Earthly Worlds

by Billy Wright

  And then stars appeared, not above him, but below. In a moment of vertigo, he dropped to his knees, clutching futilely at the featureless bridge. The gaseous streaks of a beautiful nebula, a cosmic gas cloud that engulfed many star systems, painted the darkness. His stomach leaped into his throat and hung there. In the vastness, things moved. Were they aware of him? Was he aware of the dust motes on his shoes? The germs on his hands?

  He couldn’t go back. What would happen if he simply jumped? Would he fall forever? Was there a bottom? Composing himself with a sweating effort of will, he kept on.

  Awareness of a growing thirst crept up on him, but it was so difficult to tell because he had no idea how long he’d been inside the Tortoise. It could have been a day. It could have been a week, or a month.

  The precariousness of the bridge stretched what felt like miles, stretching his nerves to full tension, even with his new crampons. What did it represent? A tendon? A blood vessel? A nerve ganglion? When finally, he reached the far edge of the chasm, he collapsed with relief.

  Beyond the chasm, a wind rose, bringing the stench of sulfur and ammonia. Crimson pinpricks appeared above him, like stars through a red veil, perhaps. They weren’t sparks of the Source, however, because they would not come to him when he willed it.

  But he had no notion of the direction to go from here, so he pulled out the gold pocket watch from his pocket and opened it. The outer dial still pointed toward the Sun, rather than the Moon, so he was still safe from turning to the Dark. The inner dial, the compass, pointed off into the black, so he set off in that direction.

  Before long, the ground underfoot sloped downward. The light increased, but with a crimson cast, such that he could see features in the distance, like great cliffs perhaps a mile away on both sides. As he jogged, the cliffs angled inward and hove higher and higher. Clumps of what looked like thorny black brambles appeared on the landscape, thickening and clumping larger and larger. As he neared one, the light of his axe revealed them to have glossy, metallic exteriors, more like conglomerations of black razor-wire than anything living.

  It was then he noticed that the light of his axe had taken on a reddish cast, as if filtered through blood. The air smelled of hot metal and sulfur and dust.

  The cliffs became a canyon half a mile deep. The sky brightened like blood soaking dark cloth, until a sullen scarlet orb nosed above the horizon.

  Atop one wall of the canyon, a cluster of lights emerged. Wariness made Stewart pause. The last thing he needed was to stumble into a town full of enemies. There were no friends here. His only hope was to remain unnoticed, undetected. Would news of the events at Chukwa’s mouth have gotten back here? If so, given how much effort the Dark Lord had put into ensnaring Stewart, the entirety of the Dark Realm would probably be on the lookout for him, so he hugged the canyon wall, picking his way between boulders and clumps of metal thorns.

  Growing closer, he saw the lights were part of a village. Smokestacks rose from the tumbledown assemblage of visible structures. Dark smoke poured from the smokestacks, and the acrid stench of ash and soot filled the air. Even though the place looked inhabited, it felt lifeless. The lights he’d seen looked to be flames burning atop long black staves. The rumble and chuff of churning machinery echoed over him. It was all too far away for him to see tiny details like inhabitants—or lookouts. Was this canyon seeded with magical detection methods? Were they already aware of him?

  The ball of Source he’d gathered into himself had diminished but some remained. Could he conceal himself with magic? But if he used Light magic here, would it be like shouting Here I am! to every Dark Realm creature close by?

  Then he heard movement echoing down the canyon, growing louder.

  The orb in the sky rose grim and sullen, casting the landscape into lurid scarlet, so he no longer needed the light of his axe. He doused it and hid between two clumps of thorns. The thorns pricked at him, sharp and barbed.

  But what if he tried to use Dark magic to power some sort of concealment? If he truly walked in both realms, he might be able to use Dark as well as Light.

