by Sean Davies
Azalea looked deeply into Connie’s eyes, which made the Book Wielder feel even hotter under the collar, and studied the strange pearl tint to her white irises.
“You have very lovely eyes,” Azalea said sweetly. “Is that colouring completely natural?”
Connie nodded bashfully. “Yes, it was there when I got my white eyes. I thought it was normal at first.”
“Fascinating,” Azalea purred.
Constance was captivated by the Queen and didn’t know whether she wanted to be her best friend, imitate her fashion, sleep with her, marry her, or all four. Suddenly, a frightful thought entered the Book Wielder’s giddy mind, and she wondered suspiciously if the Queen had magic charms as well as natural ones. She forced herself to concentrate and imagined a barrier around her body, the invisible nullification shield slithering around her skin and shutting all external magic out. Constance studied the Queen again and felt ever so slightly less attracted to the stunning woman, but not as much as she’d been expecting, suggesting that Azalea wasn’t using some form of captivation spell. Constance wondered if the variance was just in her imagination, as it was only marginally different, and let the shield disperse. If the Queen had enchantment on her side then it was nothing Connie could block, but she seriously doubted it. Queen Azalea was simply alluring inside and out.
“Are you okay?” Azalea asked with a concerned look on her face.
Constance snapped back into focus and forced the rational part of her mind into action, “Sorry Azalea, why are you here?” she asked plainly, hoping that the question didn’t come across too rude.
“Your Majesty, your Grace, oh glorious liberator!” Stitches cried, rushing up towards the house and bowing every few steps. “Is everything okay? Is Connie in trouble?” he asked nervously.
“You must be Stitches,” Azalea said with a smile. She took the puppet’s fabric hand and kissed it, something many people wouldn’t even dream of doing. “Please, just call me Azalea. I already know we’re going to be good friends,” she added mystically.
Stitches giggled uncontrollably, and Constance felt a little better after seeing someone else instantly fall for Azalea.
“She’s not in any trouble,” Azalea continued, “but do you think we could take this inside? We need to get your bags loaded onto the airship, but we obviously didn’t want to unlock your door without your consent.”
Connie frowned, but unlocked the door anyway. “Why are we going on your airship?”
“The Conclave of Nations is assembling in a few hours,” the Queen began, “and I heard you were sailing to Central Isle to join the Conclave, so I thought I’d offer you a lift in style.”
Constance pulled a face as she wondered what had really piqued the Queen’s interest, and Stitches instructed Lonix to head home to Baz. Connie waved at the Gloom state car as it sped away.
They all entered the Lee residence. Constance knew that the political powers of Mydia, both old and new, were due to meet on Central Isle that day, which was why her ferry trip was due to arrive in the early evening; well after the Conclave of Nations had finished their business. The fact that the Queen of Tropica would give her an airship ride on a whim or even invest that much attention in a solitary Book Wielder was unlikely, and Connie knew that the Queen was hiding an ulterior motive. Even Stitches had a puzzled look upon his face.
“I’ve called ahead and authorized your clearance,” Azalea continued. “You’ll be meeting with the Book Wielder Chloe O’Kelly for orientation as planned, only hours ahead of schedule.
“What’s really going on?” Constance asked critically. “I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, but I get the impression you’re not telling me… well, anything.”
The Queen took a seat on one of the Lee’s crisp white sofas, opposite a long glass coffee table and identical second couch, and took a moment to appreciate the modern apartment’s furnishings before gesturing for Connie to close the door. Constance slowly closed the front door, leaving the semicircle of guards outside, and then took a seat opposite the Queen alongside Stitches.
“Something’s wrong with the world,” Azalea said frankly, cutting straight to the point now that they were in private. “I can’t say much—only Winston’s unofficial inner circle are in the know—but strange things are happening, and we need to take action. You may have experienced things like ground tremors, magical surges, and null zones yourself.”
Connie considered her ghostly experience and wondered if it was related. “That doesn’t sound good,” she replied. “But what’s all that got to do with me?”
