Distant Worlds Volume 1

by Benjamin Sperduto

  But Kurush did not look away. He offered himself up to the annihilation of his insane-savant lord’s embrace and for one brief instant, the essence of its crawling chaos bleed into the eighty-eighth floor, seeped through the cracks of time and space to brush against the waking world. A rush of catastrophe and mad invention swept across the globe with the speed of a wayward thought, reshaping lives and altering destinies for all time.

  Then it ended.

  The air quivered around Rees as the Sircotin Technologies building, perhaps unable to reconcile the impossibility of what had taken place within its walls, collapsed from the strain of the event. But Rees was no longer there. He floated aimlessly in a cold, nameless oblivion, his mind still struggling to rationalize, to forget; anything to blot out the madness undergirding the true nature of the universe. It tried to deny the irrevocable changes that exposure to such truth had wrought upon Rees’s body, to convince him that he could simply return to the empty, rote schema of conscious existence.

  But he had seen.

  Agent Reilly, having experienced but the faintest of glimpses into Rees’s memories through their direct neural connection, leaned forward in her chair and exhaled, trembling. After a few minutes she called the doctor back to the interrogation room.

  “Do you have the results?”

  “Yes, Detective Rees’s DNA seems to be rewriting itself. While much of it matches his own records, other sections already appear to match that of the body Doctor Morgan examined.”

  It wasn’t quite the report she’d expected. Perhaps there was still time.

  “Thank you, Doctor. Will he regain consciousness when you remove the input jack?”

  “No, not for several hours.”

  “Then unplug him and get your equipment out of here.”

  After the doctor left, Reilly pulled her chair up to the table to write her report on the case. She didn’t know how to begin the report or how to end it. If it was Rees’s fate to tread the same path as this mysterious Aran Kurush, then his body would have to be incinerated, although there was a chance that even that might not halt its cellular activity. Perhaps, she thought, the ashes could be encased in concrete and buried far below the surface, or even shot into the cold reaches of space.

  Rees twitched as she scribbled down her thoughts. She wondered if he was dreaming, if when he woke up he would remember the things his mind had worked so hard to conceal. Perhaps, she thought, she had destroyed what remained of Nicholas Rees and given him over to madness. Even if she hadn’t, how long would it be before he was transformed into something more, or maybe less, than human?

  Every time he moved, a stray thought about what she had seen in his memories came to her mind. It was oddly appropriate, she thought, that the two of them were closed in that room together, for they now shared the same burden of a terrible knowledge that would haunt him for eternity, and her until her dying day.

  Reilly stopped writing and looked up to see that Rees was awake and staring directly at her. There was something in his eyes she hadn’t noticed before, something cold and alien.

  “Hello, Amanda.”

  She reached for her sidearm, but she was too slow. Rees tore free from his restraints effortlessly and flung the table across the room with a flick of his wrist. Before she could take aim, he slapped the gun out of her hand, seized her by the throat, and hoisted her up against the wall.

  “Please, Amanda,” he said, smiling, “don’t do anything rash.”

  Her eyes darted up to the corner of the room where she knew the observation cameras were trained on them. For a moment, she wondered why no one outside had reacted to the situation. Then she remembered what had happened to Morgan under the watchful eye of Sircotin’s cameras.

  “I’m so glad that you want to share in my experiences,” Rees said. “Your doctor’s clumsy prodding could only recover so much, I’m afraid. There’s so much more for you to see!”

  Reilly tried to talk, but she scarcely had enough air to breathe.

  Rees leaned closer to her and fixed his inhuman gaze upon her eyes.

  “Such lovely eyes you have, Amanda. Top of the line construction. Sircotin’s DeepSight 2600 series, yes? A wonderfully sophisticated design, though I’m not sure they can handle what I have to show you. Suitable for a glimpse, yes, but to see it whole?”

