by Dyrk Ashton
“Yggdrasil.” Mrs. Mirskaya breathes the name in veneration.
Peter stares at the fire. “It could be no other.”
“But a blinking moon?” Myrddin asks.
“I know,” Fi replies, “it’s crazy.”
Peter says, “Maybe.” He looks to Fi, his expression grim. “The one you saw with Kleron. Do you know his name?” But there’s something in the tone of his voice that makes Fi think he already knows, and dreads the answer.
“No,” Fi says. She waves her hands in a fluster of frustration. “I couldn’t sense it, not like I could when I saw Brian Boru. Like he protects it, shields it, all the time. But Kleron calls him Great Khagan.”
Myrddin exclaims, “No.”
Mrs. Mirskaya says, “Impossible. He is dead. We were there. All of us.”
Now Pratha gazes into the fire, her jaw slack, lost in an ocean of thought.
Even Baphomet, lurking in the background, can’t hide his reaction to this revelation.
Peter isn’t taking the news any better, but says, “Fi, his eyes. Were they cloudy, like the others we’ve seen who were brought back?”
“No,” she says. “They were clear. Too clear, almost. He was alive. For real alive.”
Peter looks back to the flames. “It does make sense. The necromancy, the locusts. These things have always been beyond Kleron.”
Pratha speaks softly. “But they would not be beyond Khagan.”
“Somehow,” says Peter, “he has survived.”
Fi’s eyes flit from one to the other of the group. They seem lost in disbelief edged with dread. “Who is he?”
“The first Master of the Asura,” says Peter. “Firstborn. A True Ancient, and sorcerer of the darkest and most potent kind. During the First Holocaust, the Asura called him Khagan, the King of Kings. His Truename is Iblis-Thevetat, also called ash-Shaitan.”
Edgar groans and crosses himself.
Fi may not have the depth of knowledge Zeke has, but she knows that ‘Iblis’ is roughly the Islamic equivalent of—“Satan?”
Mol barks, bounding to Edgar’s side, and whines up at him. Edgar rushes back to the shadows, but returns immediately, his face stricken. “Milord,” he says to Peter. “The boy is gone.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
HIGHLANDS
BAD ZEKE
Zeke knew the other him was close. He was in his head. They were in each other’s heads. The other Zeke could have appeared any time, looking for Fi. Zeke couldn’t let that happen. One slip was all it took. One very similar world away.
He trudges the highland hills of another Scotland, choking on the foul air. Meteors streak the sky, but they’re not just meteors. Satellites and space debris of all kinds, falling to burn in the atmosphere, trailing bright colored streamers of light.
The earth quakes and Zeke stumbles, catching his hand on a sharp rock. He pushes to his feet, wincing at his battered knees and the abrasions that bleed on his palm. But the pain helps keep his head clear. He clenches his fist, soaking it in, and forces himself into a jog.
What am I doing? he asks himself for the dozenth time. Who do I think I am? The last in the Line of Kings. What the fuck is that all about, anyway? It could be the most bizarre dream imaginable, except he knows it’s all too real.
Only half a mile from where Fi and the others are sitting by the fire, Zeke walks up a rise, already knowing who’s on the other side. He takes a deep breath to steady his nerves, concentrates again on controlling his thoughts. He touches where Pratha traced her finger on his forehead. It’s cool to the touch. Whatever she did, it helped. He just hopes it lasts, and will be enough.
Zeke won’t kill the other. Probably couldn’t if he wanted to. He has no weapon. He’s no fighter. And the other him is crazed and has fought for his life before.
Bad Zeke. That’s who he’s begun to think of him as. It pains Zeke to call him that, considering the torture the other has endured, and it’s what the cruel pedophiles called him, but it helps Zeke separate himself. Even though Bad Zeke is him. A small change in Zeke’s own life and he would have been Bad Zeke. Then he wonders. Maybe he is.
There’s no real difference between them, as Peter said, except for their upbringing, and Zeke pities the other. All that suffering. It’s his now too. And somehow he feels responsible.
Bad Zeke can’t be allowed to find Fi, though, no matter what. To destroy their world, or any more worlds. But Peter would kill him, and Zeke can’t stand the thought of that. It’s not Bad Zeke’s fault the world split and he drew the short straw, condemning him to a living hell. Or maybe worse, that Zeke followed him outside the bank, and came too close.