  The sounds of movement grew louder suddenly. Perhaps a hundred yards ahead of him, the canyon floor bent out of sight. Coming around the bend were mounted warriors. Their polished plate armor shone in the ruddy light, so smooth, so well joined that they resembled insects. Then he saw they were not riding horses, or any kind of sane creature, but elephant-sized beasts that looked like part centipede, part lobster, scuttling along on too many legs, with too many eyes, too many venomous-looking spines. The riders carried jagged-looking weapons Stewart couldn’t identify. Having seen what the goblins and bright elves could do, he thought they were probably some sort of ranged weapon.

  At least a dozen of the riders came straight down the canyon toward him.

  There was nowhere to hide, except in the razor-wire bushes, but they would not conceal him from sight at close range.

  He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and opened himself to the Source. But the Source here tasted bitter, smelled like rotten cheese and metal flakes. Behind his eyelids he found spinning barbs of scarlet energy. Swallowing hard, he reached out to draw them toward him. Each one brought with it a sharp stab of pain as it entered him, like hospital needles and dental drills, fishhooks and broken glass.

  But this Dark essence settled into him and congealed into a ball of throbbing power. It suffused him, sparking the impulse to charge out there with his axe and destroy all of the oncoming riders. With enough power, he knew he could do it. He could wipe them from the face of existence, squash them like the bugs they resembled, scatter their remnants for a hundred paces in every direction. He could set loose the gorilla-like beast of his dreams, clad it in impenetrable armor, and rip them all limb from limb and—

  No.

  The unwelcome grin of anticipation on his face brought him back to himself, and he felt vaguely ill.

  He only had a few seconds before one of them spotted him among the steely bramble.

  Camouflage. He needed camouflage.

  From the Dark Source, he created a coating for himself that was striped and black and spiny like the bramble itself. Every visible bit of him took on this appearance, red like the rocks, black like the thorns, flesh and clothing alike, even his eyes.

  As the riders drew nearer, their stench threatened to make him retch. They were like Death mixed with the sickly stench of worms and insects and corruption.

  He froze where he stood among the brambles, scarcely daring to breathe.

  The arthropoid steeds undulated across the uneven landscape, eyes glittering like dark jewels, carapaces gleaming. Vicious-looking mandibles and claws swept across the ground before them.

  The riders wore featureless helmets with blank faceplates, slitted only for the eyes. If they had not exuded an aura of deadly menace, he might have thought them beautiful in the perfection of their plates and joints. He could appreciate meticulous metalwork. As they neared, he could make out the intricate scrollwork decorating their limbs and breastplates.

  The way they carried themselves made him think they were searching for something. Did they have magical means to detect him?

  The warriors dispersed among the tracks between the thorns and boulders covering the floor of the canyon.

  He held his breath, heart pounding so loudly they must hear it, his teeth painfully clenched, as one of them passed within ten yards of him.

  But it passed. And it kept going. He only breathed again when it was thirty yards past him.

  He turned his head as slowly as he could to follow their movements down the canyon—away from him. His breath returned, ragged and painful in his chest.

  For all those long years, he stood there, heart thudding against his breastbone, sweat trickling down his face, soaking the back of his hair. He did not move until the riders had moved out of sight.

  Then he burst from the thorn bushes and darted to the next one.

  And then the next one, pausing at each t
o listen for any approaching sounds, scan for any movement besides his.

  It was eternities before the village on the precipice disappeared out of sight behind him.

  He pulled out his compass to check it again, and discovered that the Sun on the dial had shifted significantly, rotating almost ninety degrees. The Moon was now ready to rise. When the Moon reached the midnight position, he would become a creature of the Dark. As he watched the device’s inner workings slowly rotating, the Moon continued to creep upward. Even the little bit of Dark magic he had used was enough to make him almost irretrievable. He dared not use it again, and he didn’t have much time. If he encountered another party of riders, what could he do?

  At least the compass showed he was on the right heading.

  “You are a lucky human, Stewart Riley,” said a voice behind him.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Stewart spun, raising his axe in a two-handed grip.

