Battle Across Worlds

by Dean Chalmers

  Jael jerked when Jack touched his shoulder, and then he brushed the hand away. His eyes ran over Jack, as if he was sizing him up, assessing him anew.

  Returning to the controls, he opened the jets and they shot forward. He adjusted the craft’s bearing, using the harness to tilt the nose down, plunging at a shallow angle towards the desert …

  And then, in a blur of motion, his hands dancing on the levers and the harness, he tilted the craft to the right sharply, firing the jets on the left side.

  Jack watched as the ground below slipped up on his right to be replaced by sky, then ground, then sky again … the flyer rolling over several times in quick succession. It jerked and shuddered a bit when Jael evened it out, bringing them into a flat swoop just above the baked earth of the desert.

  “Now that was pushing her hard,” Jack said when Jael turned to him again. “But it was most impressive, Sir.”

  Jael was squinting back at him again, and Jack wondered what to do. Damn the language barrier, the man was an excellent pilot and he was sure they’d have much in common if they could only communicate.

  Jack decided just to laugh, loudly and hysterically—the only sure way he knew to wordlessly express his joy and amusement at Jael’s stunts.

  Jael stared at him for a moment, dumbfounded. Then, his lips spread into a smile and he started laughing too, bobbing his head rhythmically as he did so, making a performance out of it.

  He slapped the back of his seat, then pointed to Jack and nodded, as if to say: You caught me. You passed the test.

  Looking over Jael’s shoulder, Jack saw a dark shape in the sky ahead of them, coming on fast, too high and too big to be a bird.

  “Flyer!” Jack said, pointing. There was no flare of ambia jets, no glint of gold or bronze. It was most likely one of the enemy’s craft …

  “Eh?” Jael spun around in his seat, catching sight of the craft. His hands darted for the controls—then stopped, hovering there. He looked back at Jack.

  “Baek Tayon,” Jael said, nodding towards the craft.

  He’s worried about putting me in danger, Jack thought. Since I’m a royal guest, or what have you.

  Jack shook his head. “Don’t worry about me, Sir, let’s go and get them!”

  He waved both hands forward and nodded to indicate: GO!

  Jael laughed and flicked the rear ambia jets fully open, thrusting the flyer forward while they climbed sharply, the nose pointed up. Jack watched his every movement, studying the blurring dance of his agile fingers.

  The enemy flyer came closer, closer …

  They were soaring straight towards each other now, the enemy obviously intent on a fight.

  As the other ship grew in their sight, Jack saw that it was made of the same blue-black crystal as the “claw” fighters, but the shape was very different. It had with a tall, narrow box in front for the pilot’s compartment, and a flat, broad tail fanning out behind, the shape of an axe’s head.

  With that tail, it reminded Jack of some hideous kind of fish …

  As with the other crystal-skinned flyers, there was no flare of ambia to be seen; they seemed to use a different method of propulsion.

  Now the two ships were pointed at each other, their own flyer rushing towards the enemy head-on. Their opponent loomed in their sight, and as they got closer Jack could see the form of a pilot through the semi-transparent crystal on the front of the thing.

  He caught a flash of a naked torso, a face streaked with scars …

  The enemy fired, a brilliant beam of ambia blasting out from nose of the craft.

  But Jael was already dropping down, slipping under the beam. He tilted the flyer’s nose up as he dropped, pointing their nose-mounted ambia gun at the underside of the enemy’s hull.

  Their ambia beam flashed across the bottom of the enemy’s craft as they passed beneath it. There was a crackling surge across the span of the target, and a few fragments of crystal exploded from the craft with a pop.

  Even as they shot from underneath the enemy, Jack knew that the damage had not been substantial. There was no explosion of white light that would indicate a kill.

  Jael’s hands flashed across the controls, turning them for another pass …

  But it was too late. Jack glanced back to see the enemy already turning, rolling in a graceful arc to reverse its bearing, now coming up close behind them.

  Jael saw it too, and tried to evade, turning them sharply right.

