by C J Timms
Gale put a hand on the counter to steady himself. He felt his chest empty, a little lightheaded. The reality of it crashed down on Gale. He’d worked for the last ten years to get into medical school. No parents to pay his way. All to do some good and get paid to do it. He now had the ability to heal with a thought.
The librarian poked his hand off the counter with a pen. Gale stumbled away. He’d seen his university crumbling around the Rust Knight, even if he could get back there was no way he could study medicine. He was a bloody magic healer. He just had no way to get a medical degree. All those years of study, telling himself it was to do some good, skipping parties to treat sprained ankles at St Johns, all those shifts at Bondi Big Burger to meet Centrelink’s requirements, those resume building trips, everything. It all fell to rust in an instant. His career was done before it started.
But that fracturesmith had known his father.
For the first time in eighteen years, he had a lead. A lead on his mothers death, on his fathers disappearance. He’d always said he was an opportunist, so what opportunities did he have here.
He pulled the pager out of his pocket and examined it. It was a simple black box with a dull screen with no messages and a single button.
He couldn’t go back to medical school. So how could he still do some good? How could he still get paid? How did you write a resume for a wizard?
‘Find the university, become a fracturesmith.’
Gale landed face down in the dirt. He pushed himself up off the ground and brushed his knees off.
‘Stay down deepborn.’ Said the first guard.
‘Heh, good one Dave,’ said the other. ‘Come back with the entrance fee for the university at the next exam. Until then, piss off, you stink of salt.’ The other guard low-fived Dave.
Gale spat dirt out of his mouth and slowly walked away from the gates of the Membranous Cathedral. Two months until the next intake of Ionhome University. Two months before he could take the opportunity to train as a fracturesmith. Gale retraced his steps back to where he had first emerged from the reality fracture.
He walked past a group of kids playing near a cloud of blue fog. The group kept pushing the smallest one towards it, and he kept retreating as they chanted.
‘Jack and Jill went up the hill and found a cloud of Penumbra.
Jack fell in, he banged his crown and forgot Jill ever after.’
The biggest kid stepped up to it and puffed out his chest. He looked back at a girl in the group, gave her a wild grin and then dunked his head in. His body trembled, he ripped his head back up and swayed on his feet. His eyes were unfocused, and he staggered. The girl caught him while the others cheered. The big kid was lowered to the ground, and the others stepped forward poking at the cloud of…Penumbra?
‘You kids get outta there,’ yelled a voice over a fence wall and they scattered. Gale shivered, he’d nearly been swallowed by a similar cloud before.
He stared at the place where the reality fracture had been. He punched the air and tried to pull it apart, straining, focusing as hard as he could, then fell over on his arse. He tried to summon the surge of power he’d had when he fought the fathomless and nothing came. He focused on the energy in his core that had healed his hands, and it was dry as a chip. There was nothing there.
It would be really easy to just give up.
No. He needed to find the man who’d known his father. He needed to sit down somewhere and make a plan. He wiped the sweat off his brow; the two suns in the sky were baking the street. Well, it was past noon somewhere, possibly here depending on which sun. Gale trudged off to find a pub.
Gale wandered till he found a pub that looked cheap enough to afford, not such a dive that he’d get robbed. ‘The Jolly Swagman’. He’d found a currency exchanger who’d looked at his Earth notes with disdain. The man had offered Gale what was turning out to be a paltry sum of Ionhome coin in exchange. Gale was just lucky he’d had some cash in his wallet. He’d only had the fifty bucks, a crisp pineapple, because the local cafe back home made a banging good bacon and egg roll but operated on a cash-only basis.
Pub accommodation turned out to be just as cheap as on Earth, but he only had enough coin for the room he’d paid for one night and a small meal. Then he was out.
Gale sat in a spot near the window and tried to assemble his meagre resources. He emptied his pockets onto the table, a couple of coins, one non-working phone without reception, a pack of gum and the tickets from the concert last night. Then he added the pager onto the table. The pager lit up, and a location showed ‘Locomotyr, explosion at Swan Armory, four smiths needed for rescue operation.
