torg 02 - The Dark Realm

by Douglas Kaufman

  "You smell like Decker," the blood-covered man said. The stink that emerged from his mouth caused Monroe to gag. "But you're not him. Not exactly. But you're from his litter, aren't you little man?"

  Monroe nodded, suddenly angry that this person knew his secret. He forgot the bloody windows, forgot the man's size. All he remembered was the anger he felt toward his brother and Julie Boot, and he let it mix with this new anger. Then he charged the larger man, wanting only to pound on him, to cause him pain.

  The blood-covered man laughed. It was a wicked sound. He caught Monroe around the neck with his large, blood-covered hands, and lifted the doctor with no effort. Monroe's feet dangled a good half a foot off the ground.

  "Should I kill you, little man?" the larger man asked. "Should I show you what I did to the soldiers in the flying carriage?" The large man studied him with his cat-like eyes. "Or should I let you go?"

  Something was happening to Monroe, something strange. He felt it deep inside himself, a feeling like static building before the lightning comes. It was the power! But he had no idea what to do with it.

  The large man sniffed. "You're a stormer," helaughed. "Or at least you're about to be. If you make your choice." An evil grin twisted his blood-smeared lips. "Let me help you. You can try to destroy me, which will make you a stormer but end your pitiful life. Or you can side with me, agree to help me. And perhaps I'll let you live."

  Monroe could feel the static bouncing within him, around him. So much power! There could even be enough to smash this arrogant psychotic, if he could figure out what to do with the power. At the thought, endless possibilities began to flash across his mind. He saw countless ways to defeat the large man, countless ways to free himself and escape. He just had to grasp one of them as they appeared and wield it like he wielded scalpels in the operating room. But there was another option open to him.

  "What," Monroe forced the word through his constricted throat. The larger man loosened his grip ever so slightly. "What do you want from me?" the doctor finished.

  "I want your brother. I want Andrew Decker."

  Monroe couldn't believe it. That was his choice? Either fight this monster of a man, or direct him to the brother he hated? That was no choice at all.

  "I'll show you where he is," Monroe said, smiling at the thought.

  He laughed as the lightning crackled inside him.

  96

  The Gaunt Man turned away from the mirror, faint wisps of mist still rising from it like a dying fire. Scythak was close to Decker now. All the man-tiger had to do was capture Decker and bring him to Orrorsh, where the Gaunt Man could reestablish full control of the stormer. Once attached directly to the machine, there would be no way for Decker to escape before he completed the task appointed to him.

  He had to finish removing all the possibilities of the Gaunt Man's failure. That was most important as the Gaunt Man reached the crucial stages of his plan.

  Even so, the runes were still implanted, still doing their work. The machine still ran, draining Decker's possibilities, draining the others. But without Decker or another of similar strength, there was no one to sort the possibilities. For all his power, that was one of the things the Gaunt Man could not do. To him, the energy was all the same. There was no difference that he could see. Why could some stormers see them? He knew the explanation that was simplified as the legend of the Nameless One and Apeiros, but he never really believed in the legend. It was always a story to him, nothing more. If the Nameless One and Apeiros ever existed, they were nothing more than memories now. And soon even those memories would be replaced by his own elevation to godhood. Soon he would be Torg in more than just name. Soon he would have the power as well.

  He turned back to the mirror and searched for Thratchen. He found the cyber-demon easily, for Thratchen was even now landing in the courtyard of Illmound Keep. Good. He would be here when Kurst and the others arrived. The Gaunt Man waved a hand over the mirror, and his own image returned to the chilled surface.

  The Gaunt Man collapsed heavily into his throne of bones to think. He went over his plan in his mind, looking for any flaws. After countless centuries of study, he had determined the ingredients necessary to elevate himself to Torg. The process required a phenomenal amount of possibility energy available in one place — more than any world he had ever conquered could contain. But legends spoke of a world that literally sparkled with the energy. After more centuries of searching throughout the cosmverse he found the world of legend; he found Earth. But there was no way he could attach his realm to the planet. The world was just too strong for a single High Lord to take. He needed help. He needed other Possibility Raiders.

  Six realities were now attached to this possibility-rich world — more than enough to keep the power surges from repelling them. Already each High Lord was busy establishing areas of power and influence, busy stripping power directly from the succulent sheep that inhabited this world. Let them take what they wanted, he thought. There would still be more than enough for his purposes.

  The second part of his plan was proceeding well. His sorting machine was using stormers to sort desirable possibilities from undesirable ones, forming a pattern on which to build the reality he so desired — a reality where a mortal being can be reborn as the Torg.

  The third portion of the plan required an incredible amount of physical energy. This energy (which was even now being sucked from the planet by his infernal machine, as evidenced by the slowing of the planet's spin) would be fired through the possibility pattern created by the first machine, burning along the latticework of the almost-real and perhaps-true to make the possible real.

