Chapter Twenty-Seven: Symphonia
Karayus rose slowly from behind the mountains, casting a warm glow across the valley. Brian winced as the sun glared through the windshield, waking him from his restless slumber. He blinked several times and sat upright in the bucket seat of the lumbering vehicle, the rumbling of the engine vibrating the cab as they rolled along at an unimpressive clip. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes, reaching his arms out as he yawned. He shifted his weight and felt the skin of his lower back unstick itself from the vinyl seat, grimacing at the feeling. He looked down to his sleeping comrade who seemed to have grown worse overnight; Kade’s skin had turned a morbidly pale color and his face had gone from a look of agony to one of defeat. He frowned and rubbed Kade’s shoulder encouragingly.
“Stick in there little buddy.” He said quietly.
Brian looked out his window at the unfamiliar landscape around them.
“Where are we?” He asked, wincing against the glare of the sun.
He wondered how the fat man could drive in the sea of near-blinding light.
“Here.” The fat man said.
Brian looked over to the driver, frowning. “What?”
“We’re here, boys!” The fat man shouted in excitement.
He looked over at Brian with a pair of gold-rimmed aviator sunglasses and smiled, his double chin almost doubling up.
“What? Already? But we…” Brian was cut off by a sound which began to fill the air.
He wasn’t sure what it was at first but then the noise became familiar. It had been a long time since he had heard it, but sure enough it was there, surrounding them:
Music.
It danced about, a lively jig as would entertain a jovial town. Brian leaned over and stuck his head out the window, watching as they entered the town proper. They passed by a large building, a hologram with the word ‘Symphonia Trust’ rolling through the air above the main entrance like a large ticker tape on a repetitive cycle. The fat man geared down and drove his truck down the center of the small road as they passed small shoppes and homes that appeared to be from the Second Era, indicative from the style of architecture—the squared-off edges and sharp angles. That and the fact that the town appeared to not have fully embraced modern technology; Brian couldn’t see any Glo stations on the street, as would be expected in the larger cities, and wondered if they even ran off such power at all. He watched as people carried about their morning tasks, many of them stopping and shooting them awkward or dirty looks as they putted along in the strange metal machine, a thing which, Brian was sure, they hadn’t likely seen in their lifetime. The fat man seemed indifferent to the town’s energy.
“Welcome to Symphonia, boys.” The fat man grinned. “It’s been many a night and day since I’ve been in these parts.”
The fat man drove into the square, searching for a suitable place to pull over. Several men had began to follow them, shouting and signing aggressive gestures. The fat man adjusted his rear view mirror, a large crack running across the surface of the glass.
“What’s eatin’ those poor buggers? Think they wanna ride too?” He looked over at Brian and laughed.
Brian watched as the people in the square lounged about, inspecting the various kiosks and stands set up in the market. It wasn’t the kind of bustle one saw in the larger cities, to be sure, but there still seemed to be quite a lot going on; oxcarts hauling goods across the square, people zipping by on hoverskates, leaving the distinct blue trail of Glo behind them. That answered his question about whether or not Symphonia had the power available. Brian reflected: Symphonia seemed like one of those Type Two cities he had heard about—not as fully evolved as places such as the Capitol, where they embraced all the newest technology and trends, but something of a cross-breed between that and an older settlement. Brian found himself admiring all the old stone architecture and wooden structures that had been steadfastly preserved. In his sightseeing he tried to source out a hospital but could find nothing that appeared to be any kind of medical facility. They passed by a large bronze plaque that said ‘Welcome to Symphonia—Songs by the Sea’, then below it in smaller letters: ‘Pop. 345,647.’
“They’ve got more people than Rebelem, so they’ve gotta have a hospital.” Brian said, more to himself than anyone.
The fat man wheeled into the entrance of an alley way and stopped. He turned the engine off and glanced into the rear view mirror again, eyeing the people who had gathered at the alley entrance, watching them warily before they turned and went back to their business. The fat man sneered in the mirror and looked over at the boys, his vision trailing down to Kade whose breathing was barely audible.
“He don’t look too good, that little fella.”
Brian shook his head. “No, not at all. We need to get him to a hospital ASAP. Do you know where one is?”
The fat man made a face. “Nah, don’t care much for them places. Creep me out. You’ll have to ask around.”
He got out of the truck and stretched his arms as he yawned noisily. Brian scooped up Kade in his arms and carefully helped him out of the truck. He didn’t seem to be responsive to Brian’s touch which concerned him.
The fat man rubbed his eyes. “Well, my deary, I’m one tired son of a gun. I reckon I should be heading off now to try out my new toy.”
Brian clenched his jaw, doing his best to hold his tongue at the overt jab at losing his prized motorcycle. The fat man walked over to the tailgate of his truck and leaned one arm against it as his eyes panned across all the people coming and going in the streets.
“I couldn’t do it. Nope. I couldn’t.” the man said.
Brian frowned. “Do what?”
The fat man rubbed the sweat off his forehead and held his stomach as a burp erupted from deep within.
“Work. I get tired just by lookin’ at ’em. Remind me of ants the way they all…scurry about like that, ya know?”
Brian just stared at him blankly. “No, I don’t know. I’ve been working since I was twelve.”
