The steps of black shoes were largely drowned out by the pounding of hammers, the roar of fire, and the clanging of metal on metal. As the agent of entropy walked between the rows of forges, she allowed only the barest glances to the smiths that dwarfed her human-looking form. Her eyes brushed over their work, taking note of the dregs of a dead reality being made useful. A finished block of masonry was placed among other materials, and a rack of cooling, newly forged tools. From the piles of completed brick and implements, the faintest moans of agony resonated, for the Forgers constructed not from empty stone and metal, but breathing and pulsing life. Tools, materials, weapons, all made from the living, shuddering meat of mortality. Wails from still-fresh material were dampened by the blows of the Forgers’ tools, their hammers heated by the eternal flames of the realm of chaos.
The agent of entropy gave no interest to a writhing, struggling form being shaped into stones for an archway. She walked with determination to the pedestal of the High Forger. The throne rested atop one of the main furnaces; smoke and heat slithered up and rustled the edges of the High Forger’s vestments. They wore the same massive, dull robes with hoods as their lesser servants, but for the moment, the hood rested over their face, casting all beneath in impenetrable black.
“And the face of the Black itself graces my throne room with her presence,” they rumbled low. “Though…humbled, I assume? Another world is lost to us.” They tapped a heavy, calloused finger on the armrest. “The multiverse is without a Spear Bearer for not two days, and the avatar of our very being cannot claim a single world?”
The agent of chaos was not prone to fits of rage or affected by insults. However, she did thin her eyes and tilted her head to one side. “One of your forges is empty, High Forger Arges. The smiths who commanded it are only fine mist, lost in the infinite. The lord of the forges of chaos cannot keep track of their servants? What were they casting without your say?”
The lesser Forgers simultaneously paused in their work. As each turned their faces toward the avatar of entropy, the light fell on their single, massive eyes. The High Forger’s face remained hidden. Arges’ finger paused and rested. The matter of their shared failures would be left at that, and silently, the lesser smiths returned to their building.
“A new Spear Bearer has taken the weapon,” Arges said in a deep, echoing voice.
“However,” the agent countered, “he is young. Inexperienced.”
“Experience shall come,” they growled. “As it has for every Spear Bearer through all eternity.”
“I believe this one can be isolated,” she offered.
“To what end?”
“There is…something that this form has allowed me,” she continued. “A new perspective, perhaps? A Spear Bearer is most powerful with allies, especially when young. We have directed our rage at the Bearer himself too long.”
Intrigued, Arges leaned forward in their throne, the warm air from the pits rustling the hem of their robes. “Then your plan is not to struggle with the conduit directly?”
“We will isolate him,” she explained, a smile forming. “When hopelessness has overtaken him, the next Spear Bearer will only face the same. An entire line of impotent, lost mortals carrying a spear that none will have the strength to wield will be all that remains.”
A slow, amused chuckle issued from the darkened robes. “I have grown to like your new face, Master. The Forgers await your orders.”
Chapter Eight
The Spear Bearer's Burden
A dry, hot wind gently rustled the scrub and dust lining the suburban neighborhood below. Atop a hill, his dark hair nudged by the breeze was Victorio. He sat on the dirt numbly, staring down the rocky slopes. His arms were folded over his knees, the lower half of his face rested against his forearms as his eyes barely hung open. He wasn’t sleepy, just…tired.
The sound of padded footsteps didn’t stir him, nor did the feeling of Brasil settling beside him. Brasil’s posture carried a familiarity as he looked out over the valley along with Victorio. A little like Victorio’s dad, but not really. Just an adult. Thinking of Brasil as anything other than “dog” was strange, especially an “adult.” However, the serene sympathy, the pause as he waited for Victorio to begin rather than press, the soft sigh that raised and lifted his shoulders once—all of these things reminded Victorio of adults from home.
“S’beautiful, isn’t it?” Brasil said softly, staring toward the sunset that painted the sky vibrant reds and oranges—kissing the distant landscape in gold.
