Battle Across Worlds

by Dean Chalmers

  And not just any red, but scarlet.

  Dragoon scarlet.

  No one else on the island wore that shade!

  A Dragoon, then—he was sure. And there weren’t many of them who bothered to wear the uniform anymore. Only Jack Chestire and his few close cronies, really. He remembered Chestire’s mocking greeting earlier that day. Was that bastard involved in this?

  So be it. Ed would follow him. Wet though he was, he wasn’t about to leave now …

  #

  Jack and Ralley crouched in the trees, looking out at the fence that bordered the Guardian’s property.

  “Lead us in, Jack,” Ralley said. His voice resonated with confidence; he sounded like a hardened veteran of a dozen campaigns, and not the slender young man that he was.

  In truth, there had always been something strangely compelling about Ralley. Jack had found that the youth’s polite and quiet exterior hid a heart that was passionate and proud, somehow truly noble—like the best of the aristocrats had been in the days before the coup. Despite the fact that Ralley was a clerk for the local Stefanite bureaucracy, and Jack was a soldier of the vanquished regime, they had become fast friends.

  Sometimes, talking with Ralley about philosophy, opera, his dreams, whatever, Jack could believe—if only for a few moments—that the Stefanites and their brutality were something that would eventually pass, that there truly was hope for the future. For the gift of this fleeting, fragile sense of hope, Jack felt that he owed his friend his utmost aid and loyalty.

  At the moment, however, Jack wished only that he had a clever plan to get them into the Guardian’s estate to get a look at the mound. He scanned the line of the fence, then saw the faerie mound beyond clearly illuminated for a moment in a flash of lightning, the ancient obelisks poking up from the top of it.

  Where were the Grenadiers? They had seen no one so far—was it possible that the place had been left unguarded? After all, it was Middlemass, and he knew that many of the Grenadiers would be in town celebrating.

  Jack led them through the trees until they were very close to the edge of the fence. On the eastern side of that barrier, a wooded hill ran down sharply to the gorge cut by a narrow creek, from which the ground sloped up again to the fence.

  “There’s our best chance to get close,” Jack explained, pointing to the area. “The angle of land will help conceal us, and there’s ample cover on the way down.”

  “That’s it, then.” Ralley said. “Let’s go.”

  They made their way through the trees and down the slope, trying to stay in the shadows of the trees there. More than once, Jack almost slipped in the mud and wet leaves underfoot—but Ralley’s footing was preternaturally sure.

  They reached the creek, waded through the swift-flowing water trying their best not to splash too loudly, and found themselves at the upward slope leading to the fence. They crawled up over the damp earth until they were very close to the fence perimeter.

  Ralley raised his head up to survey the scene.

  “There’s someone there,” he said.

  Jack was glad that his friend was still content to proceed with caution. Perhaps he might yet dissuade the youth from following this dangerous obsession.

  Jack peered up and saw the faerie mound rising up like a little hillock from the otherwise even ground beyond the fence. A tall figure was striding past the mound. The light was poor, but he felt certain that the guard would be wearing a rust-brown Grenadier’s uniform.

  “As I said before,” Jack told Ralley, “The place is well guarded. And no sign of your column of light, is there?”

  “No,” Ralley answered, his voice hollow.

  “Then we must pause and think. This is no dream, my friend. The Grenadiers and their blades and muskets are all too real. Even being here is quite dangerous, but I had to show you.”

  Jack glanced up again and saw the guard turn and then disappear around the far side of the mound; the man wouldn’t be able to see them while he was behind it. “Ralley, I think we should go now. We’ve had our look ‘round and I— “

  “NOW!” Ralley hissed, and suddenly he was up and running.

  Dear God no! Jack was frozen, unable to believe that this was happening. Ralley must be suicidal! In moments, the Grenadiers would be upon him.

  “Damn it all,” Jack whispered, and the epithet had barely passed his lips before he found himself springing up from his hiding place to rush off after his friend.

  He could hear Sarde’s words echoing in his skull:

  “Cap’n, don’t tell me you’re planning on dying?”

