torg 02 - The Dark Realm (21 page)

He blinked, clearing the sleep from his eyes. Mara was talking to him. She was seated across from him, on the opposite bench. Djil and two dwarves were sitting beside her; Tom and three more were crammed in beside him. Kurst and Tolwyn were up front, driving the horses. The other dwarves were on the roof, keeping watch.

For a moment Bryce found it difficult to gain his voice. Finally he said, "What's up?" and his voice sounded terribly hoarse to his ears.

She didn't say anything. She just stared at him with her big eyes. Mara was a mess, he thought. Her face was puffy from lack of sleep. Her hair was frazzled and matted with sweat. My God, he thought, she is only a girl! Why do we keep forgetting that?

"You know," Bryce said, trying to find the words he knew Mara needed to hear, "I miss my friends terribly. Sometimes I wonder what I'm doing here when I should be back in New York with them." His voice became softer as he spoke, gentle, rolling. He felt a pang of truth in his own words that sent a surge of tears to his eyes. "I miss them..."

"I was just thinking the same thing," Mara mumbled.

"It must be worse for you," he said, keeping his voice low so as not to wake the others. "I'm far from home, but I sometimes find it hard to imagine how much farther you are."

"It's not so bad," she said, too quickly. "I'm really no different from you."

He laughed. "I guess not. We just have to go in very different directions to get home. I'm really glad you're here, Mara." He paused for a moment, treading carefully as always. "The others, even Tom O'Malley, are very alien to me. You're the only one who I feel as if I know."

"You know Tolwyn," she said, and the words were like a blow even though they were said with no malice.

"I first met Tolwyn," he said carefully, "when I was giving Last Rites to a dead woman. Then, somehow, Tolwyn was there, inside that body. I don't think I've ever lost the wonder of that moment. I thought I had performed a miracle. I hadn't at all, but I still sometimes think of her as Wendy Miller, sometimes see her as a dying woman whom I saved, rather than as the otherworldly fighting woman that she really is. It's difficult. At least with you I know who you are."

"I wish I looked more ... like her ... more normal." Mara was blinking quickly. "Instead ... instead of like a machine..."

"You don't look like a machine," Bryce shot back. His words were final, certain. "You look like a young woman. Tell me what it was like, growing up with such intelligence. I was a very mediocre student myself."

"It's useless!" she spat. "Useless! Sometimes it's like a thing in my brain, driving me on to
do
things, when all

I really want is to run and dance. And then the war and all, and all my friends fighting the invaders." She looked up at him, completely lost. "It's not fair! Some of what I am is because of the chipware, and I don't know how much is programmed and how much is me."

"No," he said softly, looking back at her steadily. "It's not fair. You know, it's very hard for me, having met you and Tolwyn and Kurst and the dwarves. You're all from someplace else! Sometimes I wonder if God's love is for people from other worlds as well."

"I doubt it," Mara said miserably.

He ignored her remark. "But then I realize that it must be, that God is on those other worlds, too, loving everyone in every one of those other places, because He is strong enough and loving enough to do so."

"But what does that mean, Father Bryce?" The question came from Djil, who was watching him from the other side of the carriage.

"It means that we're all in this together, and that as long as we remember that and care for each other as we care for ourselves, then we can beat this thing."

Bryce leaned his head back, contemplating his words. They sounded strong, certain. But, he wondered, how much of it did he really believe?

84

There was one moment when Thratchen felt that something had gone wrong: the plunge into the mirror was simply a strange sensation, as of passing through the surface of a silvery pond. It was not uncomfortable, it was not shocking — it did not seem dangerous.

Then the coldness came.

It was not the cold of a cube of ice, or even of a howling winter storm: it was the cold of the depths of space, instantaneous, compacting, freezing all motion into a single instant of time. Thratchen would have screamed, but he was incapable of moving his mouth, of drawing breath, of reacting to the nearness of death in any cogent way.

Then it was over and he was through, falling briefly before hitting the ground. Thratchen howled his rage at the Gaunt Man's action. But at least he had survived the jaunt. He took a moment to survey his surroundings. He was in a building of some kind, a modern office building in Osaka, Japan. A nearby window showed that a storm covered the city, its dark clouds rolling across the sky. He leaned close to the window, trying to see how far up the building reached, but the top disappeared into the dark clouds. Thratchen let his sensors examine the axioms of the area. It was still Core Earth, but the stelae for Kanawa's reality had been prepped and were waiting for the arrival of the bridge.

