War of the World Makers

by Reilly Michaels

  A half-moon of crowd retreated, step by step as the thing lumbered forward, the floor tiles cracking, gears turning wheels clank-toc clank toc, steam whooshing and the electricity spitting zzzzzzt, and all of it going a bit faster with each passing moment. To what end though? Would they all be killed? And as though the present spectacle weren’t threatening enough, a hidden hatch in the rear of this World Stormer sprang open and a big pair of menacing guns, dark-steel army killers, swiveled up 45 degrees to click into place—each gun with not one but eight musket-sized barrels forming a circle.

  As Freddie watched, astonished as everyone else, the guns cranked up a few degrees then commenced to revolve and fire. The storming sound of the reports crashed against the walls and echoed back and forth until her ears hurt. She also heard a noblewoman or two scream in the background, their husbands cursing. Mercifully though, after sixteen flaming eruptions in five seconds, the guns went silent. Their barrels spun to stillness with a click-click-click and began to smoke.

  Out of nowhere, a jovial Prince Christian bounded up to the side of his World Stormer and faced the stunned onlookers. But no time for calm. Even though the guns had ceased their blistering fire, the World Stormer itself zzzzzt-clanked faster. Air-cracking electric bolts, one after the other, blazed hotter and louder, and the contraption seemed well on its way to destroy all life in Bärenthoren Castle, if not on earth.

  And if that electricity touches those rockets?

  "Not to be concerned, good noble folk!" Prince Christian said. He clutched a brass handle on the side of the chassis and shoved it down. Zzzt-clonk.

  Freddie watched as the entire thing began to slow and stop. The steam whooshed one more time. The smoke and sparks died. The entire quivering mob of nobility in the Great Hall sighed with relief. "Thank God and Mary!" more than one exclaimed.

  Prince Christian raised his left arm into the air and snapped his index finger on high. Receiving this cue, Bärenthoren butlers swarmed in from all sides—at least a dozen of them, each carrying a silver tray filled with fine crystal glasses of wines and vodka. The nobles received the alcohol with much gratitude, needing to calm their nerves and reconsider themselves masters of their domain. Even Freddie might have asked for a glass, though she constrained herself and invited only a few deep breaths. She listened to her father explain with much enthusiasm how science-minded men from around Europe had assisted in the creation of World Stormer. Freddie knew he’d been working on some project for years, and his long nights often drained him, made him appear gaunt and worried.

  "Are your fingers pricking now?"

  Another voice surprised her, but this one dangerous and deep as lava yet to feel the air. She turned to see a smiling face, a Chinese-looking face beaming with care, soft brown eyes twinkling like a Christmas St. Nicholas. That voice from this face? The skin clean shaven, just one thin lock of braided black hair dangling from the chin, and a small ornament, like a big silver beetle, piercing the flesh of his right cheek—its surface inscribed with the same symbols she noted yesterday on Temujin Gur’s cloak.

  Could this be him? Surely, such a happy man cannot cause Bärenthoren to bleed.

  He stood a few inches taller than Freddie, wearing a dark red tunic tucked into a wide, black leather waist band inset with rows of rubies and gold circlets. He repeated his question to her, though in a slightly different way:

  "By the pricking of your fingers, does something wicked nearby linger?"

  "No, but how could you—"

  "I am not evil. My soul is beyond good and evil, Princess," the Chinese-looking man said.

  "You are ... Temujin Gur?”

  "Yes, and I am Mongolian, not Chinese. There is a big difference. The moon does not believe it, but I am older than the moon," he said and smiled.

  “How do you know about my fingers?"

  "Through the darkness of future past, the magician longs to see, and I've seen far more than your fingers. But I wish to talk about something else now," he said, his face still glowing. Truly, he appeared like the Asian Monkey King—all chipper and frisky and full of life.

  In the background, Freddie heard the excited voice of her father explaining the workings of his new war device. His voice nearby helped to calm her, for despite the friendly appearance of this magical Mongol, the blood still flowed into demon shapes and the legends of death persisted. Yet, at the moment, her fingers felt normal.

  He continued. "I wish to discuss a matter with you. I know of your brilliance, princess, your gift for languages—a suitable command of Greek, Latin and French, as well as your love of philosophy, history and opera. I hear that you can even sing an Italian aria with your rich voice."

