Beyond the Pale

by Jak Koke

  Suddenly, the voice stops and the light fades. Ryan has failed, and great sadness washes over him as he holds his breath and watches the woman who had been singing. She falls under the onslaught of darkness, her throat ripped out first. Then her heart. Her eyes. Until she is in fleshy tatters, and the light that had radiated from her is blanketed by the stain of blackened blood.

  The dream faded from Ryan’s awareness, and he remembered to breathe. He knew some of what the dream meant now. The place was a spike of mana in the astral plane, a point where the world was closest to a plane where horrible creatures existed. Dunkelzahn had called these creatures the Enemy in his message to Ryan.

  The light was Thayla. She protected the site from those who would use magic to finish the bridge to the plane of the Enemy so that they could come across and destroy the world. But Thayla’s song was not impenetrable, and perhaps the dream was telling Ryan that the place had been breached.

  Perhaps it's paranoia and means nothing.

  Dunkelzahn had given Ryan instructions to take the Dragon Heart to Thayla; she knew how to use it to stop the darkness. If he didn’t get the Heart to her soon, it would be too late to stop the war.

  Now, in the ruins of Dunkeizahn’s arboretum. Ryan drew mana around him as he moved. As he walked the forms of the Silent Way.

  Magic built inside him, and he remembered his mission—told to him by a messenger spirit that had been instructed by Dunkelzahn. The messenger had emerged from the shining silver statue of a small dracoform deep inside the dragon’s lair.

  “I have taught you of the cycles of magic,” it said, speaking with Dunkeizahn’s voice, “but no one has dared manipulate them as they do now . . . The discovery of a Locus by Darke may be the single most devastating event in all of history. If the metaplanar Chasm is breached before we are ready, we will all suffer. All beings will die. All beings."

  “My fellow dragons are overconfident. . . Technology changes everything. No magic can protect against it. There will be no hiding this time. There will only be war. We must gain the time we need to build up our technology so that we have the ability to fight the Enemy when it can cross. But to gain that time we must protect our natural defenses. They must not be allowed to fail, and the Dragon Heart will ensure that they don’t. Thayla will know how to use it. Get it to her before it is too late.”

  Now, in the decimated arboretum, the spirit’s voice faded from Ryan’s memory as he finished his dance. He stood perfectly still for several seconds, trying to prepare himself mentally for the coming days, and enjoying the fleeting feel of warm sunshine on the freshly healed new skin of his face.

  Gone were the insecurities and doubts that had plagued him before he’d defeated Burnout and regained the Dragon Heart. Forgotten were his desires for vengeance on Dunkeizahn’s assassin. Out of his mind for the moment. Shelved until the task at hand was successfully accomplished. The task of delivering the Dragon Heart to Thayla.

  More words came back to Ryan from the messenger spirit’s speech. “In order to complete your task, you must enlist the service of a powerful mage who knows the ritual that can carry you and the Dragon Heart into the metaplanes . . . Harlequin would be my first choice.”

  Now that I am completely healed, Ryan thought, I must begin the search for the mage, Harlequin. Anything else is but a distraction.

  Ryan returned to his room, showered and shaved, then dressed in a comfortable suit and tie, restrapping the Dragon Heart to his waist under his suit coat. The Heart bulged at his abdomen, almost making him look like he had a gut, but Ryan had decided to carry the artifact with him until his mission was complete.

  He tucked the Walther PB-100 pistol into a discreet ankle holster and took two extra clips of armor-piercing ammo. Just in case. Then he allowed himself to be chauffeured to the Watergate Hotel. He arrived a little before noon, very hungry for having skipped breakfast.

  The crowd around the Watergate was thinner than it had been the past few days, mainly concentrated in the front by the manastorm. Someone had erected a temporary macroplast podium and was addressing the crowd, spouting off about how Dunkelzahn had martyred himself, about how the dragon had been a saint and had been called up to heaven by God.