Zeke only has one chance to save him from death, slim as it is, but he has to try.
The crest of the rise glows orange ahead. He can already feel the heat. Black smoke fills the sky, and its fumes burn his lungs. He trudges the last few feet and stops, blood dripping from his fingers to hiss on the hot rocks at his feet as he gazes at the wondrous and abominable sight before him, where the laws of physics as we know them no longer apply.
Zeke’s not surprised. This is what he saw when he was in the Chair, in memories swapped with the other. It’s what Bad Zeke has done to every world he’s come to. Looking for Fi. And all in two days. Only on this world, he’s just getting started.
Zeke has no idea how Bad Zeke got here, to the opposite side of the Atlantic. He hasn't been able to directly access the other’s memories in any kind of clear or orderly manner—for which he is actually grateful—he just gets smatterings of images as they come. But he gets the sense the other doesn’t know how he got here either. It doesn’t really matter. He’s here now.
The far side of the ridge slopes gradually to a wide plateau, and a major metropolis in ruin. Burning hot and bright, broken buildings float in the sky. The water of a wide river that ran along this edge of the city rises from its banks, writhing like a snake, boiling, steam rising above and falling below. Above it all, a blood-red moon, looming larger by the minute.
This side of the river, standing in a shallow but broad crater of his own making, Bad Zeke faces the city, fists clenched at his sides, screaming.
* * *
Fi leaps from her seat and runs to where Zeke was sitting, Peter right behind her. “Zeke!” she calls into the darkness.
Peter scans the area, tilts his head to listen for the slightest sound. He follows Fi, who runs around the far side of the rocks and gazes out over the firelit carnage Max has wrought. There’s no sign of Zeke, and the spiders are motionless other than to follow them with their multiple milky spider-eyes. Near the helicopter, Max watches as well, but even his characteristic smarmy leer is gone. Hugin remains on the chopper blade above, staring with his black eyes, still and silent.
Peter listens again, smells the air. But he and Fi both know Zeke isn’t here. The others join them.
“He’s gone after the other Zeke,” Fi says. “By himself.”
“I will find him,” Peter says. “Myrddin Wyllt. We now have no method of transportation to Norway, unless we run and swim the strait. That’s not an option for Zeke, and would be a mighty strain on Edgar, especially with his recent injuries. And we cannot stay here. But...” He lets his voice trail off.
Myrddin finishes Peter’s thought. “There is another way.”
“We can only hope it’s operable. Take Fi, Edgar, the Colonel and Mol below, if you would, and see if you can open the hangar door.”
“What are you talking about?” Fi asks.
Myrddin answers tentatively, “The Wheel.”
Fi frowns because that is no answer. But honestly, right now she doesn’t care. She says to Peter, “Whatever, I’m going with you.”
Pratha says, “As am I.”
Mrs. Mirskaya steps up. “Where Fiona goes, I go too.”
Peter says, “You heard Kleron. We’re talking about a destroyer of worlds. This is too dangerous, and there’s no need for all of us to go. For me there’s no risk. I’l
l be right back.”
Fi says it again, with emphasis. “What-ever.” Pratha puts her hands on her hips, brows lifted. Mrs. Mirskaya crosses her arms.
Faced with three insubordinate daughters at once, Peter’s authoritative demeanor dwindles. “Pratha, Mokosh, Max and his progeny are not bound by the Oath and cannot be trusted to obey Kleron. I think it would be a good idea if you stayed to guard the others.” He can tell they see his reasoning, but adds, “Pretty please?”
Moans from Templars who are still alive float to them.
Fi glances back to the colonel, who has a look of profound but stoic sadness on her face. “What about them?” she asks Peter.
“They are lost, I’m afraid.” He looks to the colonel. “I’m sorry.”
She nods, though her eyes are moist.
Peter says, “Pratha, Mokosh, what do you say?”
Pratha looks to Mrs. Mirskaya. “What do you think?”
“Since when do you care what I think?”
“I was being polite.”
“‘Pratha’ and ‘polite,’ these two things do not go together.”
