torg 03- The Nightmare Dream

by Jonatha Ariadne Caspian

  —Pharaoh Mobius

  105

  Tom O'Malley was getting used to the shifting panorama within the storm fronts. Some of the sights were still disconcerting, and many times he felt his mind teeter on the edge of a deep abyss when reality made a particularly staggering change, but he had learned certain tricks for pulling away from the brink of madness and these had served him well. He piloted the ancient PBY through the Nile's border of storm and out over the Mediterranean Sea. From there he turned the plane northwest, flying through Italian airspace toward England.

  Another wall of storm loomed across the western portions of Italy and Switzerland, suggesting that another invading realm was centered around France. Tom decided not to take any chances, so he swung the plane around the storm front, flying through Germany and Belgium. Then they were approaching the English Channel, and Tom saw that two storm fronts were battling for control of the waterway.

  "Mara, come up here," Tom called. Father Bryce vacated the co-pilot's chair, and Mara slipped into it.

  "What do you make of that?" Tom asked, directing her attention to the clashing storms.

  "Giga-rad," Mara said, offering her highest praise. "That's some display. My guess is that the storms are holding in two different realities, and Earth's reality is caught in the middle. I wouldn't give us very good chances of making it through that area. Who knows how many directions the winds of change would pull us in? We'd never make it through in one piece. Can you go around?"

  Tom nodded, angling the plane into the North Sea. There was only one storm front there, the one blocking the way into Britain. He leveled the seaplane, then 238

  opened the throttle all the way.

  "Next stop, Aysle," Tom declared, and the seaplane made its final trip into a wall of storm.

  106

  Decker climbed over jagged branches tipped with points sharper than a polished sword. He bent low to scurry under hanging vines that dripped foul, poisonous syrup. He pushed through clumps of thorn bushes that shredded his pants legs and tore at his flesh. He walked a maelstrom bridge.

  Kurst and Julie were in front of him, picking a path through the thick-growing jungle that formed the passage between Takta Ker and Aysle cosms. They had reached the apex of the curved arch, passing into the hole in the sky that the bridge led to. Within this between space, distance took on a new meaning. It was like walking within a fun house mirror, for the bridge they walked on, themselves, everything around them, was longer or shorter or wider or thinner than it usually appeared. Decker looked behind him, and the bridge stretched back farther than he remembered climbing. It was impossibly long, and he could see impossibly far. The bridges warped time and space the way the invaders warped reality, and Decker suddenly hated them and their tools that he was forced to use.

  Far below him, where the jungle bridge touched down on Takta Ker, Decker saw the arrival of the storm. It rolled into view without fanfare, and it was too far away for him to hear the peals of thunder he knew surrounded it. But he could see the lightning, striking like glowing cobras within the black cloud.

  He turned back to catch up with Kurst and Julie, ignoring the cuts he suffered as he pushed through

  another patch of thorns.

  "The storm has reached the bridge," Decker informed Kurst.

  "We still have an advantage," Kurst commented. "We have a slight lead and I don't intend to lose it. Now hurry, both of you," he said to Decker and Julie.

  Decker took one more dizzying look down the curving arch they had climbed. The storm looked closer still, and Decker thought of the message on the sideview mirror of his car back in Washington. "Objects in this mirror are closer than they appear," the message read. He hoped that such optical illusions did not also apply to maelstrom bridges, because the storm that Kurst called the Wild Hunt appeared very close indeed.

  107

  Parok, warlord of the ravagons, walked the Core Earth lands of the Soviet Union, following the stench of another reality. He had been sent on this mission by Thratchen, who was running Orrorsh in the Gaunt Man's absence. Parok still had doubts about the sincerity and loyalty of the Tharkold demon, but he did not want to go against some intricate scheme the Gaunt Man was unfolding. If he found out that Thratchen was working against his High Lord, though, there would be a reckoning.