The man watched them for several moments longer then turned back to his truck.
“Well,” he said, looking back at Brian, “I’d best be off now. Hope you find the hospital for that little guy. He definitely could use a little tee-ell-see right ’bouts now. Yeah.”
Scrubby poked his head out of from under the blanket in the bucket of the truck. He looked around wide-eyed and saw that he was no longer in a forest but instead surrounded with towering brick and stone monstrosities. Brian caught the movement out of the corner of his eye as Scrubby attempted to slowly lower himself down the side of the truck. Brian watched as the small gnome pulled himself over the bucket and hung from the lip of the box. His little legs swung back and forth reaching for the ground but he was much too high up to come even close. The fat man caught Brian glancing at the back of his truck.
“What is it?”
“Uhh, it’s…nothing. Thought I saw a rat or something.” He grinned, overtly.
The fat man leered at him, grabbing his shotgun out of the seat of the truck. He did a slow walk-around of his vehicle, Brian’s eyes widening as he came around the far corner where Scrubby was hanging, desperately trying to reach the ground. The gnome let go and plopped onto his rear, groaning as he rubbed his bottom. The gnome caught motion to his right and scrambled under the truck just as the fat man came around the side. The man stepped around, pointing the gun at the dirt with one eye aiming down the barrel. He waved the gun side to side, searching, but found only an empty alleyway. He lowered the gun and raised the corner of his lip in disappointment. Brian sighed in relief. The fat man rested the barrel of his gun in the crook of his arm and glanced around suspiciously.
“Well if there was anything it’s long gone by now, I reckon. He musta…”
The fat man stopped as a flash of clothing behind one of the rear tires caught his attention.
“Varmint!” He yelled.
He raised the barrel again and Scrubby yelped, bolting from behind the tire, heading into the alleyway. The gun fired, missing Scrubby by pinches, rippling off the flagstones and spraying up small chips behind him. The report rang through the air and Brian could hear nearby townspeople gasping and shouting in fear. Those in the streets who hadn’t ran away in panic glanced over at the three of them, looks of confusion and terror on their faces. The music halted for a moment but then began once it was clear that the threat wasn’t escalating. Brian ran up to the fat man with Kade in his arms.
“What the hell are you doing? You can’t discharge a firearm in the middle of a city! You’re gonna get us arrested!” he hissed.
The fat man cocked the gun and rested the barrel against his shoulder, looking over at Brian.
“It ain’t the middle of town. We’re in the outskirts, which you woulda noticed if ye’d been paying attention. Oh wait. Ya weren’t. That ‘splains how that them there rodent snucked in under Bessie’s skirts.”
Brian flushed red. “Paying attention?” He grit his teeth. “I don’t know if you’ve been paying attention to this little thing called the law. It’s been around for, what…only about five thousand years. You can’t just…”
“There ya are ya little bugger!” The man interjected, pointing his gun back into the alley and letting off another round right beside Brian.
Brian stumbled away, wincing at the ringing in his ears.
“Will you stop that?! Jandros Crusp, man!” he cursed.
In the alley there was a small figure slumped in the shadows, bleeding out over the flagstones. A small lantern hanging over a doorway swung back and forth from a stray buckshot which had ricocheted.
“Got ‘im!” The fat man exclaimed, a lifeless shape in the middle of the alleyway.
Brian’s heart sunk at the sight. He put Kade down against the alley wall and elbowed his way past the fat man who cursed as he passed. Brian came up to the bleeding pile and stopped, his nerves cooling some as he realized it wasn’t the gnome.
“Aww, it’s just one of them nasty ole dirt devils.” The fat man said from behind Brian.
‘Dirt devil’ was a colloquial term for the balong, a close cousin of the badger, with a tail more similar to a raccoon. They were considered pests in the urban centers in which they had come to frequent, despite the pivotal role they played in cleaning up the trash left around by the very people who condemned them. Even though Brian was sad to see the animal laid to waste before him (for they had truly beautiful coats, even if their reputations had earned them distaste in the public’s eye), he was glad that the gnome had made it out alive. A small crowd of villagers hesitantly peeked their heads into the alley, gaping at them. The fat man edged past Brian, scooping the roadkill up by the tail.
“Well, guess we know what’s for dinner tonight. Sheila will sure be over the moon at this one.”
Brian shook his head. “Unbelievable.”
The man looked insulted. “What? Waste not. Ain’t that what they say?”
“You should know that the authorities are on their way!” One man in the front of the crowd shouted at them.
The fat man turned and faced the crowd. “Izzat so?” He said.
A flash of panic crossed the man’s face before he gathered his resolve and puffed out his chest. “It is. And you can be sure that when they arrive…”
The fat man raised his gun and cocked it, the crowd dispersing like fleeing dreckroaches as they ran out of sight. The man snickered and lowered his weapon.
“Well, they won’t be back any time soon.”
Brian shook his head. “You really have a way with words, you know.”
The man walked back to his truck and got in. He leaned out of the window and looked down the alleyway, searching for any other nosy onlookers. He motioned to Brian and the boy rolled his eyes, approaching the truck cautiously. The fat man rubbed the back of his head, looking suddenly repentant.