Travel between the realms was clearly possible. The library had mentioned a few options including the Infinity Bazaar and the monthly airship. He could, with enough money, afford a trip back to Earth if he wanted. He had options. He didn’t have to stay, but there were no answers back on Earth.
A waitress brought a cup of coffee in a small cup with his meal. Despite a largely crappy day and his rapidly depleting funds, Gale was looking forward to a good meal. He always thought that good food in the belly was a way to turn the day around.
One of the servers brought out a plate with a couple of sausages in buns. They were grilled to perfection with a thick tomato sauce and a side of grilled onions. Real sausage sandwiches. Probably unsalted but Gale didn’t care. The waiter put the meal down without really looking at him and turned his nose up. Gale was too hungry to care. He reached out for his meal.
‘You’re sitting in our seat.’
A tall slim male, about his age, with wavy brown hair, tapped his foot. He had the looks and smugness of a European underwear model. His look was only ruined by flaking dandruff that had fallen onto his shirt. His shirt bore a crimson crest with a sword overlying a winged helmet. His name, Alisdair, was embroidered in the shirt. Noting Gale’s stare, Alisdair brushed it from his shoulders with a sneer. Strange, it looked almost like sand? Behind Alisdair stood two similar late teenagers, eighteen or nineteen years old, cut from similar cloth.
‘Its mine, I’ve ordered food, and I’m going to enjoy it.’ Gale said, his stomach rumbling.
Alisdair looked at his friends, then his hand lashed out and knocked the plate of food to the ground. ‘Now you’re done, so get out of our seat, trenchwalker.’ He wrinkled his nose, ‘You reek of salt.’
Gale did not consider himself a particularly violent man. There was the fight behind the bike shed that he’d got into with Mike Panos in grade eight. That had consisted of a bunch of shoving and loud yelling without much action. No, he was not a particularly violent man. He looked from the sneering Alisdair, down at the mess of food that had been a beautiful sausage sandwich, a small reminder of home. His stomach growled at him with need, his empty wallet weighing on him, his patience worn thin by constant sneers and insults all day. Gale found something he had not felt in a long time…rage.
Gale’s swung a wild haymaker at the smug git’s face. Alisdair caught it in mid-swing with a mildly baffled expression. He stared at Gale’s hand as though considering an exotic animal on safari.
‘You would strike a noble?’ Alisdair said. Alisdair squeezed down on Gale’s hand. Gale swung again, but the skinny bastard caught it with the other hand, like it was nothing. Alisdair looked down on him, squeezing, Gale felt knuckles cracking. Gale couldn’t believe the strength in this skinny prick. He stared at Alisdair, and a second image split from Alisdair, like an after image trailing him. A second Alisdair outlined in faint white light, strongest over his fists. Licks of purple heat danced over his crown and crumbling shale fell from his body.
Alisdair kneed him in the stomach, the after-image disappeared, and Gale was onto the ale coated tavern floor. Gale rolled and then stumbled awkwardly to his feet. Gale tried to duck a punch from Alisdair, but the guy moved impossibly fast. Gale tried a kick to the knee, but it didn’t even phase Alisdair.
‘Know your place trenchwalker,’ Alisdair said and soc
ked him in the ribs.
Gale’s ribs cracked. Then his chest tightened, something began to bubble up inside him, his breathing coming tighter. Before he could seize on it, he had to duck a punch from Alisdair’s mate. Alisdair’s mate stumbled after missing and bumped into a mountain of a man nearby. The man’s drink spilled on the floor.
The giant of a man, looked down at his spilt drink, Alisdairs mate, then around the bar. Then he grinned wide.
‘A good day for a fight,’ he roared. The giant of a man slammed a tinnie of beer into his forehead, crumpling it and threw it at the man at the next table. The giant smashed Alisdair’s friend back into Gale, both of them tumbling in a heap. The bar-room exploded into a mass of brawling combatants. The world became a blur of swinging fists and spilled drinks. The sheer chaos of the melee protecting Gale.
He found himself opposite Alisdair again. Alisdair knocked his legs out from under him and looked down at him, ‘Know your place. Commoner.’
Whistles cut through the room as blue-coated constables kicked in the door. Thank god he thought, they’ll help me out.