  But his feet were heedless of the danger and propelled him towards Ralley. Was there any chance to bring him back, before—?

  Ralley had sprinted about sixty paces, and Jack was lagging a bit behind, when the Dragoon saw something that made his breath seize up in his chest.

  Without warning, the guard ran out from behind the mound—and charged straight for Ralley.

  “RALLEY!” Jack called. “Watch out!”

  In another flash of lightning, Jack saw a second figure standing near the top of the mound, glaring down at them. Even from a distance, he could make out the cold eyes as they reflected the blinding fire of the lightning, the man’s feral smile …

  Aubren! Damn it all, not here!

  He’d thought that bastard would still be in town. But then, I’ve made several poor gambles this evening …

  Ralley was now about forty paces from the mound. The first Grenadier was still running directly for him. Meanwhile, Aubren pulled his sabre from his sheath and headed towards Jack, screaming an incoherent war cry.

  But Ralley kept going. Jack watched as his friend’s legs pumped furiously, propelling him towards the mound. He was too far away, going too fast …

  Jack pulled a long hunting knife from the sheath on his belt. This had been lent to him by Ralley, the only extra weapon he’d had in his cottage. He’d been hoping he’d have no need for it, but now … It wasn’t a Dragoon sabre, but it would do in a pinch.

  Ralley was passing a small stand of trees, approaching the mound, when the Grenadier in his path intercepted him. “HALT!” the man yelled, sabre raised.

  Ralley skidded to a stop in the wet grass, balanced with one leg forward, frozen in this awkward stance as if unsure of what to do.

  Jack rushed towards them … he had almost reached Ralley when Aubren charged in front of him, blocking his way with the blade of his sabre.

  “Chestire!” he snarled. “So good of you to trespass. Makes things very easy.”

  Jack stopped a few paces short of him, his own knife raised. “Captain Aubren, whatever happens, it will not be easy for you—I assure you.”

  Jack glanced to his left. Ralley stood only a short distance away, still unmoving, staring at the other Grenadier while the man, in turn, scrutinized him.

  Aubren turned his head slightly to get a glimpse of Ralley. “That’s the town clerk? What’s his name, Quenn?”

  Ralley seemed oblivious to all this. He relaxed his posture, closed his eyes and stood as if meditating, his arms straight down at his sides.

  “Is he going to faint?” Aubren asked, a hint of disgust in his voice. “Thin-blooded little clerk has had too much excitement tonight, hmm?”

  The Grenadier guarding Ralley chuckled.

  They were jolted from their standoff by a sudden cry:

  “Ka se ta! Oberkion ien yaera de, kaza wa den xath!!!”

  It took Jack a moment to realize that it was Ralley who was shouting. An expression of ecstasy contorted the youth’s face as his voice boomed out, loud enough the challenge the thunder. The language itself was like nothing Jack had ever heard before; it was as if he were speaking in tongues.

  “What in the HELL?” Aubren exclaimed. “Has he lost his mind?”

  And then, in a blur of motion, Ralley charged the Grenadier guard in front of him.

  Before the Grenadier could bring his sword down, Ralley grabbed him by both arms and threw
him—literally threw him—backwards ten feet, where his head hit the trunk of a tree. He fell down limp and motionless.

  The Grenadier had been a head taller than Ralley—and must have weighed significantly more than he did—but Jack’s young friend had tossed him aside like a toy! And now Ralley ran on, sprinting towards the faerie mound, his feet sure and his pace swift even on the wet grass.

  Aubren looked to Jack for a moment, mouth open, then turned and ran after Ralley, screaming out his rage.

  Jack took off after them both, trailing them to the faerie mound. On top, the trio of strange obelisks waited, the glassy projections curled like monstrous fingers over the stone platform in the center.

  Ralley reached the top first. Jack saw him stretch out his arms, eyes closed, and again he yelled something in that bizarre language.

  Aubren wasn’t far behind, and he rushed at the youth with his sabre drawn.

  “Ralley!” Jack called in warning.