  A bright elf stepped out from behind a boulder, palms up. Its samurai-like armor was scored and dented in places, some of the laces sliced through so that a few of the lacquered plates were loose or missing. His helmet obscured his features such that Stewart couldn’t recognize him, but then there were many elves whom he had not met among their party. Whorls of dark paint were smeared on his face, on his armor and helmet, like war-paint.

  “You just about lost your head,” Stewart said, lowering his axe.

  “Apologies for startling you,” the elf said with a weary smile, “I was just so delighted to have finally caught up with you. I am Tyr Ar-Chaheris.”

  “What are you doing here?” Stewart asked. “How did you get past that bunch of warriors?”

  “Magic, of course,” the elf said, “I’ve been following you. You got somewhat ahead of me in the belly of the Great Tortoise.”

  “How did you find me?” Stewart asked.

  The elf smiled faintly. “Again, magic. I know you. I know what to look for.”

  Stewart sighed. “I have a lot to learn.”

  “Indeed,” the elf said, with enough ill-concealed disdain in his voice to make Stewart’s hackles rise, “but be that as it may, we must complete our mission, yes?”

  “First of all,” Stewart said, “what are you doing here?”

  “The commander sent me to help you. You are quite fortunate not to have been spotted already. Do you know who those riders were?”

  “How could I?” Stewart said sharply.

  “I suppose not,” the elf said with a shrug. “Those were El-Mithari Garkus Riders. Among the fiercest of the Dark Lord’s minions. Vile creatures. Garkii can sense vibrations in the ground as faint as a human heartbeat. Had they caught you, you would have spent eternity being digested in the gullet of one of those beasts. How you avoided them, I cannot fathom.”

  “Magic,” Stewart said with a wry smile, even as he shivered at the thought of being swallowed whole by one of those things.

  “We should move quickly in case they return.”

  Stewart nodded and checked his compass, which still pointed down the canyon. “Let’s go.”

  They took off running at a pace Stewart felt he could sustain.

  As they left the immediate danger behind them, other thoughts and questions found space in Stewart’s mind. “If we jumped into the Tortoise’s mouth at the same time, how did we not see each other on the passage through?”

  “Time and space hold little meaning inside that creature. It must be strange for a Penumbral human. It is strange even for me, and I was born and raised in the magical realm.”

  Stewart’s breath puffed in and out. “You’re a being of the Light Realm, so how are you able to stay here?”

  The elf pointed at the whorls of dark war paint on his face, smeared all on his armor and hands. “I used the blood of the goblins to make this paint. It works as a kind of Trojan horse.”

  “How did you have time to do that before the Tortoise’s mouth closed?”

  A moment’s hesitation before the elf answered, “I had some goblin blood on me. I used that once I was inside the Tortoise’s mouth.”

  Stewart wasn’t sure why his instincts were making him distrust this elf. After all, the bright elves had escorted him and his family all the way from the City. They were the Queen’s Royal Guards. But he was grateful to have someone who knew the ins and outs of the magical realms. Ever since leaving the Penumbra—home—he’d felt lost and blinded by his own ignorance.

  But there was one question foremost in his mind. “What about Liz and the kids? Are they all right?”

  The elf looked away, his porcelain-smooth face cracking with sadness. “I am sorry. My brethren and I...we tried to hold back the bear. But it was too strong. It broke free and...”

  Stewart’s legs crumpled beneath him, and he sank to the ground like a burlap sack drained of its contents. His throat cinched shut. He couldn’t breathe. Tears burst into his vision. His hands shook so badly he dropped his axe. Sobs wracked him like crashing surf.

  “I am very sorry to give you this news,” the elf said.

  Images of his family blasted through his mind like shotgun pellets. His and Liz’s first date. Their first kiss. Their first night together. Their wedding day. The day she’d told him she was pregnant. The day Hunter was born. All those nights they’d backed each other up feeding a colicky infant. Hunter’s first steps. His first words. His unique expression of skepticism over a given course of action, as if to say You want me to do what now? The day he and Liz and baby Hunter had moved into the trailer. The day Cassie was born and he thought she was the most beautiful baby in the world. The day she’d fallen asleep on his chest for the very first time. The way she sat in her car seat singing gibberish and dancing along with “Uptown Funk” on the radio.

