Chasing Portals: Swords and Science Book 1

by Jason Parker

  The Fire Dance was a typical dance hall and one of several along the Brighton beach road. Such loud, raucous, and sweaty venues were atypical for Nightlocke. The Brighton Tavern—a few doors down the road was more to his liking—laid back and quiet.

  He prodded his horse to move on to the Brighton Tavern but after a few paces, he reined in again and dismounted. He led his horse around to the customer stable at the rear of the Fire Dance. He exchanged his horse for a claim ticket from the stable attendant and walked back to the entrance. He wasn’t quite sure why he suddenly changed his mind, but since he had stopped and surrendered his mount, he decided to go in.

  Upon opening the door, he was assaulted by the discordant blare of the music and blasted by a wave of heat so thick it made his breath catch. A noxious scent of oily body odor mixed with stale beer permeated the room—a large dance floor with twin bars running the length of the building along the left and right walls. Straight ahead, along the back wall, was a small stage occupied by the band responsible for the auditory onslaught. A six-person group with a guitar player, pianist, drummer, singer, and two violinists—the only women in the band. In between, a sea of humanity writhed and gyrated to the uneven rhythm of the music.

  All members of the band, aside from the drummer, were equipped with receptors and resonators. The singer bounced around on the stage and when he decided to mumble something into his receptor, the unintelligible output from the resonator sounded like something between an angry cow and a thunderstorm.

  Nightlocke recalled learning about receptors and resonators at the Science Institute. They were created by a Scientist named Florian. His specialty was the study of plants. In his later years he became convinced plants could communicate verbally, but too quietly for the human ear to detect. To enhance the sound, he developed an input device, the receptor, which could capture sound waves and transmit them along copper wires to an output device, the resonator. The resonator, by employing a hydraulic system with valves, flaps, and an incandium powered pump, could increase the amplitude of the incoming sound waves and then transmit the sound at an increased volume. Florian was never able to hear the conversations of plants with the device, but his invention eventually found its way into the hands of musicians.

  Nightlocke stared at the band and silently cursed Florian until he was interrupted by a tap on the shoulder. A partially bald, burley bouncer held out one hand and pointed to a sign on the wall above his head with the other. The sign read Admission: 2 cpr. Nightlocke contemplated retreating to the cooler, fresher air outside but, instead, he flipped a pair of copper coins at the bouncer and walked to the bar on right side, dodging a few exuberant dancers along the way.

  He seated himself in the middle of three empty stools and rested his elbows on the bar. An attractive bartender with braided blonde hair approached him from behind the bar. She had small orange and yellow flames painted on her cheek and wore a black blouse unbuttoned far enough to reveal an eyeful of cleavage.

  “What can I get you?” he thought she asked, half-hearing and half-lip reading.

  “Ale,” he responded loudly, competing with the singer who had started mewling into the receptor.

  She nodded and returned a few moments later with a mug that was as much foam as ale. He started to complain. Instead, he sighed and stared at the ale, waiting for the head to settle. Why am I here?

  A nudge to his back startled him and he swiveled around to locate the source. A cute, slender woman with an untamed mane of wavy dark hair smiled at him. She said something he couldn’t hear as she pointed toward the stool next to him. Realizing she was asking if the seat was available, he nodded and motioned for her to sit. Once she was seated he pointed to his ale, which had settled to about three-quarters full and then made a drinking gesture with his hand. She nodded and mouthed a thank you as he waved his hand to attract the bartender’s attention. She walked over and he pointed to his ale and then to the dark haired woman.

  Once the woman had her ale in hand, she smiled at him, raised her mug toward him and drained the majority of it in one prolonged gulp. He found her chugging strangely attractive and quickly raised his mug and followed suit. She laughed as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  Standing, she leaned toward him and put her lips close to his ear. “My name’s Fi and I want you to dance with me.”

