by S. K. Holder
The Traceless had informed him that the Shardner had removed the impenetrable dome from around Callawly Castle. Skelos had returned there only to find the Shardner had stripped the place bare. He didn’t know what prompted him to believe the map existed. Had his desperation to escape Narrigh skewed his judgment? Was the Traceless One inside him, sending out subliminal messages? Or was it a mere collection of the facts as he understood them? The Traceless said the painting belonged to the Maker, which meant it would have to have come from Odisiris. How many paintings from Odisiris could find themselves on the wall of Callawly Castle? It would explain the Shardner’s brief presence there.
He studied the canvas every day, poppy side up. He had scratched at a section of the painting with a small knife in order to test a simple theory: that the map was sitting beneath the sea of poppies. His theory proved wrong and he had left a thumb-sized hole in the canvas to prove it.
After a while, he turned the canvas over and spent another fifteen minutes staring at the yellowing blank side. He thought his inborn intuition, if nothing else, would have revealed a secret map to him by now.
He heard a sudden rustling noise outside and was on his feet in an instant, at the door in a flash, yanking it open and sucking in his breath. He heaved a sigh of relief. There was no one out there. It must have been the wind or a Ticket shrew burrowing into its home. He pulled the doors shut and returned to the canvas to find a small section of it glowing. He had accidentally trodden on the rock, crushing a small fragment of it into the canvas. The fragment had left a trail of glittering dust in the uppermost right corner.
Skelos lifted the canvas. He gave it a shake, expecting the dust to fall away. It remained stuck to it as if secured by invisible glue. ‘It was under my nose all this time.’
He set the canvas back on the floor, locked the last fragment of rock into a groove in the sole of his boot, and then trampled it into the canvas, grinding the remnants underfoot until they were reduced to nothing more than a fine powder. He lifted the canvas and gave it one last decisive shake.
He squatted down to examine what he had found, dragging the cog with the slow-burner close. There were lines on the canvas in more detail than he had ever imagined. The dust had hardened leaving a silvery residue made up of crooked lines and bumps. At the top of the canvas in large italic letters were the words, ‘Map of the Other Worlds.’
‘Other Worlds.’ Skelos ran his finger over the letters. The map consisted of horizontal lines, labelled from Level One to Level Three. Along each line was a spate of headed dots.
Above one of the dots were the words, Old Getty, on another, Levistan Woods. He also saw Shile Point, Olva Mountains and a whole host of other landmarks in other cities and other places, he had never even heard of. All were marked above the dots on the map.
He frowned. He did not understand a map made up of lines and dots. There were no such maps in Odisiris. His frown deepened. If this is a map to the ‘Other Worlds’, then how do you reach your destination? There are no other worlds on here.
He flipped the canvas over; flipped it back again. Some of the dots were unmarked. One of them, on level three, had a cross through it and a series of digits: 87, 23, and 16.
He trailed his finger along the horizontal line labelled Level One. The Old Getty Mill, Levistan Woods, and the Olva Mountains were all above ground, on Level One, which meant the other two levels, had to be below ground.
Skelos stood up, map in hand. He strode around the mill again. Treading carefully this time, he left no crack unchecked, no clog unturned. He noticed two broken stones. They looked quite out of place in the mill. He surveyed the floor around it. It had been disturbed and not too long ago. Skelos crouched and shifted the stones. He discovered a trapdoor without a handle. He slid his fingers into the surrounding gaps to raise the door. There were scraggy steps running into the ground, steep and fathomless. A faint trace of tar and salt-water wafted to the surface.
He cupped his hand to his mouth. Was this the Will of the Maker? An underground passage? If the road to the Other Worlds were as simple as walking down a flight of steps, surely he would have discovered it long ago. He picked up the slow-burner and gathered up the small bag containing his belongings.
He journeyed cautiously down the steps, hewn from rock. His heart quickened, thinking of the cross marked on the map and what awaited him there. The road would be long, arduous and filled with danger, but it was a road he was accustomed to and he took it without fear.