“Now listen, I…”
“Lower your firearm citizen.” A voice interjected.
They both turned to watch a patrol bot make its way toward them, hovering on its rounded base as the Glo cast a blue shadow onto the flagstones beneath it. It stopped several blades away, barring the exit. Brian recognized the thing; they had similar models back in his home town, though bots as old as this one were either decommissioned or repurposed for menial public applications—keeping records, counting pills, that sort of thing. He was surprised to see that Symphonia entrusted the thing with a job as important as law enforcement.
“Unit 45RX901H responding to potential threat in quadrant 014, 362.5 by 90.7. Citizen, there has been an emergency response to immediate distress, believed to be instigated by the discharging of a ballistic weapon. Respond.”
The fat man looked taken aback. He looked at Brian as if seeking help but Brian just held up hands, signaling he had nothing to do with it.
“Well, I’m not so sure your information is accurate. I…”
The robot held up a metallic arm in front of it, making the two of them jump backward. A holographic projection played out, showing a visual feed taken from someone looking into an alleyway, watching a man shoot off a shotgun into open space. It was clearly the fat man.
“Recognition software indicates a 99.6% match of unsub with current suspect. Do you deny your existence, citizen? Respond.”
The fat man wrinkled his brow. “Deny…deny my existence?” The fat man laughed, looking over at Brian. “I think this here trashcan’s got a few loose wires, if you know what I mean.”
“Negative, this unit is regularly serviced and is in compliance with regulatory standards and active protocol. Do not skirt the question, citizen—do you deny your existence? Respond.”
Brian wasn’t sure if it was just his imagination or not but he thought that he could hear the patrol bot getting frustrated. If it were one of those things that lived way out in the desert, that would make sense, but he had never heard of a mech getting pissed off before. It seemed the fat man had a special talent for pushing buttons across all walks of life.
The fat man was no less nonplussed. “I…what are…of course I exist! What do you…”
“Then if the matter is non-solipsistic, the data is incontrovertible—this is you as portrayed in article VF94572. Respond.”
The man’s jaw hung open, waggling as if to find a word that it could grasp on to that his brain refused to feed it. Clearly not taking a gaping mouth as a sufficient answer, the patrol bot raised both its arms and a pulse rifle formed out of folding plates emerging out of slots in the bot’s forearms. A large, solid weapon was now leveled at them, the muzzle glowing bright blue as the fusion core within elucidated its fully charged—and very able—contents.
“Current statistical behavioral models indicate that your reaction is an admission of guilt. Respond or be contained.” The bot said.
“It was a bad primer!” The fat man yelled and dropped his gun on the stones, raising his hands.
The bot glanced down to the weapon, its digital eyes leering at the thing, likely running probabilistic algorithms to assess the validity of the fat man’s claim. The bot looked back up to him with its two pinpoint eyes, glowing blue lights that served as its visual sensors.
“That’s right, bad primers. Right, uh, nephew?” The fat man looked pleadingly at Brian.
Brian considered remaining mum, considering the implication of having one less redneck off the streets. But whether it was poorer judgement or a saint’s penchant, Brian rolled his eyes and took the plunge. “Yeah, sure.”
The patrol bot looked back and forth between the two of them, the metal joints in its neck squeaking from the twisting motion.
“Strange, initial genetic scans do not indicate probabilistic relations. However, this is irrelevant to this unit’s current investigation. Your weapon will be confiscated for further testing and biometric data will be collected for profiling applications.”
The weapon in the bot’s hands folded back up on itself and disappeared back into its forearms. It retrieved the shotgun from the ground and placed it on its back where it stuck magnetically. It floated up to the two of them and raised its hand, a small shutter opening and revealing a crystal lens.
“Do not move during scanning procedure.” It said.
A small laser flitted back and forth across the fat man’s face and then Brian’s. A holographic image of Brian’s head and shoulders appeared above the arm of the bot and beside it was a large hovering question mark. The bot looked at the fat man.
“We do not have a record of you, citizen.” It said to the fat man. “The Bureau of Interrelations and Resolutions requires your immediate registration. This unit is equipped to perform the necessary procedures for compliance with Bureau code. Do you wish to comply with further processing? Respond.”
The fat man frowned. “Uh…yes?”
“Commencing registration of unsub number 3-0025987b. First question: what is your name, citizen?”
The fat man swallowed. “Um…Earl.”
“Thank you Mr. Um Earl. Second question: what is the current location of your permanent residence? If you do not know your global positioning coordinates, address, city and region will suffice.”
Earl looked at Brian with a ‘what the hell’ kind of expression. “Well, I live uh…in the trees.” He said.
The bot just stared at him. “This unit is unfamiliar with…In the Trees. Is this a local region?”
“Yeah, it’s just about a handful of boobs out west from here. Probably two hours as the crow flies.” Earl said.
The bot just stared at him again as it computed the disinformation which, apparently, it hadn’t realized was such.
“A…Handful of Boobs? … As the Crow Flies? Confirming that these are your region’s parameters.”
“You got ‘er.” Earl agreed.
“Thank you for your compliance. Confirming input: Mr. Um Earl of In The Trees, located in a Handful of Boobs, As the Crow Flies. Respond.”