Azalea looked deep in thought for a moment before answering. “Lately I’ve been seeing things, which isn’t unusual considering my talents, but they’re so strange, so foreign, yet so close…” She trailed off.
It was common knowledge that Azalea was a ‘Conduit of Fate’, although not many people truly knew what that was. Azalea, and her barely recognised kindred throughout history, had the ability to glean Fate’s will to capture a snippet of things to come, and could discern what events should happen and must transpire; the benevolent ruler had undoubtedly used the gift to further her own ends. Although choice could always derail things at any given moment, which when coupled with reality-manipulating magic could be devastating to the very fabric of the universe, the Conduits of Fate were said to assist with restoring the balance and swaying the world’s chain of events back to their originally intended path, or as close as they could get it.
The most notable instance of the Queen’s foresight was her apparent change of heart during the War for Reality, where she had opened Tropica’s doors to Winston Reynolds and allowed him to complete his third continental merger with the Gloom. To most, it had seemed that the Queen had switched sides to join the evil Archmage Omniosis, but Azalea was actually assisting with the restoration of the planet Mydia to its former magical splendour, along with restoring the Book Wielder Conclave to monitor and regulate the use of magic, as was Fate’s will.
Stitches looked at Constance and she shrugged with an equally baffled expression on her face.
“Great liberator,” Stitches said softly, “what is it you see?”
“A mantle of machines,” the Queen answered, snapping back to reality. “Unreal, unfathomable machines surrounding something strangely familiar, yet so very, very different. Something’s calling out from within—it thinks something is wrong and it’s taking drastic action.”
Connie froze; she too had seen the glimpses of the strange mechanism Azalea was describing.
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand what this has to do with Connie?” Stitches said, tilting his head to the side as he tried to process the strange information.
“She’s seen me with them,” Constance answered, once again imagining herself surrounded by gears and machinery.
Azalea nodded. “I can’t go into more detail, not until I’ve consulted with the others. You know politics,” she said, brightening up considerably and flicking her pink locks majestically. “But when the time comes, I may have need of you—we all may—if you’re willing to help?”
Constance sat in silence for a moment and felt the weight of the world pressing down upon her shoulders. She wasn’t sure how, but she knew that the choice to help or not carried grave consequences either way, and not just for herself. She knew an even more difficult decision lay ahead of her. Connie thought about her family, her friends within the Tropican Military Forces, and the people of the magically-imbued world, and the decision didn’t seem as difficult. If she could help them all then she would do so, in whatever way she could.
“Sign me up,” Constance said with a sigh. “If the world is in trouble and I can assist, how can I really say no?”
“Many people would shy away from such a significant fate,” Azalea replied. “These things aren’t always so clear cut, and no one would blame you for leaving this well alone.”
Connie shook her head slowly. “No. If I can make a difference to whatever’s happening to
the planet then I will, though I’m looking forward to having more details.”
“Count me in too,” Stitches added bravely. “I haven’t got a clue what either of you are talking about but I’m helping, no matter what!”
“You two are cute,” Azalea said with a sweet smirk. “I’ll be able to explain more soon, I promise.”
“So, you think Winston will be okay with cutting me in on… whatever the problem is?” Connie asked.
“Problems,” Azalea corrected quietly, “and yes, I’m sure he will.”
“Do you already know he’ll say yes?” Stitches asked shyly. “From your abilities?”
“No, not for sure,” the Queen replied airily. “As of late, Winston has been quite the mystery.”
✽ ✽ ✽
On Rura, Mydia’s northern continent rich with farmland and forests, Nathan Philips limped towards the small village of Norham. The middle-aged man plodded through the village’s open wooden gate, leaning heavily on his walking stick as his poor leg cramped up, and studied the damaged palisade wall running around the little houses and bungalows critically. Soldiers from the Legion of Imperia, dressed in red and black uniforms, light combat armour, and the odd suit of power armour were busy repairing the wooden defences, but in Nathan’s eyes they shouldn’t have been needed in the first place. If Winston Reynolds, the traitor to humanity, hadn’t infected the world with chaotic magical creatures then no one would need fortifications in the first place.
