Obsidian Blues (The Chemslinger Chronicles Book 1)

by J. S. Miller

  We’d been walking for hours, and the forest still looked largely the same.

  “I guess Arthur wasn’t much of a map maker,” I said.

  “Balderdash! His cartographical skills were second to none. But the suns are setting, so this clearing will have to do, river or no.”

  “Wait,” I said, glancing up at the thick canopy. “The sun's been up this whole time? And did you say suns, plural?”

  Without answering, he detached the large bowl from his back, laid it on the ground, and started tossing sticks into it as if doing so were a task he’d performed many times before. Once the bowl held a respectable pile, he took two steps back, raised his left arm and braced it with the right. The cannon he called the Bull-Dog emerged. I opened my mouth to ask if this was a good idea when a gout of crimson flame lit up the small clearing.

  “Are you insane?” I yelped. “This entire place is kindling!”

  He ignored me, and the flames died down — all except the small one rolling gently inside his makeshift fire pit. I rubbed the back of my head.

  “Sorry. Startled me is all.”

  His mustache twitched as though he were laughing at me with his speaker on mute. Then he sat down next to the fire and beckoned me to join him.

  “So,” Coppersworth began. “What would you like to know?”

  “Well … OK, for starters, is there something going on here with, ya know, physics? I can’t place it exactly, but everything seems sort of … wonky.”

  “Sort of what?”

  “Wonky. Messed up. Askew. Like how you just used a flamethrower inside a paper mill and everything’s still standing.”

  “Ah, quite. The physical laws you knew on Earth do behave differently here. We do not know how exactly, but as you may have guessed, it means…”

  “Alchemy is unpredictable,” I finished. He’d confirmed something I’d been worrying about ever since my touch-down on Planet Weird. “How is that possible? These are the forces that bind our universe together. They shouldn’t be able to just change.”

  “Exactly what I thought, but Arthur asked a different question: How do we know we are still in our universe at all?” The words were coming fast now, and he was gesturing as he spoke. “You and I may even come from different versions of Earth. There is no way to be certain, which renders everything we know about science potentially irrelevant.”

  I put my head in my hands and rubbed my temples. This was getting ridiculous.

  “But that is not even the most fascinating aspect of this place,” he continued. “Arthur hypothesized that physical forces such as gravity, or the attraction all objects exert upon one another, as well as energy, which can be neither created nor destroyed — he proposed that such forces may be collectively finite across all realities.”

  “Was Arthur at all familiar with the General Theory of Relativity?”

  “Relativity?” he asked. “Relativity to what?”

  “Never mind. You guys probably left Earth before Einstein hit the scene. Might have changed Arthur’s views on gravity, that’s all. Please, go on.”

  “Ah, yes, well, although these forces and energies may be collectively finite, they may also be capable of transference between universes … via fissures like the ones you and I fell through.”

  “We call them wormholes where I come from, and they’re supposed to be only theoretical.”

  “Indeed? Well, you’ve certainly proved their existence tonight, old chum. Nevertheless, by using these ‘wormholes,’ as you call them, to travel between universes, these finite forces take up finite space, pushing one another back and forth in a celestial balancing act that plays out over billions of years. Thus, at varying points in time, certain universes act as ‘source’ dimensions, supplying latent alchemical energy to all the rest. These source dimensions accumulate much more than their fair share, you see, and that surplus energy pushes through fissures in the fabric of reality. This would explain why alchemical ‘magics’ are so anemic on Earth that we struggle to harness even a fraction of their potential, while such forces are much stronger here. This world acts as a sort of wellspring. Somehow. Do keep in mind that these were merely Arthur’s theories. There are millions of variables to consider, and we’d only begun to gather data …”

  He rambled on as I tried to wrap my head around all this. Everything I knew about anything was screaming that this was absolute horseshit. Arthur’s “theory” sounded like the ravings of a madman. But then I replayed the events of the day in my mind. It had started normally enough — woke up late, fried some eggs, went to the pub — but then I’d stumbled into a cosmic loony bin occupied by steampunk robots and pissed off leather fetishists. As a result, I was feeling uncharacteristically open-minded about little things like the laws of physics. And yet I still felt uncertain. I lacked cold, hard data, particularly regarding my only weapon in this strange land. And that terrified me.