Earl smiled and crossed his arms. “That sounds ‘bout right.”
A small light blinked beside the bot’s head and it nodded at them. “An agent from the Bureau will be in touch with you once processing has been completed. Further adjudicating may be required, upon which you will be summoned from A Handful of Boobs, As the Crow Flies, to cooperate with litigious proceedings. Respond.”
“See ya then, I guess.” Earl said.
“Citizens.” The bot said, doing something of an awkward bow, as much as it could on its hovering base, and it floated away out of the alley, disappearing down the street.
The fat man leaned back and saluted the bot with a stern countenance, mocking its authority.
“How long before ya think before it realizes I fed it a bunch of hoo-ha?” Earl asked.
Brian grunted. “Better be careful—its head might explode when it tries to compute all that nonsense, then you’ll have a murder charge on your hands. And an officer nonetheless.”
Earl snorted. “Bah, those things ain’t livin’ so they can’t be murdered. If it wants to go and fry its circuits then it can be my guest. World wouldn’t miss one more bot, that’s for sure.”
Brian raised an eyebrow. “In some places of that world, that might just pass as racism you know.”
Earl shrugged. “They can think whatever they think: the creator put cren on this planet to inherit it in his image. Thou shalt not be unto others what thy brother’s neighbour’s wife and all that. Well…you get the picture. Cren is the only one, far’s as I’m concerned.”
“Obviously you’ve never heard of a little thing called the Great Retaking of 2135.” Brian mumbled under his breath.
Earl placed a finger on his double-chin in thought. “Oh, is that the one where the mayor walks in on his daughter with that farm boy, and she forgets that she left her panties in the sink at that uh, Governor’s house? What was his name…Lovett…no. Lovall?”
Brian reared back, incredulous. “What? No! It’s not a reality show you oaf—it’s history!”
“Oh, well that ‘splains it: I don’t get the history channel.”
Brian hung his head and sighed. “I mean, it’s actual history. You know—like something that happened in the past. The Great Retaking of 2135 was only the fall of Cren, man. We tore each other apart until half of Rynn was irradiated and unlivable. The others—you know, the ones who were actually smart—they, well…they’re on top now. If you look at the numbers, in no way are we even close to the dominant race. The elves–there’s more subspecies than I can count these days–they have us beat easily, three to one, and no one knows how many Poio there really are…”
The fat man stood up straight, indignant. “Don’t matter; Creator knows who’s his rightful children. The meek shall inherit the kingdom—that’s a fact.”
Brian rolled his eyes. “Yeah, ‘cause humans are totally meek. They pretty much proved that with every war they started. And lost.” He said sarcastically.
“Besides,” the fat man interjected, clearly annoyed at having his scruples questioned, “everyone knows that none of that hootenanny happened anyhows. All these…critters running around on two legs, pretending to be like us—they’re all just a test: a test so we have’ta earn our rightful place at the Creator’s side. The throne’s awaitin’!”
Earl held a fist to his chest, puffing it out proudly as he looked triumphantly into the sky.
“And they let you vote…” Brian cursed under his breath.
Earl leaned out the window toward him. “But I digress—you’re a bright, bushy-eyed lad, I’m sure you know all that already. I must be off before my trusty steed runs outta steam. So if anyone asks, you don’t know my name, okay?”
Brian raised an eyebrow. “But I don’t know your name. As far I know, you’re Earl from a handful of…well, you know the rest.”
Earl leaned to one side, closing one eye as a most wretched, ignominious fart emerged, rippling against the sticky vinyl seat. Once the last note sounded, he leaned back into position.
“That’s the attitude.”
He saluted Brian and started the engine. He backed his truck out of the alleyway, cracking a headlight and stripping a large flash of paint off of the wheel well against the brick building. Brian grit his teeth against the unbearable cacophony of metal scraping, covering his ears until the truck was backed out into the street. The truck rattled as it was put into drive and it plodded thanklessly out of town. Brian walked into the street, watching as the rusty machine lumbered past the merchants’ stands, exhaust fuming up from behind it. People jumped out of the way as the reckless driver plowed straight down the middle of the road, assuming his path. For whatever reason, the truck began to track toward the side of the street and the side-view mirror struck the edge of one jewelry stand, knocking it off-kilter and sending trinkets spilling onto the street. The customers at the stand jumped away, yelping in surprise. The proprietor launched out of his stool, furious, yelling and shaking his fist at the truck. As the truck passed, the handle of the mower, poking out from the canvas sheet in the bed of the truck, snagged one of the clothing hooks jutting out of the canopy on the jewelry kiosk. The entire stand lurched and it began to drag behind the truck, wood grinding noisily against stone, pulling it along through the streets like an incorrigible child tugging at their parent’s arm. The customers ran away in a panic as the stand plowed through other stands, knocking over tables and chairs and anything else that was unlucky enough to be in its path. Proprietors and patrons alike screamed profanities as they chased after the truck. The jeweler managed to catch up to his pilfered stand and grabbed onto an edge of the canopy dragging along the ground. There was a loud cracking sound as the the entire roof dislodged from the stand, sending the merchant flying back on his rear along with the remainder of his stand. The truck trundled on completely unawares, dragging a sack of battered flotsam behind it like a drunken Santa Clause. Brian stood watching the whole thing, Kade in arms. He shook his head and couldn’t help but laugh.
