Mirrorworld

by Daniel Jordan

  Except.. he turned to the south, where Portruss lay, smoking, resting, relaxed behind its walls. This was a bit of a problem. Exiled. No less the threatening for it, but somewhat bereft without his various magical artefacts, or indeed access to the Viaggiatori, whom he still needed if he was to reach Earth. What to do about that, then?

  Keithus sat down, crossed his legs, and began to rock gently back and forth, thinking. No immediate brain activity produced any ideas, so he reached out to that little formless corner, the nugget of wisdom that had come alive in the wake of his dream, that core of creativity that it was probably really mentally unhealthy to keeping treating as an entirely independent entity living in his own head.

  It seems we have suffered a setback, it told him.

  I know, Keithus thought. Everything I need is on the other side of those walls.

  Those are some big walls.

  Exactly. And even if I could get past them, I’d be arrested on sight.

  So what? Blast your way in. Blast the walls and anyone who tries to stop you.

  They know I’m out here, though. There will be linked wizards everywhere.

  So?

  So, I’m not strong enough to stop them all. It’d take an army to get into Portruss.

  Well, let’s do that then.

  Build an army?

  Why not? It’s not like we have any use for the city. Let’s burn them all.

  Keithus smiled. I have a lot of good ideas, he thought to himself cheerfully. If he had to talk to himself for a while in order to tease them out, well, what the hell. That was fine.

  And he set out to make his dreams come true.

  15

  Portruss, Marcus learned, had three different gates. There was one for each compass direction except west, where there was an ocean instead, and each one was specifically designed to reflect the nature of the lands that it pointed at. South Gate, the most common point of entry for diplomats visiting from Eurora and beyond, reflected this by being huge, ornate and foolishly breath-taking. There were pillars, gargoyles, murals, and towers all over the thing, spreading past the gate itself to deface the good solid city wall like a particularly visionary rash. The Artist’s Guild held a state-sponsored contest each year, where budding artists from across the Mirrorworld came together to design the newest addition to the dramatic fresco. This tradition, which had existed as long as anyone could remember, was the reason why the guards who patrolled the walls now found themselves marching past wire-frame models of themselves loading crossbows of a better quality than the ones they actually had. This glorified cauldron of artistic excess upended itself on South Gate once a year, justifying its existence in celebration of the arts and how it made the gate complex all the more terrifying, on account of how wherever a visitor looked, they’d see something they didn’t understand.

  East Gate, by contrast, didn’t lead anywhere particularly exciting. Mainly used by tradesmen following their longboats down the Russ or city dwellers who had emigrated to the new suburbs, it therefore needed to be little more than a hole in the wall, and so was almost exactly that. Yet it, too, had artistic spirit; every year, Portruss’s resident graffiti artists would gather together to spurn the festival they weren’t allowed to be a part of, create a huge protest piece across the gate, then get themselves caught and volunteer to wash it off, because they didn’t trust anyone else to dispose of their work properly.

  North Gate, however, had no such artistic inclinations. Though there were smaller cities and towns to the north of Portruss, they were all eventually swallowed by the cold, bleak, mountainous Northlands, which were famous only for their undesirable real estate and the primal, otherworldly races that called it, for want of a better word, home. Many a time in Portruss’s history, small armies of orcs and other abominations had dared venture far enough south to attack the city, and it was for this reason that North Gate was almost as grim as the Northlands themselves. A huge, towering monstrosity that cast a long shadow, counted within itself several mini-gates, and was regularly staffed by a full guard of hardened professional soldiers with nary a wire-frame in sight, North Gate was an unflinching monument to stoicism, a big fat middle finger to anyone who dared challenge it.

  Of course, these were civilised times. Long past were the days of war; in the modern world, the language of diplomacy had superseded the language of axes, and there hadn’t been a serious invasion attempt from the north for a long time. Indeed, more recent reports spoke optimistically of developments within the orc tribes, where the more intellectually inclined were now being favoured for leadership positions above the savages that had defined the race for so long. Folks had even begun to whisper, in all seriousness, that with the passing of another generation or two, the Northlands might well be on its way towards something that could pass for civilisation. But then Keithus had gone north, and sure enough, every conceivable beastie was uniting, alright – under him. It was for that reason that, despite the absence of an attack for over a century, on this day, North Gate was heavily guarded, and gripped by an inescapable sense of quiet unease.

  Marcus could sense it in the air as he followed the rest of the Viaggiatori strike team down through the ramshackle Northgate district, reading from the guidebook that he had paid good money for and so was intent on milking for all its knowledge before it became redundant. Northgate, it told him, was where most of the city’s tradesmen made their home, and it was thanks to them that the district appeared as it did, a decrepit warren of buildings that leaned against each other for support, with walkways that ran on multiple levels, crisscrossing above the wider thoroughfares and generally holding the whole thing together; without the cunning artificers who had made this happen, the whole district would probably have been toppled by a particularly strong gust of wind decades ago. There was a sense of pride to the Northgaters, but it was the melancholy pride of those who adore what they have because it is all that they have, and it suffered from the awareness that this creaky district that they called home was first in the firing line of any attack that could breach North Gate. A sense of helpless doom thus shadowed the Northgaters, reaching for corporeal form through their forlorn wanderings of the streets and walkways, their empty glances, and the pained lethargy with which they conducted their necessary interactions. It was almost enough to make Marcus feel slightly better about his life, until he remembered where he was going.