  Reilly’s vision flickered as her cyberoptic implants received a transmission from some foreign source. The features of the room twisted apart and Rees’s face melted away to reveal a vision from the deepest corridors of a mind that was no longer recognizably human.

  Slowly, an image took shape and Reilly screamed. She reflexively threw up her hands to blot out the sight, but the direct link to her eyes remained unobscured. Frantically, she dug her nails into her skin and tore at the soft flesh surrounding the implants.

  “Yes,” Rees said. “Such beauty… ”

  Blood ran down Reilly’s fingers as she ripped into her eye sockets to grasp desperately at the source of her torment. Finally, she severed the tiny wires that connected the cyberware to her nervous system and her vision went black.

  Rees released her then and her body collapsed in a limp heap. The intense, burning pain radiating from her mangled eye sockets was almost soothing compared to the horrible images scorched into her shattered mind. Her entire body shook as she sobbed uncontrollably.

  “You’re not ready, Amanda,” Rees said. His voice was at once distant and frightfully close, seemingly to come from many mouths at once. “Perhaps when my work is done, you will be. Everyone will be.”

  Plunged in darkness, Amanda Reilly remained at the mercy of her memories. She did not hear Rees leave the room or hear the dying screams of the men outside. Little more than a broken shell, her body quivered sporadically. The garbled sounds coming from her throat echoed against the metal walls of the interrogation room.

  Microscopic nanites were already working to repair her damaged tissue and her artificial heart soon stabilized her metabolism. By the time her backup team arrived to investigate Rees’s escape, her physical wounds would be repaired.

  But there was no technology on Earth that could hope to restore the fragmented remains of her sanity.

  The Doom of Mournshire

  Originally published in The Sleepless Sands (Earlyworks Press, 2006).

  This is it: the first short story I ever had published. Earlyworks Press was running a classic fantasy fiction contest, so I took my best stab at a pulp fantasy story and submitted. While I was quite proud of that story at the time, I made numerous revisions when it was reprinted in 2014. I’ve included the revised version here. This was the first short story to feature Serafima Vladekovna Volodarid, the main protagonist of The Walls of Dalgorod. She made her first appearance in the second draft of the story, replacing a fairly nondescript protagonist named Yvar (otherwise known as “Sir No Longer Appearing in This Story”). Once Serafima stepped onto the page, the plot changed significantly to showcase her as a character. “The Doom of Mournshire” takes place several years before the events of The Walls of Dalgorod, sometime after the betrayal and death of Serafima’s father. While I consider the events of this story to be roughly canonical, they are ultimately only a rough outline of characters and settings that have since become far more developed in the Rostogov novels. In other words, take the details presented here with the proverbial grain of salt.

  It was always a good idea to bring a witch along on dangerous journeys. The morning’s ambush had cost Narim six of the fifteen mercenaries he had hired in Nemdris but more would have been lost without Ilesha’s aid. Her collection of healing herbs, potions, and pastes that looked unhealthy and smelled even fouler had quickly won their trust and pushed aside their fears of her witchcraft. It came as little surprise to Narim, for most of them had also come to trust him and with far less reason.

  Narim watched Ilesha closely and found it difficult to be unaffected by her presence. She was quite beautiful, though the features of her lean face were not
unlike those of a cunning bird of prey that studied its victim intently before striking the killing blow. Her manner was cold, calculating, and grim; all the qualities Narim admired in a woman.

  “It seems the witch has finished her work.”

  Narim turned to face an auburn haired woman who was quite different from Ilesha. Her tall, muscular frame towered over him and she regarded him with icy blue eyes set menacingly within her wolfish face. Her name was Serafima, a fearsome warrior from the barbaric land of Rostogov.

  “And?”

  “Two of them are still bloody and cleaved; no use to us in battle. I trust that the loss of eight swords will not doom this venture of yours?”

  Narim had grown tired of her impertinence. Were it not for the fact that her blade alone was worth almost as much as his other mercenaries combined he might have already slit her throat in the night.