“What an idiot.”
He looked down at Kade, the boy’s face a morbid white apparition. He glanced around the streets, his eyes panning over the sprawl of unfamiliar buildings before him. A man zipped by on a hover bike, a blue Glo stream trailing in his wake. Brian’s eyes followed the rider as he zipped down the hill, naturally dodging around pedestrians in the street who seemed unphased by his presence.
“If they have those things then there’s gotta be a hospital around. Somewhere.”
Brian followed the slanting hill into the town, the music growing louder as the ravings of the disgruntled many in the streets faded behind him.
***
Light poured into the dark room as the doors swung open. A sickly smell of acrid air wafted past his face; a pungent stew of cobwebs and nameless, rotting things. He steeled his mind, demanding his stomach stay in place. He forced the stubborn doors the rest of the way open, his shadow cast into the pyramid of light on the old stone floor. He walked into the small room and looked side to side in the darkness. No life had stirred in the room for many years. Countless years. The room reeked of death and told of nothing more. There were many memories in this room—he could almost feel them. The vicarious thrill rushed up his spine and he almost swore his boots lifted from the floor with the force that overtook him then. He breathed out a long breath and reached into the darkness, moving his hand around until a small string of metal beads brushed against it. He grabbed the cord and gave it a gentle tug. A flash erupted in the room and for a split second he could see the entire room. There was a crackle and fizzle and, in a flare of spark, the light went out as fast as it had come on.
Zocks scoffed. “Three thousand years and they still couldn’t solve the light bulb issue, apparently.”
He turned his palm to the ceiling and a small flame ignited from the center, cradled in his hand like a torch. He walked deeper into the room, the shadows of strange objects flickering against the stone wall in ominous patterns. Perhaps it was the low light but he swore for a moment he saw the shadows take the forms of men. He stopped and turned to the dusty stone wall, watching as a horde of soldiers marched along in an army that had long since withered away in time. The shapes became weapons clashing, canons firing; there was death and destruction, the suggestion of flame. Cities crumbling while rain fell in torrents. He closed his eyes and he could almost hear them; commanders yelling to their troops under a barrage of gunfire and bloody screams. His heart began to rush from the thrill. He opened his eyes and the shadows were still, silent shapes, dancing against the ebbing light of the flickering flame.
It’s you, not the room. Don’t fool yourself.
He drew in a deep breath and proceeded onward. Most of the objects were covered with white, dusty blankets—crates and barrels full of things from another time. He pushed a thick cobweb out of the way as he moved around a pile, or rather what was beginning to feel like a maze. He glanced up at a sound above and raised his flame to see a fat rat peering down at him from a beam several blades up. It squeaked at the light and scuttled off into the darkness. He lowered his light back to the room and continued on. He stopped as his foot struck a solid object that had evaded the periphery of his candle. He aimed the light down at his feet and saw a small object resting in the center of the floor, inlaid into the stone. He crouched over and examined the object in better detail. It was a small anvil, no larger than the size of a man’s hand, crafted out of iron. It had been set into the stone as if it were part of the floor, or perhaps someone had left it long enough that it had appeared to settle so. Yet, it seemed placed—particular to some task. He grasped the small object with his free hand and tried to pull but it refused to budge. He tried once more but it remained steadfast. He grunted and continued on, walking further into the room as he examined the near endless heaps of indiscernible objects around him. Finally, he came to a wall, marking a boundary of the room. There was a bookshelf, burned books mostly but some indiscernible objects so tarnished by dust and time that they almost seemed a part of the very shelf they laid on. Seeing nothing untoward on the shelf he moved on, turning a circle within a small alcove formed by the heaped piles. After he walked down a row for a time, he decided to check and see what could be hiding under all of it. He reached over to a nearby pile and drew the cover aside. Dust scattered into the air and insects scattered out of the flame’s light, scurrying into crevices and out of sight. He shone the light over the boxes and saw that they had been written on. He wiped a hand across collected dust and saw Mess Hall written in faded ink across the side. Another said Cigars and, much to his delight, Novaquer—a dry wine found only on the far side of the eastern continent of Voswun. He rubbed the dust off the top of the last box, interested to know what particular vintage he was looking at. He made a face at the number he uncovered, telling of wine that was likely not even good enough for cooking vinegar. Frustrated, he began ripping sheets off of the other piles, searching for anything that could possibly be to what the wizard had referred. He began to muse that, perhaps, it would be less of a waste of time searching for Mokul’s magical object of mass persuasion and just use one of the dusty sheets and make his debut as a ghost, since that’s what he would likely end up as if he didn’t find it anyhow.
First impressions and all.
He could see that the other boxes had also been carefully labeled by someone, perhaps a caretaker. Or maybe it was that idiotic bishop, but either way he didn’t care; none of it would do. The flame went out with a puff and he crossed his arms over his chest, trying to remember what the creature had said.
“…accessing the crypts is not so straightforward. You may need to search to find the entrance to them…”
The man let the words sit in his head for a moment.