  Not waiting for a response, she grabbed his hand and led him to the dance floor. She nudged her way through a maze of dancers until she found a spot with suitable space toward the center of the room. She raised her arms and began swaying her hips to the jagged beat of the music. She was wearing a knee-length brown bustle skirt along with a brown and gold bustier. When she shook her hands above her head, it inched up to expose her nicely toned midriff. Despite her slenderness, she was powerfully built. Intriguing.

  At first, Nightlocke moved stiffly but was able to follow her moves without looking too awkward, or at least he hoped so. He became entranced by her sultry movements and, after a few minutes, began to warm up to the music. As the sweat began to pour from their bodies, Fi led him back to the bar to inhale an ale. She quickly returned to the dance floor with him rarely bothering to make an attempt at conversation. She did try once to ask him about his coat being hot—but he just shrugged. The thumping made it hard to hear. Perhaps she was trying to tell him she thought he was hot. Hard to tell. Dagan was right about the coat being able to adapt to the temperature. He barely realized he was wearing it.

  The evening faded into a blur of motion and sound. There were gyrating dancers and gulps of ale and the sensuousness of Fi’s body all infusing into him. Suddenly, he was surprised to find himself wrapped in Fi’s arms with his lips locked onto hers—then someone lit several bright incandium lanterns. The band stopped playing but not the skin and sweat and air of their mouths.

  “All right, everybody—move it out,” the balding bouncer called from near the door. After being exposed to the loud music all evening, his voice sounded distant and distorted to Nightlocke’s ears.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Fi said. “I have a room at the inn next door.”

  Caught up in the moment and with the taste of her lips lingering on his own, he didn’t spend much time thinking about what he was doing. Nightlocke nodded and followed her out the door.

  ***

  Nightlocke awoke the next morning to the sound of a fist rapping on a nearby door. He tried to pass it off as the remnants of a dream and drift back to sleep. Anyway, it didn’t make sense for someone to be knocking on the door to his quarters.

  “Time to wake up,” a muffled, unfamiliar male voice called.

  At the sound of the voice his eyes shot open and he blinked a few times in confusion. When they finally focused, he saw bare shoulders and a mass of wavy dark hair laying next him.

  “Oh, hell,” he muttered as memories of the previous evening came flooding back.

  Fi rolled onto her back and glanced briefly at him. Her expression was unreadable. “Come in,” she called out.

  Nightlocke shifted to his back and edged up the headboard into a semi-sitting position as the door opened and an unfamiliar face popped into view. Looking closer at the man, he noticed a resemblance to Fi. Though his dark hair was cut short, it had the same wavy texture as hers and his pale blue eyes were identical to hers. He surmised the man was her brother, but while her features combined nicely to create a pleasant appearance, his appearance was somewhat disturbing. Laurel’s words suddenly sprang into his head, “remarkably unremarkable”. Was this the creepy man she had warned him about when they were leaving the Institute? Dark wavy hair—the description fit.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” the man said looking toward Nightlocke. “I’m called Shroud. I’m sure you’re a bit confused, maybe this will help explain things.”

  Shroud reached across the bed and handed Nightlocke a sealed letter. His name was written on the outside and he immediately recognized the script as Dagan’s handwriting. Curious, he broke the seal
and began reading.

  Dear Nightlocke,

  Allow me to begin by apologizing for the deception I have orchestrated. I don’t expect you to agree with my actions and understand if you feel manipulated and betrayed. To that, I cannot provide you with any acceptable answers, but can only ask your forbearance.

  I confess to adding a substance to your brandy yesterday evening to make you susceptible to suggestions. That is how you ended up at the Fire Dance and ultimately encountered my associates, Shadow and Shroud, whom I charged with ensuring you remained occupied for the night.

  By the time you read this, I will be well on my way to attend to a matter of personal urgency. Though you are likely unaware, I have you to thank for opening my eyes to the realization that living in seclusion from the affairs of the world is no solution, but rather the folly of a bitter, selfish, old man. I seek now to rejoin the living.

