War of the World Makers

by Reilly Michaels

  I will say, being raped by a dead soldier at the Somme is not a thing I would wish to replace the painful presence of Peter, though such a comparison illustrates my point; and Niccolo will not allow me to use my yarrow magic or aria to change Peter in any way. I often believe Niccolo wishes me to suffer, that the suffering of life with Peter makes it all the more easier for the Lord of Saravastra to chart my courses since I always welcome his tasks, and no more so than recently. Why? Because the whelp has become even more intolerable than usual. He works at training his hounds, or so he calls it, lashing the poor animals with his whip, yelling at them and chasing them through the castle in Moscow. Those of the dogs that tire and attempt to run away or lie down are relentlessly beaten, and the poor things howl so loudly! Once, as I listened to one of the doomed animals whining and crying, I opened the door to his room and pleaded for the poor beast, but that only caused Peter to rain blows with renewed vigor. Unable to view the cruel sight, I moved to my bedchamber in tears. I cannot tolerate the sight of animals in needless pain. Peter later witnessed my sadness, and this only made him threaten to injure the hounds even more.

  No room can be found in his whelp soul for pity. If possible, I would have sung aria and turned him into a hound and beat him myself, however, I do not think this would have taught the sadistic creature a lesson. Only his end will put him out of the world's misery. It sounds cruel perhaps, though I must say I welcome the opportunity to engineer his final minutes on Earth. History records that I will do so, and all of Russia will support me. I can only look forward to such a day and it cannot arrive soon enough.

  Speaking of endings, my conflict with Niccolo has caused me to dwell once more on the vision of my end at the hands of Fracas Machines in the Himalayas. For the first time, I feel more strongly than ever in the possibility of this event coming true. For years I believed it more of a hoax on the part of Temujin Gur, and Niccolo has sworn this circumstance, but now I am more inclined to believe Niccolo would actually have me killed, or at least, allow me to die if he believed such a thing necessary.

  Do World Makers really die though? Niccolo and Godfellow, and others, have been alive since the Bronze Age, and yet, I know my Asian predecessor was turned to salt and digestion at the hands of the Dio Soldati. So many things I do not fully comprehend. I do not even know why or how I became a World Maker. I still do not understand Ahriman, or the real substance of his being. At times I consider him a dark illusion created by Godfellow and Niccolo to frighten me. I doubt this is the case though. He is our source, our father in a manner of speaking, as Niccolo says, but what does that really mean? Am I not born of my mother and father, or was I placed in a demon womb by Ahriman, or born of an unholy union of a thing inhuman with a human? I cannot say. I do not doubt my wicked mother would consent to uniting with a demon if the prize were sufficient, and often, I believe she was truly sired by one. Whatever the real truth, I desire to know the nature of Ahriman. He is evil, most certainly, far more evil than Godfellow. My senses alert me to this, and Mother Yarrow Maria knows it also, and Niccolo avoids me when I seek more information about him.

  I might aria this Ahriman into a reality I can witness, though I fear such a thing, deep and colder than I fear the potential of my last day. The fear is like an instinct I cannot avoid or deny, and perhaps Ahriman himself placed it within me as a clever mechanism to prevent my searching, thus enabling his mystery to continue without respite.

  One day, the truth must come out. Perhaps, on that day of knowing Ahriman, I will be powerless and driven to leap from the cliff by Niccolo's mechanical pets, or perhaps I will know nothing at all, and be driven to my death regardless. Or perhaps, such a thing will not happen. Regardless, I fervently wish to know, one way or another.

  * Оверман *

  BARON EICHMANN AWOKE AT 3 AM TO THE SUN RISING EARLY. He got out of bed, his wife grumbling in the background, and in a blinking daze stumbled towards the window of his tower bedroom. He pulled the curtains and a spear of sunlight blinded him. He cursed and held his hand before his eyes. Next, he heard a distant singing, a woman's voice, brilliant and pure, echoing over the fields. The words he could not understand. They sounded rather like Latin, and it reminded him of an opera, though he didn't know which one.

