King Tides Curse

by C J Timms

‘Join me, and I’ll give you all the answers you’re looking for. I even know where your father is.’ Blush said.

  “He’s alive…’ Gale trembled.

  ‘Join me, what have these people ever offered you? Jailed you, spat on you and cast you adrift. If you stay, they will burn you out or graft you.’ Red said.

  She was right. If he survived, who was going to be the scapegoat for this? At best he’d be expelled and at worst executed. Take every opportunity, and this was this an opportunity wasn’t it?

  ‘Your people starve Gale, and we need a king. It has been so long since the Deep fed, since it consumed a world. Do you think it is malice that drives the fathomless from their home to hunt? We are here because our people are starving!

  We need a king. A terrible, gnawing pit sits in our bellies. We were created with a terrible hunger, and now it is all that drives us. We need a King. To direct us, to open the gates to new hunting grounds. We need a leader to feed his people.’

  ‘You want to condemn one world so another can live?’ Gale said.

  ‘You don’t need to flood a world, just open the cracks, give us a chance to hunt, to live. I want you to save my family, how you do that, I couldn’t give a damn.’ Red said. ‘Is it wrong for a starving man to steal a loaf of bread to feed his family?’

  Blackened scale appeared around her eyes. The brimstone was stripping her raw, taking everything. Taking everything for her family. Red was being consumed, and she would sink them all with her.

  Unless he took her offer.

  It was a way out, a way out of debt and failure. He would save everyone. Was he so proud that he wouldn’t save everyone by taking this burden? Was he going to condemn an entire world to starve? Wouldn’t this be for the greater good?

  Gale could feel the brimstone, it coursed through the water around him. Thick black currents that pulled at him. He could reach out and grab it, pull it away from Red. He knew, in his gut he knew, that he could rip it from her and use it to save Ash.

  It was what he was born to do.

  Another scale cracked onto Red’s brow. He could purify Red’s aura and reason with her, bring the blush out of the red. Discuss a plan to feed her people. He knew in that moment that he could save her and that he would burn out doing it.

  Ash screamed overhead and passed out from the smoke. Frak, he could use it to save Ashley. That was what his father would have done. His father would have made a noble sacrifice.

  His father would have burnt himself out to save the one he loved.

  The imperfect offer

  A rocky tentacle burst through the giant golem’ s chest. The Vrachos slammed another tentacle into the golem’s side. Cracks fissured up the torso, down the arms and legs.

  The golem grinned. It grabbed the tentacle with two hands and broke it off. The Vrachos wailed, its tentacle whipping back and forth, gravel erupting from the break site. The giant golem ripped the tentacle out, and golden light burst out of the cracks, filling them, sealing them over. It was truly built to take a hit.

  The Vrachos’s one eye fixed on the debt golem. All its tentacles whipped forward, wrapping the golem in a net. The Vrachos pulled, dragging the golem towards the sea. The golem’s grin wavered.

  The Vrachos heaved the golem into the water, pulling it down. It might be indestructible, but it sure as frak couldn’t swim. The statue dropped beneath the surface, and golden light faded beneath the stormy sea.

  The Vrachos’s single eye whipped back to Yip. Foul breath simmered around him, hot on the air. Titus stood on one side and Shackleton on the other. The professor’s and students were still immobilised. Spreadsheets with back up plans blurred around him. He scrawled numbers and tracked output equations. His script, brown, murky but with elegant penmanship curled through the air. He tore through every backup plan he’d theorised.

  ‘What's the call, Yip.’ Titus yelled. Shackleton creaked his head.

  Yip scattered the floating papers, blasting them away. A single item remained, a simple brown leather journal. The journal slowed in its orbit around Yip and floated in front of his face. Its pages creaked open, the scent of old beer and sweat wafting out, and the scratchie ‘Dead Man’s Bones,’ levitated in front of him. Five scratchable areas, the head, two arms and two legs.

  He’d sworn to do this for his people. Good intentions, platitudes and niceties, had all destroyed his family home. His people needed action. His people needed saving. He had promised to graduate and find a way to protect them, no matter what. He had sworn never to fall down and need picking up.

  He was a man who kept his vows.

  ‘Coins, Titus.’ Yip said.