  But his friend was already aware of Aubren’s approach. As Aubren ran forward, Ralley kicked him hard in the chest. Aubren veered aside at the last moment, but he was still knocked off his feet, his sabre flying from his grasp as he rolled down the mound.

  Jack channeled every ounce of strength into his legs, charging ahead, desperate to reach Ralley. It seemed like an eternity passed while he watched Aubren struggle to get up, saw Ralley once again spread his arms in some odd invocation … He reached the mound, and his feet slipped and slid on the wet grass as he struggled to climb the slope.

  Finally, he planted his feet firmly on the platform on top. Panting, he asked Ralley: “Is this it? Your … goal … I mean?”

  “Yes,” Ralley said. “The gate is here. But I only hope the connection is still strong enough.”

  Jack felt a tingling playing over his body, like an electrical caress. And then came a noise: a whistling, shuffling sound that seemed to be everywhere, as if he was hearing it inside his head as well as from without. The pointed tips of the obelisks glowed white, illuminated by a steady pale flame, and he was transfixed by the light, hypnotized. He blinked, finally tearing his gaze away …

  “Get ready!” Ralley shouted, a grin of triumph on his face.

  Jack was about to ask Ralley just what he should make ready for when something heavy slammed into his back, knocking the Dragoon chest-first to the hard stone of the platform, smacking the air from his lungs. His hat flew off, and the hunting knife flew from his hand.

  “CHESTIRE!” a voice growled.

  Aubren! Jack flailed around, gasping for air, grasping for the knife.

  Is this it?, he thought. Is this where it ends? He’d been such a fool, allowing himself to be distracted by the fancy lights!

  He thrashed about, trying to get the Grenadier off his back, expecting to feel Aubren’s blade piercing his flesh at any moment.

  The whistling-shuffling noise grew to a roar, rising to an unearthly volume that hurt Jack’s ears. He looked up to see the white flames on the tips of the obelisks flaring high, the individual fires merging into a column of searing light high above their heads. The white fire was so bright that it quickly burned everything else from his vision.

  There was a rush of warm air, and his stomach leapt to his throat as a strange sensation of falling overtook him. Then, the white glare and the ear-splitting noise filled his perceptions, becoming his entire universe, and he could no longer think.

  -6-

  Where in the hell had they all gone?

  Ed Bocke couldn’t believe what he’d just seen. There’d been a flash of light, an odd sound—like the whistling of a million cicadas and the shuffling of giants’ feet—and Chestire and Quenn and the tall Grenadier had vanished!

  The feeling in his gut told Ed that he’d seen something terribly important. All of the other witnesses to this event were gone, burnt up by fire from heaven—or whatever that white light had been. He was the only one remaining who had seen it all.

  For once, Ed knew something that no one else did. He actually had a misdeed that he could report in his capacity as Constable. The Guardian would have to grant him an audience for this!

  He’d never even met Guardian Crandolph before. He was supposed to work for the Guardian, but he’d always been given his pay and trivial assignments by other local bureaucrats. Sometimes, he’d even suffered the humiliation of having his orders passed through that damn lowly clerk Ralley Quenn (who was probably dead now, Ed reminded himself, burnt into fine ash along with that smug bastard Chestire).

  But imagine if word got back to his father in Ironbound that he’d secured vital information for the Guardian! He’d only been given the Constable job as a favor for his father’s contributions to the Stefanite’s struggles, he knew. A useless appointment for a useless cripple. But now, if he proved himself worthy …

  His mind made up, he left the cover of the trees and started for the fence. Much to his frustration, he found the heavy iron lock on the thick oaken gate to be tightly secured. With no way to open it, his only option was to climb over the fence itself. It was only shoulder height, but the wood was slick and wet. He gritted his teeth and boosted himself up, seeking a foothold on the rough horizontal slats. After what seemed like an eternity of fumbling, he hauled himself over the top.

  He slid down on the other side of the fence, but his bad foot touched the ground first, and he fell. His face pressed into the damp ground, and he tasted earth in his mouth. Swearing, Ed picked himself up and made his way to where the unmoving Grenadier was sprawled.