  "I am honored by your kindness … I hope one day that I can live up to your overestimation of my talents. And what do you wish to discuss with me, sir?"

  "A bear."

  "A bear?"

  "The bear attack, witnessed by the Empress Elizabeth, just yesterday. Do you consider it an act of evil?"

  "By evil, you mean ...?"

  "Your Christian bible tells you what evil is, does it not, Princess?" He looked wise as the Buddha himself, seeking to instruct with questions, riddles, and stories to follow. "Your Christian bible, first assembled by Emperor Constantine, later discarded and rewritten with many edits. The final version now serves your Pope in Rome."

  “Ahh, yes, that bible. But he is not my Pope, sir.”

  “So tell me, Princess von Anhalt, did the forces of evil win the day?”

  “I think not,” she said, “because the bear’s attack is an amoral act.”

  The sorcerer looked intrigued by her reply. His eyebrows, thick and long as Indian caterpillars, raised high enough to call attention and cause Freddie to stare into his eyes. She saw her face in those eyes, reflected back so plainly and candle-lit white that the Mongol appeared to possess no eye color at all. His eyes had become her face.

  She felt her fingers prick at the vision of it.

  “Do you deny the presence of evil in the world?” Gur asked.

  “That is a question for theologians and priests. I am certain the question of good and evil does not apply to bear attacks.”

  “And if I were the bear?”

  Freddie glimpsed her face again, staring back at her from the sorcerer’s eyes, and a small burning began in her head, as if a candle had been lit only a few inches below her nerves. Gur smiled and she noticed gold markings on his upper teeth: Chinese-like symbols, much like the magical symbols on his scarlet cloak. “Yarrow stick symbols,” he said, his eyes full of Freddie. “They protect me from poison.”

  “And who would dare wish to poison you?”

  The Mongol laughed and executed a half turn, extending his hand towards the tables where Freddie’s family awaited. Having calmed, the crowd had begun to take seats at the white-linen tables arranged for them. The tables formed two long rows facing one another across the Great Hall, at least thirty feet of space between the two—enough to leave room for the entertainment to come. Russian nobles and Empress Elizabeth formed one row, Prince Christian and Princess Johanna, and the Prussian nobility, the other. Servants of all kinds busily carted in the carefully decorated food and placed it on the tables; and to prevent ruining any appetites, The World Stormer had been pushed into a far corner by castle guards and covered with a tarp of gold-trimmed purple cloth.

  “Please, Princess, do not let me keep you," Temujin Gur said, "but just one more thing. I must conclude our marvelous talk.”

  “Yes, please do.”

  She stared into his eyes again and noted her face even larger in them, so large that her own eyes now composed half of Gur’s eyes. The pain in her head, the burning, felt hotter. What would happen when her eyes finally became his? Would her head burst into flame?

  Gur continued. “If a final confrontation took place between the two greatest armies of all time, let’s call them the forces of light and the forces of darkness, who would triumph?”

  Is the Mongol
sorcerer testing me? She believed him to be weighing her psyche. Flight or fight, Freddie? She knew she must show resolve, ignore the magical burning and the consuming eyes while also resisting the temptation to criticize the Mongol’s obsession with good and evil.

  She took a deep breath and answered. “The final battle will be decided by the one who arrives first and has the superior will, but I believe pure force to be a weak form of power.”

  He smiled once more. “Might you provide an example?”

  “Before you cook my brain like a roast?”

  “Whatever do you mean, Princess von Anhalt?” Gur looked genuinely baffled.

  “Alright then ... in conventional military terms, when two armies meet on the battlefield, the cost in human life is high and the damage to the treasury long-lasting. A weak ruler attacks first with his whole army, but a strong and cunning ruler overthrows his opponent with a cup of poisoned wine.”

  "Ahh, I see. So you are telling me that—"

  The Mongol was suddenly cut off by Prince Christian who appeared in their midst holding a goblet of dark red wine in each hand. He walked up to his daughter and kissed her on the forehead. "Good evening, my darling girl." Freddie kissed him back on the cheek. He then glanced from one to the other and said: “The Empress should be happy to hear that I personally oversee the bottling of all the wine from my vineyard.” Offering a glass to Temujin Gur, he said, “Drink up, my friend, and let’s have done with all this talk about death. Besides, you‘ll never convince this princess to change her mind. She’s a stubborn one. Why, I cannot even persuade her to surrender her homeless serf collection. She‘s hiding them everywhere!”