  As his wife became angrier, he saw the sun itself, only not the one he expected. It appeared to be floating above the earth, not more than half a mile from his castle, and it moved slowly, from north to south. And he felt it ... Heat! The window before him grew hotter and he backed away. He heard faint screams from somewhere outside and the roof of the castle stables, far down and to his left, suddenly erupted in flame. The woman's singing voice entered his bedchamber like a fall of smashing plates and the window exploded. The spear of sunlight charred him in less than a moment. He fell to the floor as a blazing ball of flesh, and his wife, the infamous Baroness, allowed only half a scream before she too burned and blackened.

  For miles around, the peasants thereabouts were stirred from their beds of straw by the light and distant explosions as heat detonated ammunition stores. They stepped outside to see Baron Eichmann's castle in the distance, going up in flames, and an odd little sun looking like a big bright star from their vantage point, moving in a circle about the castle. And it would be said among them for the rest of their days that they witnessed the Anhalt Sun Angel, returned once more to avenge the poor and downtrodden. Even God's mercy has limits, and the Sun Angel was the instrument of God. None could deny it. They fell to their knees and gave thanks to Heaven and many wept like children to see such Old Testament justice. A few even said they would hang Father Brum, the parish priest, if he did not bless the holy event.

  Unknown to them, the Anhalt Sun Angel had considered the fate of the Baron and his evil wife for at least an hour before acting. She contemplated turning them both into serfs without fingers, or perhaps grass snakes with memories of humanity, but in the end, she felt the Anhalt Sun Angel would send a clear message to the other tyrants.

  The Angel's aria had carried her swift as thought to Eichmann's castle where she found Benjamin's sister tied to her bed with a rope, and terribly bruised about the arms and face. The Angel healed her with aria and made her sleep as she flew her to safety at Bärenthoren Castle. She asked Babette to watch after her, then returned and freed the remaining servants under the thumb of Eichmann, removing them quietly from the grounds as they slept. Once finished, she rose like early dawn just west of the Baron.

  Satisfied with the knowledge that he would never again harm anyone else, she lingered among the moonlit clouds, soared in the night air to cleanse herself, finally approaching Bärenthoren Castle with the eyes and height of a hawk. To her surprise, she saw more fires far below her, this time atop the walls and towers of Bärenthoren, and at four A.M. in the morning. She could not figure it at first.

  Was the castle burning?

  No. The flames came from torches, lots of them.

  Drawing closer, she saw that men held the torches, scores of them, and women too—the castle servants, guards, and even Russian noblemen who had joined the train of Empress Elizabeth in her pilgrimage to Bärenthoren. A tiny figure moved among them, gesturing frantically, hopping and darting. She focused more closely and saw it was Empress Elizabeth in a hoop skirt and tilted wig, a big brass monocle dangling awkwardly from her face by a leather strap. She appeared to be conducting a symphony as she moved among the figures, encouraging and directing them, and as the Anhalt Sun Angel dropped lower to the walls, she heard the voices of this symphony. All of the figures holding torches chanted, "Mirzaaa Gur, Mirzaaa Gur" without pause.

  Landing unseen among them, she observed Empress Elizabeth who appeared to be disheveled and exhausted by an attack of panic. Obviously, her panic meant she feared for her future without Temujin Gur. Too bad! The Empress leaned back against a stone wall that faced the parapets, breathing heavily. Her maidservants hovered around her, nervous and unsure as pilot fish afraid of their mother shark. A wron
g word or move on their part might condemn them to beatings, or worse. As Freddie watched from only a few feet away, the Empress lifted one shaking hand and held the huge brass monocle tight to her right eye, and said in a heavy whisper, "God One, please answer me. Temujin Gur has disappeared ... God One, do you hear me?"

  No answer.

  The Empress, looking desperate and angry, sharply waved her maidservants away. They scattered like nervous pigeons. She then turned her mouth close to the stone wall and as the voices endlessly chanted in the background, she spoke again in a heavy whisper, "Why do you forsake me, God One? ... What can I do to please you? ... I beg you, answer me. Temujin Gur is gone."

  The invisible Sun Angel laughed to herself. The Empress would be waiting a long time for Temujin Gur, not realizing of course that his atoms floated somewhere on the winds of Time between the 13th century and the demise of Dubai.