Peter slowly backs away from the bickering sisters, then spins and slips away.
* * *
Peter appears in mid-stride on the rugged landscape of the other Scotland, but stops short as he feels a tug from behind. He spins to find Fi, one hand hanging on to his back pocket.
“Fiona!”
“Whatever,” she says again.
He reaches for her. “I’m taking you back.”
She leaps back, holding her hands up. “Nope. I decline to slip with you.”
Peter’s shoulders slump. “My daughters...” He gazes at the sky filled with falling stars. “It’s already begun.” Tremors shake the ground, disturbing their balance, then the earth is still. Peter scans the horizon and sees the rise in the distance, rimmed with the glow of an immense fire, and pulls Gungnir from his pocket. “All right then. Let’s go,” he says heading toward it at a brisk pace. Fi runs to catch up, rubbing the wound from Max’s bite, which has begun to ache once more.
* * *
The others have gone below. Pratha and Mrs. Mirskaya stand side by side before the closed door, the firelight from Max’s macabre carnival playing across their faces. Max’s spider children watch them as well. Sets of multiple eyes, swaying on multiple legs, scratching the dirt. There must be three dozen of them, not counting those hiding in burrows below ground. Max munches happily on the skull and brains of the dead lieutenant, all eight eyes on them, humming as he eats.
“Fiona went with Father,” says Mrs. Mirskaya.
“I saw that,” Pratha replies.
“She says Khagan lives. Do you believe it?”
Pratha takes a moment before answering. When she does, her voice is heavy. “I believe it.”
Max climbs up the underside of a strand of web that runs from the helicopter to the nest of web in the willow. He scuttles to a female soldier who’s bound and gagged, and wraps his legs around her. Her eyes widen in terror and she tries to scream through a gag of web.
Max grins, bloody spittle slavering from his moldy teeth, down his chin and beard. “I’m not supposed to touch you,” he says to Pratha and Mrs. Mirskaya in his creaky vulgar voice. “But I can touch them.” He prods the woman, then shrieks to the wind in a chittering, cackling language never used by human beings. His children resume tormenting, dismembering, and eating the helpless Templars.
“He wants us to attack,” says Pratha.
“I wouldn’t want to disappoint him,” Mrs. Mirskaya replies.
“He’s not included in the parley agreement.”
“I know.”
“He can’t harm me, but you also know I cannot break his web, should I become bound.”
“Then we would have to be careful not to let that happen.”
“He’s much older than you.”
“Mokosh is not afraid of spiders.”
“And he’s faster.”
Mrs. Mirskaya scoffs. “Nothing is fast as lightning.”
Pratha’s perfect lips twist in a wicked grin. “Let’s have some fun, little sister. Just us girls. Like in the old days.”
For the first time since they reunited in the tunnels beneath Peter’s house, after not seeing each other for nearly 20,000 years, Mrs. Mirskaya gives Pratha a smile, which turns to a grin every bit as wicked as Pratha’s. “Like the old days.” She mutters one word in her ancient Slavic tongue. The sky churns black and green, streaks of light split the clouds, and timpani thunder drums a prelude to mayhem.
* * *
Zeke sets his jaw and starts down the slope toward the other. The rocky ground beneath his feet grows hotter than he should be able to tolerate, but he senses the stone and sand feel what he feels, and as strange as it sounds, are protecting him from the heat. Even weirder, he’s positive the air itself whispered his name, and detecting his discomfort at the choking fumes, is doing its best to supply him with fresh oxygen.
It would be enough to drive him mad, trying to figure it all out, to understand, but instead he feels more sane than he’s ever been. For some reason, the closer he gets to Bad Zeke, instead of more pain and terror, he feels more serene. It might have something to do with the symbol Pratha drew on his forehead, but he wonders, too, if it also comes from being absolutely certain he’s doing the right thing. No more reservations, just resolve, and with it a fortitude he’s never known.
Peter had said, though it’s rare, when doppels enter each other, one can overcome the other. That’s Zeke’s plan, unlikely as it sounds even in his own head. But he has to do it. To save this Zeke, and Fi, and everyone on their world. If he fails, madness, maybe even death. But he’s on autopilot now, a strange frame of mind, but comforting as well.