  The ravagon was in a rural part of the country, walking through fields of crops that were dying in the sunless cold of the still planet. The Soviet Union was on the side of the globe that was trapped in perpetual night, and if the Gaunt Man's plans worked out, it would never again see the light of day. Ahead of him was a farmhouse, lying quiet beneath the dark, ash-filled sky. Parok sensed others like himself within the farmhouse, others who held realities far different than Earth's around their alien forms.

  He entered the silent farmhouse cautiously, listening for any signs of the beings he knew were there. They were not showing themselves, however, and Parok considered announcing himself with the greeting recognized by all servants of the Darkness Devices. He stepped further into the dark interior of the dwelling, folding his wings about him so as not to brush against the walls and ceiling that were entirely too close for his liking. He knew he passed through an alarm net as he walked into the large living room, because he could feel the static charge of energy bounce off his body.

  "You know that I am here, Tharkolds," the ravagon announced. "If you did not spot me earlier, then you obviously were informed by your technological watchdog as I stepped through your net. Show yourselves, for I bring greetings from Orrorsh."

  Parok, his eyes now adjusted to the darkness within the house, saw three large globes sitting in the room. The globes looked like heavily crusted seed pods, and sharp ridges jutted from their rough surfaces. He fingered the hilt of his battle sword, just in case they did not want visitors. A second later, light appeared along the center of each globe, a thin line of brightness that indicated the pods were opening.

  The top half of the pods separated from the bottom with a sickly wet sound and extended toward the ceiling on telescoping metal rods. Light burst from the interior of the globes, casting eerie shadows throughout the room. Thick mucus stretched with the rising pod shells, forming a curtain of slime within the space between the top and bottom. The slime made plopping noises as it stretched past its limit and broke, dripping back into the bottom half. Wings unfolded from the mucus, wings much like Parok's own, but also very different. Intermingled with the leathery flesh were pieces of metal, printed circuitry, and plastic — supposed enhancements that the techno-demons loved so well. Then three heads tilted up to stare at Parok, three heads to match the three sets of wings in the three mucous-filled pods. The heads, like the wings, were patchwork constructions of flesh and metal, and mechanical and natural eyes combined to examine the ravagon that had invaded their resting chamber.

  The three techno-demons stepped from the open pods, never taking their eyes off of the ravagon. As they exited the pods, Parok noticed that the mucus that clung to them evaporated. In moments it was gone, its steaming vapor dissipating like mist from their bodies. They stood, framed by the light from the globes, and regarded the ravagon with undisguised disdain.

  "What do you want with us, ravagon?" one of the techno-demons asked.

  "Why have you come to us?" another added.

  Parok returned their examining stares, making them wait before he answered. Then, when he could see flashes of anger in their eyes, the ravagon said, "I bring orders from the Gaunt Man's regent in Orrorsh."

  The techno-demons looked at each other, then turned back to the ravagon. "We are of Tharkold," the first techno-demon proclaimed. "We do not take orders from Orrorsh — not from its regent, and not from its High Lord."

  The ravagon almost drew his sword to teach the arrogant Tharkold a lesson, but he controlled himself. Battle would not serve Thratchen's purpose, and he wasn't certain he could defeat three Tharkold warriors without suffering damage of his own. If they could call upon their re
ality, they would have weapons that were beyond the capabilities of his Orrorsh powers to deal with. He would have to rely on superior strength, and that wasn't enough to fall back on just to teach a Tharkold respect. He would try another tact first.

  "You seem to have done very well here following the orders of your High Lord," Parok sneered. "Sleeping in mucus while the rest of the invasion continues around you, no thanks to Tharkold. Have you decided to hide in your pods until the rest of us finish the conquest?"

  One of the techno-demons stepped forward, metal claws extending from housings in his wrist, but another motioned for him to wait. Reluctantly, the claws snapped back, disappearing into the demon's wrist.

  "We have just finished locating the stormer that caused our master's failure," the first techno-demon explained. "We were restoring our energy after a failed attack so that we could try again."

  Parok noticed the sorcery symbols painted on the walls and floor of the room now. He had failed to see them before in the darkness, and then his attention shifted to the opening pods. The symbols screamed of sorcery mixed with technology, and Parok balked at such an abomination. No wonder the attempt had failed!