Victorio shrugged. “It’s…home. Kind of. It was the closest one I could find,” he mumbled low.
Brasil adjusted his hat with an uncomfortable clearing of his throat. “Yer power won’t let ye go home.”
“I tried,” he replied distantly. “It…It just wouldn’t listen to me.”
“I know,” Brasil said sympathetically.
A long, heavy sigh caused Victorio’s shoulders to slump deeper. He could see Brasil following Victorio’s gaze and could hear another light cough follow. He knew that Brasil now stared at the same thing he was; from the height Victorio chose, some of the backyards of the houses near the hills were clear. One of them was what looked for all the world like Victorio’s siblings. Angala and Demario ran through a sprinkler in the late spring heat, laughing. Following them, not having bothered to change out of his casual shorts and jersey, was himself. Some other versions of himself. That Victorio got to run after his brother and sister with a Super Soaker, unconcerned with the sprinkler and focused only on the excited, overly dramatic cries interspersed between giggles. That Victorio probably didn’t even realize how good he had it, just like he hadn’t.
Seeing that other him had drained Victorio of all hope. It was true. No matter how hard he tried, he would never find home. Just “fake” homes. His home, his real home, his real friends and family, was lost to him.
Brasil rested a hand on Victorio’s shoulder, patting gently. “Does ye no good to watch this, y’know.”
Victorio shrugged slightly.
“I know that Gatti and I can’t replace anyone,” he pressed, his voice assuring. “But we can be here for ye.”
Victorio snorted bitterly. “Because Enki told you to.”
“Because I want to,” he insisted, nudging Victorio’s side. “If ye look anything like that when ye’re happy,” Brasil added with a smile and a gesture to the Victorio far below, “then I think ye’ll be fun to be around when ye’ve opened up.”
Wearily, Victorio resigned himself to his fate. He pulled himself to his feet and stretched lazily. “Sure, whatever.”
Brasil stood with him, straightening his hat. “There’s a lot in this universe that’s worth seein,’” he said brightly, giving another hearty pat to Victorio’s shoulder. “Don’t give up before ye’ve seen any of it.”
Victorio let out another rough scoff, trudging his way back down the mountain path. “Sure, whatever.”
As Victorio made it over a bend in the path, he paused. The Twilight Runner rested at the bottom, hovering several feet off the ground. Gatina fanned herself with her wide-brimmed hat, leaning against the hull and panting under her layers of witches’ robes. Seeing Victorio and Brasil, she quickly donned it and waved to Brasil with a toothy smile.
Brasil chuckled at Victorio’s expression, which had shifted slightly from deep apathy to a sliver of awe. “Come now, ye can’t tell me the Runner idn’t a sight, eh?”
Victorio quickly recollected himself and shrugged. “Guess so.”
✽✽✽
A day had passed while Brasil and Gatina gave Victorio space. It was hard to believe he was going to have to get used to his only companions being cartoon characters. Brasil did the cooking, and it didn’t reassure him that neither of them noticed it was crap. At least Victorio thought so. Meat and cabbage comprised most of it, flavorless bread the rest. Apparently cartoon dogs cook like white people. There might never be an empanada again. It was his worst nightmare.
&nb
sp; After a restless night and a sluggishly eaten breakfast of sausage and toast (along with some turd-looking thing Brasil called black pudding that Victorio didn’t touch), Victorio had taken to draping his arms over the bow of the ship. Currently, it floated in some unknown river traveling like an actual boat, and sprays of crisp water dotted over him as he sulked. He decided inwardly this would be his every day now. He had no home, family, friends, or video games. So, this was his existence now, blearily squinting against the light breeze the boat’s speed made, arms aching from the position he held them in. It was good enough.
Victorio started and straightened when he noticed the prow slowly rise over the water, then he backed toward the center of the deck as it began a gentle incline toward the sky. He glanced over his shoulder in the direction of the wheel room, and noted Brasil at the helm, giving Victorio a knowing grin. Victorio wanted to hang on to something, but the only railing he could see lined the edges of the deck, and he couldn’t build courage enough to get closer to the edge of the boat while in motion.