  Ryan had heard of the Church of Dunkelzahn fanatics, and apparently their numbers were spreading worldwide. The limousine driver pulled into the circular drive, newly repaired since the explosion had taken out much of the hotel’s façade and the overhanging canopy. The limo stopped by the brand-new revolving glass doors and the driver came around to let Ryan out.

  Initially, Ryan had felt a tad conspicuous in corporate attire, but that had lasted only a few minutes. He knew that in this part of the Federal cluster, a suit and tie were almost as effective as an invisibility spell. He stepped inside and up to the elevator.

  Nadja greeted him at the door to the penthouse suite, a beaming smile on her lips. And Ryan ran to her, ignoring the defensive looks from the secret servicemen clustered around her. He plunged himself into her arms, pulling her off her feet in a rugged embrace. She smelled sweetly of faint vanilla.

  She laughed and kissed his neck. Squeezed his body tightly.

  Ryan ran his fingers through her hair. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Shh,” she whispered in his ear.

  He held her close, her face in the hollow of his neck. His tears threatening to come. He loved her more than he’d loved anyone, and he’d nearly caused her death. Burnout had gone for her because of what she meant to Ryan.

  After a minute Nadja pulled back and straightened her suit and skirt, the deep green going perfectly with her eyes and hair. She always did know how to kill in the fashion department. “You hungry?” she asked.

  “Famished.”

  “Come. I’ve ordered Greek from Aesop’s.”

  Nadja led Ryan into the raised dining area, situated next to the kitchen. A young human male poured him wine and brought a plate of stuffed grape leaves, hummus, and pita bread.

  Ryan’s stomach rumbled. He took a sip of his wine and helped himself to the food.

  “I heard Burnout was taken by the Azzies,” Nadja said.

  “Yes.”

  “Any idea where?”

  “Not exactly,” Ryan said. “Jane is trying to track him."

  Nadja nodded and swallowed a piece of pita smothered in hummus. She was so beautiful, so strong. Ryan would do anything for her.

  “I was hoping to have Lethe’s help, but he and Burnout can’t be my main focus right now,”

  Nadja nodded as though she instinctively understood what Ryan had spent an hour of meditation figuring out.

  “You have the Dragon Heart.”

  “Yes, and I need to figure out how to get it to Thayla.”

  “It’s curious,” Nadja said. “I met someone else today who knows of Thayla.”

  Ryan snapped his attention on her. “Who?”

  “A strange one. Elf with a painted face. Calls himself Harlequin.”

  “You met Harlequin? He’s the one Dunkelzahn said I should ask for help. Where is he?”

  Nadja sat back and delicately wiped her mouth with the corner of her napkin. “I’m sorry to say that he left.”

  “Do you have an LTG number or a satellite telecom code for him?”

  “No."

  Ryan held his breath, waiting for Nadja to finish.

  “But I do have an address where I’m supposed to deliver his suit of armor.”

  “Thank the spirits! Where?”

  “It’s an island in the Mediterranean Sea off the coast of France—Chateau d’If. It’s where the Count of Monte Cristo was held prisoner.”

  “He owns a castle on an island?”

  “An ancient French prison. Have you read Alexandre Dumas?”

  “No, but I’ve chipped the sim.”

  Nadja chuckled. “You really should try the archaic practice of reading sometime.”

  Ryan ignored the tease. An idea was taking shape in his mind.
A plan forming. “When are you supposed to deliver the armor?” he asked.

  “I was planning to send it out tomorrow.”

  “You’ll need more security than usual,” Ryan said. “Won’t you, considering the inordinate value of the merchandise?”

  Nadja narrowed her eyes on him. “What are you scheming?”

  Ryan smiled. “I plan to be on the plane with that armor,” he said. “And I’ve got a few friends I’d like to invite along.”

  Nadja sighed. "I supposed as much. As far as I’m concerned, you and Assets can take charge of delivering the package. Just be careful. I have a funny feeling about Harlequin. He’s been around a long, long time it seems. He could be extremely powerful, and he’s possibly known Dunkelzahn far longer than either of us. We can’t be sure that their relationship has always been on good terms.”

  “What are you suggesting?” Ryan asked. “Do you think he could have been involved in the assassination?”

