Urban Gothic

by Stephen Coghlan

  Gathering all of his strength, Alec leapt back through the crumbling wall, landing before the advancing Scourge with a crash, and cracking the marble floor under his verdant gauntlet. The green mask that he had moved to obscure his face shifted as he tracked his foe. With surprising speed, the king’s armored shin caught Alec in the face, knocking him aside as the impact cracked his glittering helmet.

  The Scourge stayed tight to his foe, his hands already grabbing and twisting Alec into a position that left him entirely at his doppelgänger’s mercy. Without hesitation, The Scourge threw him upwards, smashing Alec into the ceiling. The stunned Creator fell, a kick to the chest throwing him across the length of the room before he hit he ground. Alec’s head spun, and sirens rang in his ears. The emerald armor had cracked from the blows, and bits of it fell to the ground in a glittering rain as he struggled to his feet. He raised his arms to deflect the next attack, but was forced backwards, his boots digging into the solid stone as if it were as malleable as butter.

  Finding himself beside the throne, Alec grabbed the great stone seat and ripped it free. Roaring in rage, he brought it down over his doppelgänger’s shoulder; only to see it rendered to splinters as The Scourge drew and swung his blade in one fluid motion. The steel became a blur that crashed into Alec’s chest plate, cracking his armor further and sending him sprawling onto his back.

  “I was forged out of your hate and fury; from your fire and rage!”

  The sword descended, but Alec rolled away, the blade slicing into the marble floor where he had been. He tried to rise, but a boot caught him in the chest and slammed him against the wall with a loud crunch. Fire burned in Alec’s lungs as more of the broken armor fell away. His vision swam before him, and all he could see was the blur of the ebony-armored Scourge advancing upon him once more.

  “Do not think yourself superior simply because you birthed me.” The Scourge’s sword slammed against Alec’s armor again, sounding like a thunderclap upon impact. “You lack the imagination to even defend yourself, let alone defeat me.”

  A glowing shield blossomed like a flower over Alec’s left arm, blocking the blow meant to break him. Forming a knife-hand with his right, the creator lunged. His glowing fingers peeled back The Scourge’s armor as if it were foil instead of plate, but he failed to wound his doppelgänger’s flesh further as his opponent retreated with blinding speed.

  “What I make, so shall I destroy,” gasped the creator, who pulled himself from the wall and strode forward with renewed confidence.

  Unafraid, The Scourge chuckled and threw a dagger from his belt. Rather than deflect it, Alec moved like lightning to avoid the projectile. He ran up one pillar and leapt to another, and then another, until he was mere meters away from his enemy. Lazily, his doppelganger punched the air with his blade raised, catching the swiftly moving Alec by surprise. So great was the counter attack that Alec’s damaged armor shattered, disintegrating into a shower of emerald as he was slammed back against the column he had just leapt from. He slid to the ground in a heap of bruised and bloodied flesh.

  “My spies were right!” roared the king. “You may be good against the feeble and uninitiated, but you can’t even lay a hand on me.”

  Flailing onto his hands and knees, Alec tried to breathe, but his body failed to respond. An iron hand closed over his throat, lifted him, and slammed him against the broken stone column.

  “No doppelgänger has ever killed their Crafter before. When I take your life, I will be the first of my kind to control the dreamscape.” With every other word, Alec was slammed into the column. “I will be what you made me to be, a conqueror.”

  He wanted to respond, but Alec’s head was spinning from the blows, and he could not even find the will or focus to spit at his foe in defiance. He fought through the fog in his mind long enough to mutter, “All I see is a big talking pile of—”

  The pain as the blade fell upon one shoulder, cleaving it from Alec’s body, was excruciating. Before the limb hit the ground, The Scourge spun and buried his blade into the opposite shoulder. At least the agony awoke Alec from the fog in his head.

  Confident in his victory, The Scourge turned his back on his foe and walked away, arms spread as he cawed, “A shallow mold, at best.”

  Chuckling, the king cast his gaze upon the Seer. “You may have read my mind once, but I doubted you still could once we were apart. I knew you were aligned with the rebels, so if you had died during our little display in his reality, I would have shed no tears.” Once more, The Scourge studied Alec’s waxing face. “It was too easy to lure you in. All you needed was a reason to fight again, a cause. You felt lost, and I gave you a sense of duty. The three goons you killed were all for show. You were serving me all along.”

  Resting his head against the cold stone of the pillar, Alec tried to breathe and gather his strength. He felt the blood pouring from his severed shoulder, warmth flowing down one side of his body as blood pulsed out of him with every beat of his heart. All the while, his doppelgänger strutted about victoriously.

  Desperate to go down fighting, Alec willed away the pain. The Scourge was right, he couldn't lay a hand on him, but he didn't need to. As his doppelgänger once more turned his back to Alec to gloat to the Seer, her guardian pulled the blade from his shoulder and gathered his legs beneath him. He leapt, falling upon The Scourge's back. Wrapping his one arm around his opponent's neck, the Crafter dug his fingers into the open wound that had been his other shoulder. Crimson life fluids poured from his body, leaking into the joints and gaps of his doppelganger’s armor.

