War of the World Makers

by Reilly Michaels

  The two of them walked for a full minute before entering an arched doorway on their left and descending a narrow stairwell into the lowest bowels of Bärenthoren Castle. They passed the level of the castle armory on the first floor and continued even deeper, into the purple darkness wherein the walls grew slimy and the air decayed and chill. As they descended, Zolo felt Freddie’s hand touch his shoulder and slide down to the back of his arm, and it stayed here, clutching him. Zolo could not have asked for more. The thought of her looking to him for comfort or support was the most thrilling thing imaginable.

  Soon enough, they both began to cough a little, and after a tedious descent, reached the lowest depth, stepping from the stairwell and moving into a low-ceilinged stone chamber with a dusty concrete floor. Nothing else visible but a large gaping doorway to their right—the wood of the door half rotted, hanging loose on rusted hinges.

  Simply curious, Zolo walked over and peered in the room. What he saw stunned him. He swallowed hard, and returning to stand before Freddie, said to her, "We can talk here. This is fine."

  "Mister Bold, what did you see in that room?" Freddie asked, her eyes suspicious.

  Zolo realized he had poorly concealed his emotion. The room spooked him. "Nothing, nothing," he said. "We must—"

  "I will see what disturbed you," she stated with an air of command and walked around him to stare into the room. She paused for a moment, silent, before stepping inside. He followed her, and in a few moments they both stood on the fringe of the old Bärenthoren Castle dungeon.

  Though the ceiling was low, the room itself was huge—the floor plan in the shape of a wheel, dozens of iron-barred cells lining the rim. But in the center, the many machines of body-shredding torture rose in the darkness like hideous goblins. To Zolo, the entire placed smelled like a giant black wound, one hidden and festering in the body of the castle. The odor of old blood touched his nostrils and the sound of shrieking filled his ears as both he and Freddie moved closer to stare in amazed horror.

  Zolo saw crucifiers, large upright slabs of wood upon which victim’s hands were nailed in imitation of Christ’s crucifixion. Many of the victims must have been Protestants or Jews, or simply innocent serfs accused of heresy by their neighbors. And three large wheels of oaken wood and iron, at least 15 feet high, their spokes thick as his leg and fitted into a cast iron tower with a large turning lever; and below the wheels, fire pits in the stone floor, their mouths still black with the charred wood whose flame once cooked the bodies of the wheel’s crying victims as they turned and roasted like pigs. He noted long, thick tables upon which torture implements such as thumbscrews, skin flayers and breast rippers were laid, water buckets for blood washing, as well as an assortment of “turning wrenches.” Two rack tables also, necessary for pulling quivering limbs out of their sockets or ripping them off altogether.

  But the crowning glory of the Bärenthoren Castle torture dungeon consisted of two Virgin Mary cocoons, each six feet high and facing one another from across the room, their eyes sad and needful, their hands folded in prayer as if asking God for each other’s forgiveness. At first, they appeared to Zolo like life-sized painted statues of the Mother of God, though he understood their true and sinister nature.

  "The Madonna in this place?" Freddie asked.

  He explained the statues were hollow, filled inside with a spread of at least 40 iron nails, so that once the Virgin Mary door slammed on the intended victim, who had been stripped naked, the nails drove deep into their exposed flesh in dozens of places from head to foot, including their eyes—not deep enough to cause immediate death, just enough for a slow death, many hours of agonizing pain, shock and blood loss. The Virgin Mary would shake and rumble with pitiful sounds as their trembling victims died a minute at a time, their blood trickling out of holes in the Mother of God’s toes into waiting pails while a presiding Papal priest mumbled prayers for the victim's salvation.

  Freddie gasped and coughed, drawing close to him, clutching his arm once more, and he felt her full bosom pressing against him as she said, “My God, what monsters of the Church reveled in this hellish place?”

  Zolo reached around to pull her body even closer, his arm encircling her protectively, his face in her dark hair and his senses reeling with the closeness of her. And he realized that even this place of darkness and unspeakable anguish could not mask or prevent his growing love for the Princess von Anhalt.