Gatina appeared beside him, a furry eyebrow arched as she stared up at him flatly. “Did we interrupt?”
He frowned at her and shoved his hands in his pockets. “Whatever.”
She let out a growling kind of scoff, then nudged his side. “No time to sulk, Vicky.”
His face tightened. “Don’t call me Vicky.”
“You know what the best medicine is for the doldrums?” she said with a strangely hungry grin.
Whatever “doldrums” meant. “No.”
“Let’s kill some Empty.”
He blinked at this, mostly stunned at hearing the word “kill” escape her. In his mind, she was still just the version of her he saw on TV. Kid’s show characters can’t say “kill.” It sounded weird.
She rubbed her paws eagerly, ignoring his baffled expression. “I’ve never fought next to a Spear Bearer. I can’t wait to see what you’ve got up your sleeve.”
Uneasily, he shrugged. “I dunno. I mean. I’m not feelin’ it.”
She jabbed his side sharply. “You’re the Spear Bearer. You fight entropy. It’s what you do, so let’s get to it.”
“What do you want from me?” he grumbled angrily, rubbing his side.
“You already know what to do, even if you don’t know it yet,” she insisted.
The Twilight Runner had finally leveled high in the sky, and Brasil confidently strode beside the two of them. “Ya ready to get to work?” he began.
Sourly Victorio looked away. “No.”
Brasil patted his back in assurance. “Better to have something to focus on that isn’t how you’re feeling. At least for a while, hm?”
It seemed Victorio was outnumbered, though he didn’t have to look happy about it. “Fine. What do I do?”
“From what I’ve been told,” Brasil said in a low voice, “if you concentrate, the Spear will tell you where to go.”
Victorio shrugged, then pulled out the compass that held the Spear at rest. He held onto the glass and metal trinket and squeezed his eyes tightly. Moments passed, and very rapidly the only thing he could hear was his internal voice saying just how stupid this was. In frustration he huffed and shook his head. “Nuthin.’”
The other two glanced at each other. Brasil rubbed the back of his neck while Gatina folded her arms impatiently. “Do we need to give ye some room?” Brasil offered. “To think?”
“I don’t know,” Victorio said dourly. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine where he was needed. Was that how it worked? That he needed to go somewhere specific? Slowly he cracked his eyes open. He threw up his arms in anger when he saw the two with their eyes locked on him expectantly. “Oh my God!” he snapped. “How am I supposed to, like, meditate or some crap with you staring at me?”
Sheepishly, Brasil grimaced and held up his hands, mumbling out an apology as he stepped to the side. Gatina, on the other hand. just rolled her eyes largely and turned her back on him. Instead of staring, she tapped her foot, and Victorio bristled.
“Wow, still not helping.”
“Oh, come on!” she blurted, spinning back on him. “This is only step one, how can you possibly not get it?”
“Gatti,” Brasil blurted. “We’ll get there.”
“Universes could be dying,” she hissed, stomping toward the front of the ship.
Victorio glared at her with thin eyes, and Brasil put a hand on his shoulder. “Easy, easy. Just. Let us give you some space. You’ll figure it out.”
As he backed off Victorio’s mind lingered only on Gatina’s last words. ‘Universes could be dying.’ What was he supposed to do about it? Then a sinking feeling curled up in his stomach. He was supposed to do everything. It was his job. He was the Bastion Against Decay and all that. Now he really couldn’t concentrate. All he could think of was the fight in China, and what would have happened to all those people if he hadn’t shown up.
Anxiousness rising, he paced, trying to clasp his eyes tightly and think of where. Where was he supposed to go? How would he get there? He wasn’t sure how long he struggled with the same two questions over and over until he found himself huddled on the deck with his arms folded over his knees in despair.