  ‘What?’ Titus yelled back.

  ‘Shrapnel, I need shrappers.’ Yip said.

  ‘Oh, but I need this for the washing machine.’

  ‘NOW, TITUS!’ Yip yelled.

  ‘Righto,’ said Titus, and threw a series of coins at Yip. Yip snagged a twenty-cent coin from the air, a commemorative piece from the Charlemagne's coronation. Yip spat to the side in distaste.

  The Vrachos’s jaws opened wide, bellowed, and spittle flew in Yip’s face. The rank breath of a thousand lost ships surrounded them. Yip scratched one of the arms off.

  Reality froze.

  Coarse sand crumbled between Yip’s toes. He wriggled his toes, feeling the familiar comfort of the beach. Sand lined the rim of the island’s glass-like volcanic rock, like salt around a margarita glass. Another island chain emerged in the distance. His people’s old village lay on that island. Only the highest peak was still visible above the waterline.

  Though it was midday, the island lay in shadow. High above the submerged island, the bow of the Arghost hung in the air. Just the bow, the ship cut off midway with the inner deck exposed. The vessel had become a ghostly outline in places, not quite fixed in alignment. No one ever took the time to do things properly for Volkstorm. The Arghost cast a shadow over his island and his people.

  Even their omen had been built half-arsed.

  ‘We aren’t really here, are we?’ Yip said.

  The god of chance sat at a rickety old table, propped up at one leg with a beer coaster. The legs were grounded in the beach’s sand. The god was a broken man, eye patch, ear lobe nicked off, arms clad in casts, plaster on one side, steampunk mechanical works on the other. The god kicked his legs up and leaned back in the chair.

  ‘Well kid you sure present one hell of an opportunity. I’m the god of the desperate, but this…’

  ‘I am willing to bargain.’ Yip said.

  ‘Twenty years ago, that island was your home,’ he nodded at the submerged island. ‘Charlemagne painted it as a great victory. The mighty fracturesmiths sealed the break. Sacrificing the Arghost to stop a flood from the Deep. Didn’t seal it in time for Volkstorm though and that boy was just a fraction of a Worldflood.’

  ‘I will need your name If I’m to write a contract.’ Yip said. ‘What would you like written down, God of chance, of the desperate?’

  The broken man grinned. ‘The desperate are certainly part of my flock, but I go by many names. Random chance birthed me, but I became so much more. The people of your village call me the Flux. The Sky Mechanics call me the ‘spanner in the works’. Me though, I’m a sucker for the classics. The name I like is…the Imperfecta.’

  Yip grimaced, he’d suspected. If you were going to do a deal with the devil, might as well cut straight to the top.

  ‘You broke the bones of the world, why would I ever trust you?’ Yip asked.

  The Imperfecta chuckled. ‘Desperate times, kid. Do you know what happens to a building with no designed weak point? Under stress, the whole thing shatters. Would you call a release valve, evil? Better one bone breaks than the whole body. I am a noble sacrifice for the greater good.’ The Imperfecta turned and stared out to the old island chain. The setting blurred and they now stood above water, as though time had shifted. As though it had rewound to a day Yip would never forget.

  Yip breathed in warm i
sland breeze and the blissful peace of a calm beach. No shadow overhead, no tear in reality. Then it came.

  Overhead the sky fractured, the Airship Arghost broke through a ragged rift in reality. A tidal wave rolled over the island, sweeping up its people like flotsam.

  They flashed to a glassblowers hut with the walls shattered on three sides. Inside, the body of an older man lay unmoving, his blood mixed with the shattered glass of his life’s work. A young child, only five, stumbled through the glass. Their hands and feet were torn open by the shards of glass as they tried desperately to piece things back together.

  ‘It’ll be alright,’ muttered the young child. ‘Everything will be alright if it's put back together.’

  Overhead the Arghost ground to a shuddering halt. The waters slowed their surge over the island.

  ‘Charlemagne covered it up. Sent the Dredgers to do a job that he knew they would fail.’ Imperfecta said.

  ‘Who did it.’ Yip asked. ‘Give me a name.’

  ‘’But you already know Yip. You’re a clever cookie. Gale kept asking you to help him find his father. The father that disappeared at the same time that the Arghost flooded your island.’