  Nadja sipped her wine, deliberately hesitating before she answered. “I’m not suggesting anything, Ryan. I’m just saying that he’s got a known history with our master, and we don’t know whether they were friends or enemies.”

  Ryan steepled his fingers in front of his face, contemplating. “Why would Dunkelzahn want me to contact an enemy for help? It doesn’t make sense.”

  “When did Dunkelzahn’s plans make sense?”

  “Good point,” Ryan said. “But I still need to contact Harlequin. It’s very important.”

  Nadja leaned across the table and took Ryan’s hand. “I know,” she said, her hands warm around his. “I just don’t want anything to happen to you.”

  Ryan looked into her eyes. “I'll be careful,” he said. Nadja narrowed her gaze on him. “You’d better be.” Her stare hardened, though a smile played over her lips. “If you’re not, I’ll kill you myself.”

  4

  The touch of pure evil resonated inside Lucero and brought shudders to her body. It had been mere hours since she’d passed out from the overwhelming sense of dread and horror that had seized her on the metaplanes, at the site of the dark wedge.

  Now she stood in the physical world, high up in the San Marcos teocalli, looking out the window of the step pyramid structure, gazing at the growing masses of people outside. The hot Texas sun beat down on her, bathing her in its searing radiation. She didn’t mind, however; she enjoyed it. This physical existence, however uncomfortable, was a blessing after her extended stay in the metaplanes with Señor Oscuro.

  The valley before her and the plain beyond was filled with people, drawn from the farthest reaches of Aztlan by the Locus—the chiseled obsidian rock ensconced in the lake bed below the temple. Security fences had been set up in a broad perimeter to protect the stone from the huge crowd. Thousands and thousands of metahumans stretched off into the distance, chanting and celebrating the end of the Aztec Fifth Sun.

  Which she knew, meant the coming of the tzitzimine—demons who would devour the world. A shiver passed through her. Had she seen those demons across the Chasm? Had she felt their touch in her heart ?

  People were drawn to the Locus, she supposed, or perhaps Señor Oscuro was luring them magically. Their presence made Lucero uneasy, though she wasn’t sure why that should be. They were only citizens and common folk, camping out under tents and makeshift shelters.

  Perhaps they are merely as entranced by the power of the Locus as I am.

  Lucero found herself hypnotized by the allure of the huge black stone. Its glossy surface was cut perfectly flat, like chiseled onyx or black diamond. It seemed to absorb all light around it. A fine tracery of gold lines ran through it, tiny threads of orichalcum barely visible from up here.

  The lake was mostly dry now, only the deepest section still holding water. The rest of it was captured by huge pipes and channeled downstream. Lucero could see the needle reflection of the observation tower in the silvery water—an old amusement park structure where people used to ride up high on a cylindrical metal tower to get a better view of the area in the revolving observatory at the top. The observation platform had long rusted to the column and had not moved in the years since Lucero had visited San Marcos.

  There was a soft knock behind her, followed by the whisper of the door opening. Lucero turned to see three acolytes dressed in white linen. One of them, a boy of about seventeen with brown skin and black eyes, carried a gray robe for Lucero. He unfolded it and offered it to her.

  “Señor Oscuro has requested your presence at the new altar,” the boy said. “We will escort you.”

  Lucero nodded. “Thank you. I will be ready shortly.”

  Modesty was an unusual trait at the temple, but Lucero was an extremely special case. The acolytes took the hint and stepped outside.

  Lucero breathed a heavy sigh. She could not disobey her master, but she dreaded what he might ask her to do. The last time they had traveled to the metaplanes together, he had used her as the focus for his blood magic. Because of her, Oscuro had been able to build his wedge against the goddess of light and song who guarded the metaplanar bridge.

  Lucero slipped out of her nightshirt, and stepped to the mirror with her gray robe in hand. She stared at the full-length reflection of her naked body. She had once been quite beautiful, but that had been long ago, before the scarring. Before her addiction to the blood, her slavery to the dark stain on her soul.