  The man was dead. Ed didn’t have to get very close to note the grim angle at which the head was twisted on the neck. The open, bulging eyes did not blink.

  Well, he thought, at least I don’t have to run off to get a physician for him …

  Leaving the dead man, he made his way towards the steep faerie mound. The side of it was slick, and with his less-than-expert footing, he had to be very careful. When he made it to the top, he found nothing on the stone platform. The stone itself hadn’t even been marred by the scuffle, and there were no scorch marks, no traces of ash or sulfur smell.

  He carefully made his way around the outside edge of the platform, daring to grab one of the ancient obelisks for support. He felt nothing special as he touched it, just cold slick stone.

  On the far side of the mound—the southward side—he paused, looking down. There was something there: an opening, set into the side of the mound, high as a man and a few feet wide.

  He eased his way down for a closer look. There was a pale light inside the opening, and he could see what looked like the glassy stone walls of some odd cave. Had the three who’d disappeared fallen inside? Did he really want to risk going down and—

  “FOULESHT SSSINNER!”

  Ed jumped when he heard the shout. The voice came from his left; he jerked his head that way, and saw the shadow of a man running towards him from about sixty paces, robes fluttering around his body and a hood hiding his face. Was this one of the Guardian’s people?

  He tried not to panic. He had a sound explanation for his presence here; he only needed to stay calm. But his heart was pounding and his head spun and his first instinct was to bolt for cover.

  “Why dosht thou wallowww in thy sssacrilege? Filllth be thine until the end of dayssh!” hissed the newcomer. His voice was lisping and raspy, like that of an old man, but his tone was that of a Stefanite preacher—as the youngest son of the right Reverend Danael Bocke, Ed recognized that immediately.

  But why was he screaming scripture out here in the rain?

  “I’m the Constable!” Ed tried to shout, but his words were muffled by the storm. “There’s a dead Grenadier here, I wanted to—“

  And then there was a flash of lightning, and Ed saw something that made his legs tremble under him, and the bile rise in his throat. In that moment of brilliance, he saw the mouth of the screaming man under the hood.

  The grin was impossibly wide—because the mouth itself was lipless. It was the grin of
a skull. The flesh around the mouth was rotted, filled with holes, and he could see glistening bone underneath.

  Panicked, Ed couldn’t think. He had to move, he had to get away! Following his instincts, he plunged into the shadowed opening in the mound.

  The walls and floor of the cavern inside were made from the same glassy stone as the obelisks and platform above. The floor sloped sharply down into the bowl of the cavern, and faceted dark crystal columns supported the roof of the place. The light illuminating the chamber was faint, and he couldn’t see its source.

  There had to be some other way out, some passage or door—right?

  That was his only chance. That thing out there meant to murder him, he was sure.

  In the center of the chamber was a pedestal, and upon it sat a little black pyramid, like an exhibit in some rich man’s art collection. A framework of wood was set up above and around the pedestal, supporting a shiny silver claw which hung suspended just over the pyramid. A silver canister sitting on the floor nearby cast white light from a hair-thin slit; it was apparently a kind of lantern, the source of the light in the chamber.

  As he approached the far wall, Ed saw a wooden door set into it. A way out! Some kind of shiny silver rope was stuck under the door, trailing into the chamber, but he barely registered this.

  He ran faster, as fast he could manage with his lame foot anyway …

  … And was so intent on reaching the door that he neglected to look down as he went. Suddenly, his bad foot caught on something on the floor, and flew forward—only to find himself sliding down a steep shaft in the darkness. His body twisted around as he panicked, trying to find a hand-hold.

  There was a sharp, throbbing pain as his head hit stone. His body felt numb, and he dimly realized that he had struck bottom.

  But he was not alone.

  There was something else in the pit. He could smell the rancid stench of it, hear the leathery rustling as it moved, the clacking of claws on stone.

  And then, the thing was on him …

  The weight of it crushed the air out of his lungs. He smelled its meaty breath, and moaned as taloned fingers wrapped themselves in his hair and wrenched his head up.