Thratchen moved through the corridor, opening door after door as he searched for some clue as to why the Gaunt Man had dropped him here. Then he found it, beyond one of the inner doors.

He stood on a stairway, overlooking a vast chamber that filled the center of the building. The chamber's ceiling was a glass skylight, and through the open partition he could see the boiling clouds. The floor was over thirty stories below him, probably extending beneath ground level. It appeared that the final invasion was not going to be a public affair. That made sense, Thratchen thought. Kanawa always liked to manipulate his realm from behind the scenes.

Then light fell from out of the clouds, dropping through the skylight and into the building like an arcing rainbow. The light was a maelstrom bridge in its purest form, not wrapped in the trappings of its High Lord's reality. Thratchen respected that. It told him that Kanawa was very sure of himself; he needed no illusions to remind him of his reality.

He felt the surge of axioms as they washed down the bridge and into the realm. He could feel the tech levels rising, could sense the changes occurring all around him. But Thratchen remained unaffected by it all, standing within a bubble of his own reality.

Thratchen watched for a time as Kanawa's agents descended. There were few warriors. Most were scientists, technicians, and other thinkers. Kanawa ran a different sort of invasion, but Thratchen could see nothing that should cause the Gaunt Man to worry. He turned to go, when a presence filled his senses.

Descending the bridge of light was an Oriental man dressed in a dark suit. Dark glasses hid his eyes from view. He carried a metal briefcase. A scar sliced vertically across his right cheek. Behind him were two heavily- armored guards — the famed samurai of Marketplace. The man could only be Kanawa, for he definitely reeked of a High Lord's power.

Kanawa stopped his descent and looked directly at Thratchen. The samurai leveled their weapons at him, as well. He was deeply disturbed that they had become aware of him so easily.

"What do you want here, son of Tharkold?" Kanawa demanded in a very business-like tone. Even though the distance of nearly half a city block separated them, Thratchen found that he could hear the High Lord easily.

"Son of Tharkold no longer, High Lord," Thratchen replied, shouting so his own words could be heard. "I bring you the greetings of the Gaunt Man, who welcomes

you to Earth. He thanks you for your timely arrival."

"A deal is a deal," Kanawa said. "But I have work to do. If you will excuse me ... ?" The High Lord continued down the bridge, dismissing Thratchen without so much as a second glance.

There was no more to be learned here, Thratchen decided. He left the huge chamber and sought an exit out of the building.

85

Scythak ran. It was a steady run, loping without effort. This was what he loved. This was joy! The ground scrolled away in flashes of green and tan, and even the roughness of the stones beneath his pads was an affirmation of life and of the hunt. He had shifted to his weretiger form once he descended into the Living Land realm, and now he was nearing the storm front that marked the separation between the primitive reality and Core Earth.

He had traveled such areas before, and the maddening fluctuations in reality did not bother him. He shifted back into his man form just before emerging from the storm. He stepped from the wall of cloud and crouched, sniffing the air. He immediately became aware of the man approaching him. The man was a soldier, carrying weapons and instruments of Earth's higher technology. But such items did not frighten the weretiger. There were much worse things in Orrorsh. With a sigh, Scythak rose and walked slowly toward the soldier, senses as alert as possible.

"Another one!" the soldier called. "You're the second guy to step out of there this week!"

Scythak said nothing. He just watched as the soldier walked closer.

"I'm Corporal West," the soldier said. "Are you hurt? There's another transport getting ready to leave for Twentynine Palms and I bet we could get you on that if we hurried."

Twentynine Palms? Scythak wasn't sure what that was, but he felt it was closer to Decker

(kill, kill kill)

and that was where he had to go.

"Yes," Scythak finally said, testing the words and language the Gaunt Man had given him. "I would like to go to Twentynine Palms."

86

Sebastian Quin stepped off the transport in Frankfort, Kentucky. Here was the relocation center where he would gather information before starting his trip into the Zone of Silence. He would spend a few days, perhaps as long as a week, talking to the refugees who had made the trip out of that mysterious area. He would learn everything they could tell them, then he would organize the truth from the memories and make his plans. He grinned like a boy. It actually felt good to have a mission again, especially one that didn't involve overthrowing a small government.