  ‘No, you’re twisting it.’ Yip said, staring down at his scarred hands.

  ‘How it must burn to know his father killed yours.’

  Yip’s hand trembled, gripped his pen tight.

  The Imperfecta swung his hands in a circle. ‘All of this was just a glimpse of the true Worldflood, but your people can be spared.’ The Imperfecta placed a hand on Yips shoulder. ‘The Volkstorm islands, your people, your family, they can be spared Corrosyv’s wrath. Join me, and the Deep will flood Earth, but it will never come for Volkstorm.’

  ‘You’re asking me to destroy a world.’ Yip said.

  ‘I’m asking you to save your people.’

  The Imperfecta reached out a hand in offer. Yip stared out across the islands. He did not move to take the Imperfecta’s hand. He did not move away, either.

  ‘Strike the deal Yip, to everyone else your people are garbage left from a tidal wave. They call you trash, refuse, flotsam. You came to the College to find a way to rebuild your people. You swore to do anything in your power to protect them. You swore to take every opportunity.

  This is your opportunity, take it.’

  Sterling woke in a giant’s smithy, a forge the size of a volcano burned with a clean flame. No smoke filled the forge, it gleamed, not a speck of soot, no dust nor trash. He was lying on an anvil the size of a skyscraper. The anvil split into nine sections of nine different metals. In the distance, he could make out figures staring up from the anvil, one for each of the nine metal sections. Some lay sleeping, some turned away and one, just one, stared back at him. He rubbed his hand across the metal beneath him.

  Silver.

  Calumny stood atop his chest, leaning on her sword. She collapsed, tumbled downwards and fell into his hands.

  ‘Thank you.’ Sterling’s hand grazed the cut on his neck, then cradled Calumny. He pushed himself to sitting.

  A statue the size of a mountain moved. A blacksmith, his face the size of the lighthouse knelt and tossed water over him. The wave washed off and hissed off Sterling’s skin. His skin gave off heat like a furnace, warping the air around him.

  ‘Where am I? Send me back’ Sterling called out.

  ‘Patience boy. Another created this gap in time, and I cannot stay long. Always impatient, frakking wytchunters.’ The statue rumbled, its words shaking his bones.

  ‘Who are you, what…am I?’ Sterling asked, bringing his silver blade in front of him.

  The blacksmith rubbed his jaw. ‘Do you know how you make high-quality silver, Sterling? You take the raw metal, and you heat it to incredible temperatures, under harsh conditions, until the dross sloughs off. Then, and only then, are you left with perfection.

  Do you truly know what the term Noble means Sterling? It is your heritage, after all.

  Nobles rose to power in Ionhome because only they could make sure gold was a true currency. They ensured its sanctity and validity in a world where magic could pull things from thin air. Gold is one of the nine noble metals, along with silver. Nine noble metals that do not corrode, or corrupt or develop imperfection. Nine noble metals that formed the basis of the knights that I left to protect humanity because noble does not rust!’

  The blacksmith turned away, running hands through his hair. ‘And yet they failed. People forgot what it is to be noble.’ He turned back to Sterling. ‘So I will tell you what I can to help you recover the orders, to call a new generation of paladins. The first of the knightly orders where those of palladium, so we called you paladins. You however are a wytchhunter. You are a knight of noble silver.’

  ‘What does that even mean?’ asked Sterling.

  ‘When the monsters came to humanity’s doors, when you cowered by the fire, when you huddled in your caves wiping your arses with leaves, I taught you to fight back. I taught your ancestors how to use silver to fight the monsters. I gave you what you needed to become the top of the food chain.

  Then when you got there, you lost faith. The orders of Noble Metal turned their backs.

  ‘I had thought my family was of Gold.’ Sterling said.

  The blacksmith chuckled.

  ‘Ah yes everyone always wants to be of gold, well except for Rid, he hated it. Here’s the thing about gold, it starts at the top. Who can rise when they are already at the peak? Yes, silver is second, but ascension only has meaning if there is a climb to be made. The wytchhunters believed in improvement, in bettering themselves, in ascending by hunting out the weakness in themselves. By hunting out the weakness in humanity. They sought perfection, knowing they would never attain it.’