  “Are the others ready to move on?” Narim asked.

  “They’re well enough to travel.”

  Narim noticed that Serafima had not permitted Ilesha to touch the minor cut she had sustained in the fight with the bandits.

  “Ilesha should tend to that.”

  Serafima grunted. Narim surmised that the superstitious barbarian would rather bleed to death than allow a witch to touch her.

  “Lucien has gone ahead to scout the valley,” Serafima said.

  “The fool wastes his time. He knows not what he seeks,” Narim said.

  Ilesha walked over to join them. Although she was more than a head shorter than Serafima, she was still tall enough to look down at Narim. As she came to his side, he noticed she was careful to avoid getting too close to Serafima.

  “Gather your things,” he said, “we’re moving on. Mournshire awaits us.”

  Lucien emerged from the thick underbrush as Narim, Ilesha, and Serafima approached the valley that ran through the heart of the forest like an ugly gash that refused to heal. The rabble of mercenaries followed close behind them.

  “I can’t find a way down, Narim,” Lucien said.

  Lucien pulled a patch of briars aside, giving the others a clear view of the valley. Its walls were steep, plunging almost straight down before disappearing beneath a thick blanket of mist.

  “Not fog,” Ilesha said, “steam.”

  The witch had heretofore spoken little and Lucien seemed startled by the sound of her silken voice.

  “It is said that whatever sorcery destroyed this place affected the temperature of the valley,” she said. “The hot air of the valley turns to steam when it rises to the much colder surface.”

  “A pity that bit of knowledge doesn’t help us reach the bottom,” Serafima said.

  Narim reached into his cloak to pull out a green jewel encircled by three gold bands. It emitted faint waves of heat when exposed to the frigid air. Serafima watched him closely.

  “What is that?” she asked.

  “A trinket I happened to acquire in the course of my trade, nothing more,” he said.

  Narim tossed the jewel into the bramble thickets that surrounded the ridge of the valley. It fell through them, but in doing so took hold of the dense, thorny vines and pulled them along as it descended. The underbrush fell in upon itself as branches and roots from all around the valley’s edge formed a walkway reaching down into the steamy depths of the valley.

  He met Serafima’s suspicious glare.

  “It would be better if you did not know.”

  Lucien led the way down the sloping walkway of intertwined branches and roots, his bow at the ready. Serafima followed close behind with her big broadsword. Next in the procession were three of the hired swords, Narim, and Ilesha. The rest of the mercenaries followed behind them.

  The temperature rose steadily as they drew closer to the thick mist rising from the unseen valley floor. They were beginning to sweat by the time Lucien reached the upper portions of the steam cloud. He hesitated at first, then took a few steps forward and disappeared into the mist. Serafima scowled and grunted before following him.

  The mercenaries, however, seemed reluctant to approach the mist. One of the men even poked at it with his drawn sword as if he expected it to twitch.

  “Get moving, you sods!” Narim said, ushering them forward.

  As they marched deeper into the valley, the thick mist cleared slightly. Narim could discern the lumbering shape of the hired swords a few feet in front of him, then Serafima and Lucien. He noticed that Lucien was no longer descending and had stepped off to the side of the path to wait for the others to join him.

  The air was thick with humidity and the heat almost unbearable. They wasted little time stripping away their heavy winter garments, which were already soaked with sweat. The ground was soft and muddy.

  “Like a bloody swamp down here,” someone said.

  “Be silent!” Narim said. “You needn’t announce our presence to whatever evil still lingers within these mists.”

  Narim turned to see Lucien examining the ground a few yards ahead of them.

  “What is it? What has he found?” he asked Serafima, not wishing to distract the hunter.

  “Cobblestones,” Serafima said. “They’re buried a few inches below the mud. The town should be just ahead.” She gestured towards the wall of fog before them.