He shouldered his pack, letting the weight of his gear settle on his back. Then he went in search of people willing to tell their stories. With any luck, he might even run into someone who had come all the way from New York City.

As he started to walk away, the pilot called to him.

"Are you really sure this is where you want to get off?" the pilot asked. "You know, most people get on here to go somewhere else."

"I'm not most people," Quin replied, and walked

toward the main building of the relocation center.

87

Vice President Dennis Quartermain stormed into General Clay Powell's office in Houston, Texas.

"I want some answers, Clay," Quartermain demanded.

"Have you tried an encyclopedia?" Powell replied flippantly.

"Cut the crap and listen to me, you military stooge," Quartermain yelled. "I want to know where President Wells is, and I want you to tell me what's going on with that Quin Sebastian guy. Don't try to deny it, I figured out who he was after my brief meeting with him. Why is the President meeting with two-bit mercenaries?"

"Listen, Dennis," Powell said, not in the least bit bothered by Quartermain's forcefulness. "I am not at liberty to discuss these matters with you at this time."

"I'm the Vice President, damn it! You have to keep me informed!"

Before Powell could say anything, his intercom sounded. "Air Force One is enroute to Twentynine Palms, General," said his secretary's voice over the system.

"Thank you, Betty," he said, pressing the button so that she could hear him. "Look, Quartermain ..." he started, but the Vice President cut him off.

"Never mind, Clay," Quartermain smiled. "I'll just come back when you aren't quite so busy."

The Vice President turned and left Powell's office. Thanks to the secretary's screw up, he had some of the information he needed. He had much to discuss with Ellen Conners, and there wasn't much time.

The Possibility Wars
88

Thratchen flew from Kanawa's office building, only to land a short distance outside of Osaka, in a wonderful garden beside a small stream. Something had drawn him here, and he decided to stop and see what that was before returning to Orrorsh. Next to the garden was a courtyard, surrounded by a collection of buildings centered around a great structure set atop a stone foundation. The great structure was made of wood and stone, vaulting to the sky with fluted roofs stacked one atop the other. Ornate carvings and designs decorated it, each vying with another for attention. A flight of broad steps led up to a great door which stood slightly ajar, and from within a smell of smoke and the sound of voices wafted.

Thratchen stretched out with his senses, both natural and technological, and finally realized what had attracted him to this spot. Kanawa's axioms did not penetrate to the grounds around this holy structure. The area had resisted Kanawa's influence completely.

Slowly, mulling different possibilities, he ascended the flight of steps. Forgetting his desire to return to Orrorsh, forgetting any possible danger, forgetting everything except his unquenchable thirst for knowledge, he pushed open the door.

Although it appeared multi-storied from outside, there was only one floor within. There were great pillars everywhere, and a lofty ceiling was suspended high above him. Screens hung between the pillars partitioned the space, and it was obvious that the entire structure was a temple of some kind.

He made his way around the screens, trying to find the center of the temple — and the source of power that protected it from Kanawa's reality. He wondered where the worshippers were as he continued through the temple. He could hear their singing, a low chant that made him somewhat uncomfortable, but he saw no evidence of their presence. He pushed aside a final screen, more out of frustration than any need, and there was the temple's core.

It was a simple shrine, marked by a red archway. Through the archway, atop a low platform, was the statue of a stylized lion carved from a blue and red stone.

Thratchen stepped gingerly toward the statue, gasping at the power emanating from it. It was an eternity shard, literally bursting with the energy he and the raiders craved. He reached to touch the statue, and immediately the chanting stopped.

Eyes were upon him, and Thratchen whirled. Standing there were six men in white robes, their heads shaved bald. They were monks of this temple, Thratchen was certain, all of indeterminable age and smelling of stormer.

"Why have you come to our temple, demon from another world?" the first monk asked.

"You have something I seek," Thratchen said. The six regarded him calmly, unthreatening and unthreatened. "Tell me about this hard point. What is its significance?"

There was silence, save for the crackle of a fire somewhere nearby, behind one of the many screens.

"Do not test me," Thratchen warned the silent monks. "Why is this place special? Answer me! You have no concept of who or what I am!"

"We are quite aware of what you are," a second monk replied. "And we are aware of the terrible change that has come over our land. But our temple resists the change, and so do we." He began to hum a tuneless note, repeating it over and over.