  Before either Gur or Freddie could reply, Empress Elizabeth, accompanied by Princess Johanna, walked up from behind and joined their circle. The Empress stated, “I think this Princess von Anhalt is brilliant.” She paused, reaching out a hand to stroke Freddie‘s glossy, dark chestnut hair and smile lovingly at her. “She has a real talent for persuasion. But I have the idea she can be flexible when she needs to be, hmmm?”

  The merry Mongol chuckled, still refusing to notice Prince Christian‘s hand full of wine glass. He said to Freddie, “I am impressed after our first meeting, Princess von Anhalt. You are only fifteen years of age, and yet, I believe even now you could probably cross the river Styx and convince Hades to let you return to Earth.”

  Her burning pain vanished. Perhaps the coming of the Empress changed things? The color rose to her cheeks. “Are you asking for a demonstration, Temujin Gur?”

  Before he could answer, Princess Johanna said sarcastically, “Well, as you all of you can see, my daughter is also so humble.”

  Freddie lifted her head high and glared at her mother. Everyone’s attention fixed on her. “Well, mother, if you treat me nicely for a change, I’ll convince Satan to let me bring you back from Hell also.”

  Nearly all laughed at this comment, Empress Elizabeth more than anyone. “Oh, you darling sassy girl!” she said, and bent to kiss Freddie on the forehead. But Princess Johanna did not share in the laughter, and as the Empress turned to go to her table, Freddie read the clear message her mother’s eyes.

  Freddie, however, was not prepared to die, at least not at age 15.

  * царица *

  FOR THE BANQUET, CASTLE BARENTHOREN HAD IMPORTED scores of extra servants from surrounding noble estates, offering their masters special access to the Empress in exchange. They now swarmed the room, nervously tending the many pressing and eccentric needs of the nobles while setting the long tables with final splashes of spice shaker, salt box and cutlery, and small golden cups of red peonies. The chief butler in charge, Gleb Brerezhnoy—a short and very angry Russian with a mustache lip-twitch and teeth the color of fish smoke—presented himself in finest livery and held his head high, and like a general on the battlefield, barked commands to his troops in the Bärenthoren servant army. He knew his head might well depart his shoulders if Princess Johanna became displeased or embarrassed. Once, in years past, a stuttering older butler named Kermit Baumgartner had disappeared, never to be seen again. Rumors claimed the Princess roughed him from his bedchamber at midnight and threw him to the hounds because he had spilled two drops of red wine on the Prince Bishop of Brandenburg (known to be a prickly bastard) during his visit to Bärenthoren Castle.

  To avoid becoming dog meat, Gleb Brerezhnoy therefore struggled to instill as much fear in the servant staff as the Princess instilled in him. After all, it was only fair, and besides, did he not fear equal respect and obedience?

  Like the night, fear was always rising at Castle Bärenthoren.

  No one knew this better than one of Gleb's favorite whipping boys, Zolo Bold (alias Willie Pavel Bukavitsky), who now walked among the guests with his silver tray of spirits, jeered at by the nobles as "a wogger" and avoiding the glare of the chief butler. As though anxious or worried, he glanced at the Princess von Anhalt in the distance who faced the Mongolian spellcrafter of Empress Elizabeth: Temujin Gur—his real identity revealed to him by Paganini.

  The bodies of drifting nobles hid her from his vision at times, forcing him to reposition himself to enable even more anxious glances in her direction. He had revealed to her his real name, seizing on the opportunity provided by the banquet to introduce himself, for Babette never allowed him near the princess out of fear they both might be horse-whipped. But all the fear in Bärenthoren could not match the guilt he now carried within himself. Beginning this evening, at the banquet, he knew that Gur would coax forth Freddie's incredible powers on behalf of the World Maker, Master Edison Godfellow. And the World Maker, Master Niccolo Paginini, to further his own aims, would later do the same, both sides raising her as if she were their precious starry child, and both in a race to use the future Czarina to wield a terrible force that would one day threaten the future of Earth itself.