  "And what of the Tharkold bridge?" Parok asked.

  "We have enough stelae to try another connection, but these have not all been placed as yet," the techno-demon answered. "We do not have as many agents available, due to other ... setbacks our master has endured recently."

  "You are to postpone your plans here and accompany me to Orrorsh," Parok commanded. "These are the orders of the Gaunt Man's regent."

  "Who is this regent to issue orders to us?" one of the Tharkolds demanded. "We serve only our High Lord."

  "What of your High Lord's lieutenant?" Parok sneered. "Don't you also follow his orders?"

  "Which lieutenant?" the first techno-demon demanded. "No Tharkold of such rank is on this world."

  "Thratchen is," Parok snapped, "and he now serves as the Gaunt Man's regent. He has ordered you to come to him, you and any others you are in contact with."

  The techno-demons bowed their heads at the ravagon's words. They had no choice. They had to obey the orders of a lieutenant of their High Lord. "Very well," the first demon finally said, "we will come with you. But one of us will remain here, to complete the process we have started."

  Parok shrugged. Thratchen did not say to bring them all back to Orrorsh, only those that would come. If one of them wanted to remain to deal with a stormer, that was not his concern. "Then let us be off," the ravagon declared, stepping back out of the room the way he came.

  Two of the techno-demons followed him into the constant night of the still world, leaving the other to carry out the work they had been doing.

  108

  The last storm front was the worst they had been through thus far, and Tom O'Malley and Mara battled the controls to keep the seaplane flying. The World War II vehicle was not built to withstand the pounding winds and rain within the unnatural storm, and Tom could feel the craft breaking up around him. He hoped it would hold together long enough to make it out of the obscuring weather so that he could find a place — any

  place — to set the plane down.

  "Tom, we're losing altitude," Mara yelled over the howling wind and the noise of the plane's propellers.

  "Nothing to be done, girl," Tom snapped. "Just help me get us out of here."

  Rain turned to daggers, and they were flying into a hailstorm of sharp metal. Daggers clanged off the plane's nose, filling the craft with echoing pings. They ricocheted off the windshield, forming dozens of small cracks that threatened to rip through the glass, but it miraculously held together. Tom heard the shriek of metal as even more daggers were pulled through the spinning propellers. He was sure one or both of the engines would fail under this punishment, but they continued to turn, and then the rain was again just rain.

  "We're losing fuel, Tom," Mara called, tapping the gauge to coax more pressure out of the needle.

  "One of the daggers must have sliced a line," he called back. "We don't have much time left."

  Now the plane was entering a lightning filled cloud, and stark flashes hurt Tom's eyes. He contemplated trying to fly out of the cloud, but he feared that if he didn't stay to a straight course they would get lost within the storm front. They were losing fuel too rapidly to be able to afford the luxury of a side trip. Still, if a stray bolt caught one of the engines, and the fuel leak was as bad as he expected, they would explode like a fireworks display.

  "One of those bolts would end this trip real quick," Mara commented, echoing Tom's own fears.

  Then they were through the cloud of lightning, through the wall of storm, and flying over land that used to be Great Britain. It didn't look right to Tom, though. There was something different about it, something

  slightly twisted. But before he could think more about it, Mara called out a warning.

  "The fuel gauge just hit empty, Tom," she yelled, a slight hint of panic in her voice. "We're out of fuel!"

  The seaplane's engines sputtered, tried to catch, then died, and the plane started its final descent. "Hang on," Tom ordered, "I'm going to try to bring this thing down on a glide!"

  "Can you do that?" Mara asked.

  "We won't know until I try," Tom answered, then turned all of his concentration to the task at hand.

  The harrowing drop turned to an almost-controlled glide toward the Thames River. Tom held his breath, working the controls so that he kept the nose of the seaplane up, the wings level. The water was rushing toward them very quickly. He had slowed their speed somewhat, but he feared they were still going to hit at too great a rate of speed. If they came in too hard, the water would be like a brick wall to the old plane. They would be smashed into a hundred bits. Then all speculation ended, and the seaplane crashed into the river with a mighty splash.