The policewoman hurled him into a cell and slammed the door shut. Gale groaned from the floor and struggled to pull himself up to sitting amongst the crowd of occupants. Need to seem strong he thought, put on a show.
Right, Gale thought, whose the biggest guy in here? He looked around, and his eyes fell on the massive mountain of a man who had kicked off the brawl. He had a large black beard and moustache with a tradies stained shirt and shorts. He wore solid steel-capped boots and despite several bruises to his face, he grinned like a madman. Even in the crowded cell, there was a clear space around him.
Right, put on a show.
‘Bloody good fight’ he said and slapped the man on the back. ‘Really loosens up the muscles.’
The other prisoners stepped back from the two of them. The mountain of a man looked down on him, his eyes narrowed at something above Gale’s head, and he sniffed the air. Then he grinned wide.
‘You start fight water-boy, You do good job.’ The man said in a thickly accented tongue. He clapped Gale on the back, knocking the breath out of him. ‘Any man who would punch a noble is good bloke in my book. I am Ironchurch.’ He said and slapped his chest.
‘That boy you punch, Alisdair, is son of Police Chief, big noble family. When Police Chief come, you be thrown away in dark hole, but good fight always worth it, no? It is character building.’
Gale internally face-palmed, his first bar-room brawl and he picks it with the son of the Police Chief.
‘But Ironchurch, he not want to sleep overnight in cell. There is no food here and smells like old mans armpit.’ Ironchurch paused, looking at him out of the corner of his eye. ‘You come with me. I give job?’
Gale looked up at Ironchurch with a blank face, put on a show, he thought. He stared him down and asked. ‘Do you pay overtime?’
Ironchurch roared in laughter and slapped his thigh. ‘Sure why not, you can’t claim it if you’re dead though.’
Gale put one hand in his pocket on his copy of Awaken the Giant Within and with the other shook Ironchurch’s hand. Make a plan and take massive action, he thought.
Ironchurch dropped his hand and moved over to the bars. He cracked his knuckles, swung his arm around a few times then punched the steel bars of the cell. They buckled like cardboard.
‘You come, quiet as mouse.’
Well, he couldn’t really afford to be picky about his employer. Noting none of the other cellmates had moved towards the opening in the bars he followed Ironchurch out. Ironchurch snuck him through a series of back passages, past snoring guards with an ease that seemed practised. Like this was a regular thing for him. Ironchurch battered through a locked door, and they were free on the street.
Ironchurch lead him down towards the water, and the wall bordering the ocean. The waterfront was filled with shacks and shanties. Ironchurch took him from a gate and to just outside of the city walls facing the harbour. A towering metal and wooden structure rose out of the shanty towns clustered outside the walls. They had stopped in front of a huge five-story warehouse that sprawled in all directions. The thing was made of all sorts of metal scraps, corrugated iron, old weathervanes sprang haphazardly from it. A giant bell hung high up the building in the tallest tower. Ironchurch pushed the doors wide open.
‘Welcome to your new job and home.
Welcome to the Iron Church.’
Gale - The Iron Church
The Iron Church was an old school gym that rose in waves of corrugated iron and dismembered ship hulls. The building oozed upwards like playdough squeezed in the fist. The centre of the building, rising highest was an old bell tower. A church had once sat here, a small one that had run down, lost its bulk and power. Its owner had been bulking it up.
There were no CrossFit or spin classes. There were barbells and dumbells aplenty, a small boxing ring and even an obstacle course. It was also frakking hot. Cooling towers took some of the heat away. But you could only do so much with corrugated iron built under two suns.
‘Wait your name is Ironchurch, and this is…’ Gale asked.
‘The Iron Church,’ Ironchurch beamed at him. He swept his hands wide across his domain.
‘Did you name this place after yourself?’
Ironchurch pulled up, showing for the first time a hint of vulnerability. ‘Why, you think not good name?’
‘Ah no boss….great name...really matches the decor.’ Gale said, plastering on a smile and banging the sheet metal. The metal wobbled back and forth. Ironchurch roared a laugh and slapped Gale on the back. ‘Decor! I like you water-boy. We find good job for you, where threat of death only minimal, but first you meet Ironmonger.’