  If it takes devices of torture to make this moment, so be it.

  “You know that only the poorest and bravest were brought here to be broken,” Freddie said with bitterness in her voice. “I once heard of an entire town, the Silesian town of Neisse I believe, that confessed heresy to a team of Papal torturers. It began with a few and spread like a plague as each new group was hauled in and broken on the wheel and rack until they gave the names of others, and so on until the entire town of hundreds of people, even women and the smallest children, were shattered and thrown into heaps, out in the night to finally die of the terrible cold. They died Catholics though, having renounced their heresy or witchcraft or whatever false accusation befell them, and this was all the bloodthirsty dogs of the Pope wanted. They could report success back to their master in Rome.”

  “And why do you think the Pope or his bishops wanted this?” Zolo asked.

  “Power and money, Mister Bold. What else? Each conversion to Protestantism meant loss of treasury, and a threat to Church influence, and rather than risk these losses Rome gladly burned whole cities to the ground in the name of God.”

  As Master Paganini once said to Zolo, power will do anything to protect itself. “Europe’s nobles and priests would certainly use the Virgin Mary on political philosophers if they could,” Zolo mused, “especially on men like Diderot or Rousseau, or old John Locke of England.”

  “The nobility of Europe believe Locke to have been insane," Freddie said, sighing to herself. "I heard a story of Russian court officials surrounding a school teacher on the streets of Moscow and beating him to death with canes for teaching Locke.”

  "Imps of the Czar. No doubt they were rewarded."

  “And do not forget Voltaire," Freddie said, her voice gaining in strength. "The Church would flay him alive before the world if they could. He is one of their greatest enemies in France and they use every chance to hound him and drive him away ... My God, can you imagine if the Pope possessed magical powers? He would send his soldiers back in time to destroy the printing press and kill Martin Luther in his crib.”

  Zolo cleared his throat and coughed. The horrible air of the dungeon gripped his lungs. “As Diderot said, man will never be free until the last king is strangled with the entrails of the last priest.”

  “My father says French and English philosophers are dangerous and should be imprisoned. God bless his heart, he believes in the absolute right of kings.” Having said this, Freddie coughed more strongly, her body suffering more from the dungeon air. "Damn this place."

  Zolo felt a twinge of pain at her mention of Prince Christian. “I also agree with Diderot that no one has a natural right to command his or her fellow human beings.”

  “But one day I will be a Czarina, Mister Bold, and who will I command, sheep or squirrels?”

  Zolo laughed and said, “You will be the Czarina of Voltaire’s dreams, a just and wise ruler who cares for her people and forbids the Church from interfering.”

  Freddie paused for a few moments then turned in Zolo’s arms and looked up to him, her hands raising to clasp his cheeks. “Promise me that when we are able, the two of us will return to the past, to this place, kill these torturers and free the innocent, and put such a fear of demons in this castle that my despicable ancestors, or whoever they may be, will never again attempt to torture anyone ... Promise me, Zolo Bold.”

  “Time roving requires much power, preparation and precision of spells—”

  “Promise me,” she said, her face stern and determined. “My power of aria will make this possible, I kno
w it, so you must promise me.”

  “Yes, yes, I promise you ... I swear it,” he said, and he knew at that moment he would have promised her anything and given her whatever she desired, overcome as he was by her womanhood and power of will. “Only great passions elevate the soul to great things.”

  “Diderot again?”

  “Yes. I am afraid I cannot get enough of him.”

  He watched her smile at him for a moment, then she became deadly serious once more, her two hands clasping his face more strongly than ever. “Look in my eyes and promise me too, that you will help me save my father from death,” she said and coughed again, her breath coming more heavily as she strained to inhale enough air in the stale dungeon.

  “Princess ... there are matters—”

  “I know Master Paganini would not speak to me of this. I know he believes my father’s death a thing that must be done, but I do not. I can live my destiny without the needless death of my father, most likely at the hands of my scheming mother. She has hated him for years and every night of cold bed feeds her hatred,” she said, her manner becoming intense, her eyes draining the soul from his body with their powerful stare.