  The enemy craft followed tightly behind, as if chained to them. A whistling beam of ambia flashed out again …

  The first blast hit their flyer’s left wing, and the craft shuddered. Jack looked out to see that a large bite had been taken out of the little wing, silvery wire thrashing in the wind from the wound.

  “Pauon!” Jael swore. He took them into a sharp dive towards the desert below, the nose of their flyer pointed straight down.

  Jack’s head was pressed into his seat by the force of their descent. With a monumental effort, he managed to look back …

  The enemy was still on their tail, following them down.

  Is it the flyer, or the pilot? Jack thought. There’s something different about this one.

  The other enemy flyers had been clumsy in their movements. The crystal craft themselves were apparently well-armored and maneuverable, but the pilots hadn’t been very responsive.

  This one, though … it was as if he was linked to the craft, pilot and flyer joined to make a swift aerial hunting beast.

  Another beam of deadly white flashed close by Jack’s face with a whistling scream that stung his ears. Jack’s lap was showered with glass fragments, there was a whoosh of inrushing cold air, and he heard Jael cry out something incoherent.

  It took a moment for him to register what had happened. The ambia beam had pierced the craft’s canopy, slicing through the glass at an angle over Jack’s shoulder. It had hit Jael’s right arm, passing through it to punch a hole in the nose of the craft.

  Jael’s arm was nearly severed, most of the flesh and muscle above the elbow simply gone, disintegrated by the ambia. Stumps of bone poked into the bloodied gap, the lower arm held on only by strips of flesh

  Jael was pale and wide-eyed, shaking, and his scarf and seat were spattered with blood.

  “Jael!” Jack yelled.

  Of course he didn’t respond; the man was in shock, as Jack knew from his days on the battlefield—and losing blood fast.

  Another potent beam of energy flashed by the flyer, while the ground rushed up to meet them …

  -25-

  “I can’t move in this rutting bag!” Ed thrashed on the bed, the tight linen sack around his body making him feel like a trussed goose.

  “It’s a bundling bag,” Julea explained. Facing him on the bed, she was similarly restrained. Her blonde hair spilled out from around the top of her own bag, which was drawn and tied tightly below her chin. “The Stefanites think an engaged couple should slumber together, but not be tempted to do … things.”

  “I know what the bag is for,” Ed gasped, “but who would be tempted with him watching?” Ed could feel cold, dead eyes on his back. “I’m sick of this mad bunch of shite. Your father is a rutting bastard, you know that?”

  Julea whimpered softly, and he immediately regretted his words.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s not your fault. But I’m sick of being trapped here. And I can’t stand him watching us!”

  Ed heard a splintery sound of movement, then a sickening crackle. There was a presence over him, like a foul weight in the air. When the thing breathed, it sounded like a dry wind through a burnt forest.

  He rolled onto his back and looked up.

  Mott stared back down at him, the wrinkled prunes of his eyes peering down from his scorched face. The flesh that still clung to his skull was crisped, hanging off in strips, and his skeletal grin was now blackened into a demonic leer. He raised his arm, the roasted flesh rustling, tendons creaking as the pulled taut over charred bo
ne.

  “Thhhosssse whooo conssspire againssst God,” he hissed, “sssshall feel his wrrrrath in t-t-time!”

  “I wish he had burned up!” he heard Julea sob.

  “Get away from us, charcoal face!” Ed yelled, thrashing, trying to smack Mott with his legs.

  Mott just stood there, grinning, the fading orange light of the sunset like a memory of the fire on his flesh. Watching them, always watching.

  Rutting bastard.

  In addition to the bundling bags and Mott’s presence, the Guardian had taken other precautions to insure that the young couple did not “get into trouble,” as he put it. They were locked into Julea’s bedroom now, and anything that might have served as a weapon had been taken away. They didn’t even have a lamp, the dying sun providing their only light.

  Earlier, they’d been let out of the bags in order to eat dinner in the room—but Mrs. Starks and two male servants had watched over them the entire time. The old woman had stared at Ed’s hands while he cut his meat with his fork, as if afraid he might stab her; they hadn’t been given any knives.