  And of course, she was not supposed to know.

  Zolo must hide it from her, and even worse, lie to her when necessary. Only minutes ago, he lied when he said the nightmarish vision of her future was only illusion, that her future stretched limitless. But was it really a lie? What about his vow to change fate upon seeing her beaten like a dog by Princess Johanna? Damn Paganini and all of them, and whatever ultimate dark force drove Master Godfellow—the identity of this ominous being hidden from Zolo. Just one of the many secrets Master Paganini kept close. Regardless, Zolo Bold vowed once more that the future Czarina would live for a thousand years, as she was meant to.

  May her eyes ever shine in the sun, until I am undone, until I am no one.

  Suddenly jostled by an obese nobleman, he lost sight of her. This irritated him to no end. He stepped around the man to stare in her direction again and saw an odd, almost pained look on Freddie's face. What is the demon Gur doing to her? He understood he must restrain himself, fate must take its course, for the moment. Nevertheless, a surge of rage welled up in him, his legs beginning to quake with the emotional violence of it.

  Just before confronting Gur, come what may, a hand fell hard on his shoulder. Zolo turned to see the face of Gleb, the Russian chief butler, scowling at him.

  "I hear you've been called a wogger, Mr. Bukavitsky. Are you a wogger?"

  "A wogger? No, I am not a wogger, or a grogger—"

  "Eh? Never mind. Enough blather! To the kitchen now or I'll have you shot as a wogger spy. The first course of soups is ready and seven more courses to go. And no more gawking at the Princess von Anhalt. Her mother would have you made into soup if I told her."

  Zolo swallowed his anger and returned to the kitchen. He took his place in line with the other servants, the perspiring and nervous kitchen staff handing off bowl after bowl of soups and stews, each servant grasping one in each hand and returning to the hall for placement beneath the waiting mouth of the nobles. And this process continued in one giant loop until all the individual settings had gleaming china bowls of steaming hot soup set square between sterling silver cutlery.

  After Zolo had
walked out of the kitchen with full soup bowls for the third time, he glanced around for any sign of Freddie. He did not see her and this bothered him. Within moments though, he passed the entourage of Empress Elizabeth, all full of hoop skirt and white wig, moving slow and chatty ha-ha towards the grand table. He averted his eyes and looked down at his feet, not wishing to be beaten for "noble staring" and thus bring attention to himself. Besides, he might kill Gleb rather than take a stick or whip beating from him, and all hell would break loose. Paganini would be furious too. No, he just had to go along with the custom, play the role, his powers hidden.

  As the last of the flatterers passed him—Countess Magdalena of Nassau grinning like a jaguar—a figure detached itself from the entourage and the shadow crossed his path.

  Zolo watched it change.

  What had resembled the head and body of a man softened to formlessness before assuming the shape of an insect. Perhaps, a bee? Zolo shuddered with the memory of that long ago day in Samarkand, and glanced up to see the Mongol warlock Temujin Gur smiling at him.

  "Do not be alarmed, Zolo," Gur said, his voice low and quiet as death, his eyes filling with the rising moon of Zolo's face. "I know you doubt whether or not you will one day travel to America and fight your revolution. The answer is, you will not. You will die before that happens and I will be the instrument of your death. As a matter of fact, I killed you only last week just outside Samarkand. You died at age 46, powerless and abandoned by your beloved violin-loving master ... And now, with this knowledge, you can rest easy. No more need for plans."

  Zolo stood paralyzed, watching Gur’s eyes moving over him, those black warlock eyes like a hundred spiders walking over his skin. He shuddered once more. Without another word, the Mongol smiled big as a china plate, his spider-legs of eye leaving Zolo's body as he turned to rejoin the train of the Empress.

  Zolo remained unmoved as the banquet swirled around him. He heard a "Wake up wogger!" harshly spoken by one of the Prussian nobles nearby, and he struggled to recover enough anger to push down his new fear. He told himself that Gur must be lying. How could he have died last week at age 46? Master Paganini always said that Gur twisted reality whenever it suited him, as well as took pleasure in the pain he inflicted on others. Put these two virtues together, and what do you have?