  All of it gone, like smoke in the wind.

  All these moments sleeted through his mind, each one razor sharp, cutting him deeper and deeper.

  It was as if his soul itself were bleeding out around him.

  The dark sun slid across the overturned bowl of the sky.

  The elf stood back and let Stewart have his grief.

  All those moments, lost. Beautiful lives, snuffed.

  There was nothing for him anymore. He would never smile again, never feel Liz’s arms again or hugs from his kids. Cassie and Hunter would never grow up. He and Liz would never grow old together.

  It was over for him.

  He got up and started walking. It didn’t matter which direction. There were only two really, forward and back. He didn’t know which direction he took, only that he could no longer bear to be wherever he was standing.

  “Stewart—”

  “Don’t. Touch. Me,” Stewart growled.

  Bring on the monsters. Let them eat him. Let them digest him for eternity. He deserved it. It was his fault. He had left them. He should never have left them alone. Their deaths were on him.

  Some part of him had always known it would end this way. He was not worthy of Liz, or of his kids. He was just a no-account orphan, a Bad Kid. He would never amount to anything else—that’s what he’d heard his whole life. All those foster parents and school administrators had been right.

  He should have done the things that were in his nature, all those dark impulses that would have made his life better. Liars and thieves ran the world. The news proved it every day. He should be one of those people.

  Without having to see them, he could sense the scarlet fishhooks of Dark magic swirling around him like gnats to a flame.

  “Stewart, what are you going to do?” said the elf.

  He wiped the tears from his cheeks. His eyes felt so raw, so scratchy, he could barely keep them open.

  “Sleep.”

  He seized all the scarlet motes and channeled them into his axe. The axe head gleamed with crimson fire. Then he approached the canyon wall. He raised it high, channeled his rage, almost feeling his arms swell with the power of it, and he brought the axe down onto the stone of the canyon wall with the clap of a
thunder-stroke. Shattered stone blasted his face and body in a shower of gravel. As the dust settled, he saw the hollow his Dark magic-fueled blow had made.

  A crater of about ten feet in depth and half as high, blown out as if with TNT.

  And the noise of it had echoed for miles, up and down the canyon, no doubt drawing the attention of everything that had heard it.

  He crawled inside. The elf hurried in beside him. For the first time, Stewart caught the elf’s scent, like nothing he had ever smelled before, like the sharp tang of blood or metal.

  Then he breathed deep, inhaling more crimson fishhooks until they seethed in his breast like liquid fire. Binding them to his will, he sent them out to gather all the rubble he’d just scattered across the canyon floor, bring it back and cover the opening he’d made. In a swirl of dust, the pebbles and stones gathered themselves in the cave opening, shutting him and the elf into darkness, except for a meager spear of lurid sunset shining through a tiny opening at the top.

  In the darkness, he lay on his side on the jagged rock with a stone for a pillow and wept until sleep claimed him.

  ***

  Stewart didn’t know whether elves slept. All he knew was that Tyr settled into stillness so profound he might have been dead. But he didn’t care. This elf meant nothing to him; he was a mere appendage.

  His sleep was fraught with black abysses and leviathans writhing in the deep, shifting from an age-old slumber. Great eyes appeared and disappeared, cosmic beasts the size of worlds. But most of all was a sense of loneliness. In all the universes that existed, he was alone.

  When he sat up, the sliver of lurid sunlight was gone.

  He was still thirsty, and his hungry stomach had twisted itself into knots.

  Barely discernible, Tyr’s dim shape spoke: “What are you going to do, Stewart?”

  His voice was a croak. “I’m going to do what I came here to do.”

  He didn’t realize that was his intention until he spoke the words. Maybe it was habit. Maybe it was stubbornness.