"You are aware — fully aware — of the invasion of your world?" Thratchen said, amazed. "That is very interesting. Tell me, what is it you feel?"

"Wrongness," said another, and then he too began to chant. The sound was almost numbing.

Thratchen shook his head, put one hand to his ear. What were they doing to him? How were they doing it? The third and fourth monk joined in the chant, and their voices were as one that rose and rose and fell and rose in steady rhythm. Thratchen started to sweat. They were invoking their religion to protect themselves from him! What did the holy men of Orrorsh call it? Ward enemy, he believed. How rich! Did any one of these pitiful monks think they could match his power? How absurd!

He might have struck them all down then, in the moment before the last two began to add their voices to the chant, but he was curious. Besides, he was confident that he had nothing to fear from their premature abilities.

The first monk had the aura of protection around himself, while the others seemed to be concentrating on some other kind of effect. Thratchen was intrigued. He moved toward the first monk, easily pushing aside the ward. He chuckled as the flimsy thing started to collapse. But then the ward reestablished itself, forcing Thratchen back and sending numbing pain through his body.

How was that possible? It was as if ...

Thratchen paused, taken aback by his own thoughts. Could it be? Had these stormers learned to share the possibility energy that their bodies stored? He remembered the transference facility on Kadandra and his blood ran cold. What Mara's people had accomplished with technology, these simple monks had done with nothing more than their own wills.

They were preparing another ward, and Thratchen felt his fear rise. These stormers could hurt him! Perhaps even destroy him if they got lucky. No! Not when he was so close to the answers he sought. He backed away, stepping around the eternity shard. He could almost see the energy leap from one monk to another as they concentrated.

"How are you doing that?" Thratchen raged. "How is that possible?"

"The idol showed us how to shift our inner strength among ourselves," the first monk said. "It told us how to cooperate before it stopped singing."

Singing? What was the monk talking about? But then Thratchen understood. The constant murmur, the background noise that filled this planet with sound to those sensitive enough to hear it, had died away. It wasn't completely silent, but it had been seriously stifled since the arrival of Kanawa. That meant the planet no longer had the power to repel the invaders.

It suddenly made sense to Thratchen. He had discovered the secret of Apeiros' children. Through cooperation and creativity, they could accomplish the impossible—including this strange group power. Those stormers with affinity for the Nameless One had no capacity for cooperation, as evidenced by the problems happening all through the Earth invasion. He had to try one more attack so that his built-in computers could record the results. If he survived, he would be able to study the recording later.

He rushed forward, charging through the ward to reach the monks. It began to buckle, collapsing under the strength of his own faith. But then the energy shift occurred again, and the monk focusing his faith into the ward received a burst of power. Thratchen was thrown back, the pain almost causing him to black out. This ability was dangerous!

His experiment completed, Thratchen ran from the temple before the monks could focus their combined powers into some other form of attack. Outside, he let the cool air revive him. Still, it would take time for the pain to subside. He spread his wings, taking to the sky. If the recorder worked, he had the secrets he needed — all he had to do was decipher what he was watching.

But there was something else of importance that this episode had taught him. The Gaunt Man's methods were doomed to failure. He had simulated this group power effect with his machine, but he was missing the key element. The stormers he attached to it were not cooperating. They were being forced. Eventually that would destroy the project, of that Thratchen was certain.

That was the knowledge that Thratchen would wield against his master. That was the secret that would elevate him to the status of High Lord — — and then make him the Torg.

89

Tolwyn sat beside Kurst, admiring his handling of the team of horses. Finally, she thought, they were riding within a normal carriage. It was a vehicle she understood, drawn by horses she could see. It required no magic to work and did not lift them high into the air. It traveled as carriages were meant to — along the ground at a moderate speed. Although, she mused, they would get to their destination faster if they had one of Alder's magic vans.

This was their third day of travel, and they seemed no closer to their goal, even though Kurst assured them they were making progress. She tried to get the hunter to tell her about Uthorion, but he pleaded ignorance and returned his concentration to the horses. At one point during their trek, she saw Kurst stiffen and look from side to side. She asked him what was the matter. All he said was, "the Gaunt Man," but afterward she noticed that he was more alert than before.

As the day wore on, a half-remembered marching tune came to her lips. She struggled with the words for awhile, fighting to recall the entire song. When she finally had it all in her mind, Tolwyn started to sing.