  Please return to my castle to collect your belongings and any supplies you need, but I’m afraid I can no longer offer you the use of my facilities. In your quarters you will find a letter addressed to Wexworth. He is in my debt so present it to him in Corava and he will accept you onto his staff. He will do so grudgingly, but I trust you will find a way to take advantage of his vast knowledge of mechanics and engineering.

  Shadow and Shroud will accompany you to Corava and provide you with any assistance you need. I have worked with them in the past and they have proven themselves to be trustworthy and dependable.

  Though our time together has been brief, and occasionally tumultuous, you have helped me remember much that I had forgotten. I hope I have likewise been able to impart a measure of wisdom and value to you. You are a remarkable Scientist with unlimited potential. I urge you again to seek out Wexworth and continue your education. Our paths will cross again.

  Regards,

  Dagan

  Nightlocke crumpled the letter in disgust and threw it at the wall. "What a load of crap! He spiked my drink with something to open me to suggestions. No wonder I ended up here."

  "Hey, I think anything he put in your drink wore off long before you ended up in my bed," Fi retorted and flung the covers off.

  "Don't flatter yourself, you're the one who suggested we come here," he said.

  Fi put her feet on the floor and turned to him. “Really! You're not even my type!” she exclaimed. "You're the one who started kissing me—I just followed your lead."

  "Uh, I'm going to leave you two alone for a while," Shroud said and slipped out the door.

  "I'm leaving, too, Fi or Shadow or whatever your name is," Nightlocke said as he started to pull back the blankets and noticed her eyes were still fixed on him. "Do you mind?"

  "Call me Shadow," she said still looking at him. "And I've seen everything you have to offer and it's not that impressive."

  "Whatever," he said as he pulled himself out of the bed and quickly dressed.

  “You do have a cute butt, though,” she laughed.

  He glared at her as he shrugged into his coat and then walked toward the door. Remembering the discarded letter, he snatched it from the floor, opened the door and slammed it behind him. He didn’t recall walking upstairs the previous evening, but a quick scan of the corridor revealed downward staircases at either end. He hurried toward the nearest one.

  “Hey, where are you off to?” a voice called out behind him.

  He turned and saw Shroud leaning against the wall across from his sister’s room. “Where did you come from?” he asked. “And what business of yours is it where I’m going?”

  “I’m assuming the letter indicated Mr. Garris asked us to accompany you to Corava,” Shroud stated as if there was no question they were now traveling companions.

  “Did Dagan also ask your sister to seduce me,” Nightlocke said raising his voice and holding up the crumpled letter.

  “Of course not,” Shroud responded. “He wouldn’t require anything like that. He just wanted us to occupy you and make sure you didn’t return to his castle last night. He probably just expected us to get you drunk so you passed out. My sister, well…she likes to make her job as enjoyable as possible. And, in fairness to her, she didn’t exactly have to twist your arm.”

  “Right, your sister’s an angel. I took advantage of her,” Nightlocke said throwing up his arms. “I’m leaving, I’m not going to Corava, so unless you’re planning on kidnapping me, you can go find someone else to accompany.”

  “We’re not kidnappers,” he heard Shroud say. Nightlocke stormed down the stairs and out of the inn onto the street.

  The brightness of the sun indicated the day was well into mid-morning. As he approached the stable behind the Fire Dance he reached into his coat pocket, visualized his claim ticket, and pulled it out. He handed it to the middle-aged stable attendant who sauntered up with an amused look on his face.

  “You didn’t get this signed,” he said matter-of-factly as he scanned the ticket. “This is a customer only stable so I’m gonna have to charge you two coppers. Also, this ain’t an overnight stable, so I’m gonna have to charge you three more.”

  “Fine,” Nightlocke said as he reached into his coat pocket again, grabbed five copper coins, and tossed them at the attendant. “Just get me my mount.”

  The attendant returned with his horse and Nightlocke climbed into the saddle. At first he trotted, and then as he got through town toward the road leading to Dagan’s castle, he prodded his horse into a canter. As he drew near the outskirts of town, he saw Shadow and Shroud sitting on horses. Shroud was holding the reins of a third, unoccupied horse. The horses all looked to be rentals.