“You may need to search…”
Maybe he wasn’t in the right room. But if the creature was who it claimed to be then it would surely know the castle better than any other. But he had searched. Extensively. All he could see were boxes full of random objects and no sign that any soldier had set foot in the room for decades, perhaps millennia. Something must have been lost in communication.
That was it! Lost in communication.
Zocks flicked his wrist and the flame appeared once more, hovering above his palm. He walked back over to the anvil and shifted the dust away with the toe of his boot. He bent over and stared at the metal plate in the floor to which it was bound.
“Search.” He said to himself.
He brushed a hand across the top of the anvil, removing the sheen of dust that had settled there. With his free hand he placed his index finger against his thumb to form an O shape. He held it up between the top of the anvil and himself and peered through the O. Through the hole the image became magnified as if it were a looking glass. He replaced his index finger with his middle finger and the image became larger. He replaced it again with his ring finger and the image magnified further. In tiny letters, writing was scrawled across the top of the anvil. He examined it, mouthing the words to himself.
“It’s Pravish.”
He held his O closer to to the letters and read aloud:
“So kindly hold my heart in stone and turn to me for flesh and bone. Keep your word and gold in hand, and thy service you’ll command.”
He lowered his hand and stared off into the darkness ahead. He had heard the rhyme somewhere. Long ago, in another life. If he had it right, it was an excerpt from a song. A blacksmith’s song. He sat and played the rhyme back and forth in his head several times, trying to reason out any clues from the lyrics.
“Turn to me for flesh and bone.” He stared at the anvil.
“Turn.”
He twisted the anvil clockwise and nothing budged. He tossed the little flame upward and it hovered in the air just above his position. He bent down and grabbed the anvil with both hands, bracing himself against the floor as he turned with all his might. There was a rusty screech and the anvil suddenly snapped to a right angle sending Zocks stumbling backwards a step. He easily regained his balance and looked down at the object.
“Now, search.”
He bent over and grabbed the anvil with two hands once more, grunting as he reefed upwards on it. He groaned as the ground began to move beneath him. The stones around the anvil began to shift and dislodge as a crack split around the stone in the shape of a square. Dirt began to fall into a hole which was revealed below. He bent down and got his shoulder under the weight of the door which felt as heavy as it looked. He shouted as he threw his weight against the lid, pushing it the rest of the way over on its hinges. It slammed down against the ground in an explosion of dust, the loud crash echoing out of the room and down the corridor into the fortress. He stood panting, staring down into a dark hole. He smiled and wiped the sweat off of his face.
“Not search. Sierzh.” He said.
He stared down into the darkness below.
“Pull.”
***
Shadows danced over the stone wall, enticed by the the flame cradled in Zock’s hand. He descended down the stone spiral stairs, wary of the earthen roof above which nearly grazed his cowl it was so low. The thought of tonnes of crushing dirt coming down on him didn’t make him very excited about where he was. He shivered as a cold breeze began to emanate past him, wafting up from the bowels of whatever place lay below. He drew his cowl nearer to his face to retain body heat. As he descended, he began to see see his breath come in wispy plumes and a gray haze began to materialize around him. He stopped and raised his torch in front of him, leaning forward into the darkness as he peered down the winding stairs. It was just stairs, stairs, stairs as far as he could see, tapering downwards into what seemed like eternity. He sighed and continued on. Ten minutes later he stepped onto even ground. His knee buckled as he expected another step and he stumbled over against a nearby wall. He held up his hand and looked into the room before him. The light was insufficient so he closed his grip around the flame in his palm, his whole forearm bursting into a blaze. He held it up in front of him as his torch-arm illuminated a wide arc around him. The gray haze was thicker in the new area, like low-lying clouds. He walked past a wooden post with a brass lantern hanging on a hook. He grabbed the lantern with the flaming arm and the kerosene went alight, spitting a warm glow throughout the room. The fire on his arm wound around it like a molten snake and there was a small puff of smoke and the flame was gone, leaving behind just the wan glow of the lantern. He walked into the gray haze, shining the lantern around to get a better look at things.
He appeared to be in a wide low-lying hall, made solely of earth and stone. He could make out large alcoves carved into the walls at regular intervals, inset with ornate stonework. His lantern revealed the glint of gold: burial urns, vases, gold and other precious gems surrounding the sarcophagi laying within each chamber. And thousands upon thousands of dormant candles.
Zocks got an idea.
He raised a hand, pulling the flame out of the lantern and into his palm. He dropped the lantern on the cold stones and with his now free hand he pulled the flame in half as if it were paper, each hand now harnessing blazing fire. He crossed his arms in front of him and whipped them down to his side, sending out two lines of arcing flames which shot down each side of the hall. Candles blazed to life down the hall as the fire passed through, the sepulcher coming alive with light, despite itself. The trails of flame disappeared out of sight, fizzling away into darkness as the hall revealed itself to be impressively long. Many dead were buried here. Who had they been? Soldiers? Likely not, Zocks thought, as he plucked up a ruby the size of his fist, examining its scintillating facets in the duskiness of the candlelight. Soldiers did not usually garner such worship in the afterlife. Generals, perhaps. Probably Mokul’s most esteemed. Uninterested in riches, Zocks tossed the massive gemstone aside and continued down the hall.