  The Chemslinger had a relatively straightforward design. Back when I decided to build it — for, um, home defense — I first investigated airsoft and paintball guns. Using compressed gas to fling explosive chemicals sounded perfect, but the flimsy plastic paintballs couldn’t hold up. So I transformed the big Smith & Wesson Model 500 revolver into a pneumatic cannon with five chambers of alchemical fury. After fabricating a custom grip designed for compressed air cartridges, I etched the gun’s frame with runes and coated it with special oils to seal and protect the metal. It could even still function as a regular gun, although I’d never had a reason to use it that way. I’m an alchemist, not a gunfighter. That said, it did look pretty damn cool on my hip.

  After modding the Model 500, I used alchemically enhanced fluoropolymers to craft plastic vials the size of .50 caliber cartridges. They were harder than stone until struck in exactly the right spot, which weakened the shell and mixed the chemicals inside so they’d go boom on impact. Think high-velocity paintball grenade launcher, although the concoctions inside could range from high explosives to scent clouds so vile they’d make carrion birds fly for the hills. All I had to do was channel a bit of energy and pull the trigger, and out went the vial in a puff of air, flying until it hit something and broke, triggering the final stage of the alchemical reaction.

  That was how the Chemslinger had worked on Earth, where science had my back. Now, according to Coppersworth, all my careful engineering was “potentially irrelevant.” Damn it all. I needed data.

  “It’s time for an experiment,” I said, standing and pulling the big gun from its holster.

  Coppersworth stopped mid-sentence, looking on in bewilderment as I stalked toward a large tree at the edge of the clearing. Stopping a few dozen feet away, I opened the cylinder, spun it to a chamber filled with sky blue liquid, and rolled it back into place. Then I lifted the gun in a two-handed grip, thumbed back the hammer, and aimed for the trunk.

  As I focused on my target, raw life energy, the bioelectric impulses flowing through my cells and muscles, granting them the potential for action, flowed out of me and into my ring, which channeled it into the revolver. The air around me hummed, and the runes on the gun began to glow. It was a sensation I was used to, the ritual my alchemy textbooks called “centering,” but something was different this time. Energy was drifting in from all sides, from every living thing in the clearing, from the heat and light of the fire, even from deep within the ground. I pulled from all of them and suffused my cells with power, putting the weight of an entire planet behind this punch.

  Before I could unleash all that energy, a long, lupine howl split the still evening air. I couldn’t just hold onto that much power indefinitely, so I let it dissipate and gave my metallic companion my best “what the hell was that?” face. His eyelights darted back and forth over the tree line.

  “I do believe we have attracted unwanted visitors,” he said.

  I followed his gaze, and what I saw gave me the same brand of goosebumps I’d experienced earlier that night, when the thing in the sewer had started laughing. In the sh
adows surrounding the edge of the clearing, several dozen sets of eyes sparkled just beyond the reach of the firelight.

  “What are they?”

  “If I am not mistaken, they are what Arthur dubbed ‘foo dogs,’ foo being a word he learnt during his time in the Orient.”

  “Are they hostile?”

  “I believe they fancy themselves guardians of the forest,” he said with a glance at the Chemslinger, which was still trained on the tree.

  “They couldn’t possibly know what this is, could they?”

  “In my experience, they typically choose to remain hidden from peaceful travelers.”

  “Well, shit.”

  “Indeed,” Coppersworth said, and his arm once again disassembled itself. Good to know he was ready for a fight, but I wasn’t. Not yet.

  “Let’s try talking first and shooting later,” I said. “I typically end up a lot less dead that way.”

  He nodded and lowered his arm, although the monocle appeared to be scanning again. I turned back to the trees. A split second before opening my mouth, the thought occurred to me that these creatures might not even speak English. Either way, I had to try.