Bodies of dead locusts lie strewn about the crater where Bad Zeke stands. More float in the air, desiccated and broken.
There’s no sign of human resistance, but Zeke knows why. It happened too fast. Bad Zeke had arrived, and due to their mutual connection, realized this, too, was the wrong earth. While Zeke’s mind has become clearer the closer he gets to the other, Bad Zeke’s insanity, fueled by their melding and exacerbated by heroin withdrawal, has grown. His madness and rage took him, and now they’re taking the world. Zeke stops at the rim of the crater.
Bad Zeke cries to the heavens, “Where are you?!”
“I’m here.”
Bad Zeke whirls. He looks awful. His eyes are sunken black hollows, there’s a sheen of sweat on his pale gaunt face, and he shakes with delerium tremens. “Where’s Fi?” he shouts.
“You can’t have her.”
“You did this to me!” Bad Zeke wails.
“I know. I’m sorry.”
Bad Zeke’s face purples with rage and he roars. The earth shakes, and cracks radiate out from his feet. Wind whirls around him, picking up dirt and debris, lifting and spinning locust carcasses with it, the air all around being drawn into the vortex. The crater deepens as the ground beneath him compresses. Stones roll toward him, then larger rocks and boulders. Yet even they disintegrate upon reaching the mini-hurricane.
At first, Zeke’s afraid, then realizes that while he resists the pull of the other, the ground roots him in place, rocks divert around him, and the wind is merely a breeze in his hair while the tempest rages everywhere else. He wonders again how Bad Zeke—how he—could possibly be doing any of this, but forces the thought to fade, concentrating on keeping his mind calm. He sees the buildings and cars in the distance floating toward them, and the moon itself growing closer. He doesn’t have much time, so he lets himself go.
Bad Zeke’s face transforms to a mask of terror at the sight of Zeke flying toward him and he shouts, “Nooo!” just as Zeke embraces him.
* * *
Peter and Fi hear the cry from over the ridge, but the ground shifts beneath their feet. Stones shoot past them from behind to crash into the hillside. Those that aren’t stuck in the ground roll up and over. Grass and bra
nches blow past. A large rock cracks to pieces on Peter’s back. A smaller stone cracks Fi on the back of the head, breaking apart on impact. She grabs her skull, but realizes there’s no blood or pain. They duck as a tree trunk hurtles overhead.
Peter says, “I can protect us from this annoyance, for a short time.”
Fi almost laughs. Annoyance, he calls it. Peter reaches out a hand and she takes it. He closes his eyes and begins to shine with golden light, which expands around Fi as well. She realizes she no longer feels the wind. The flying rocks, sticks and grass flow around them, like debris in a river diverts around stone.
“What is this?” she asks.
“A glimpse of the real me,” he answers. “Come on.” They run up the hill, clinging to each other’s hands.
* * *
Instead of tumbling at the impact, the two Zekes meld into one. Like droplets of rain combining as they touch, their combined surface stretches, bulges, retracts, and reaches an unsteady equilibrium.
The shock stuns them both. Then familiar and unfamiliar sounds rise, impressions, emotions, terrible and wonderful, and the memories hit. A tempest of thoughts and hopes and smashed dreams from both pasts, jumbled and spinning, impossible to make sense of or control. Panic grips them both, and they shriek together in agony and madness.
* * *
Fi and Peter crest the rise. The first thing to catch their eyes is the fast-approaching moon, then the flaming city with crushed and burning cars and broken buildings floating toward them. Floating to the whirlwind that is the eye of the storm—the crater, with Zeke on his knees at its center, fists clenched, eyes squeezed shut, and shaking.
Fi shouts his name and tries to pull away, but Peter holds her tight.
“No,” Peter says. “We could do far more damage than good.”
Zeke’s body wobbles and quakes. Two heads separate and combine in rapid succession, as if trapped in a membrane stretched over two skulls, vibrating frantically. One with eyes and mouth wide in rage, the other with a fierce grimace of concentration.
* * *
Zeke fights to subdue his doppelganger—but he can’t, and realizes that might be the wrong approach. He focuses with all his will on himself, trying to ignore the thrashing and wails of the other.