  He had only recently come up with the idea to use Decker to sort a specific type of possibility in addition to the pattern he desired. He had set the congressman to work showing him the paths that led to the Earth actually surviving the entire process. It would not be good if the planet and its people (the fuel he needed, after all) died before he had a chance to make his possibility pattern a reality.

  Damn the stormer who helped Decker resist him! Now there was the possibility of failure, however small. He needed Decker to finish his work. He needed to know that no possibility of failure still existed.

  The Gaunt Man stood, picked up his cane, and left the tower room, heading for the stairs that led to the cellars.

  To the sorting machine.

  97

  Decker doubled over with pain. Suddenly the staves were active again, and the constant draining sensation he felt increased twelve-fold. His vision swam, and he heard the voice from his dreams

  (nightmares)

  shout, "Choose! Choose!" The doors were there, beckoning him to throw one open as opposed to another.

  "Go to hell!" he gritted through clenched teeth.

  "Ace? What is it? Ace?" Julie said, startling him.

  He thought he was alone in his room. The President had gone off to the rooms made available to him to get some rest after their long discussion, and Decker had decided to give standing up a shot. Now he wasn't sure about the wisdom of his decision.

  Julie put down the tray of food she was carrying and rushed to his side. She supported his weight, helping him back onto the bed. Her touch was like water to the fire of pain that raged through him. Her concern made his vision clear, made the crackling light of the staves dim.

  "I think I can fight him," Decker said. "I think I can force him out of my mind. Especially when you're near. You seem to add strength to me. And I need strength right now."

  "You need to get back into bed," she scolded.

  "No," Decker said, sitting up. "I need a shower. Then I need to meet with the President. He's set up a meeting with a bunch of the military types to assess our situation."

  "What is our situation, Ace?" Julie asked quietly, suddenly no longer the self-assured officer but a frightened, uncertain human being.

  "Bad, but not impossible," he said softly, giving her a smile. Decker took her hand then, holding it the way she
had held his when he came out of his long sleep. For the moment, that was enough for both of them.

  98

  "He's in that building," Monroe said, pointing toward the hospital. "Room 436."

  "There are too many soldiers around," Scythak decided.

  Monroe thought the large man's name was strange when he first heard it, but he didn't say anything. He noticed that this Scythak was quick to anger, and he didn't want to be on the receiving end of a violent outburst. After all, he could still see the blood drying on the large man's hands.

  "I think they've noticed your handiwork," Monroe commented, gesturing toward the helicopter they had left back on the tarmac.

  "Yes," Scythak breathed heavily, "maybe that bit of fun was an indiscretion. Nothing to be done about it now, though." He studied the hospital and the soldiers all around it with his cat eyes. For long moments neither man spoke. Then Scythak said, "We need a place to hide. It has to be nearby, in sight of the hospital. If I make a move now to capture

  (kill, kill, kill)

  Decker, he might get hurt in the resulting battle. I

  need to wait until the time is right."

  Monroe knew he was missing something, especially when Scythak's hand went to the pendant he wore around his neck. The large man fingered the stone that hung from the gold chain without realizing it. Monroe doubted the man even remembered he wore such jewelry. It certainly didn't seem to be his style. But the doctor didn't say anything about the pendant. Instead he thought about a place to hide out.

  "Come on," Monroe said at last. "I think I know a perfect place."

  99

  "Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, amen," said Father Christopher Bryce over the funeral pyre. Praktix did not survive the night, even though Mara had done everything she could. The dwarf had internal injuries, Mara had explained, she had lost too much blood. Bryce was sick with the words he spoke. They had become a recording over the last few weeks, an endless chant that he said with more and more detachment. No, that wasn't true. Each death still hurt. Some more than others. He watched Braxon put the torch to his sister's remains. This death hurt a lot.

  Tolwyn and the dwarves sang a hymn to Dunad then, to the warrior god of Aysle who even the pragmatic dwarves respected. The others remained silent through it all, even Kurst (who constantly raised his nose to the wind throughout the ceremony), until the pyre blazed brightly. Then Tolwyn spoke in her soldier tone.

  "We must move on now," she said. "Our goal is nearby. We must not let this sadness deter us — or others will suffer these fates, over and over again. It is for life that we go on." Bryce smiled. She would have made

  a fine preacher.

  The dwarves moved over to Mara, helped her rise. The girl was still upset with herself. She was having a tough time excepting this loss. Bryce pressed his lips together. He had counselled doctors who had lost patients before. And he had counselled young people who had lost friends. It was the combination of the two that was difficult for him to comprehend. He contented himself with walking nearby, smiling at her when he could catch her gaze, trying to envelop her with his caring.