  Her head was bald—dark brown skin shaved smooth. The shape of her skull was delicate. It was fragile and unmarred like her face. She had large eyes, the color of worn leather, faded from time but resilient and strong. Her narrow nose was elegant and her mouth full.

  Below the neck, her brown skin was a tapestry of scars. Deep-etched runes, like embossed tattoos bled of their ink. They were the runes of ritual blood magic, runes of the Blood Mage Gestalt, and they covered her arms and shoulders, her breasts and stomach, back and buttocks, thighs and legs. Such mutilation was a hideous and unnatural thing.

  For the briefest of moments, Lucero saw past the scars, saw the woman she had been before Oscuro had perverted her, before he had fostered her addiction to the life energy in metahuman blood. She could see the bright, intelligent eyes, the smooth, young skin stretched tight across her stomach. Unblemished and supple. She tried to remember what it had felt like to sense the delicate touch of an intimate friend. To be desired.

  A gentle knock on the door brought her out of her reverie. He will take me across again, she thought as she slipped into the gray robe. He will take me to the dark circle, that place which was once radiant with light and beautiful music.

  Lucero loved the song and the light; she knew it was her only chance for salvation. Señor Oscuro had cut a sharp wedge of his own darkness into the beauty, and she knew that he planned to destroy the light completely. She also knew that, for some reason, he needed her help.

  I will hinder him this time, she vowed.

  She opened the door and followed the three acolytes down the stairs and outside into the oppressive heat. They led her across the grass, which felt dry and brittle against her bare feet, then down the recently built wooden ramp into the dry lake bed and across to the small gathering around the Locus.

  The power emanating from the chiseled black stone penetrated her and drew her. It was like a dark sun of mana, a magical focus of such unprecedented force that it made her mind reel. The air seemed to grow heavy as she approached, making it harder to go ahead even as the stone’s hypnotic enchantment made her desire nothing more than to touch it.

  Just when she thought she could walk no further, Señor Oscuro stepped out of the gathering of people and smiled at Lucero, his handsome face adorned with a black beard and mustache. His expression was warm, and it reassured her. His teeth showed in his smile, perfectly straight and white, almost gleaming.

  Oscuro wore the tan robe of ancient Aztec magic, embroidered with profiles of the old gods. Around his neck hung a ceremonial collar of gold and dragon feathers. The feathers were deep blue a
nd crimson, brilliant green and yellow. They had been encased in enamel and their edges rimmed with gold.

  Oscuro’s skin glowed with life, shedding hope on her, giving her the strength to continue. But his eyes were darkly framed holes of blackness, and underneath their false sparkle, they cut her up like a surgical laser. They betrayed his true nature.

  Oscuro reached to her with a pale hand, the back of it sprouting hundreds of individual black hairs. “My child,” he said.

  “We are close to victory.” He gave her a secretive smile. “The bridge is nearly ours.”

  She put her warm hand into his, cold as damp fish, and allowed him to lead her into the crowd. They passed medical technicians and Jaguar Guards brandishing automatic weapons as Oscuro guided her toward the short wooden stairs that led up onto the stone itself. The power of the Locus thickened the air around her untii it seemed almost solid.

  Then they stepped through the line of guards, and Lucero saw it up close. The partially excavated stone was faceted, each face like a sheet of black glass fifteen meters across. Its surface was unnaturally smooth, unmarred and perfect as though it had been polished. The threads of orichalcum formed fractal patterns over the surface, and Lucero felt a pulse of mana coming from them like the beats of an animal’s heart. The Locus was obviously created by man or some other sentience before being buried here long ago.

  The Blood Mage Gestalt sat in a circle on the surface of the stone, preparing to begin a ritual. The ten mages stood and looked at Lucero and her master as they came up the steps. They were all human, their skin a mosaic of tattoos and runic scars just like hers. There were thick needle track marks on their necks.

  When Lucero saw the dark emptiness of their gaze, she felt a swelling pity for the acolytes who had escorted her; more than likely they would be sacrificed to power the blood magic. The blood mages wore the traditional crimson robes and had catheters in their necks that allowed them to share their blood with each other during the ritual.