  To Zolo, no more potent magic could exist. He found it hard to speak, but he forced himself, choosing his words very carefully. “Master Paganini sees your future as a Czarina. He knows what must be, and we all know from death comes life, and roads that—”

  She cut him off. “I will make my own roads, Mister Bold. I possess the aria power. I am the only one commanding this incredible force. In the scheme of things, if my power is so great, I must have enough to fulfill destiny and save my father at the same time. Does that not make sense?”

  “It does, yes, in a way—”

  "But first you must tell me. Who wishes to kill him?"

  "I do not know the answer," he said. A lie, of course, a practiced and perfect lie for the sake of history. "Only Master Paganini knows ... and his death could be an accident, or a sickness even. No one said his death was plotted."

  He hated lying like this to her.

  A curse on me for this. But what choice do I have?

  "That is true. I just assumed my mother," she said, her eyes narrowing to a quiet fury.

  "Your mother plays an important role in your ascendance to Czarina. If you end her life, as you are probably thinking ... yes?" Freddie did not answer. "This ascendance will be disrupted, and you must be Czarina. So much depends on it. So many depend on it," he said forcefully, hoping this would give her pause to consider, to see a bigger picture.

  "But you will help me keep watch on my father and save him when the time comes. Promise me this also. I trust you."

  "Princess, I ..."

  Zolo realized he could not speak, only do what nature and the Princess von Anhalt demanded, and he said "Yes."

  And now, perhaps, he lied to himself. He wasn't sure, though it mattered not. He kissed her, full on the lips, and she closed her eyes and returned the kiss, long and deep, and said, “Yes,“ and they stood there, saying “Yes” and kissing and floating in their passions amidst a memory of tyranny and death, the two of them invisible to everyone in the world but themselves.

  * Оверман *

  SHE LISTENED INTENTLY AS ZOLO TOLD HER to be watchful of her physical nature, especially since it evolved by the day, and already she possessed the strength of 15 and a half men. Her reaction time, land speed, stamina and senses had also improved, and her flesh was now immune to pointed weapons and capable of rapid healing, even from concentrated musket fire. He told her not to attempt magic in the castle with Temujin Gur around, not unless Gur was present and coaxed it forth—otherwise too risky. The Lord of Saravastra would soon place her soul in the body of her older self once more and pit her against nothing less than Master Godfellow's Cadre of The Overman—all in preparation for the ultimate destruction of War Tracker.

  "You are the only queen on the chess board of this war," she heard Zolo say to her, hearing him speak as though from a place faraway. She felt distracted, though she wasn't sure by what. It all continued to seem so unreal, no matter what had gone before. "You will be powerful beyond your comprehension, but you must remain humble, Princess von Anhalt, and I will help with that."

  "No one can keep me humble if I choose not to be," she said, smiling up at him. Was she joking? Even she wasn't sure. The new power, fleshing itself out to her fingertips, awakened a sense of dominance, and a vision of crushing Princess Johanna passed before her; and what of other petty tyrants like that serf-killing Baron Eichmann?

  Let them now beware.

  Such a thought warmed her, until Zolo spoke of the confusing new "nano-magic," the NMNI invention thing of Paganini. Once within Gur, it would not only provide them with his thoughts (that Zolo himself will gather), but also filter her thoughts within him as well. The nano-magic will tell the Mongol wizard what he wants to hear. If Gur believes Freddie's mind is an open book, he will trust her. But once she does what he wants, he will certainly try to kill her, and despite her power and destiny, she can be killed and the time line changed. Gur remains one of the few beings on Earth who can make that happen.

  "Who else can kill me?" she asked him.

  "It does not matter, you—"

  "Who else, tell me," she said, determined to hear the truth.

  "Only a World Maker, or a very powerful Wizard God."

  "Can that beastly thing Eréndira Marquez kill me?"

  "Under the right circumstances, yes ... and she will try. You will have to slay her."