They strode through the gym to a scrapyard outside that encroached on the water. Hulking wrecks of old boats and rusted airships crowded up against one another. This was the first time Gale had seen traditional boats since arriving. They were one masters or Viking longships mostly.
‘They say I mad to live so close to water, to live outside of the wall. This is where you scavenge such good trash, they say I mad, but I say I am entrepreneur.’ He gestured proudly to the junkyard. Amongst the wrecks, a bedraggled looking man with broad shoulders and unkempt beard sipped a cup of coffee. He jerked upright as Ironchurch approached.
‘Ah Church, I’m just taking a smoko,’ the man said.
‘Ironmonger,’ bellowed Ironchurch. ‘I have new recruit for you.’
‘Please just call me Frank’ said the unkempt man with a large wrench and a kind if weathered face. Frank shook his hand and leaned in slightly. ‘Don’t question him on the names.’
Gale gave him a nod and was handed a crowbar. He was pushed towards an old airship wreck.
Gale woke with every muscle sore. He’d collapsed on his pallet in a corrugated tin room last night. His room had been scorching hot in the afternoon but got freezing cold overnight. What could he say, the rent was free.
Ironchurch burst the door down and threw Gale a towel. ‘Come water-boy. Morning is for sparring.’
Gale grabbed a bowl of Weetbix in the main gym. Ironchurch led him to one of the boxing rings, a large one nearly ten metres across. Scrap lay scattered throughout the ring. Ironchurch handed him a pair of gloves and gestured for Gale to get into the ring.
‘You fight with heart, this good, but heart alone gets butt kicked.’ Ironchurch paced around the outside of the ring, arms clasped behind him. ‘I train you in ancient art of butt not getting kicked.’
Ironchurch grabbed a lever half as tall as him and pulled down. Junk machines clattered together in glowing circles around the ring. Scavenged metal parts pulled themselves together to make crude humanoid figures with pillows strapped to their fists, legs and torso. Their faces were marked with comical smiley faces.
Rotating wheels of junk iron and poles with spinning weights attached, moved randomly through the ring. Gale ducked one that came at him at head height while trying to
keep an eye on the three moving junk-men. That could have knocked him out cold.
Ironchuch gave him two thumbs up. ‘Keep it up, its character building!’
Gale ducked and weaved.
‘When you fight rich-boy he much stronger than you, even though look skinny, yes?’ Ironchurch asked.
A metal anvil on a rope swung from the ceiling. Gale threw himself to the side. This man was insane. That anvil could have caved his chest in. He pushed himself up and nodded. There had been a ridiculous mismatch in their speed and strength.
‘Rich boy used magic, his Script, in its simplest form, unaligned magic. Makes fist stronger, make blows quicker, make you fight longer. Now everyone in Ionhome has a tiny bit of Script, just enough to help resist the Penumbra.
A rare few though, maybe one in a thousand, have more. Much more. They can throw stronger punches, move faster, think quicker.’
Gale approached the first junk-man. He remembered the faint white outline around Alisdair, the after image of heat and shale. That must have been his Script, his magic source. Squinting hard he could see a faint outline to the junkmen though it was tinged with grey.
‘You have magic too water-boy, we just need to bring it out.’ Ironchurch said.
Gale took a swing at the pillow coated junk man. The junk man dodged back and let out mechanical laughter. Gale jumped a leg high rotating pole, then kicked at the junkman knocking it back a few more steps into another rotating pole. The junkman was battered to the side, its head spinning wildly. It got back up again, straightening its head.
‘Only a few have the strength to become fracturesmiths. Some are able to pull power from other realms. For power, some will strike deals with other realms gods to borrow their Script. To pair their life’s story with the gods.’
The other two junk-men came at Gale. He dodged, sidestepped, trying to keep them in front of him. He started to feel his chest go tight, the familiar wheeze coming to his breath. He tripped on a low lying junkpile and fell.
Gale pushed himself back up, searching for that rising tide he had felt when fighting the fathomless. He punched out in rapid succession at one of the junk-men who blocked with a pillowed hand.