torg 03- The Nightmare Dream (29 page)

(nightmare)

clearly, and he knew that it was more than his frightened mind playing tricks on him. Somehow, Tolwyn had invaded his sleep, had accompanied him on his dream of the conquest of Aysle. If that were the case, then she knew his secret. She knew that Ardinay was in fact Uthorion. For that, and for a thousand other nightmares she had caused him, Tolwyn would have to die again. And he would enjoy the killing.

Then why are you afraid?

Her voice burst into his mind like a fireball, mocking him with its intensity. And the truth was, he had no answer to give her. His fear was not rational. He was a High Lord! He wielded the Darkness Device called Drakacanus! No single stormer, no group of stormers, no army of stormers, could stand against him.

Then why are you afraid?

103

Decker, Julie and Kurst rode the tra as fast and as hard as they could, but it gave out before they reached the bridge. Decker began to grab the packs from the dying lizard's back when Kurst grabbed his shoulder.

"Leave them, Decker," Kurst commanded. "We must move quickly, and the weight will only slow us down."

"I wish this fog would lift," Julie said in frustration. "We don't know how close that storm is."

They hadn't seen the tower of clouds since leaving the edge of the valley. Once they were back in the interior of the jungle, the fog thickened and visibility was almost nonexistent.

"They are close," Kurst said, sniffing the air. "But not upon us yet. Hurry. Follow me."

Kurst led them into the mist. He was holding Julie's hand, pulling her along behind him. Decker held her other hand, and the human chain ran through the mist as fast as it could. The tra had gotten them closer than Decker had hoped, though. After ten minutes of running, the mist opened into a large clearing.

"There it is," Kurst informed them. "That is the bridge to Aysle."

Above them, climbing high into the sky, was another living bridge of trees, vines, and thorned plants. Julie laughed, and Decker squeezed her hand. Maybe they were going to make it after all.

A clap of thunder startled them. It sounded like it was close, as though it were directly on top of them. Decker looked to Kurst for direction, because he knew that he was out of his league.

"Sound carries funny in the mists of Takta Ker," Kurst said. "The storm is probably miles behind us. But we should start climbing."

Decker agreed, because even though Kurst's words were reassuring, his eyes held a haunted glaze. So now the hunter knows what the hunted feel, Decker thought, following Kurst and Julie onto the jungle bridge.

104

In the Indian Ocean, off the coast of Christmas Island, a vortex of energy whirled. It looked like a massive tornado, rising up out of the ocean to disappear high into the sky above. The demon Gibberfat, guardian of the Infernal Machine that rested at the ocean floor, watched the vortex with amusement. It was eighty-five days since the Gaunt Man dropped his bridge of twisted souls into Borneo, eighty-five days since he turned on his machine and began sucking the physical energy of the Earth into his storage cells. And now the climax was upon them, and only loyal Gibberfat was here to see the show.

For, as Gibberfat watched, the Earth finally stopped its spin, slowed to this point by the sucking vortex. Darkness dropped over Indonesia and the rest of this side of the planet, and the night that would never end had begun. Half a world away, the demon knew, day had settled, and soon the people of America would curse the burning sun and beg for night that would never come.

Gibberfat laughed with hellish glee. Now the Gaunt Man could achieve his dream. He could become the Torg! Then the nightmare would truly begin, the demon thought.

And the reality.

Reality

We bring new experiences to the Dead of this world. We show them what Life is. Then we kill them.

— Baruk Kaah

Faith is for the masses. Power is for those who provide the faith.

— Jean Malraux I

This world shall be mine! That is the only reality you need concern yourself with!

—Pharaoh Mobius

105

Tom O'Malley was getting used to the shifting panorama within the storm fronts. Some of the sights were still disconcerting, and many times he felt his mind teeter on the edge of a deep abyss when reality made a particularly staggering change, but he had learned certain tricks for pulling away from the brink of madness and these had served him well. He piloted the ancient PBY through the Nile's border of storm and out over the Mediterranean Sea. From there he turned the plane northwest, flying through Italian airspace toward England.

Another wall of storm loomed across the western portions of Italy and Switzerland, suggesting that another invading realm was centered around France. Tom decided not to take any chances, so he swung the plane around the storm front, flying through Germany and Belgium. Then they were approaching the English Channel, and Tom saw that two storm fronts were battling for control of the waterway.

"Mara, come up here," Tom called. Father Bryce vacated the co-pilot's chair, and Mara slipped into it.

"What do you make of that?" Tom asked, directing her attention to the clashing storms.

"Giga-rad," Mara said, offering her highest praise. "That's some display. My guess is that the storms are holding in two different realities, and Earth's reality is caught in the middle. I wouldn't give us very good chances of making it through that area. Who knows how many directions the winds of change would pull us in? We'd never make it through in one piece. Can you go around?"

Tom nodded, angling the plane into the North Sea. There was only one storm front there, the one blocking the way into Britain. He leveled the seaplane, then
238

opened the throttle all the way.

"Next stop, Aysle," Tom declared, and the seaplane made its final trip into a wall of storm.

106

Decker climbed over jagged branches tipped with points sharper than a polished sword. He bent low to scurry under hanging vines that dripped foul, poisonous syrup. He pushed through clumps of thorn bushes that shredded his pants legs and tore at his flesh. He walked a maelstrom bridge.

Kurst and Julie were in front of him, picking a path through the thick-growing jungle that formed the passage between Takta Ker and Aysle cosms. They had reached the apex of the curved arch, passing into the hole in the sky that the bridge led to. Within this between space, distance took on a new meaning. It was like walking within a fun house mirror, for the bridge they walked on, themselves, everything around them, was longer or shorter or wider or thinner than it usually appeared. Decker looked behind him, and the bridge stretched back farther than he remembered climbing. It was impossibly long, and he could see impossibly far. The bridges warped time and space the way the invaders warped reality, and Decker suddenly hated them and their tools that he was forced to use.