  ‘Now go out there, and test your mettle.’

  Titus faced the man with the broken nose, crisscrossing scars and casted limbs. Both of them wore brightly coloured spandex, and they were inside a wrestling ring.

  ‘You know these shows run to a perfect script. Every mistake predicted, every twist a rote development.’ The battered man said. They shifted again, and they were in a coliseum in ancient Rome. Titus was one of a series of gladiators surrounded by chariots. Next to Titus, the scarred man breathed it in.

  ‘Here, though, true men fought in combat against the odds. Here even a lowly slave, if he was a true man, with a twist of fate, overcome the written script and rise to become a champion. His sword stained with blood of his betters he could break the predestined outcome to the applause of all! Listen to them scream Titus, listen to the people baying for someone to take the world's plans and burn them, to take the prophesied destiny and piledrive it into the ground.’

  Then the scene shifted, and they stood over a young Titus reading a book ‘The knight and the sorcerer’.

  ‘You were taught that to need magic was unmanly, and so you can’t use your full power. I can give you full access to your powers. I can let you reshape the world.’ The battered man held out a warm tinnie of beer. ‘Crack the tinnie, Titus, just imagine what a man with your power could do!’

  Titus looked at the tinnie in the battered mans hands. Instead, Titus pulled his own tinnie from his flannie. ‘I do not strike deals with gods. A man stands on his own strength.’

  ‘Indeed’ said the battered man, with a raised eyebrow ‘And I suppose you have a solution for the monster in the harbour?’

  ‘I imagine I’ll give it the usual.’

  Titus drained his tinnie and crumpled it against his forehead.

  ‘I’ll punch it in the face.’

  Gale was alone. The hard rock beneath him was a monolith reaching out of the ocean, riven with cracks. Water pushed its way through those cracks, widening them, bit by bit.

  The world shifted.

  In a large tank, a species of fish consumed the others slowly destroying the artificial ecosystem.

  The world shifted.

  He stood in a waterpark in a long line of people waiting for the ride ‘t
he Abyss’.

  The broken man stood next to him. His plaster casts wrapped in protective garbage bags, his metal ones in waterproof coatings. He would once have been handsome, in a way, but rough around the edges, a broken nose, a chipped tooth, scars lining his arms. A floating duck ring nestled around his waist.

  ‘Hello, Gale. It seems you’ve gotten yourself in rather…deep’. The battered man’s lip twitched upwards at the sides.

  ‘Send me back.’ Gale said.

  ‘Your short friend called on me, letting me pause time for a moment. Right now, I can stretch time out. It's a long time to wait’ The man gestured to the line that wound ahead of them. ‘So many people, and nothing to do but talk.’

  The people around them were silent. Staring ahead like drones, they shuffled forwards. They were ignoring everything around them.

  ‘Beautifully flawed system, the waterpark. Built way under capacity, every day they see thousands more people enter the park then it is designed to facilitate yet somehow it works. Despite its flawed structure, people come back happy. ‘

  ‘Send…me…back…now!’ Gale said.

  ‘But you are key to my plan. You have not only embraced your impurities, you have thrived on them. The cursed heir, the deepborn. Why not embrace who you are and become the King Tide. The throne of the Deep needs a master.’ The scarred man asked.

  ‘Go frak yourself.’ Gale said.

  ‘Now don’t be so hasty’ the scarred man said squirting sunblock onto his arms. ‘It's easy to get burnt out here.’

  The scarred man clicked his fingers, and Gale felt his script scalding hot on his skin and screamed.

  ‘Just taste of how injured you are in real life. You are pushing the limits, Gale. If you burnout, even I can’t pull you back.’ Fingers snapped again.

  The pain faded, a cool wave washing over him. ‘What are you?’

  ‘I am a necessary flaw. I am why the margin for error should exist, I….am why there are long lines at the water park.

  Your people however, have named me the Imperfecta.’

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I’m here to make you a job offer. Now let's have a look at your resume,’ The Imperfecta clicked his fingers and Gale’s script appeared. It was cut through with blue streams. A grinning caricature of a seal stamped the upper right in an approximation of Pancakes. The Imperfecta ran his finger down the resume.