  When the meal was finished, all had been taken away and they’d been bundled back in.

  Now, Ed’s leg itched fiercely. Mrs. Starks had said he was lucky, and the burns weren’t bad. But the tingling ointment she’d applied made him want to scratch, and that was impossible to do while inside the bag.

  Their last visitors had been many hours ago. Before then, servants had peeked in every half-hour or so; but all had been quiet for some time. Since then, they’d had only Mott’s ghastly company.

  “Let’s pretend he’s not here, please?” Julea whispered. “We’ll just talk softly and pretend we’re alone. I want to be with you and talk with you.”

  Behind him, near the door, Ed heard a crackling like dry leaves, a bony crunch as Mott moved around. Maybe Julea was right. He really didn’t want to think about it …

  “I can’t believe we’re getting married,” Ed said.

  She closed her eyes, looking embarrassed. “I’m sorry. I know I put words in your mouth …”

  “Hey, you were trying to save my life. That’s … I’m not upset. Just surprised, I guess.”

  Ed didn’t really understand why people got married. His own parents had met in church when they were young, and their parents had thought it a good idea for them to wed. But then his parents had always been miserable together, as far as he knew.

  He tried to think back to his own romantic ideals as a youth. Well, there had really only been Elsbeth Kreeks. Sure, he’d wanted to be with her, hold her hand, smell her soft skin …

  But did he ever think about getting married?

  “When my mother was ill a few years ago, just before she died, she made my father promise some things—about me,” Julea said.

  “Things?” Ed asked.

  “She said he should give me a lovely life and keep me away from ugliness if he could. And also, that if I found a nice man that I wanted to marry, he should give his blessing.”

  “Was your mother a Stefanite too?”

  “My mother was the daughter of a wealthy village squire,” Julea explained. “Her parents didn’t want her to marry a poor parish minister, as my father was at the time. But they ran away and got married. She said she never regretted it, even though she had to give up so many things. She made my Father promise that I would never have to run away, that he would let me pick my own husband.”

  “Your father made her happy?” Ed asked, incredulous.

  Julea nodded on her pillow. “He wasn’t always like he is now. Mother said he was handsome and had a fiery charm, that when he talked about God or about her beauty it made her weak in the knees. She said you could see the power in his eyes. But he was gentle with her, and she said she could settle for no one else.”

  “Well,” Ed said, “I guess you have to settle. For me, I mean”

  “Why?” she asked.

  “Because you had tell your father you wanted to marry me to save my life.”

  “But … I do like you,” she said.

  “I’m crippled,” he protested. “You saw my foot when Mrs. Starks bandaged my burns? It’s a clubfoot. Ill-formed, they call it. All twisted and everything.”

  Indeed, he had been greatly embarrassed, sure that he would see disgust in her little elfin face, that it would be the end of her respect for him.

  He’d been surprised when she’d seemed only concerned about his burns …

  “So?” she asked. “What does that matter?”

  “I’m a burden,” he said. “Flawed … you know.”

  “I’m flawed, too,” she said, nodding earnestly. “I have a mole on my … well, where I sit. I used to worry a lot about it, but my mother said everyone has blemishes. She said flaws add character. I think you have a lot of character, Edwyn.”

  She was smiling at him, her big brown eyes wide. Even in the dimming light, he thought he could see his own face reflected in them, as if he were her entire universe.

  “Do you like me, Edwyn?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he said, surprised at his own lack of hesitation.

  She made him feel powerful, as if he might rip his way out of the bag and carry her off the estate right now, striking down all who opposed him.

  For her, he might try …

  “I wish we had more time together,” she said, and then he heard her softly sob. “Father was saying that the end is coming sooner than he planned.”

  The end …

  The image came into his mind again, the memory of seeing that thing Krotan dragging her out of the circle of light, down that dark tunnel. Whatever had happened in the darkness, between her and that thing and her father, she didn’t want to talk about it.

