? How cute.”

  She strode over and yanked the wool away. I found myself in the warm tub after she tapped me with her wand. I moaned as the heat sank into my chilled body. Tweeter walked over and dipped a sponge into the water. I plucked it from her fingers, guessing she intended to wash me.

  “I can clean myself, thanks.”

  She blinked, and reached to reclaim the scrubber.

  “Out!” I barked, pointing at the door.

  Tweeter shrugged, “Humans is weird,” and left me to get clean.

  4

  Later in the evening, I was before the fire, reading a book I’d found on the shelves behind the door. The armchair was even more comfortable than appearances indicated. The seat and back were thick and soft. I had sat down and sank deep into the chair. The rear enveloped me like a warm hug from my mom. ‘Damn this room is fucking cold.’ The book I chose was written in some runic alphabet, but I found myself somehow reading it with ease. It was a history of the Orwen family. From what I gathered, they had ruled this land for close to four thousand years. Their sovereignty was a literal divine right: the chief god Chokkan had crowned Kandel Orwen king after he alone had answered the deity's call for aid, during a battle more gruesome than the others. ‘Interesting that a character created by Anderson is real. But, so are Mordecai and Drago.’

  I was reading King Ohrel Orwen’s negotiation of peace between the High Elves and the Golden Dwarves fifteen centuries later, when I heard a knock at the door. I opened it to a boy of around six or eight years. He was dressed in a silver robe trimmed in light blue. His shaggy blond hair had to have been styled by someone with a bowl and dull shears.

  “
Lord Blake, His Grand Majesty Redigar summons you.” His tone was filled with dignity and solemnness. “I, Tolar, am honored to conduct you thence.”

  I answered in the same manner, “Please lead on, Master Tolar.”

  He gave a slight bow of his head, turned and led me down the stairs and through the castle.

  The haircut bugged the hell out of me: no one I knew would allow such a hack job to happen to their mop. I spoke my question hoping to learn more. “Say, what happened to your hair?”

  He reached up. “Whatever do you mean?” he asked, defensive.

  “You appear…” I paused.

  “Well?” he demanded.

  “How do I put this in a delicate way?” I ran a hand through my damp hair and swallowed. “Um, the style looks, uh, barbarous.”

  “I cut my locks, thank you, very much!” His irritation hit me like a fire from a blast.

  ‘Yikes.’

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend. I’ve been to a place where the length of someone’s tresses meant something,” I said.

  “Oh?” In his curiosity, he forgot his anger.

  “Indeed. Hair cut like yours would have been a mark of his being property.”

  “I apologize for taking umbrage.”

  “I should remember to think before speaking.”

  He grinned.

  Okay, so I lied, and the whole hair thing took place in a book series and related to women. He didn’t need to know, did he? Considering what happened? We walked for about forty-five minutes, going down stairs, up others, in through some doors and out more. I found myself wondering how big this castle was after a while. At the same time, I had a growing suspicion we had doubled back on ourselves. ‘Huh. Déjà vu.’ We passed a green marble sculpture of a knight standing with the tip of his sword in the base, his hands folded over the hilt. I stopped when we approached the thing again five minutes later. Tolar glanced back at me and waited.

  “Tolar, why are we going in circles? We’ve passed this sculpture already.”

  “Impossible.” His voice was sharp for a little guy. “Nothing could interfere with the castle’s Spell of Travel! ’Twas cast by wizards of epic might.”

  “I’m telling you, we already went by this statue.”

  “And, I am telling you: That. Is. Impossible!” he said. I noticed his right hand was clenched in a fist and was glowing with an eldritch yellow light. The strident tone and slow walk towards me caused me to retreat. Hey, you stand in front of a pissed off wizard. ‘By all the hells. Angry much, twerp?’ I didn’t wish to further antagonize the young mage, and become recipient of some nasty spell, so I constructed a plan to placate him. Maybe.

  “Here’s an idea: let's place a mark on this piece, and then resume walking. If we spot an identical one, and nothing is present, I’ll humbly beg your forgiveness on bended knee. When you learn I’m right, we’ll investigate. Fair enough?”

  He considered my plan, the light fading from his relaxing hand. “Agreed,” he said at last.

  I sighed while he produced a piece of charcoal and placed a sigil at the knight’s sword hilt. Without another word, Tolar stalked off. ‘I guess he is still upset about the hair remarks. How do I fix this?’ I thought as I hurried to follow. Five minutes later – I counted - we again reached a green marble statue of a knight standing with the tip of his sword in the base, his hands folded over the hilt. We searched. Tolar pointed, unable to find sign of his sketch. He almost vibrated with triumph.

  “I told you! There is no way for anything to interfere with this castle’s magic.”

  I examined the sculpture where he’d drawn the sigil. I still had a nagging feeling about this statue. Oh, alright. I’ll admit: I didn’t want to kneel before this kid. I soon found a smudge of carbon at the point of the sword.

  “Hey, Tolar, seems like your mark was rubbed away.”

  He bent and spotted the smear. A silvery glow limned his hands as he ran them over the base. I wasn’t prepared for what happened next. Tolar stumbled back, his face pale and filled with horror. The green statue cracked and crumbled, belching a thick cloud of fragments and powder. I pressed myself to the stone wall, whipping my arm to face to protect against the enveloping gloom. As the dust cleared, we saw where the avocado effigy once stood; there arose a scarlet armored behemoth.

  It strode from the pedestal. A casual backhand swing of its sword cleaved Tolar in two. Crimson blood sprayed. I turned. Ran. Heedless of where I went. Eager to escape the monster. It killed a boy without hesitation, or concern.