  “I apologize for entering your forest and threatening this magnificent tree,” I said, loud enough to be sure they could hear me. The eyes did not answer.

  “I, uh, pledge that … until I depart this place … this forest and all its inhabitants will be under my protection.”

  More silence. I could almost hear the sweat rolling down my own forehead and pattering on the leaves below. The quiet was so stubborn and aloof that it made me want to scream just to break it.

  “Too much?” I whispered to Coppersworth.

  His eyes, however, were locked on the tree line — on the lone figure emerging from the underbrush. The beast was bigger than most bears and about three times as scary. Layers of sharp stone scales armored its hide, and tufts of coarse black fur protruded out from under them. Complex patterns reminiscent of ancient Asian woodblock prints had been chiseled into the scales, which even covered the animal’s face, giving it the ghoulish cast of a leonine Oni mask. I knew instantly why the Arthur Rundale had called them foo dogs. Aside from the longer, more wolfish snout, it was a dead ringer for the Imperial guardian statues often placed outside Chinese temples and tombs. In the west, they were sometimes called foo dogs. The name was a little old-fashioned for me, though, so I decided to go with their Chinese name: shi, or lion. I couldn’t imagine a more apt description than “lion dog.”

  The shi dog stepped into the clearing, its scales painted orange in the fire’s glow, its eyes shining like orbs of volcanic glass. When it spoke, its words were a rockslide.

  “Little human,” it rumbled. “You would offer us protection while brandishing a sword?”

  The way it said “sword” told me exactly how threatening it found me and my peashooter.

  “What, this?” I asked. “Basically a water pistol. What about you? Stalking out here with all those eyes behind you isn’t sending the friendliest message.”

  “Making friends is not my business,” it said. “Protecting this forest is.”

  “And my pledge not to harm it stands … unless you do something stupid.”

  “You hold our home for ransom, then?”

  I sighed and shook my head. This was not going well.

  “What can I do to convince you? Leading with ‘I come in peace’ didn’t work, so there’s gotta be something, right? Do I need to complete a sacred trial or something? A test of skill or bravery or table manners? There’s always a sacred trial.”

  The dog’s eyes widened.

  “You know of the sacred trial?” it asked.

  “Wait, seriously?”

  “Then you also know you must choose. It is the trial … or death.”

  “Well, given those options … what sort of trial are we talking here?”

  “It differs for each supplicant. You are a man of the sword, so why not a test of the sword? I will try to take yours, and you will try to take mine.”

  As it spoke, the shi dog’s stone lips formed a mirthless grin, revealing several rows of serrated teeth. They looked as hard and sharp as its eyes.

  “Mind if I swap my sword for a dentist’s drill?”

  “A what?”

  “Sorry. Nothing. Just mocking the sacred trial. Really, though, I think we should sit down and talk about—”

  Without another word, the shi dog charged, head down, mouth closed, teeth hidden. I had a moment to feel weirdly honored that it was at least taking me a little seriously before its massive head bucked, slamming into me with the force of a speeding four-door sedan. Everything went blurry as I flew end over end across the clearing. For the second time that night, I landed on something that was definitely not a bean bag chair, and the air in my lungs evacuated so fast it felt like my brain had called in a bomb threat.

  I gasped, lungs burning. The stoneskin jacket had protected me from blades and berserk toasters, but it could apparently only do so much against Newtonian physics, even here, like how Kevlar vests can stop bullets but not prevent bruised ribs. And while my garments probably one-upped standard issue body armor, I’d just been hit by a metric ton of angry granite, not a small caliber round. Things did not feel good. Well, one thing felt OK: The cold weight of the Chemslinger was still in my hand.

  Both Coppersworth and the shi dog watched me, the former with an expression of concern, the latter smiling contemptuously. In the dog’s eyes, I saw the utter surety of the victor — the easy confidence of someone who knows they’ve already won. All it had to do was walk over here and take my gun, and there was nothing I could do to stop it. To hell with that.