His leg ached but he forced it into action as he traipsed through the village. The people were getting on with their lives, and there was even a few of the foul puppet-creatures among them. It made Nathan sick to his stomach. Where was their respect for the old world? Where was their human pride? Even the new purple and blue sky provoked him to anger.
He had enjoyed a simple but good life before the merger, working as a manager in a small supermarket in the coastal town of Stonebury-on-Sea, but during the War for Reality it had been dragged into the crossfire between the Omni and the resistance. Unbeknownst to most of the townsfolk, there had been a sizable weapon cache from the Great War hidden under a long-abandoned coastal gun battery. The fighting had escalated until the town was near enough ruined, and the freakish mannequins from the Gloom had detonated the cache to prevent it from falling into the hands of the resistance forces. By the time the dimensions were merged, and the source of magic was dispersed and spread through the land, all that was left of Stonebury-on-Sea was a scattered collection of reeking Gloom structures sitting beside the few human ones that had survived, and a whole heap of rubble. Nathan had lost his job, friends, family, and fiancé in one cruel twist of fate.
Around the village were wanted posters pasted to lamp posts and store windows, mostly showing the same three individuals, although two of them were technically the same being. There was an image of a full white masquerade mask with a goofy expression on the poster for Corriztis, the rogue corruption Demon; a long-faced man with a stern expression under the title of Theodore Miller, although the ex-Justiciar had ‘Corriztis’ written underneath his name in brackets; and for Daedrian Darkheart, there was only an empty oval containing a big black question mark. The person Nathan was on his way to meet, the secretive leader of the Darkheart Organisation, had never been truly identified by the ‘enemies of humanity’ and seemed to be a master of disguise.
Nathan dragged his ruined leg to the Haggard Huntsman, the village’s charming local pub, and his heart lifted with pride when he saw the red, white, and black Imperian and World banners hanging from its long-standing stonework.
Not long after the merger, while Nathan had been struggling to find a new home in the weird and wild world, he had made the mistake of venturing too close to a forest in the evening. Thinking nothing of it, he had planned on clearing his head with a long walk as he mourned his broken life and assessed his options for the bleak future. The newly formed Justiciars and Conclave had been offering help, along with the budding new political powers, but he hadn’t trusted them as they were the very same people responsible for his plight. A huge horned direwolf had pounced out of the treeline and Nathan had narrowly evaded its massive maw, but the beast still managed to tear his leg and thigh apart before a pair of Werewolf Brutebeasts, who had been tracking the massive new type of wolf, had come crashing onto the scene. One grabbed the direwolf by its horns while the other scooped Nathan up and ran him to safety. Nathan had passed out briefly but soon awoken to find a Vampire Bloodmage repairing the severe damage to his leg. Nathan had gone crazy, hysterically demanding to see a human doctor and to be healed without devious magic or potions. His leg always hurt and barely functioned, but the pain was a constant reminder of his dedication and loyalty to mankind, and his deep-seated hatred and resentment of everything else.
Nathan had once prided himself on his neat and tidy appearance, and had often preached the importance of a smart ironed uniform and respectable hairstyle and colour to his staff at the supermarket. Now, his clothes were filthy, torn, and stained, his hair was long, and his face was covered in an unkempt fuzz of stubble. He’d resorted to washing himself from head to toe in a public restroom in Legentium by cupping handfuls of water out of a sink and quickly rubbing it against his body, before the long and painful walk east to Norham. Unfortunately for Nathan, the trek along Rura’s winding country roads had undone most of his hard work and caked his skin in a film of sweat and dirt.
He entered the Haggard Huntsman excitedly; he couldn’t wait to meet his new employer. Since his long streak of misfortune, Nathan had drifted place to place, taking small jobs where he could for food and a place to stay for a night or two, and only resorted to the government’s emergency shelters when he absolutely had to. After many drunken nights of putting the world to rights, in many different pubs, a sympathetic ear had offered him the chance to work for the elusive Darkheart Organisation. They were seen by many as a group of mindless terrorists, hampering and sabotaging Mydia’s repair efforts, but to Nathan they were the liberators of humanity, fighting to free ordinary men and women from the tyrannical Supernatural and Freak-loving administration that had reduced his life to cinders. He was more than happy to be their new recruit.