  “What are you hoping to accomplish? Are you trying to drown me in your own blood?” The king laughed.

  Grunting, Alec gouged his wound harder as he clung to his foe. Every beat of his heart sent more of his blood through the gaps, every struggle increased its flow. Bracing his legs, Alec straightened his back as if he was trying to choke his doppelgänger by yanking on his neck.

  Still cackling, the king backed up and slammed Alec against the pillar. His resolve tightening even as his grip slackened, Alec hung on.

  “Please,” he whispered to himself. “Just one more minute.”

  “Just as stubborn as ever,” The Scourge sighed, took a step forward, and prepared to ram his Crafter back into the standing stone. He stopped suddenly, realizing that something was wrong.

  Something was very wrong.

  The blood had run in rivulets down the king’s back, seeping in and out of the joints in his armour, and had found a path that intercepted the blood flowing from his own wounds.

  A channel had been built; a conduit of physical contact.

  “NO!” he screamed, finally realizing what Alec had done. “NO!” He thrashed and fought, trying to throw his Crafter clear. His body began to burn, but even though his motions bucked his Crafter about, Alec would not release him.

  “Sylvain, help me!” the king pleaded, and the charred one began to hurry to his side. As he did, Veleda, her eyes black with fury, caught Sylvain’s legs. Enraged, the soldier turned to slap her, but found his arm intercepted by the brute who had helped carry the Font. Pulling back one meaty fist, the warthog-like leviathan hammered its hand into the charred one’s chest, flattening the king’s warrior.

  Their struggle went ignored, the bodyguards’ attention focused on their charge. They didn't know what to do as the metal between Crafter and doppelgänger dissolved, and Alec’s flesh began to merge with The Scourge's back. Exhausted, Alec let his head slump forward, and his face fused to the back of the king’s skull.

  “NO!” The Scourge screamed one more time, taking a last futile step and stretching a hand out to beg for aid.

  “No…” he cried pitifully as their bodies distorted. The two figures warped, twisting as they fused together.

  The flash of light that followed was brilliant, and with it came a release of heat and a clap of thunder.

  * * *

  Someone was there, kneeling in armor that was carved with intricate
designs, yet built for function. The armor pulsed as if alive. Looking up, the man surveyed his surroundings before he stood, brushing the dust from his armor and studying his taloned gauntlets.

  “Sylvain,” when he spoke, his voice was level and calm. “Release the Seer. She may be of use to us yet.”

  The charred one hesitated, the dagger he had plucked from the ground still raised to strike out at the brute and Veleda.

  “Let’s fulfill our end of the bargain. See to it that her family is released immediately.” Dropping the knife, Sylvain bent to retrieve his sword, but found the king’s foot pressing the blade to the floor.

  “Alive.”

  Sylvain seemed about to protest, but the king clenched his fist, and the burned one’s cleaver appeared in his hand, where it aged, rotted, and vanished in a plume of ash and dust. Understanding the threat, the soldier hurried to comply.

  Pointing to two of his four guards, the king continued, “Go to New York and stop the assault on the glen.” He turned his attention to the others, “You two, head to the library. There is no point in wasting resources anymore. No-one will refuse my new terms. After all, who can stop a Crafter?” the king chuckled. “And bring Commander Frederick here. I have a proposal for him.”

  The men did not hesitate to follow his command.

  Satisfied, the king marched to his balcony, motioning to be followed. “Dream-walker!”

  Hesitantly, Veleda looked around the room. When nobody moved, she realized the king had addressed her. It seemed that everyone had been watching and waiting for her response.

  Waving everyone else away, the king stared over his lands, his hands resting on the balcony railing.

  “You tried to kill me, Seer of Neviah.” He continued to stare away into the distance; his voice calm and level. “But I understand why.”

  Loosening one gauntlet, the king exposed a hand. “I am offering you a full reprieve if you can carry out a very special mission for me. I don't wish to discuss the details aloud.”

  The king’s face was impassive, impossible to read. Placing her palm on his, Veleda focused on his thoughts.

  The darkness she remembered and feared—the brutality and sadism of The Scourge—was still there, but it was being kept at bay by the kindness, hope, and secret optimism she had felt in Alec. That part of him was grander now, fully in control, and holding back the darkness.

  She saw him negotiating to return lands to the people; not the leaders of old who wished to remain in power, but denizens of the dreamscape who would work together to ensure the welfare of all.

  She saw the Sandmen released and returning to duty.

  She saw, too, what he wanted her to do. She saw the care home, she saw the burned and charred body of the man Alec loved, and saw herself guiding him into the dreamscape.

  She broke away, smiling. With a deep bow, she said, “As my king commands.”

  Grinning in kind, Alec LeGuerrier shot her a wink only she could see. “Hurry,” he said softly, “we have a kingdom to rule.”

  FIN

  About the Author

  Hailing from the capital of the Great White North [Canada], Stephen Coghlan spends his days erecting buildings, and his nights reveling in the dreamscape. Since 2017, he has produced a myriad of flash fictions, short stories, novellas and novels, including, but not limited to, the GENMOS Saga, the Nobilis series, and has had his works read on podcasts and featured in anthologies.