Battle Across Worlds

by Dean Chalmers

  Snarling in rage, he drew his rapier and slashed at the monster in a flurry of cuts. The blade bounced off its armored skin again and again with a faint “ting” of steel each time—but it did not leave so much as a scratch.

  The giant stood there now, unmoving, just holding her—like some cruel child considering a mouse he was about to crush.

  “Run!” Taxamia gasped, obviously having trouble breathing. “Go now, before … behind you!”

  Ralley looked back to see that the pursuing flyer had landed silently just behind him.

  There was a soft hiss as its ramp folded down.

  With a cry, Ralley turned and charged at the craft.

  But before he could clear the distance, the pilot jumped out onto the ramp, pointing an ambia gun at Ralley’s head. He was a pale-skinned, blonde-haired man …

  “Aubren!” Ralley growled, his tone an accusation of treachery.

  Aubren laughed. “A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush, hey Quenn? You fond of that little sparrow? Don’t move if you want her to live—that Armor has a crushing grip.”

  “Ralley!” Taxamia sobbed. “Please, don’t …”

  Ralley turned and looked at her. Her golden eyes were wide as the mighty crystal fingers of the thing closed around her slender torso, squeezing tightly, threatening to crack her ribs.

  There was a chance that Aubren was bluffing, that Lanaya desired the Princess for a prisoner and would not want her killed. He could take that chance and run, as she begged him to do …

  But he couldn’t risk it.

  The fire left him then, and he felt cold all over, despite the jungle heat. He dropped his rapier and raised his arms.

  Head bent in defeat, trembling, he told Aubren: “All right. Don’t hurt her. I’ll cooperate as far … as far as it goes.”

  He heard Taxamia sob behind him. But she had to understand!

  Without her, there was no da’ta se, no fiery link, no fearlessly heroic Ralley Quenn. Just a scared, nervous young man who badly needed to hum an overture or two …

  Aubren waved the giant crystal monster—the Armor—forward, and soon Ralley felt thick crystal fingers wrapping around his own midsection.

  “You’re in capable hands, Quenn,” Aubren said, chuckling. “Let’s go.”

  #

  Hidden high in the branches of a towering stinkfruit tree, Jarlus peered down through a gap in the foliage. He watched as one of the fearsome “statues” stalked into view below, its thudding footsteps shaking him in his perch.

  The behemoth suddenly came to a halt, arms splayed. There was a soft hiss, and a crack appeared in the center of its chest, two halves spreading apart like doors.

  They opened to unveil a sweating, bare-chested man who sat inside the thing. He panted and gasped, as if desperate for fresh air. He was shaking violently, and his bloodshot eyes were wide with pain.

  So that was it. The crystal “statues” were actually machines, giant suits of armor controlled by soldiers inside their “chests.” Judging from the pilot’s agonized expression, controlling the thing must have been a great strain.

  But Jarlus did not pity him. He’d noticed the man’s braided, beaded hair, and the small tattoo of a falcon on his shoulder. This was no abarvae or nanaen barbarian—this was a royal Dameryan soldier who had betrayed Pai Phaedon, turned traitor for her.

  Bracing himself in the branches, Jarlus took up his bow and knocked an arrow. Holding his breath, he pulled it back and aimed for the traitor pilot’s throat.

  Breathing out, he loosed his arrow. It made only the slightest whisper of a whistle as it flew …

  And then, it was sticking from the target’s throat, having pierced his windpipe. The man grasped at it, choking as blood spilled from his mouth.

  As the man convulsed in his death throes, the armored machine in which he sat likewise flailed its arms. Its right leg kicked back and then, losing balance, the thing fell forward with a heavy, echoing thud.

  Jarlus scurried down the tree, dropping to a crouch and sprinting forward again.

  He was born to this jungle, and could make his way through the treetops if he had to … but he wasn’t a howler monkey who could swing along at speedy pace, or a chebae who could scamper through the branches. Ground travel would be faster, though he’d risk further encounters with the enemy.