  She turned to glance around the castle walls. In the near distance, she saw her mother, Princess Johanna, standing beside a Prussian noblewoman, a frequent companion by the name of Countess Rothschild. The two of them kept perfectly still in a dark corner, away from the general circus. Both stared at the figure of a young nobleman cavorting about without a torch, high stepping and flinging his arms in the air as if drunk, shrieking for Temujin Gur with voice of a strangled cat. The figure belonged to that of the incredibly stupid and annoying ass pickle she'd met after walking with Babette. Who is he? What is he? She imagined turning him upside down in mid-air and jerking him like a saltshaker. Her attention returned to her mother.

  She watched her mother's lips move.

  Princess Johanna's eyes never strayed from the crazed ass pickle as she remarked to the countess beside her, "There dances my door to the royal Russian court."

  The Countess Rothschild grinned, glanced sideways and said, "Please do not forget your friends when you arrive. Will you actually be able to live with your daughter as Czarina?"

  "No longer than fate demands, dear countess," she replied with a slithering voice. "No longer than fate demands."

  * Оверман *

  THE DAWN SUN ROSE TO FACE EMPRESS ELIZABETH as she brought an end to the chanting torch vigil on the battlements of Bärenthoren Castle. She angrily dismissed everyone and commanded them with a hoarse voice to speak of the event to no one, at the risk of their lives. All about her nodded and croaked their responses with dry voices, especially since most of them were parched with thirst, except for the Empress who drank goblets of sparkling sweet water brought to her by royal maidservants throughout the ordeal.

  Princess Johanna retired at last to her gold-spackled bedchamber and was changed into nightwear by her own maidservants. She dismissed them as usual with insults and face slaps, and once in bed, breathed a deep sigh. She closed her eyes and felt herself drifting down, deeper and deeper. Soon enough, the sea wavered above her, dark and swimming with horrid dark shapes and snake-like things. Was she dreaming already? How could she breathe? She struggled to open her eyes, to come out of the dream, but she could not.

  The dark closed in around her and she felt a terrible pain in her head.

  She shot through the water backwards, her body flapping as a powerful force tugged at her, and she awakened to the ceiling of the castle hallway moving before her eyes, the pain still in her head. She suddenly realized, she was being savagely yanked down the hall by her hair!

  She squirmed and fought to no avail, yelled at her invisible tormentor to stop. Who could it be? Who would dare? Her body continued to be dragged and the pain so intense she began to weep.

  Despite all that, she could not guess the fate that awaited her.

  * Оверман *

  ZOLD BOLD COULD NOT HELP BUT RECALL THE PAIN of the Virgin Mary, those hundred bloody nails piercing his dreams, even as he reclined upon his couch in the cloud-encircled Mother Tower deep in Saravastra. Such pain recalled by the body, yet in such a place of tranquility. It would remain in him, permanent nails piercing his flesh, and he wanted it that way. But why? Why the wish to lock that pain in his blood and mind?

  Am I punishing myself for betrayals? Failures? For weakness?

  He wasn’t certain of the answer, though he welcomed the distractions of war and love to ease the memory. Most of all, he welcomed the thought of coupling with the Princess von Anhalt off the shore of the Mediterranean night. Her naked form, as it had been during the twilight of the ice pillar, yielding to my touch, and her breasts, her hair, God of All Things … What offspring they might create if given the time? He wished her to bear his child, a son perhaps, or a celestial daughter who would tame worlds and force goodness on evil nations the way the Anhalt Sun Angel forced justice on Prussia.

  If he died then, as Temujin Gur had said, his daughter or son would survive him, perhaps even fight for liberty in the Americas and beyond, perhaps even avenge him. Master Paganini said he would not die, that he only appeared to die in order to trick Gur. Perhaps that was so, though he could not trust Paganini any longer—not because he believed him evil or selfish, but because he knew the Lord of Saravastra would say or do anything to support his cause. After all, had he not demanded Zolo act the same?