  “We have to get you out of here,” Ed said. “I’m not going to quit now.”

  She nodded. “But what can we do?”

  His mind was churning, turning over every tidbit of information he had about the Guardian and Krotan and their situation, over and over …

  “The wedding,” he said. “Your father will want to have it here, in the house?”

  She nodded again.

  “But we won’t be in bags, or tied up. You’ll tell him we can’t be. It has to be special for you, right? So that’s our chance …”

  He whispered his ideas to her, watched her nod and blink to acknowledge what he said.

  Ed was still whispering when he heard the footsteps.

  They hadn’t heard any footsteps in the hall outside for several hours. Suddenly, though, the dull thudding of feet could be heard downstairs.

  Feet moving in unison.

  The first thing that came into his mind was that it was a bunch of soldiers, maybe Grenadiers, because it sounded a bit like a march.

  But the rhythm was too slow for a march, though it was becoming very loud: BOOM-silence-BOOM-silence-BOOM.

  It was as if many people were climbing the stairs with heavy steps, all lifting their feet at the same time.

  Suddenly, Mott whirled towards the door to the hall, his bony mouth working soundlessly.

  He sucked in a breath with a hiss, then croaked: “Thhhhhey mmmarchhh nowwww ffforrr theirrrr G-Goddd, gird-ded by hisssss blood-deeee wrrrrathhhh. And the daaaay of juuuudge-ment comessss forrrr the un-riiii-chus!”

  The footsteps came closer:

  BOOM-silence-BOOM-silence-BOOM.

  In the hall right outside now …

  And then, the sounds stopped, and all was silent.

  There was the scraping of a key in the lock. With a creak, the door slid slowly open …

  Guardian Crandolph slipped through the half-opened door. He was trembling, his hair plastered to his sweat-damp forehead …

  But his blood-red eyes were wide and wild.

  “Children!” he gasped. “The penultimate phase is over. The Master has shared the fruits of his spirit with so many. Soon, our turn will come. But, for now … ”

  He moved aside, and the door creaked open, revealing the
marchers in the hall.

  Mrs. Starks was there; Ed immediately recognized her white hair and grey dress. Mister Starks, too, with his holey boots and his natty beard. Ed could pick out several more of the servants based on these little details, and for a long moment his mind played this game, not wanting to really see them—their skin, their faces, the unnaturally stiff way they stood …

  Julea’s desperate screams brought him around, and then he had to really look at them, had to see.

  There were twenty or thirty of them, filling the hall and now pressing into the doorway, entering the bedroom.

  Ed guessed that every servant in the house was there, from stable boy to scullery maid—or at least, what had once been the servants.

  They had been changed.

  Their skin was grey and porous, muscle and tendons glistening underneath. Their red eyes were bulging like little rotten fruits, and each wore a terrible, lipless smile. The things’ chests rose and fell in unison, the raspy hissing of their breathing like a chorus from hell, burning in Ed’s ears.

  The Guardian came forward now, grinning as the things stomped into the room behind him.

  “We must talk, child,” he said to Julea, bending over the bed. “Things are moving very quickly.”

  Ed felt cold and numb all over. “You bastard,” was all he could think to say, and it came out in a choked whisper.

  “You rutting … evil … bastard!”

  -26-

  The Hummingbird flyer plunged down towards the desert, the axehead-shaped enemy craft following it down, firing ambia bolts all the while.

  It was obvious that the injured pilot, Jael, couldn’t respond.

  His passenger, however, was determined to act.

  Jack fought against the inertia dragging him back, grabbed the seat in front of him and hauled himself forward over the seat, towards the controls. He nudged Jael aside and grabbed the altitude harness on the flyer’s control panel and pushed it down, thus pulling them up.

  The flyer righted itself and rose rapidly, the enemy coming up after it, doggedly persistent.

  Jack flicked the lever for the left front ambia jet, turning them sharply right, trying to throw off their pursuer. Now, he pressed the harness and took them higher again …