Nothing. Victorio couldn’t think of a single thing other than how shitty a Spear Bearer he must be. If he knew where he wanted to go, the Spear just showed up and it was the easiest thing ever. But he didn’t know where he wanted to go, and now he was useless. He thought he was supposed to know what to do, but he didn’t have a single thought, not a single sign. All he wanted was something to point him in the right direction…
Then a light went off his head and he jolted straight up. He pulled himself to his feet and placed the compass deliberately in his hand. One arm outstretched and straight, he focused his eyes on the needlepoint. It slowly swiveled, then spun wildly. Something filled Victorio's chest and spread to his every limb, a sort of tingling sensation. His breath deepened; his entire body relaxed despite how deliberate his stance felt.
The needle snapped to a halt facing north.
His eyes flooded with images of what looked like a tanker…maybe an aircraft carrier? Some kind of huge vessel in the middle of an ocean. The people on the boat looked like people, human and modern. And all of them were in a panic as the shadows on the vessel pulled themselves free of their surfaces and the eyes of the Empty opened across them.
Victorio’s vision shot back to the present, and he still stood on the Twilight Runner. In his outstretched hand no longer sat the compass, but the Spear.
Gatina let out a whoop of excitement and jumped to his side. “You figured it out? You got it? That was it, wasn’t it? I knew it!”
“Gatti, back up!” Brasil called from the wheel room. “If you’ve got a coordinate, Victorio, guide the Runner.”
He wasn’t sure how that was going to work, but then his arm began to move. His heart picked up as he watched his hand gently sway, the Spear (which really shouldn’t have been so light to move) following the motion with elegant curves. He wasn’t asking his arm to do this. He jolted his arm still. Thankfully it listened, but the dissonance from the moment before made his heart race.
“Hey, you alright?” Gatina called to him.
The sudden noise made him flinch, and he threw his gaze toward her. “Uh…Yeah. Yeah, I’m cool,” he fumbled out. Victorio took a long, steadying breath and moved the Spear again. And again, he felt himself instantly lose control of its path; both the weapon and the hand grasping it swaying in elegant sweeps he couldn’t control. Then the rest of him took a solid step forward, sending the Spear into a powerful thrust. A snap of air followed; a breeze that carried the scent of a storm, and in an instant, a flash revealed a glowing doorway hovering in the air. When Victorio listened intensely he could hear cries coming from the other side.
“That’s it!” Brasil’s voice called from the wheel-room. “The Runner is locking on to that gate. Let’s go!”
Victorio swallowed dryly, steeling himself
for whatever lay on the other side of the door. The Twilight Runner surged forward, while he kept his eyes on the swirling portal ahead. He squinted as the boat dove through the light and wind, and suddenly he was hit by a feeling like a roller coaster drop. The ripping air, the surrounding din, a taste of saltwater spray; every sensation surrounding him shifted in an instant.
For a moment Victorio was struck dumb. He had no idea where he ended up, but sunset and an ocean looked familiar enough, and so did the aircraft carrier deck—like he had always seen in movies. There were people, and they were people-looking enough, in mundane black slacks and button-up shirts. Mostly white people, almost entirely adults. It was strange his attentions had immediately searched to focus on the familiar—unfortunately familiar ended with those.
Then there was the Empty. The men and women on deck screamed in terror and practically fell over one another in a frenzied panic. All around, climbing the sides of the boat from the water below, dragging themselves from shadows on every wall, rising from the metal and concrete deck, were the creatures of chaos. Barely a second had gone by since arriving and Victorio froze in place, his breath caught in his throat. He vaguely remembered China, but his first encounter with the legions of chaos had felt like a hazy dream. Now he was seeing the formless masses for the first time, and they were a nightmare while awake. They were difficult to discern from each other; swirling, moving shapes that went from hulking brutes to darting, canine-like creatures, and flying, spinning specters. Their eyes shone, a color somewhere between yellow, green, and white, and so deep it was impossible to not fall into them even from a distance. And…
Victorious Cross Page 5