  A rumbling noise distracted Zolo. It reminded him of the celebratory party he was supposed to attend, the one being thrown by Master Paganini and the PBDU now that the 20th century had been saved from a devastating world war; and all manner of beings, both magical and non-magical, arrived in droves to represent the living Tao and speak of utopia.

  He heard the rumbling again.

  It sounded like words he could not understand—perhaps an alien magic language—and he stood to his feet. The sound emanated from above, like thunder. He stared out his window, and in the titanic blue sky above the red-tile roofs of Saravastra’s mighty towers, he saw bright stars, wafer-like airships, and gauzy, air-filled bodies drifting and falling towards the city.

  Were they from worlds beyond his knowing? Did the new utopia really matter to extraterrestrial beings of magical Tao? Or non-magical for that matter?

  There was so much about the Tao, and the universe itself, that Zolo found incomprehensible, so much that made him feel like a motherless child again staring at a magic city floating in the clouds. He watched in a daze as the slowly falling objects whispered to one another, as if sharing news or sorrows, and he truly understood nothing of their language, though for an inexplicable reason he felt a sudden sense of urgency. His hand began to tremble. He heard the words of thunder again and all about him grew dark, even the sky outside.

  Then it was over. Something enormous had eclipsed the sun for a few moments.

  But what?

  All quiet in the Mother Tower though.

  The alien creatures of Tao continued to drift down from the black heavens.

  Had they seen the thing? Were they talking about it?

  As if in a daze, Zolo found himself walking through the Mother Tower, a bustling place of living energy overly crowded with bodies and noises and aromas in a way he’d never known. As he went, he heard low-toned conversations among a few passersby that contained phrases like “that sudden darkness” and “those thunder words” and too, a name that chilled him, “Ahriman.”

  So was that mysterious god of gods the cause of the eclipse?

  No answer possible, though perhaps Zolo would know the truth soon enough.

  Moments later, he arrived at the “Hall of Patience” whose cloudy ceiling rose higher than five Saravastra towers stacked one atop the other, the Hall itself ten-times-ten as wide and deep as the Great Hall at Bärenthoren. He strolled onto a broad balcony carved of purest smoky jade and gazed down on the colorful throng roiling and rippling like a great storm band on Jupiter. No Ahriman to be seen. However, he did see bright yellow PBDU flags being carried on high by Saravastra spell captains, all to celebrate the arrival of utopia, and Magogs too, towering above all others like goliath-sized trolls sprouting wicked scarlet horns. Zolo had never befriended one of them and he’d even hear
d tales of them devouring humans and lesser creatures, but Master Paganini used them effectively in combat operations against Master Godfellow’s forces. They grew like mussels in cluster beds on a Martian-like desert world many light years away, and their hides were practically impenetrable, their individual strength like a team of giants. Swirling among them were many hundreds of spell captains, Wizard Gods, and Bodhisattvas in their robes and half-moon hats, as well as other warriors of all kinds and species clanking about in amplified black-armor, and filtering through and above it all, Paganini's La Campanella, violin music that sounded to everyone like peace and victory.

  Zolo tried to absorb it all, to realize a sense of relief or accomplishment in the presence of such joy and victory, but the question of possible doom still nagged at him.

  How can I be more selfish? And yet, I must know.

  As he turned his head, his eyes caught sight of a woman he recognized, standing upon an adjacent balcony, also gazing down at the celebration. His mind stuttered and stopped at the sight of her as though he’d seen the moon itself plummeting to earth. She seemed sad, possibly a bit angry, yet still regal, powerful and stunning in appearance as befits the most powerful World Maker on the planet: Catherine II of Russia. He’d been in her presence once before, also at a distance, and Master Paganini strictly forbid him from speaking to her or communicating with her in any way. “She belongs to a time and place that must never influence Zolo Bold,” he said. Still, he could not help but fixate on her.

  Princess Friederike my love, it is you.

  And did not Freddie herself speak with Catherine? Did they not all work together to struggle against the machinations of Master Godfellow and his cohorts? Of course, they did. So why should it be such a terrible thing if he spoke with Catherine, just to learn the truth of his own fate? And she wasn’t far away. A simple leap from his balcony to hers would cover the space.