  He had to get back to the clearing. He’d already spent too long in hiding, and he feared for the da’ta se.

  Gods, he thought, tell me I am not too late …

  After a long run, he reached the clearing without further opposition—but what he saw there forced the air from his lungs in a crushing gasp of despair.

  One of the transports was on its side, its ambia tank blown out. The rest of the flyers were in pieces …

  And there were pieces of bodies, as well: small pieces, already swarming with tiny flies. No sign that any of his men or the pilots was still alive.

  Could the da’ta se possibly have survived?

  Then his eyes caught on something shiny, a blue-black sphere that had been partially unearthed at one edge of the clearing. The way the dirt was scattered about, it looked as though someone had recently dug it up. This was the work of hands, not the ambia explosion.

  Someone had run into the forest from the same spot. There were broken ferns a few yards into the trees, and the moldering leaves on the forest floor bore the stamp of passing feet.

  Had survivors fled this way?

  Jarlus followed the trail, finding several places where large holes had been blasted through the canopy by ambia fire. Where the trail ended, he saw a column of smashed trees and trampled growths coming in from another direction.

  There were heavy, squared markings in the soil. These he guessed to be the “footprints” of one of the armor-things. Another large impression in the ground was likely the landing mark of a Baek Tayon flyer.

  Nearby, something glittered in the underbrush. He bent and picked it up. It was straight, needle-like steel blade with an ornate grip.

  He recognized the odd sword instantly—it was Ralley Quenn’s weapon, rapier as he’d called it …

  So Quenn had survived! And there was a good chance that the Princess had been with him.

  Once more, he surveyed the trail of crushed trees and crumbled greenery that led into the area. On closer inspection, it appeared that the armored behemoth had stomped in to this area, then soon turned and marched back out again, covering its own tracks.

  It was a large and heavy beast. The path would be easy enough to follow.

  Jarlus slipped Ralley’s sword into his belt alongside his own dagger and took off into the trees, following the trail that the enemy had left for him.

  -29-

  It was time for yet another mad supper at the Guardian’s house.

  Ed sat next to Julea, in the same seats they’d taken before. Mott was across the table, grinning with his blackened teeth as usual.

  Beside the table, along the wall on either side, a row of ghoulish servant-things stood guard, arms crossed, breath rasping. There were five of them on each side, and Ed was nauseated by the acrid smell of their porous flesh.

  Still, when the Guardian put a plate of stale biscuits and cheese in front of him, Ed took a few bites, washing it down with a large sip of water.

  He knew he needed to keep up his strength.

  While he nibbled on the biscuit, he noticed a single knife nearby on the table—no doubt forgotten after a previous meal. Carefully, he reached over and took hold of the blade, sliding it beside his plate where it was largely hidden.

  Julea glanced at him as he moved it, but said nothing. He wanted to push it into his lap and slide it into his trousers, but her father was coming …

  The Guardian seemed downright giddy as he approached the table, skipping over to them with his own plate of food, singing some patriotic hymn:

  “Sweet Garatayne, our blessed land, may God’s grace touch you al-ways …”

  “You’re singing about
God?” Ed asked.

  Actually, what he’d wanted to say was: You have the gall to sing about God while you prance around the walking corpses of your servants, you smug-faced demon sodomizing heretic?

  But for Julea’s sake and his own, he didn’t want to anger her father at the moment.

  The Guardian shrugged. “Well, old habits die hard, as the common saying goes. There were many years when I felt that I burned for God, the God of the Holy Book …”

  He took a seat across from them, and leaned forward, grinning, to explain:

  “All of my life, I’ve had a fire burning inside of me. This is but an outward manifestation of that blaze,” he explained, pointing to his crimson eyes. “I knew that I had a drive towards holy violence, to tear down the walls and palaces of the mighty. I thought it was a divine calling, and that through the Stefanites I might find my destiny. But I was wrong.”