  My entire body ached, but I found the strength to push myself up and brush the dust from my jacket, trying my hardest to make it look casual. The shi dog’s smile faltered.

  “Pretty good, pooch,” I said. “Though I prefer a bit less sucker in my punch.”

  What was left of its smile contorted into a snarl, and its black eyes narrowed to slits. I had no idea if it had understood my insult, but my tone had gotten through. The shi dog lowered its head for another charge.

  “ENOUGH!” I bellowed, raising the Chemslinger and aiming one-handed at a nearby tree. Energy surged through me, and I pulled the trigger.

  The gun thumped like a depth charge, and from the end of its long barrel, azure light exploded. A river of liquid flame poured from my hand and lit up the clearing as if by lightning strike. Dozens of eyes squinted in unison as raw energy raced across the clearing and engulfed the tree, melting through its bark like incendiary buckshot, disintegrating a thousand years’ growth in seconds. As the alchemical concoction burned its way up the trunk, what was left of the enormous tree fell, screeching as it crashed toward the dirt below. But it never made it there. Bark, branches, leaves — it all evaporated in alchemical fire and scattered on the wind in a spray of sapphire embers.

  A wave of fatigue hit me, but the fight wasn’t over. Trying not to look as surprised and tired as I felt, I turned back to the shi dog and swung the gun up to rest on my shoulder. The runes on the barrel smoldered, warming my face.

  “Still want me to start pulling teeth?” I asked.

  To my amazement, the living statue lowered itself into an awkward canine bow.

  “Lord Alchemist,” it said. “Why did you not announce yourself?”

  “Why did I not what now?”

  I glanced at the gun in my hand. Had it solely been responsible for the shi dog’s distress? I mean, that blast had been impressive, but aside from the faintly glowing runes and a bit of blue smoke rising from the barrel, there was no evidence of the spectacle from a moment before. The revolver itself was unscathed. I opened the chamber and carefully removed the spent vial. The front end had burst open, forcing the chemicals out while leaving an empty casing inside the chamber. Huh. This universe somehow made my gun act more like a gun.

  “By Jove,” Coppersworth said as he walked over to m
e. “I am glad to count myself among your allies.”

  “And that was just a glowstick,” I said. “I don’t know whether I’m excited or terrified to try out the ones designed for offense.”

  “We yield, Lord Alchemist,” the shi dog said.

  “Oh, right, you,” I said, sheathing my “sword” and trying not to let my shoulders visibly slump. “Glad to hear it. But stop that. Get up.”

  The dog stood slowly, glancing between me and the trees where its friends still lurked in the shadows.

  “I hereby honor your wish to become a guardian of the forest, Lord Alchemist.”

  “Great. What does that entail, exactly?”

  It arched a stone eyebrow at me.

  “Guarding the forest, of course.”

  “I figured out that much on my own. Please, humor me with specifics.”

  The creature threw another look at the trees, and after a moment, more shi dogs began stepping reluctantly into the clearing. It was almost as though their leader had summoned them out. As though the top dog thought backup might be necessary.

  “You must stay here,” it said finally. “As one of us. Forever.”

  Chapter 10

  I stared at the battalion of armored beasts, unsure how to defuse this time bomb I’d built for myself. Of course a mythical dog-lion with no sense of humor was going to take a solemn pledge of servitude as seriously as a heart attack. What had I been thinking?

  “I am called Stern,” it said. “Come this way, Lord Alchemist. To your new home.”

  “I really don't have time for this.”

  “For what? Honoring your word?”

  “My word was that I'd protect the forest until I left it. Which implies, ya know, leaving.”

  “It might also imply death.”

  “What a funny thing to say,” I said, placing my hand on the butt of my gun.

  “It would be better if you accepted this.”

  As Stern spoke, the dozen other bear-sized dogs shifted and bristled behind him. The implication was not boastful or crude, but simple. Coppersworth got to his feet, Bull-Dog whirring, but I waved him back.