Her voice was clear and strong. Modestly, she thought it might even be considered good. Kurst looked at her strangely at first, but then he went back to watching the road. Braxon and Praktix, the two dwarves currently on guard duty atop the carriage roof, laughed at the sound. Then, before Tolwyn could become too self-conscious, the dwarves joined her in song. They seemed to know the words better than she did, and when the dwarves within the carriage picked up on the second verse, the carriage literally rocked with the sound.

They traveled in this fashion for a few hours, singing Ayslish marching songs, dwarven ballads—Bryce even taught them the words to an Earth song he called "Burning Down the House." Even Kurst lost some of his aloofness as the songs lifted them out of the tiresome doldrums they had been sinking into. All was well, and they felt like nothing could stop them.

Until Tolwyn screamed.

Kurst pulled on the reins, bringing the horses to a halt. "What is it, Tolwyn? Are we under attack?" Kurst asked quickly.

"No, I do not believe so," Tolwyn said in a ragged voice. "Not physically, anyway."

"Then what is it?" he asked impatiently.

"The song is gone," Tolwyn said, hunting for the right words to convey her distress. "It has been there since I awoke in Philadelphia, and when it just cut off ..." She hesitated, seeing that Kurst did not understand. He thought she meant the marching songs, not the deeper song that came from her dreams. She leaned over the side of the carriage and called down. "Christopher Bryce, come out here. And bring the stone."

The priest emerged from the carriage carrying his pack. "Do you feel it too?" he asked. "Or rather, do you sense that something is missing?" he clarified.

"Yes," was all she said, for a terrible fear gripped her.

Bryce removed a wrapped object from his pack. He carefully unfolded the cloth, revealing the blue and red stone shaped like a human heart.

"Ever since I arrived on this world, I have heard the song," Tolwyn explained. "This world was so full of life, so rich in possibilities! That was what the song was. But it was also through that song that the world called for my help. It has been with me through everything that has happened, a constant companion. Until a moment ago when the song stopped."

"No, Tolwyn, it hasn't stopped," Bryce smiled with relief and raised the stone toward her. "You can still hear it if you listen closely. It's gotten much lower, less perceptible, but it's still there."

Kurst nodded, finally understanding what they were talking about. "Another realm must have attached itself," he said. "When enough of them have attached to Earth, then the planet will weaken."

"How many different realities are supposedly involved in this invasion?" Bryce asked.

"There were supposed to be seven," Kurst replied. "But I believe one of the invading realms was beaten back before it could connect."

"I'm sorry that your world has lost its song," Praktix

said to Bryce.

"It hasn't lost it," the priest declared. "It's only resting its voice until the time is right to sing the next chorus. And when that time comes, then all of these High Lords will see just what —"

Praktix's cry cut off Bryce's speech. "Halt!" she called out suddenly, her hand moving quickly to the battle spike at her side.

Tolwyn was up in an instant, her own sword drawn and ready.

"Something's wrong," Praktix chimed.

"Most definitely," added Braxon.

"Explain yourselves," Kurst roared, tired of these guessing games.

"There's a very odd disturbance in the ground ahead," said Praktix as she leaped from the carriage. "I've never felt anything like it."

Praktix started forward at a trot as Tolwyn watched. All seemed clear. If it was an ambush, it was incredibly subtle and incredibly small. Then dread washed over her in cold prickles. The skin on the crown of her head tightened and a subtle shiver ran down her spine. "Praktix!" she cried, leaping from the carriage herself.

Too late.

A black fissure appeared in the path ahead, hissing open with a gout of dust and the smell of rotting meat. A sharp purple shape erupted from the hole, huge and writhing, a wormlike mass of lashing tentacles and chewing jaws.

Praktix was unbalanced by the breaking ground. She flailed wildly, trying to keep her footing. But the monster kept rising out of the earth, shaking the ground as its unending mass swelled forth. With little else to do, the dwarf fell against the giant worm and dug into its body

with her battle spike.

The worm's howl was an ugly sound, and its bucking tore up more of the earth around them. Kurst fought to keep the horses under control while desperately seeking safer ground for the carriage. Neither he nor the others in the carriage would be able to help. Only Tolwyn, Braxon, and Bryce were clear and in range to aid Praktix.