  “Great, now I’m being stalked,” he muttered and ignored them as he rode by.

  For a while, they traveled in silence with Nightlocke in the lead. Before the path narrowed to a single file trail, Shadow and Shroud pulled up next to him.

  “How well do you know an instructor at the Science Institute you attended named Ambernifer?” Shadow asked.

  “Ambernifer? Why do you want to know?” he asked in return, silently cursing himself as he felt the irrepressible warmth of a blush on his cheeks. He looked away into a line of trees then back at her.

  Shadow stared at his reaction, and then smiled broadly. “Oh dear Keyaul, you did her,” she accused, but then her looked turned serious. “You have no idea, do you?”

  “What do you mean I have no idea?” he responded in exasperation. “Yes, I did her as you so eloquently put it, so what?”

  She started to answer but stopped and looked at Shroud. She nodded almost unperceptively and said, “Nothing, it doesn’t matter.”

  “Arrhh! You are the most infuriating woman I have ever met,” he snarled and looked skyward at the sunlight filtering through the canopy of trees.

  Nightlocke turned his gaze to Shroud and eyed him suspiciously. “Since we’re asking questions, were you at the Science Institute last spring?”

  Shroud looked toward his sister then back at Nightlocke. “No.”

  “That’s funny.” Nightlocke glared at him. “A friend of mine described you perfectly and said you were asking questions about me.”

  Shroud blushed. “Uh…your friend must have mistaken me for someone else.”

  Nightlocke threw his hands up. “Dagan claims you’re trustworthy and you’re lying to me—great!” He spurred his horse forward.

  When he reached the castle, he went straight to the stable, not bothering to look if Shadow and Shroud followed. He greeted Lassernan who was busy mucking the stalls and asked while handing over his mount, “Is Dagan around?”

  “Nope, he left early this morning and said he’d be gone for a while,” Lassernan replied. “He said you’d be around to collect your stuff.”

  “What about Arletta, is she here?” Nightlocke asked.

  “Nope, Mr. Garris told her she only needed to come around once a week while he was gone,” Lassernan replied.

  Nightlocke knew it was pointless, but asked anyway, “Did Dagan say where he was going?”


  “Nope,” Lassernan said, much as Nightlocke expected.

  Nightlocke waved at him and went inside the castle. When he reached the lab, he was shocked to find it almost completely barren. He jogged to the second lab and then the reagent room in between: all barren. They were stripped of everything save the largest and bulkiest pieces of equipment. The blaster and a rack of eight stoppered test tubes containing the clear and red substances needed to create the force beam were neatly arranged on the lab bench where Nightlocke preferred to work.

  Nightlocke sighed and dropped the blaster and test tubes into the pockets of his overcoat. Dagan clearly meant what he said in the letter about not being able to use the lab facilities any longer. He had made sure of that. Nightlocke stared at the empty lab and pondered his next move.

  He left the lab and walked to his quarters. On his bed was the promised letter with Wexworth’s name written in Dagan’s hand. He added this to his coat pocket and began filling his backpack with the remainder of his possessions. He could have shoved everything into the coat pockets, but the backpack was more natural and familiar.

  After everything he owned was packed, he sat on the bed and ran his fingers through his hair. He could go see Queen Aedana and demonstrate the force beam as he had originally intended. Dagan had cautioned against this. He was now, however, having second thoughts about most everything Dagan had said. Why was this happening? Why had Dagan crossed him?

  He could return to the Institute where he was certain to be welcomed back. Or, he could go to Corava and attempt to work with the rude and arrogant Wexworth. This might improve his engineering skills. Or, he could strike out in no particular direction and see where he ended up. What the hell?

  As angry as he was with Dagan, his advice about sharing his force beam was solid and true. He needed to think carefully before sharing it with anyone. After spending four years at the Institute, going back this soon held little appeal. He wanted to experience something new, but wandering aimlessly without a plan was not his style. Only one choice. He sighed again, slung his backpack over his shoulders and opened the door to the courtyard.