Far below him, where the jungle bridge touched down on Takta Ker, Decker saw the arrival of the storm. It rolled into view without fanfare, and it was too far away for him to hear the peals of thunder he knew surrounded it. But he could see the lightning, striking like glowing cobras within the black cloud.

He turned back to catch up with Kurst and Julie, ignoring the cuts he suffered as he pushed through

another patch of thorns.

"The storm has reached the bridge," Decker informed Kurst.

"We still have an advantage," Kurst commented. "We have a slight lead and I don't intend to lose it. Now hurry, both of you," he said to Decker and Julie.

Decker took one more dizzying look down the curving arch they had climbed. The storm looked closer still, and Decker thought of the message on the sideview mirror of his car back in Washington. "Objects in this mirror are closer than they appear," the message read. He hoped that such optical illusions did not also apply to maelstrom bridges, because the storm that Kurst called the Wild Hunt appeared very close indeed.

107

Parok, warlord of the ravagons, walked the Core Earth lands of the Soviet Union, following the stench of another reality. He had been sent on this mission by Thratchen, who was running Orrorsh in the Gaunt Man's absence. Parok still had doubts about the sincerity and loyalty of the Tharkold demon, but he did not want to go against some intricate scheme the Gaunt Man was unfolding. If he found out that Thratchen was working against his High Lord, though, there would be a reckoning.

The ravagon was in a rural part of the country, walking through fields of crops that were dying in the sunless cold of the still planet. The Soviet Union was on the side of the globe that was trapped in perpetual night, and if the Gaunt Man's plans worked out, it would never again see the light of day. Ahead of him was a farmhouse, lying quiet beneath the dark, ash-filled sky. Parok sensed others like himself within the farmhouse, others who held realities far different than Earth's around their alien forms.

He entered the silent farmhouse cautiously, listening for any signs of the beings he knew were there. They were not showing themselves, however, and Parok considered announcing himself with the greeting recognized by all servants of the Darkness Devices. He stepped further into the dark interior of the dwelling, folding his wings about him so as not to brush against the walls and ceiling that were entirely too close for his liking. He knew he passed through an alarm net as he walked into the large living room, because he could feel the static charge of energy bounce off his body.

"You know that I am here, Tharkolds," the ravagon announced. "If you did not spot me earlier, then you obviously were informed by your technological watchdog as I stepped through your net. Show yourselves, for I bring greetings from Orrorsh."

Parok, his eyes now adjusted to the darkness within the house, saw three large globes sitting in the room. The globes looked like heavily crusted seed pods, and sharp ridges jutted from their rough surfaces. He fingered the hilt of his battle sword, just in case they did not want visitors. A second later, light appeared along the center of each globe, a thin line of brightness that indicated the pods were opening.

The top half of the pods separated from the bottom with a sickly wet sound and extended toward the ceiling on telescoping metal rods. Light burst from the interior of the globes, casting eerie shadows throughout the room. Thick mucus stretched with the rising pod shells, forming a curtain of slime within the space between the top and bottom. The slime made plopping noises as it stretched past its limit and broke, dripping back into the bottom half. Wings unfolded from the mucus, wings much like Parok's own, but also very different. Intermingled with the leathery flesh were pieces of metal, printed circuitry, and plastic — supposed enhancements that the techno-demons loved so well. Then three heads tilted up to stare at Parok, three heads to match the three sets of wings in the three mucous-filled pods. The heads, like the wings, were patchwork constructions of flesh and metal, and mechanical and natural eyes combined to examine the ravagon that had invaded their resting chamber.

The three techno-demons stepped from the open pods, never taking their eyes off of the ravagon. As they exited the pods, Parok noticed that the mucus that clung to them evaporated. In moments it was gone, its steaming vapor dissipating like mist from their bodies. They stood, framed by the light from the globes, and regarded the ravagon with undisguised disdain.

"What do you want with us, ravagon?" one of the techno-demons asked.

"Why have you come to us?" another added.

Parok returned their examining stares, making them wait before he answered. Then, when he could see flashes of anger in their eyes, the ravagon said, "I bring orders from the Gaunt Man's regent in Orrorsh."

The techno-demons looked at each other, then turned back to the ravagon. "We are of Tharkold," the first techno-demon proclaimed. "We do not take orders from Orrorsh — not from its regent, and not from its High Lord."

The ravagon almost drew his sword to teach the arrogant Tharkold a lesson, but he controlled himself. Battle would not serve Thratchen's purpose, and he wasn't certain he could defeat three Tharkold warriors without suffering damage of his own. If they could call upon their reality, they would have weapons that were beyond the capabilities of his Orrorsh powers to deal with. He would have to rely on superior strength, and that wasn't enough to fall back on just to teach a Tharkold respect. He would try another tact first.

"You seem to have done very well here following the orders of your High Lord," Parok sneered. "Sleeping in mucus while the rest of the invasion continues around you, no thanks to Tharkold. Have you decided to hide in your pods until the rest of us finish the conquest?"

One of the techno-demons stepped forward, metal claws extending from housings in his wrist, but another motioned for him to wait. Reluctantly, the claws snapped back, disappearing into the demon's wrist.

"We have just finished locating the stormer that caused our master's failure," the first techno-demon explained. "We were restoring our energy after a failed attack so that we could try again."

Parok noticed the sorcery symbols painted on the walls and floor of the room now. He had failed to see them before in the darkness, and then his attention shifted to the opening pods. The symbols screamed of sorcery mixed with technology, and Parok balked at such an abomination. No wonder the attempt had failed!