  The path towards his destiny was at that moment being drawn out before him by the Assassin, although Musk was so far on the man’s heels that they may as well have been sharing shoes. The Assassin, who had indeed turned out to be the man from the previous night, had somehow become the target of an unspoken grudge on Musk’s part: right from the off, when their unlikely group had assembled in the entrance hall of the House of Viaggiatori, their long-haired leader had been almost beside himself with apoplectic self-importance about how very much in charge he was. The Assassin himself didn’t seem to care very much either way, responding to Musk’s aggressive overtures with weary shrugs and half smiles that nonetheless inflamed the other man’s paranoia, feeding whatever strange insecurities were fuelling him and ensuring that the two were now locked in an epic tussle for leadership of the expedition, a cerebral battle that was at this moment unfolding in a geographical sense, where whoever was leading the party literally was leading it figuratively also.

  Marcus was quite happy to trudge along behind everyone else.

  A sudden absence of movement up ahead caught his attention, and he looked up from his book just in time to avoid bumping into Lucin. Instead he met the ferocious stare of the man’s raven, coming the other way; whether by accident or design, it had positioned itself so that if he hadn’t stopped, he would have walked his eye right into its beak. Watching it with suspicion, he stepped around Lucin to see what had bought their column to a halt, and a strange, hulking monolith that had been lurking at the edge of his vision for some time, too massive to comprehend but too big to fully dismi
ss, finally coalesced into order. He could now conceive of the great and terrible thing that rose up before him, a patchwork selection of stonework, arrow slits, portcullis and negative space that loomed in the morning murk, flanked by tall, utterly blank city walls that stretched off to the sides in an encapsulating, emasculating arc of ominous security: they had arrived at North Gate. The small square that lay before it, in which Marcus now stood, was to this mountain range of rubble as a feeble puddle is at the shore of a great ocean; light, depth and sense of scale were overwhelmed and swallowed by the all-encompassing presence of the great entryway, which stood there unconcerned, defiant, and, noticeably, shut.

  Off to the side, Musk was trying to convince a guard to let them out. Apparently, there was a large group of refugees on the far side, ready to rush the gate should it show any sign of opening. Musk was currently finishing up an eloquent expression of sheer disbelief that the best solution that the minds involved had been able to come up with was to never ever open the gate ever again.

  “Orders are orders,” the guard said wearily. He was staring into space, wearing the practised granite expression of someone who has a job to do, knows exactly how to do it, and is going to continue to do it in that way until circumstance instructs him otherwise, no matter what personal opinions he might harbour. “Orders are, don’t let them in. That’s all.”

  “But, that’s not all,” Musk said slyly. “There is a contradiction in your orders. You can’t let them in, but you can’t not let us out. You can no longer carry on as you are.”

  The guard’s brow furrowed as he processed this information.

  “It occurs to me,” Musk continued, “that in this situation, you’ve no choice but to disappoint someone – either your boss or me. And while I’m sure your boss is quite fearsome, I feel I should point out that he isn’t here right now, whereas I, contrarily, am.” For punctuation, he rested his hand gently on the man’s shoulder. It wasn’t a gesture of violence, but it did inevitably draw attention to exactly how hefty the hands in question were at this moment of time. Marcus actually saw the guard glance down at his armour as if assessing how it might hold up against a blow from one of them.

  “Alright,” the guard said, meeting Musk’s eyes at last. “Open the gate!”

  This last was said louder, and produced a flurry of activity from the other guards in the vicinity as they moved into whatever preparations were required to ease the great gate into opening. Musk came striding back over to the rest of the group, wearing an expression of ultimate triumph. “Next stop, Plumm,” he said, his grin widening to the soundtrack of distant clangs and creaks and the piercing crunch of his knuckles as he began to crack them with idle self-importance.

  “Where?” Marcus asked, and the grin vanished into a cold glare.

  “Plumm is the next city to the north,” Musk told him, his voice cloaked in a sudden irritation that Marcus was sure he had done nothing to earn. “It is, as I already mentioned at length, where we’ll be stopping off to pick up our carriage and supplies for the rest of the journey, before going incognito. Please try to pay more attention.”

  “Apologies, dear leader,” Marcus said, bowing with his palms together. “It’s certainly my fault that I’m not yet one hundred percent certain on the geography of an entire world that I only learnt existed a few days ago. I’ll try harder.”

  Musk nodded, then frowned as he noticed the sudden deadpan poker faces that Kendra and Lucin were wearing. He turned back to Marcus suspiciously, but, before he could say anything, their attention in general was diverted by the laborious screech that marked the opening of North Gate.