FORTY-SEVEN
The Maker sat behind his desk studying the Herming Moth Wing handed to him by his friend and confidant, Osaphar Kulane. It did not look any different from the one he was handed this morning or the one he was handed the morning before that, come to think of it. The Wings were the least of his troubles.
Osaphar stood in front of him with his hands clasped behind his back. He had fine lines around his eyes and pale forehead that were not the telling of his age. His own worries were making him haggard. The Maker pursed his lips, struggling to recall the last time he had seen him smile.
‘There has been no word of Skelos Dorm,’ said Osaphar. ‘No sign. He wasn’t on any of our ships. We also put out all the fires in the pits. At the rate our tissue regenerates, if he were dead, we would have found his charred body in one of them. He has simply vanished. It is a grave mystery.’
The Maker rolled his sapphire-coloured eye. Osaphar frequently used the word ‘vanished’ to explain the mysterious disappearance of both creatures and persons alike. It sounded more theatrical, he supposed than ‘gone into hiding’ or ‘gone underground’ or ‘bit the dust’. Anyone would think that someone had tapped them with a magic wand, making them disappear in a puff of smoke.
‘And what of the Sighraith Band? I suppose they’ve vanished too.’
‘The Traceless helped most of them escape. Some remain in the ruins of Baruch. My men are rounding them up as we speak.’
Vanished.
How many more had slipped into Narrigh unnoticed? Unannounced? Unchallenged? Others who did not want to be part of his worlds; others who were not welcome.
‘I thought you should also know that one of your maps has gone missing. It found its way to the Undren Auction House where it was purchased for one bronze coin by an alleged sorcerer.’
The Maker let the Herming Moth Wing clutter noisily to the floor. His friend winced. He reached for a bottle of fifty-year-old Zaskian and poured some into a glass. He was less concerned about the map. He had others and no one knew how to read the maps but him. He had engineered them that way.
‘No excuses. Skelos must be found and quickly.’
Osaphar had warned him about Skelos’s ruthlessness, but he had paid no attention until it was too late. The Citizen had found a way to make himself quite undetectable, which was a concern. He could only a hope the Technopath was still in Narrigh and not a world in which he could put his techno-wielding talents to better use.
‘I’m astounded that you let him get away from you on so many occasions: Bluewood Forest, Callawly Castle, you and your elf woman’s home. I thought your feelings for your former friend had waned since his expulsion from Odisiris. Was I wrong? Do you think loyalty is the mark of a good Citizen?’
Osaphar shuffled closer to his desk, the dusty soles of his boots crunching on the floor. His face darkened. ‘At one time, he was my best friend and then we grew apart. I could never condone what he did. There is no friendship. Worack didn’t know how much of a threat he posed when he arrived at our dwelling, or else she would have gone to greater lengths to detain him. I warned you about him. You know he could have killed the boy.’
‘But he didn’t. Strange that he and his brother should come to Narrigh.’
Osaphar’s eyebrows peaked. ‘I thought you had something to do with it?’
‘Come now, you know me better than that. I don’t get pleasure from tormenting children. What happened to Connor and Luke was entirely outside my control.’
; Osaphar stamped his foot, his nostrils flaring. ‘Outside your control? They were playing The Quest of Narrigh, a game that you created. That’s not a coincidence.’
‘I didn’t force them to play it, did I?’ He shook his head. ‘It was an unfortunate accident. I will have to see to it that it doesn’t happen again. I’ll be leaving shortly for home. Do you have any other business you wish to discuss?’
Osaphar’s eyes flashed with anger. ‘You’re returning to Earth now? What about the Herming Moth Wings? Since Skelos vanished, there is no one here qualified to complete his work.’
The Maker rolled his crystal blue eye. ‘What have I always said to you Osaphar? If you can’t find what you want in this world, then look in another.’