  Smiling, he shook his head as if to say, silly me. “I found my real Master on this island, under that mound. He told me that I was a Kraelon, made by ancient design to serve his will. And his power is no divine mystery to be understood only through prayer and meditation … It is real, palpable, strong! Behold his work!”

  He spread his arms to indicate the servant-things.

  “That demon in the pit did this to them?” Ed asked.

  “He is NOT a demon!” the Guardian snapped back. “You are in no position to judge him, boy!” He stood and leaned forward, raising his hand as if about to bludgeon Ed with it …

  At the last instant, he held himself back. Instead, bellowing with rage, he swept his arm across the table, knocking Ed’s cup and plate and the knife beside it to the floor.

  Julea gasped in her seat beside Ed …

  But then, the Guardian pulled back, sliding slowly down into his chair, rubbing his eyes like a man much wearied.

  When he withdrew his hands, his smile had returned. “Your ignorance is understandable, I suppose,” he said. “The Master is no beast. He is of the most ancient intelligent race—the Krael. And he is—and always has been—the wisest amongst his kind. He created men and women, and we are his vessels.”

  “But these vessels have holes,” Ed said, nodding towards the servant-things behind him.

  He felt Julea’s fingernails biting his arm in warning.

  But Ed knew that he had to try and understand what was going on, what the Guardian was thinking. He needed to learn everything he could if he was going to get them out of the place.

  The Guardian sighed. “Well … It would take a long time to explain. Suffice it to say that the Master has an affliction. Ideally, that affliction would not spread to these human vessels, but alas—we have been rushed in our work. It is no matter. With so many vessels, my Master will soon be indestructible. His mind and will shall dwell in every corner of the land!”

  Ed suddenly remembered the map of Garatayne he’d seen in the basement, with the red lines running to all of the cities. “You’re sending those things … uh, vessels … out to the mainland?” he asked.

  The Guardian laughed. “Oh no! This run with the servants was just a final test. Tomorrow, when he’s had a chance to rest, the Master shall project the state of his central aon—his soul, to your understanding—across all of Garatayne. His soul will be reflected in the mind and body of every man, woman and child. All will be changed, yielding their flesh as well as their essential beings to him.”

  “So they’ll ALL be like … this?” Ed gasped, looking at the servant-things.

  Everyone—in Bryttington, on the whole island, all across the country—walking around like a mindless corpse, a flesh-puppet for that Krotan monster in the pit?

  EVERYONE?

  Rutting hell!

  Ed tried to imagine all of them, everyone he’d ever known … his parents, his brothers, Elsbeth Kreeks, Mother Henne … all suddenly looking up from their daily work as Krotan’s hate washed over them, eyes rolling up and limbs going stiff as their flesh was partially dissolved.

  He wouldn’t wish that fate on anyone, even upon all those whom he despised.

  And what about Julea?

  He imagined her in a wedding gown, pretty and virginal in white, smiling as her pink lips melted to putrid goo and her elfin face was forever lost to a bony grin …

  There was no way he could sit by and wait for that to happen! And even if they escaped the estate, she would still be lost.

  “Will they all be like these first ones here?” The Guardian asked aloud, tilting his head. “Yes, I expect so. I know they are unsightly to us now … But think of the spiritual union with the Master! Do not worry. When the time comes, we shall all be included. Even you, my dear former Constable Bocke. You will not be able to resist this time. Then all of our worries will end—all earthly concerns gone, forever and ever. Amen.”

  Julea was shaking, turning pale. “But Father!” she cried. “What about the WEDDING? You didn’t forget?”

  “No, dearest child,” he shook his head, smiling. “Of course not. We can hold the ceremony tonight, if you’d like?”

  “So soon?” she sobbed. “But Father, it has to be special! There should be music and candles and decorations and … um … other things. Wedding things.”

  She glanced up at Ed as she said this, and he saw a hint of some plot in her eyes …

  Of course! She was trying to stall her father. If the wedding might be put off, then the Master’s plans might also be delayed—at least until the Guardian had fulfilled his promise to his daughter.