  The great iron portcullis that was its outermost layer had begun to retract upwards, loudly protesting its lack of oil as it retreated into an unknown space within the mass of surrounding stone. As it rose, the solid wall beyond it cracked and began to fold back on itself, offering a brief glimpse of many similar walls doing the same thing along the length of the gate tunnel. A floor slid in innocently, settled gently over the pit of sharpened stakes that lay beneath, and created a path through to the outside world that was now visible beyond the last retreating obstacles. It was like looking through the world’s largest keyhole; within the frames of the gate there lay an image of green fields rolling away to the far horizon, where mountains stood sentry at the edge of the sky. It was the Mirrorworld beyond Portruss, and the sight of it filled Marcus with an odd thrill, and a quiet, anticipatory fear.

  The group was rushed through the gate quickly by a company of guards, who walked with weapons levelled to meet the threat that lay beyond. But no-one rushed them. It was only when they were clear of the gate that Marcus caught sight of the refugees, and they were a sorrowful bunch, sat by the sides of the road, staring, only half seeing, at such fools who would choose to depart from the safety of those walls for a less comfortable existence beyond. Marcus felt his fear twist with his thoughts, and it grew further as the guards retreated and the gate closed up again behind them.

  “A sorry sight, aren’t they?” a quiet voice behind him asked. He turned, and found Kendra stood there, a sad, complicated expression echoing from her eyes. “They came so far, running from their fears, hoping to find a better life, and they found cold walls and no-one to care.”

  “What did they fear?” Marcus asked, shivering. There was a beaten-down blankness to the refugees; they had the same faces as the folks he had seen in the various bars of his final Earthly bender, faces that barely concealed the empty hopelessness where life had sucked the soul out of them.

  “Oh, all sorts of stuff,” Kendra said, suddenly enthused. “Death, famine, the destruction of their livelihoods, the knowledge that the careful framework they’ve built around their lives could be destroyed in an instant by a cruel spin of circumstance. The north has never been a good place to live, but when the choice is between staying the course, or giving up what little you have for an uncertain future outside the gates of a city that doesn’t want you, which do you choose?”

  “I wouldn’t want to,” Marcus said.

  “Well, maybe you should think about it,” Kendra said. She cocked her head on one side, studying him, solemn now. “You might have to make that decision, in the end. Well, anyway,” she continued, rebounding into good cheer, “don’t worry about these guys. Given time they’ll work their way around to East Gate, and they’ll find a home of sorts in the suburbs outside of the wall. Hopefully Keithus doesn’t have the same idea when he comes calling, hey?” Her expression split into a wide smile, lighting her face with warmth, and she turned and wandered off after the others, who were already making their way along the road away from the city. Bemused, Marcus followed.

  For some time they walked along that road, each member of Eira’s strike team alone in the company of their thoughts. At the front of the column, the Assassin and Musk continued their silent battle for the honour of leading the way, the former in provocative jest and the latter with deadly seriousness. Behind them, Fervesce continued as he had so far that day, which was, apparently, by sleepwalking. Lucin walked with him, seemingly happy with company that not only acted as if you weren’t there but legitimately had no idea that you were present. Kendra had been strolling along by herself, speeding up and slowing down and occasionally glancing back to Marcus, who remained content at the back, trudging along, leaning on his staff, watching the fields slowly pass him by. Eventually she seemed to reach some internal resolution, and dropped back to walk alongside him.

  “Hello,” she said.

  “Hi,” Marcus said. “Again.”

  “I thought I’d come and cheer you up,” she said, smiling a gentle sunbeam.

  “That’s nice,” Marcus said, “but I’m actually ecstatically happy already.”

  “Of course you are,” Kendra agreed. “That’s why you’re hanging out at the back, wearing the saddest face in the basket of faces and dragging yourself along as if your legs were thousand ton weights and every step required the stre
ngth of a falling star. Right?”

  Marcus had to lean away from the pure deductive prowess of this statement.

  “There’d actually something I’d quite like to ask you,” Kendra revealed, as he reeled.

  “Fields,” Marcus said desperately. “I’m naturally depressed by the colour green.”

  “I know you’re trying to deflect me with sarcasm,” Kendra told him, “and I dig it, but it’s not gonna work, because I can be really, really, really persistent. So you might as well just let me ask. Tell you what, I’ll let you ask the question of me in exchange. How about it?”

  “Sure,” Marcus said, wondering how far away the end of this conversation was and how else he might be able to accelerate its arrival. “Ask away.”

  “Amazing. Okay hang on, I want to make sure I get it right.” She appeared to think for a moment. “Cool. Ready?”

  Marcus shrugged.

  “Alright shrug-face, here it comes. What’s your motivation for coming on this trip?”

  Marcus glanced at her. She was again wearing an expression of solemn, benevolent curiosity, studying him with her head tipped slightly to the side. “Why are you asking?” he inquired.

  “Because I’m interested,” Kendra said simply. “You’re quite the mystery man, you know. All ‘enigmatic saviour’, but who’s the person beneath? I can’t help being curious.”