  “Then we move on,” Narim said. At his behest, the group plunged deeper into the sweltering valley.

  They slogged through the muck for several minutes before the faint silhouette of a wall became visible through the fog. As they drew closer, the valley floor rose and their feet soon fell upon wet cobblestones as the ancient road emerged from the mud. Lucien, still several yards ahead of the others, stopped abruptly after taking a few steps upon the road.

  “We’ve reached the gate,” he said.

  Narim and the others came to Lucien’s side. Before them stood the crumbling archway that had once been the gates of Mournshire.

  “By the gods,” a mercenary said.

  “What happened here, Narim?” Lucien asked.

  “You know the legends as well as I, surely,” Narim said.

  “Well, yes; but they don’t tell us much, only that Mournshire was consumed by some nameless evil.”

  “Are you suggesting I know differently?”

  “You knew enough to find Mournshire, and I’m sure your reason for being here is more than curiosity.”

  “My reasons are none of your concern so long as my coins pay for your blade. Is that entirely clear to you, sell-sword?”

  Lucien shrugged and turned to lead the way through the ruined entrance.

  The unnatural mist thickened as they passed through the gate but it could not conceal the cadaverous shadows of Mournshire that swelled into view in the distance. Lucien stopped to wait for the others when he reached a small house on the town’s outskirts. Moss and lichen covered its wet stone walls and portions of the rotting roof had collapsed.

  Narim looked down the long street ahead of them. It was lined with several houses like the one beside them. There was a vague outline of something immense beyond the crumbling homesteads.

  “Keep moving,” he said.

  They followed the winding streets for some time before they come to the town’s center. There, amidst the ruins of the ancient stone buildings, they saw a ghastly stone obelisk that welled up from the ground like a disease-ridden tree reaching greedily for the unseen stars far above them. The mist obscured the peak of the unwholesome tower, but its glassy blackish-green surface was sullied with slime and muck. The air around it seemed to pulse with a conscious malevolence.

  “What madness is this?” Serafima whispered.

  “Behold, the doom of Mournshire,” Narim said, momentarily awed by the terrible grandeur of the alien monolith.

  “Do you think this wise, Narim?” Serafima asked. “Surely the masters of this foul place watch us even now. What do you hope to gain from this venture apart from a fool’s death?”

  Narim scowled.

  “Might I remind you that I am
paying a considerable price for your services? After such a difficult journey, am I to understand that you now intend to turn tail like a coward at the first sign of danger with nary a coin to show for your troubles?”

  Serafima’s face darkened. Narim could almost see the ways she was considering to strike him dead within her cold, blue eyes. For a moment, he wondered if he had goaded her for the last time. The thought excited him.

  “I have no intentions of turning back,” she said.

  “Come then,” Narim said, relishing his victory. “We must make haste.”

  As Serafima walked away, Ilesha came alongside Narim. She placed her hand on his arm.

  “She is wise to fear the darkness that lurks below us,” she said. “How can mere mortals possibly comprehend the powers that birthed this foul place? I fear that we should have chosen to remain penniless in Nemdris.”

  Narim laughed.

  “It is the folly of cowards to seek protection in ignorance. Do you fear the shadows so greatly that you would forsake whatever secrets may languish within those primordial walls? Can you not dare to imagine that such knowledge could hold the cosmos itself together or shatter it beyond hope of repair?”

  “Such knowledge carries a cost,” she said. “That price could well be your soul.”

  “A pity, for as I have heard it I do not have one to barter. If Mournshire demands a price be paid for its secrets, it shall have to request something else.”

  “Perhaps it will, Narim of Kurn.”

  The witch’s words lingered in his mind as they approached the vile tower that sprang from the rotten core of Mournshire.

  Several inches of swampy water pooled around the base of the massive obelisk and the smell of rotting vegetation hung in the thick, humid air air. Tangled strands of vines and weeds hung down over a gaping maw of an archway cut into the tower’s side.