At the end of the hall the way mushroomed out into a single room, marked by an ornate stone archway. In the center of the room was an alabaster white mausoleum as large as a small house. The facade was marked by rows of blackened braziers atop fluted pedestals, alive with the fire of his spell. Someone very important was buried within; someone very important to Mokul. But Mokul had no close kinship with anyone as far as Zocks knew, nor had he ever taken a lover. So who was the mystery VIP? Zocks burned with curiosity as he proceeded up the steps to the single gated door leading in. He took note that the steps, unlike virtually everything else in the place, were immaculately kept and clean of dust and debris, as if someone swept them daily.
Very strange, indeed.
Zocks tried the gate but it was locked and no key was easily found. He summoned an air flow, wisps of green halos surrounding the objects in his vision, and he channeled the flows into his arm, summoning the strength of the wind. He ripped the cast iron gate off its hinges and threw it aside as if it were made of cloth and not several tullers of treated metal. He placed his hand on the door to check for wards before entering. There were none that he could sense. However, Zocks felt an ominous energy on the other side, like nothing he had ever felt before. The feeling could only be described as similar to the sixth sense one got when they knew they were being watched or about to step into a disastrous situation. Was the wizard setting him up? Was he about to walk into a trap of some sort? That didn’t make any sense; if Mokul had wanted him dead, surely he already had multiple opportunities to do so. No, this was something else, something… Sacred. But the wizard worshipped no one and nothing. Not even the Dark Lord Aeros, the father of Aethermagick itself.
Reluctantly, Zocks opened the door, stone grating on stone until he stood with a penetrating black rectangle before him. He expected dust or perhaps bats to fly out and greet him but the room was silent and still. And it smelled… clean. He tried to focus his flame into the darkness but it seemed that no light could pierce the black sheet before him. He felt sweat gathering at his brow, his pulse quickening.
What foolishness is this? To be blind-sided by this derelict dungeon!
He grit his teeth and pushed forward into the chamber. As he did, a strong gust of air billowed out of nowhere and forced him backward. He stumbled and his spell puffed out like a match. Zocks stood staring into complete darkness, his breathing steady but not unnerved. He swallowed nervously then raised his hand to summon another flame but, before he could do so, a scent wafted out of the mausoleum, catching his nose. It was sweet, floral, but it could be of a chemical nature, the cleaning agent used to polish the place, perhaps. But if it were something else—something flammable—it was better not to take the risk.
It was said that it was impossible to create light; one gifted in the ways could easily manipulate it if a source was readily available but creating light was something else entirely, something outside of flowcrafting. There were rumors of those who could do such a thing in times forgotten but that was all they were—rumours . There were, however, many ways in which one could affect light, either through a chemical manipulation or, really, anything that released a photon as a byproduct. But this was no less creating light than the magician who illusively sawed a body in half. Zocks could have easily changed the state of the air in front of him, altering its elemental mixture and thus causing light to be emitted but this was dangerous, as heat—another common byproduct of such chemical tampering—was something he hoped to avoid. Thus, he turned to that dark void inside of him—that place forbidden by innumerable scholars and condemned by many of history’s greatest masters. And so, in that place that he had created inside—that dark, unyielding silence—he settled into that abyss. He became the darkness. As he did so, a world of possibility opened up to him; he saw the aether—that unmeasurable force that permeated all space and time. It was both the space itself and the space in between, the unfathomable power which, ironically, bound everything together. Zocks held up his hand and created a field around it, pushing out all of the fog and gases surrounding it. His hand sat there, in a vacuum, and he scoured the vacuum with his mind. The thing about physical space was just that: it wanted to be physical. There were constantly bits of matter popping in and out of existence, so that there truly was never nothing. This was a basic tenet of those who learned the dark arts, should they be lucky enough to find the rare individual who knew how to manipulate those kind of flows:
In nothing one finds everything.
More, in nothing one can, effectively, stop those virtual particles from happening by inputting just enough energy to disrupt the vacuum equilibrium. One way to do this was to induce an electrical current—a flow so simple that even the newest novice could perform it. Though it was true that a current needed material, by definition, to flow through, if applied the right way then the current would assume a chain of command over the virtual particles and cause a virtual current. Despite its name, the current was very much real. At least its effects were. No one knew where the current went, if anywhere, only that the disruption of the void particles caused some kind of imbalance, somewhere, which resulted in a backfiring of substantial amounts of light. Zocks, like anyone else who knew how to summon voidlight, didn’t ask the question since it wasn’t theirs to ask. It was, as it turned out, just how the universe worked.
Zocks summoned the voidlight and the hall became illuminated in its soft purple glare. The thing with voidlight was that it was, for whatever reason, not white light. It had a telltale purplish hue and seemed to interact with ambient light in very bizarre ways. This was why it was generally a rule of thumb not to cast the spell lest the caster was in near or utter darkness. That was not a problem where he was. He moved forward, attempting another pass through the doorway. This time, whatever it was that had tried to persuade him away did not attempt it again. If it was a spell, it was a one-and-done. Despite this, he proceeded with caution, stepping carefully and constantly scanning for wards. He was in some kind of antechamber, a simple square room with high vaulted ceilings and a single stone slab in the center of the room, a pedestal for offerings. He moved the voidlight over the slab and found a single glass vase in the center with a freshly set arrangement of flowers. With his free hand he reached out and touched the delicate petal of the large white flower which appeared to have been freshly cut. Next to it were several long stamens arranged just so such that it was a perfect blend of colour, balance and size. Zocks leaned in and smelled them, realizing then that it was the aroma that had caught his attention.