  I ran for hours. Ripped past things. Threw them to the ground. Nothing worked. The implacable footsteps of the scarlet knight remained close behind me. Heart in throat. Breath short. Eyes dry from the wind. Steps on my heels. Ready to surrender. Twin oak doors. ‘Safety?!’ I crashed through. Slammed them behind me. I wheeled around intending to run further, when I realized I was in the throne room.

  The king, a balding older man, sat on the ornate chair, his bearing regal. On his right, and almost behind him stood Lady Orwen with Mordecai and Angriz before him.

  “What is the meaning of this?” His Majesty thundered.

  I opened my mouth to answer when the doors blew open in an explosion of splinters. The scarlet knight strode through the cloud of debris, dislodging a chunk of the doorway with its helmeted head. I dove to one side, trying to keep out of the monster’s way.

  “By the gods!” exclaimed Mordecai. “A Crimson Walker!”

  “Your majesty—!” Angriz began.

  Before he could complete his words, the being spun its sword arm in a circle, launching the huge longsword faster than a blink. A red streak in the air, and the scarlet blade was buried to the guard in the king’s chest. An instant later, the weapon faded to a mist, and reappeared in the creature’s paw.

  “Father!” screamed Lady Orwen, with a wail of immeasurable grief that would haunt me to my dying day.

  Mordecai threw his fist at the knight. A blinding flash of light followed an instant of absolute blackness. The entire left side of the Crimson Walker’s torso disintegrated. Royal guards flooded the room as Angriz roared and charged. His enormous sword slashed through the monster’s middle. A split second later, threescore arrows thudded into the abomination.

  A scarlet boot crashed into Angriz’ head, sending him tumbling into the polished black granite wall. Green blood poured from the half-dragon’s mouth as he struggled to rise. A sudden slash of a crimson blade decapitated a dozen men. To my shock, the unstoppable thing’s chest shimmered back into existence. The world turned ebony once more; but this time, when the light returned, our foe remained unharmed.

  “Get down!” bellowed Angriz.

  Everyone dropped flat. The mighty warrior gave forth a roar reminiscent of his monumental dragon ancestors and a terrible conflagration issued from his open maw. Eager flames roiled over the huge red knight, slowing and beginning to melt it. Not yet defeated, the Walker bent, plucked up a severed head, and flung it at the half-dragon. The cranium rocketed through the flames and lodged in Angriz’ open mouth, extinguishing the inferno. Lady Orwen chanted… something. I had no idea what. My attention was on Angriz at the moment.

  His maw lengthened, becoming a muzzle. His teeth grew longer and sharper-looking. His fingers elongated and fused until he had three digits and an opposable thumb tipped with a thick, black talon. His body began to elongate, his muscles stretching and growing bigger. His feet extended, and narrowed, the toes, capped with long black claws, ripped out his boots. His scales, once a lustrous gold, turned a mottled yellow banded by a greenish bronze.

  The Walker soon grabbed my attention again, wading through the amassed guards, slaughtering them by the dozens with every swing of its immense blade. Blood ran in rivers across the floor. Men and women fought with great courage, but futilely. Their blades shattered on the scarlet armor. Mordecai flung his arms skyward and bellowed out strange words. “Dragostea Hoarl!”

  Seconds later, colossal skeletal hands,
surrounded by hellfire, arose from the flooring and latched upon the Crimson Walker.

  “Tulak Harool!” cried Mordecai.

  The bone fingers began to squeeze. The Walker appeared to crumple, then flexed horrifically, shattering the hands and whirled its sword arm again. Over the tumult of battle, and screams of the wounded, came Lady Orwen’s voice.

  “Shut your eyes!” She cried out, her speech a strange mix of terror and exhalation. “He’s coming! Shut your eyes! Shut your—” Everything else spiraled up and out of range.

  With her first command, almost everyone obeyed and turned away. I, however, did not. I was too entranced by the sight of a brilliant white light which engulfed her body. I almost didn’t recognize her form. Her clothes burst into flames as the illumination grew even brighter. I perceived a ringing at the edge of hearing. The buzzing and light increased in intensity. Every body hair stood on end. A final brilliant flash, as if I was next to a detonating nuclear device, then, the eerie speed with which the incandescence vanished made my heart race.

  I ran to Lady Orwen, stripping off my shirt as I went. She braced her weight by grasping the rear of her now deceased father’s throne. Her jaw set and firm, she yanked herself back up when she started to slide. I tugged it down over her head, covering her nude form. Even at this moment, I had to admit: her body was fantastic. I never viewed an unclothed woman before. Nothing, not a scrap of fabric, a loose thread, nor any ash indicated she'd ever been clothed before. I wondered what caused her clothes to burst into flames.

  Shaking away the useless thoughts, I turned to what was happening behind me. What I saw, took my breath away as if I’d been punched in my solar plexus.

  The being before me, head brushing the ceiling, stood around three meters tall, and one hundred fifty-two centimeters across his shoulders. Two enormous white wings spread out from each shoulder, almost touching the opposite walls, and then swept back to rest against his body. Bulging muscles rippled under his golden skin. He was bald, yet the most beautiful, perfect being I’d ever seen. I knew, without a doubt, this was an angel. He drew a large claymore that shone like mercury. As he did so, the Crimson Walker swung its blade. The celestial warrior blocked with his. A final swift flash of light, and they vanished. This proved too much for me, and I slumped into darkness.