He lifted his glass to toast his good friend. Unfortunately, Osaphar didn’t have a glass to reciprocate. ‘Maker’s Will. Don’t give up your search for Skelos. I want him found, preferably alive. He must never return to Odisiris.’
Osaphar gave an abrupt nod and left the room, his face grim.
The Maker drained his glass of Zaskian. He then ran his tongue over his lips and poured himself another.
Building worlds was a very delicate business. Creating species, shaping cultures, building new lands out of old ones. Trying to control and manipulate everyone and everything down to the last itsy-bitsy detail. It is rather like being an artist. You painstakingly apply your brush strokes to the canvas. You stand back to admire your work only to find smudges. Why are there always smudges?
He was staring at one now: the humanoid sitting on a leather stool by the window. She stared at him with her usual blank expression and fiddled unconsciously with the pale yellow ribbon in her hair.
‘Will I see Connor again, sir?’
‘I wouldn’t count on it.’ He stared into the doleful hazel eyes of the part human, part robot girl. Disappointingly, she was more human than droid.
‘Is my uncle coming to collect me, sir?’
It was a good question, one that would be answered with a curt ‘no’, when the time was right.
‘In due course,’ he replied.’ He set down his glass and opened up the Logbook belonging to the former Stores Administrator, Gyan Sputworth. Osaphar had discovered it next to one of the fire-pits. It made for an interesting read. The most recent page showed a child-like sketch of the Avu’lore, minus two Shards. If the Administrator hadn’t labelled it, ‘invention’, the Shardner would have assumed that Gyan had grown bored with his duties and had taken up doodling.
Osaphar had given him the Shard that Connor had passed on to him. The Avu’lore globe and the other two Shards had not been recovered. He would have to get them back. You couldn’t unleash the Avu’lore’s full power without all three Shards in place. With three, you could open up rifts between worlds. With just two, you could still achieve a lethal amount of damage: control another’s mind for a short duration. Steer their every move.
Skelos must have seen him using the Avu’lore when he was in the Red Caves. It looked as if he would have to be more careful with his possessions from now on.
Most of the guards stationed within the immediate vicinity of the Stores had suffered partial memory loss. The last thing they claimed to recall before they were discovered sprawled out unconscious on the floor of the Stores most secure chamber, was Gyan screeching at them about an emergency. The guards were now occupying a space in the Court of Justice prison, one of the few buildings that were undamaged in the fire. Not that he thought a good flogging, poor light, and a meagre diet would refresh their memories, but security had been breached and appropriate punishments had to be carried out. He could not hold the Stores Administrators accountable. Belstien, the other Store Administrator on duty, had been declared brain-dead. Gyan was dead (despite supposed sightings of him in Undren village). The one guard worth questioning, Vastra something-or-other, was nowhere to be found.
He flipped up the lid on his cane and gazed at the fragment of Rainbows Rock sitting on the velvet cushion fitted inside it. Why were there always smudges?
COMING SOON
ONE
Lin launched herself down the rock face. Leaping the last two feet, she unsheathed her dagger, lunged at the alien and ran the coarse blade down its back. She immobilised another before it descended on her by pinning a flap of its skin into the dirt, and then hacking off its head. It gave a shriek of indignation and a grey mucous bubbled from its mouth.
That’s what you get for killing aliens: no respite and little reward.
She whirled in the direction of the screams. They came from a young woman dressed in civilian clothing. Caught in the grip of the alien’s tentacle, she looked a bloody, fleshy mess.
Lin clambered back up the precipice and over to where she lay writhing, drew her Ryber weapon from its holster and thrust it into the creature’s tentacle. The alien screeched and its tentacle went slack. She gripped the civilian by the waist and attempted to haul her back to her feet. The woman screamed and slammed her arm into Lin’s legs. She howled in pain as Lin’s spiked armour pierced her skin.