“Corvota lilies and saffron. A strange but beautiful mix. I wonder what it’s significance is…”
He stopped and cocked his head to the side, listening as something caught his attention. He waited for a moment, unsure, and then…yes. Yes! There it was. The sound again. It was coming from somewhere further in the mausoleum. He turned away from the antechamber and proceeded down a long dark hall, unadorned by anything. As the hall stretched on and on, he felt as if he had accidentally crossed over somehow and was walking the Great Halls of Endabarron, the dark lord waiting for him at some indeterminate length and time down the way. As he walked the sound grew nearer and the air warmer and a strong smell began to fill the air, overtaking the pleasant aroma of the flowers behind him. He knew this smell all too well:
Death.
It was the smell of decay. And there was magick up ahead as well. Powerful magick. Not wards but…something else. Like a wall, but inverse somehow, as if it were meant to keep something in, not out. Despite all of the alarms sounding in his head, some part of him–the proud side, perhaps–wouldn’t let him back down. He proceeded forward, passing through the spell. He stopped on the other side, examining his body but nothing seemed misplaced. As he looked himself over, suddenly, he was basked in a red glow. He raised his hand as the light pierced his eyes, shielding himself from its penetrating glare, his goggles doing little to filter it. Peeking out from under his hand as he attempted to make out the source of the light he slowly plodded toward it, his legs suddenly feeling as if they were weighed down by chains. His voidlight sizzled and hissed as it dissipated away in the radiant red wash, incompatible with its wavelengths. The air began to grow heavier with every step he took, his boots feeling like they were filling up with cement. Images began to flash before him, flickering in and out of his vision like sunspots on the retina. He was suddenly overcome with an incredible sense of vertigo and he stumbled backwards as the light overtook him.
***
The red gave way to colour and he found himself staring into a blue, cloudless sky. The weight from before seemed to have been lifted off him and he felt like a feather settling towards the ground. He could smell the aroma of spring flowers in bloom and he could hear birds chirping in the distance. He could not make out where he was but something felt off about it, despite his temporary euphoria at finding himself floating in space. He heard a sound and he glanced down to his boots. Below him there stood a man in black, holding his arm out, fingers splayed with a plume of smoke drifting from the center of his palm. Zocks could smell burnt flesh–his flesh. He looked down to see a beet-sized hole in his chest, smoldering around the edges, where his heart should have been. He looked to the man standing under him and his pulse stopped. It was the the wizard, Mokul. But this was no corpse; it was Mokul as he had remembered him, as History remembered him. It was the wizard incarnate–the one he was meant to have stopped from ever returning–whole and very much as powerful as ever. It appeared that he drew in the very aether itself in cascading black waves, distorting space and time around him. Surprisingly, Mokul did not wear an expression of mirth or rage, as Zocks would have expected.
No, he looked betrayed.
“I trusted you. You were like a brother to me.” The wizard said. “It appears even masters make mistakes…”
It all happened in slow motion, Zocks falling in free space, watching Mokul disappear behind the grassy peak upon which he stood to be replaced by sheer, craggy cliffside. Zocks then realized that it was he that was falling out of sight. With great effort, he craned his neck to look over his shoulder. Far below he could see the countryside—rivers wending through valleys hewn from great glaciers thousands of years past, forests like fur across an incomprehensibly large organism that was the land. And then came the screaming–his screaming. Flames erupted from every orifice on his body, an explosion of hellfire encasing his being in unimaginable pain. Time caught up to him and he plummeted down toward the ground as the world came up at him hungrily.
***
Zocks fell onto his back against the cold stone floor, screaming as he swatted at his chest to douse the imaginary flames. The echo of peril traveled down the hall and danced off into the distance. Once he had gathered his bearings, realizing that he was back in the crypts, he sat up, breathing heavily as he stared at the wooden door before him. The door that he hadn’t remembered being there before. The cloying red light was gone, replaced by a single red incandescent bulb inset in a wire casing above the door.
What had he just seen? A premonition? Was it a warning of some kind? What did it have to do with what was behind the door?
The whole thing reeked of magick.
Old magick.
He couldn’t say how he knew, just that everything else seemed like speculation. Whatever laid beyond the door was protected by a great force. But he had already come this far and he would not be shaken so easily. He got to his feet, mustered his resolve and kicked the door down, yelling in consternation. No counterspell resisted him and the door slammed down onto its face on the other side, admitting defeat. He stood basking in the eerie glow of the red light, panting as he stared into the pitch black of the room, a black which, somehow, seemed to pull on the darkness around him as if it fed on it. The smell of rot washed over him and he gagged, holding an arm over his nose. The smell was so strong it was if it were a dimension in and of itself, a force of its own. Nose covered, he summoned the voidlight with his free hand and stepped into the room.
As he entered, his jaw dropped at the sight the purple light revealed.
No responses yet