  It would buy them some time …

  “We need a marriage certificate,” Ed said, nodding sagely and hoping he sounded authoritative enough. “I know that from working with the clerk’s office. Need a marriage certificate with the local Magistrate’s seal to make it official and legal and all, right?”

  The Guardian nodded. “Very well. The machinery is in place below and the Master is resting, so I should have time to prepare a few things. I can send a Grenadier to town for the certificate. But tomorrow must be the day, and then … well, by tomorrow evening the Master will be rested and ready for his own triumph.”

  Rutting hell.

  So perhaps they couldn’t delay the Master’s plan. But could they put themselves in a better position to get away? If only they could warn someone, the Magistrate or one of the exiled nobles or anyone who might listen. But they had to get away from the Guardian first.

  Ed had a sudden idea … He leaned over and whispered in Julea’s ear.

  She nodded at his suggestion. “Father,” she said. “I think we should have the wedding in a proper church. Someplace pretty like … well, the cathedral in Bryttington town?”

  The Guardian shook his head, closing his eyes as if pained. “Daughter, child … the Master will not want us to leave this house now. You must understand. I will do whatever I can to make the ceremony special for you, but we must have it here.”

  Damn it all.

  And yet, Ed realized, there was another possibility … But would the Guardian allow it?

  In order to convince him, he’d have to put on an act. Ed had always hated those who lied easily—yet now he knew that their lives and the fate of all Garatayne might now rest on the glibness of his own tongue.

  “Julea,” he said, “please … um … dear, don’t be unreasonable. Your father’s right. The Master will soon be inside everyone, everywhere, and we must accept it, even on our wedding day. We can’t run from him, right?”

  Julea’s eyes widened and her lower lip trembled, as if she couldn’t believe what he was saying. Under the table, he squeezed her hand hard several times, hoping she would understand that this was a game, and that he needed her to play along.

  “We have to accept the Master’s plan, right?” he continued. “So, Julea, if you want to have the wedding in a place like a cathedral—why not hold it in the Master’s cavern? There are all those shiny pillars down there and it’s very … umm … cathedral-looking, isn’t it? We can get married right beside the
Master’s pit and await the seeds of his soul and … all that.”

  The Guardian nodded enthusiastically and clapped his hands. “Yes, a wonderful idea! You can pledge your bond in the presence of the Master, before he creates a bond with all of us. How wonderfully symbolic.”

  Symbolic it might be, but Ed had his own reasons for the choice of the place. There was a door leading directly out of that cavern to the estate grounds. Guarded, perhaps, but they had no other chance. It might be a way for Julea to escape …

  Ed himself had another duty.

  The demon itself lived in a pit down there. Krotan was a tough little beast, but Ed would try to kill him—bare handed, if need be.

  He didn’t know if it was courage or practical truth that had lead him to this path. After all, if Krotan had his way, then there’d be nowhere safe, no place to run …

  And at least if the beast killed him, he’d never end up as a walking piece of spoiled meat.

  “Is this arrangement all right with you, daughter?” the Guardian asked. “It sounds like splendid idea.”

  She nodded, smiling nervously. “Yes,” she said. “My Edwyn is so clever to come up with such things.” She squeezed his hand hard several times under the table, answering his earlier signal.

  Good, he thought. She knows. She understands.

  The Guardian spread his arms. “Well, then. Let us eat and preserve our strength. Tomorrow we should all be quite busy, yes?”

  “Oh Edwyn—your plate! I forgot!” Julea exclaimed, quickly bending under the table. The Guardian was buttering a biscuit and didn’t seem to take any special notice of what she was doing below.

  Ed saw her grab his plate, fumble for the cup … and was she sliding something into her stocking, under the cover of her skirt?

  The knife! He’d almost forgotten about it. Did she have the knife?

  She pulled herself out from under the tablecloth, set Ed’s plate in front of him, and placed half of a dust-soiled biscuit back upon it.

  Turning to him, she nodded, as if to say, I knew what you needed, I got it for you.