  109

  Decker, Julie and Kurst stepped off the jungle bridge into a land that was not filled with hot mist. Instead, they found themselves in a gloomy, shadowy forest of gnarled trees and withered plants. It wasn't exactly a dead forest, but Decker wasn't sure you could call it living either. In any case, it was very unhealthy looking.

  "Is this Aysle?" Julie asked, as she followed Kurst onto a well-traveled path.

  "We have reached the magical reality," Kurst informed them. "I have only visited this cosm once before, so it may take me some time to figure out where we are."

  "We don't have a lot of time," Decker snapped, looking back over his shoulder as he jogged behind them.

  "This is not like my world, Decker, or like yours," the shapeshifter countered. "Direction is measured differently on a world which is flat and doesn't spin."

  "What are you talking about, Kurst?" Julie laughed. "Don't you know that the world isn't flat?"

  "Your world isn't, nor mine, but Aysle is a flat disk," Kurst said. "The laws of physics even operate differently here."

  "That's ridiculous!" Julie exclaimed, pushing past the shapeshifter. "How can you expect me to believe that a flat world can exist? It's like something out of the dark ages."

  "Exactly," said Kurst.

  "What does that mean ...?" Julie started to ask, but her words caught in the back of her throat as the forest ahead cleared. There, rising out of the horizon, was a bright yellow sun. It was much larger in the sky than the sun of Earth, which meant it was much closer.

  "It travels through the center of this world," Kurst told her, "bouncing up and down like a flaming ball. This is Aysle, Julie Boot, not your Earth. This is Tolwyn's world."

  Decker heard thunder somewhere behind them, even though the sun was shining overhead. "Let's worry about the differences later," he shouted. "Right now I think we should get moving. That storm is awful close."

  Kurst nodded, again taking his place ahead of Julie. Then the trio was off, racing down the path as fast as they could go.

  110

  Thratchen sat staring into the crackling flames that burned in the huge fireplace,
watching as the logs were consumed by the hungry fire. He went over everything he could think of, looking for some flaw in his plans. Dr. Hachi Mara-Two and her companions were on their way to Aysle, thus occupying Uthorion. The cybernetic hand he had provided her with after her own was lost allowed him a small amount of contact with the young woman from Kadandra, but so far she had not discovered the surveillance mechanism. Baruk Kaah was caught up in his own problems against the Americans, and Jean Malraux had yet to make an appearance in France. Only Mobius and Kanawa were mysteries to him, but he felt that he would be able to handle any interference they might attempt. Even the wild card in the shuffle, Malcolm Kane, was currently working with one of Thratchen's necromancers in Singapore. He would not be able to interfere either.

  There was a knock at the door to the large dining hall, and Thratchen was brought out of his contemplation. "Enter," he called, half-expecting one of the servants to be at the door. Instead, he was pleasantly surprised to see Sabathine.

  The vampyre sauntered into the chamber with practiced grace. She wore a dark blue cloak that clung to her shapely form. As she entered, she threw back the hood and let her shiny black hair fall free. Her alabaster skin looked even paler in the fire light, but her eyes sparkled and her lips were full and red.

  "Any word from the Gaunt Man, Thratchen?" Sabathine asked, stopping beside the techno-demon's chair.

  "Hmm? No, nothing yet," Thratchen said, somewhat distracted by the vampyre's unnatural beauty. He took her death-cold hand in his, remembering the last time they were together. But he was not under her vampyric spell, although he had felt her try her powers on him on more than one occasion. Instead, he was using her the way she was using him, and in many ways that was a preferable arrangement to any other they might make.

  "Sabathine, what do you know of the Nameless One?" Thratchen asked as he stroked her hand, trying to warm it even though he knew there was nothing he could do to banish the cold of death.

  The vampyre smiled at Thratchen, showing pearl-white teeth against the blood-red color of her lips. "That old fable? What is there to know?"