  They all climbed into the carriage; Kurst and Tolwyn behind the horses, Triad and Toolpin on top, the rest inside. They rode in silence for a time, and Bryce tried to find words to comfort them all. But nothing came to his lips but a frown. He heard the music but didn't pay much attention at first. It was a catchy, old-fashioned tune, like the songs on a player piano, and he hummed along with the sound. When the scenery outside the carriage window suddenly changed, it took him a while to notice it. But there it was — a town!

  "Hey!" he shouted, banging on the roof of the carriage. "Hey, stop! Let's take a look around."

  The carriage was moving slowly along the cobbled path, and Bryce had no trouble leaping down from the cab. He was standing in what appeared to be a town right out of Victorian England, right down to the low fog that filled the streets. He heard Kurst call for the horses to stop, so he walked toward the tavern across the way.

  A strange smell reached Bryce's nose, but he put it out of his mind as he walked. He had to see who was playing such fine music! He had to dance just once to its bouncy tune. The door to the tavern was open, and the light pouring out was warm and bright. It would be good to have some real food for a change, and maybe they could find a few real beds. A good meal and a good night's sleep was just what they all needed right now. He was forty steps from the door, and the music pulled him along.

  Thirty steps. He could see people now, or at least shapes, twirling and laughing in the light beyond the doorway.

  Twenty steps. He could smell ale and sizzling sausage wafting out of the establishment. Someone inside called for a serving girl, and Bryce smiled.

  Fifteen steps. A woman appeared at the door, framed by the golden light. He couldn't see her features because of the way she was silhouetted, but she had a round, pleasant shape that reminded him of home.

  Ten steps. A strong hand grabbed Bryce's arm and spun him around. It was Kurst, and he was looking at the priest with hard eyes.

  "Get back in the carriage," Kurst ordered.

  "What is wrong with you. Kurst?" Bryce yelled. "This is a town. Do you know what that means? It means hot food and warm beds. It means a touch of civilization out here in the jungle."

  "It means more than you know, priest," Kurst said. "If you enter that place I cannot help you. You will belong to them, and we will go on without you."

  Bryce looked for the humor, the joke, in Kurst's eyes. There was none. "What are you babbling about?"

  "The Gaunt Man surrounds himself with places that are between this world and the next. Way stations, you might call them. This is one of those places."

  Bryce smelled the sausage, and his mouth watered. He tried to pull free of Kurst's grasp, but the hunter was too strong.

  "Everything here is dead, Bryce. Those inside cannot move on. They are stuck, trapped in time. If you enter, you will be trapped as well. Take a deep breath, Bryce. What do you smell?"

  Bryce breathed in the air, and suddenly he understood what Kurst was saying. Beneath the aroma of sausage and ale was another smell. A dark smell. It was the smell of dust and decay, or things long dead. The priest wanted desperately to be ill.

  "No time," Kurst said. He dragged the priest back to the carriage.

  "Not even one dance?" Bryce asked before Kurst closed the carriage door.

  "It is not as exciting as it appears," Kurst said. "The dead are a very boring lot."

  The smell was stronger now, making Bryce gag. "Then let's leave them to this place and be on with our journey."

  The hunter nodded, closed the door. Soon the carriage was past the town, but the smell stayed with them for a very long time.

  100

  At oh-eight-hundred Special Operative Lance Odell was dressed as an intern, sorting laundry in a corridor six doors from the room the meeting was to be held in. Outside, the long day was finally coming to an end, and twilight was settling over Twentynine Palms. Odell folded another bed sheet, keeping one eye on the closed door.

  Three minutes later, people started to arrive. First came four soldiers. Two stationed themselves in the corridor; two disappeared into the room. Odell smiled at the ones in the corridor. They ignored him. He folded

  another sheet.

  At five minutes past, Colonel McCall and an aide arrived. Behind them were Lieutenant Charles Covent (recently at the battle front but now recovering from wounds sustained while fighting the enemy) and the civilian, Eddie Paragon. Paragon had arrived on the base with a wild story of having been with the leader of the dinosaurs since the invasion started in New York. It sickened Odell to see someone so obviously against the discipline that marked military life included in such an important meeting.

  At six minutes past, Congressman Andrew Jackson Decker entered the room. With him were Major Julie Boot and the edeinos visitor, Tal Tu. That was another transgression that Odell couldn't understand. Let's just invite th
e enemy to our war conference! These were the kinds of decisions the Delphi Council was going to correct. That's why Lance Odell was first on line to become one of the Council's operatives — one of the Spartans. He even loved the code-name.

  Finally, at seven minutes past, President John Wells and his security detail arrived. The door closed with a resounding slam. Odell folded the last of his sheets, then wheeled the laundry cart past the soldiers stationed at the door and onto the elevator at the opposite end of the corridor. He couldn't wait to report his findings to Quartermain. For a moment he considered trying to get some details as to the specifics of the meeting, but then dismissed that as too dangerous. Besides, Quartermain would be interested in knowing the names of the people in that meeting.