‘Get up. Get up you fool!’ Lin yelled at her. ‘Can’t you see I’m trying to help you?’ It became clear that the woman could not. Her eyes were closed; one had a purple bruise. Her clothes were spattered with blood. She had a bloody lip, half of her lustrous hair looked as if it had been ripped out at the root and she had a deep gash in her leg.
Her hand jerked towards the lifeless limb. ‘I can’t feel my leg.’
Lin slapped the civilian’s arm away and shook her by the shoulders. ‘You need to stand. Try!’ Did the woman not grasp the urgency of the situation? And what was she doing out here anyway, without combat gear and without courage? She suspected she was another halfwit who thought they would try their luck at hunting aliens.
‘My leg,’ she screamed. ‘Help me. My leg!’
Lin released her hold on the civilian and told her the truth. ‘Your leg is the least of your worries.’
The woman flopped on her side and made a feeble attempt to crawl away. She cut a pathetic figure, squirming and clawing at the dry rock bed with her bruised fingers and her eyes shut.
Another alien closed in and Lin drew her Ryber weapon again. She hit the protractor key on the alloy steel device, extending it by seven foot. She took a firm grip on the Ryber and raised her right knee to her chest. She ran with mighty force, using her raised leg to drive herself through the air. She vaulted over the alien and rammed her blade into the top of its head before it had seen her.
The creature crashed to the ground, emitting a rattling sound before disintegrating in a cloud of ash. The Ryber contracted in Lin’s hand. She then slapped it to the magnetic strip on her belt.
The civilian had witnessed Lin’s kill. She started to scream again. She squirmed dangerously close to the edge of the rock face on which they were situated. Sighing, Lin resigned herself to mounting a rescue before she tumbled off the ledge or into an alien’s open mouth.
Grunting with effort, she dragged the civilian away from the precarious edge by her feet. She then knocked her out with the handle of her blade. She parted the civilian’s hair on one side in search of the tattoos that were the Peltarcks hallmark. She was not surprised to find no sign of them. She did not bother to check the palm of the woman’s right hand. If she were a Citizen her Mark had failed her as her wounds had not healed.
She heard the whir of a fleet carrier above her and saw it in the distance banking south. The fork-shaped carrier flew low on approach.
Massaging the knots in her shoulders, she watched it land close to the mottled blue corpse of the eighth alien she had killed that day. She thought she heard two more carriers drawing in from the west. They sounded close. She shifted her gaze west where a band of white light dripped over the horizon and a single star sat over the steep ridge tracks of Baya Mountain. Lin could have sworn she saw the mountain quake. Baya Mountain does not quake she told herself. It had been a long day and her eyes were tired. She closed them fo
r a moment and caught her breath. When she opened them, the quaking had stopped and so had the sound of the carriers.
Lintheia Aroda had done a great deal of killing in her eighteen years. Too much, she thought. In her infancy, she had killed alien hatchlings. As she grew older, she moved on to the bigger ones. She had once killed an alien with her bare hands.
She had joined the Citizen Taskforce at thirteen years of age. The Taskforce had many guises and many names. On Narrigh, it was the Shardner’s Special Army, on Kaltharine it was the Military Academy, and on Pyridian it was the Octane Resistance. They all had one thing in common: they were all led by a Citizen, and their chief aim was to resolve war and conflict by any means necessary. Or so one would think. For while Odisiris had peace, it was a well-known, yet unspoken fact that all the other worlds occupied by Citizens were plagued by wars and unrest. Lin did not have the heart to read into it. She was a warrior born and raised. She spent most of her time on the battlefield. And while she had the utmost respect for the superhuman race of Citizens, her loyalties lay with her own race: the Peltarcks.
A laser gun went off, blowing the head off one of the alien’s she had taken out earlier. Given the chance, she would have finished the beast off herself.
‘You’re slacking,’ said a voice over her shoulder.
She waited for the cloud of rock dust to settle around her, and then turned to address her commanding officer, Garis Kyson. His eyes were the colour of algae and his white hair made him look older than his thirty-eight years. ‘I don’t think so sir. It was half dead when I found it.’