The inside of the pub was more modern than he was expecting, and a young woman in a smart uniform was pouring fizzy drinks into pint glasses for a group of puppet things, while a smartly dressed man in his fifties adjusted his spectacles and watched Nathan curiously.
“Welcome to the Haggard Huntsman,” the man said kindly, ignoring Nathan’s scruffy appearance. “What can I get you to drink? Or perhaps sir would care to view our menu? Our chef makes a mean chicken and leek pie.”
Nathan limped to the bar, staring daggers at the Alternatives as they gorged themselves on packets of crisps and swigged their sugary drinks, convulsing as the food and liquid poured down inside their unnatural bodies. Nathan clenched his fists and grinded his teeth.
The man behind the bar leant over and whispered loudly, “If you have a problem with our clientele, then I’m afraid you’ll have to leave. We are very progressive here in Norham.”
Nathan wondered if he’d been set up at first—the job opportunity and all the money he’d been promised had seemed far too good to be true—but he decided to try his luck anyway. He had nothing left to lose.
“I’ve been told you sell a rare black cider,” Nathan began, reciting the lines the stranger had taught him. “I’m willing to pay any price to try it.”
The barman smiled eerily. “Well, we don’t get many requests for that one, but we do sell it. Unfortunately we don’t keep it on tap, but there’s some down in our cellar.”
‘Jackpot,’ Nathan thought merrily.
“I’ll tell you what,” the barman said, readjusting his spectacles once again, “why don’t you come down with me? That way you can see I’m not selling you any old swill.”
“Yeah, okay,” Nathan replied coolly.
“If sir would care to follow me,” the posh barma
n said, lifting the wooden hatch to the bar and gesturing to a door next to the shelves of spirits, wines, champagnes, and liquors. “Tammy, be a dear and watch the bar.”
“Sure thing, no worries, boss,” the young girl replied, before lighting up a Dreamleaf joint and chatting to the Alts.
Nathan followed the man behind the bar and down a set of bare concrete stairs. The barman pulled out a long key and unlocked a sturdy metal door that led to the basement, before walking inside. Nathan dragged his leg along into a cellar filled with metal barrels, racks of wine, industrial-sized fridges and freezers, and crates and boxes filled with bar snacks, cigarettes, and tobacco pouches.
The room was lit by several dim yellow lights, and to Nathan it seemed suspiciously small, so when the barman pulled a floor-to-ceiling wine rack open and revealed a secret room in the old brickwork he wasn’t particularly surprised, but he was damn well impressed.
“He’s waiting inside for you,” the barman said coldly before shaking Nathan’s hand. “Do us proud and help rid the world of this unnatural filth.”
“I will,” Nathan replied firmly.
The barman headed to the entrance but didn’t leave altogether, and Nathan assumed it was in case he needed to lock the place down in a hurry; the Justiciars would literally kill to be standing where Nathan was at that very moment.
He took a deep breath, steadied his nerves, and hobbled into the secret room.
Underneath one bare lightbulb hanging from the ceiling was a table that had seen better days, littered with stacks of anti-establishment posters and pamphlets, and around the makeshift desk was an inconsistent assortment of dining chairs. Against the bare brickwork were several shelves and cupboards covered with rolled-up maps, more paperwork, strange devices, plates of food, and glasses of alcoholic beverages. Four guards stood in each corner of the hidden room, dressed in ordinary clothing but armed with long futuristic rifles marked with the old Inquisition’s emblem. Every now and then, a surge of energy would travel through engraved lines on the weapons’ thick rectangular casing, snaking from the shoulder rest down to a threatening variety of multi-purpose barrels. Sitting at the table was a young auburn-haired girl, no older than thirteen, dressed in a long green dress. Beside her was a tall robed man with steely dark eyes peering out from the shadows of his hood.