  The thought of slaying her, for some reason, made Freddie feel even more amorous. How odd was that? Finally, she allowed Zolo to inform her, between kisses that left him gasping for air, of another factor that would also work to keep her humble—while at the same time enabling the injection of the nano-magic: her own Mother Yarrow, Maria of Pozzuoli.

  Freddie gasped, her mouth remaining open for a long pause, until she asked, "How? When?"

  "You have been inhabited by Mother Yarrow Maria since age eleven. You could never have known. She speaks with Master Paganini."

  "This Mother Yarrow has been spying on me for years?"

  "Keeping watch, helping to stoke the fires of your birthing aria. She contains the nano-magic within her, and it too has resided within you since age eleven, waiting for the moment to come when you will clasp Temujin Gur."

  "Who is she?"

  "Maria lives south of the Nicholas line, like all Mother Yarrows. She was a female warrior in the 14th century. I know little about her, but she believes in our cause and is sad to learn that a fellow Italian is our enemy in the future. Nonetheless, she wishes to fight him to the death. Master Paganini has told me all of this."

  "She wants to fight him?"

  "Yes, through you, to live the coming battles through your eyes and limbs. She will always be a part of you. Even if powerful magic separates her connection, her personality resides in the Mother Yarrow stick implanted within the spine of your body. Her soul possesses it."

  "This is too much. I cannot ..." All of her amorous nature for Zolo fled her for the time being. A cold shower of new truth bathed her mind. Might she fully believe this new revelation if she repeated it to herself?

  I am inhabited by a Mother Yarrow, a warrior named Maria of Pozzuoli.

  Zolo smiled and said, "I feel at peace with my Mother Yarrow. If not for her, I would be blind."

  Was this Maria stirring my fury as she helped to drive my sword into the wizard goddess Marquez? I felt as if possessed by a warrior soul, though I believed it to be me, the ‘me’ of those years to come ... Maria? Are you there?

  No answer. Perhaps her worthiness to speak to Maria was yet to be proved, or her power not yet strong enough. Nevertheless, Freddie understood she must struggle to recover her senses yet once again.

  Will there be any more mind numbing revelations?

  She became aware of Zolo's strong hands gently massaging her shoulders. She let out a big sigh and held him cl
ose. She needed a warm body and a loving smile to comfort her. Her father could do that, but he knew nothing of the truth. He would believe her insane, perhaps even send her to recover her senses in a convent.

  As if the whippings and biting of nuns could change anything.

  How well she knew! The Princess of East Frisia was once sent by her husband to a convent in Luxemborg that had a reputation for being cruel. Upon arrival, the nuns wasted no time in stripping her naked, and like a coven of crazed witches, held her down and bit into her body. She suffered over a hundred bites and died of the untreated wounds, not to mention starvation. "As God willed it," the Mother Superior said.

  "Who is your Mother Yarrow?" she asked Zolo.

  "Her name is Margaret of Anjou."

  "That name is familiar. I have read of her, somewhere ... Yes, yes, she was a leader of Lancastrian forces during the War of the Roses. Her armies defeated the Duke of York and the Earl of Warwick."

  "Is there any history you don't know, my Princess?"

  * Оверман *

  SHE SAID GOODBYE TO ZOLO WITH HER LIPS, having been escorted by him to her bedchamber, and once done, he turned from her without a word and vanished into the wall. Soon, in the fire lit darkness, she stared at Paganini's music box. She wondered when he would summon her soul to future war. The thought of it frightened her a bit, and thrilled her too, and now that the Mother Yarrow news had settled she began to feel bolder, less afraid than ever. Her companion, Maria of Pozzuoli, had driven her yarrow sword home. And how had she summoned that yarrow sword?

  Could she do it now?

  The world belongs to the bold.

  She outstretched her hand, cupped for the hilt.

  Maria, Mother Yarrow Maria, please give me my yarrow sword.

  In Galician then.

  Nai Yarrow, crear a espada, a súa princesa suplica. (Mother Yarrow, create the sword, your princess implores).

  Were these the right words? They seemed right, coming to her naturally.