Battle Across Worlds Page 4

  There was hardly any light, but he could see its eyes. They glowed in the darkness as if illuminated from within, and the color was a lambent red.

  The thing hissed: “Yao si Kraelon? Yao si Oberkion en draen?”

  Ed could only moan again. He felt like he was drifting far away, his vision darkening, those red eyes dimming in his view, and he was glad.

  “Oberkion!” the thing repeated, an urgency in its terrible voice. “Waron? Oberkion!”

  “I don’t know what you … mean,” Ed managed to groan.

  A moment later, he was swallowed up by the welcome oblivion of unconsciousness.

  -7-

  After what seemed like an eternity in a bright white void, the falling sensation ended, and Jack Chestire once again felt solid stone under his hands. The surface was warm, though, and the air around him had a strange tang to it.

  At least I’m still breathing, he thought.

  As the white glare faded, it was replaced by a painful blur of browns and yellows that made his eyes water. His ears ringing, Jack pushed himself up to his knees.

  His right hand brushed something damp. Carefully poking at it, he discovered that it was a small mass of shaped, stiffened cloth with a bit that was … feathery.

  His Dragoon’s hat! Whatever had happened, this, at least, was a good omen. He placed it on his head and staggered to his feet.

  As Jack rubbed his eyes, the scene around him slowly came into focus.

  He stood on a stone platform; it was the veritable twin of the one on top of the faerie mound on the island, complete with the trio of obelisks. But this platform was situated at the top of a cliff overlooking a rocky valley below. Beyond the valley, yellow cliffs rose again, and beyond these a tan plateau stretched out towards the horizon. A desert …

  It’s just as in Ralley’s dreams! Could it possibly be?

  He turned and saw Ralley close by, still on his feet and smiling broadly.

  “This is it?” Jack gasped. “This is the place you’ve seen?”

  Ralley laughed. “Yes. Damerya. At last I’ve found it!”

  “But Ralley, do you know what we need to—“

  His words were interrupted by the shuffling sound of motion behind him. Despite the heat of the desert sun above, his blood went cold.

  He spun around and faced Brace Aubren. The Grenadier seemed dazed as he pushed himself up, then brushed off his uniform. Aubren’s clothes and hair were still damp from the evening storm. But there was no storm here, just as there was no night. It was a bright day—early afternoon, maybe, the sun was very high in the sky—and they were no longer anywhere near Garatayne, Jack was certain.

  Aubren paid no heed to Jack or Ralley, instead studying the landscape, his cold eyes tracking back and forth. After a moment he turned to Jack, and his expression was that of a stunned child who has just comprehended some terrible truth about the world.

  “So that’s what that damn light was,” he said. “That’s why the Guardian wanted us to stay away from the mound.”

  Jack looked around for his knife, but didn’t see it; Aubren seemed to have lost his sabre, as well. That was a small favor, at least. If it came to a fight between them now, it would have to be with fists. Unless …

  Ralley still had his rapier at his side, which gave them one weapon. But his friend was entranced by something, turning now to look out behind them, away from the obelisks. Jack shifted around and followed his gaze—and what he saw made him gasp at the beauty of it.

  There, the land dropped down in even steeper cliffs to a much broader valley, where a great river ran. Edged by cliffs on both sides, it was at least a quarter of a mile wide, with a few small islands in the midst of it. Covered by trees and greenery, they were like emeralds in a velvet band of midnight blue.

  But it was not the river that filled Jack with awe so much as the walled city which rose above it, looming high on the cliffs on the opposite side.

  The city was miles upstream, but through clear desert air he could discern all of the details. It was huge, filled with avenues of close-packed structures of white stone, the mass of them blinding in the sunlight. Gleaming towers rose up from amidst the lesser structures, and these looked taller than anything man-made that Jack had ever seen. Pennants flew around the towers on shafts that poked heavenward like fiery needles, glinting of gold. He caught other glimpses of golden sparkles all around the city; it seemed to glisten with the precious metal.

  “That’s not Bryttington,” he told Ralley. “Even Irounbound’s not that big and … it’s so … shiny.”

  As he traced the sky-line of the city with his eyes, something else came into view. A swiftly moving bird flew high over the city, then soared out to cross the river. But the “bird” was oddly shaped, like a flat half-circle, and lances of white flame flared from the back of it.

  Jack watched, transfixed, as the thing came closer. It was white, with gold trim all around, reminding him of a decorated chariot. Now, he could see a glass canopy set into the curved, front part of it, and inside sat the figure of a man.

  A flying machine? A man flying?

  A person might soar like that, high above the earth, subordinate to only the heavens themselves?

  “Ralley,” he asked, “do you know what that—?"

  “Down!” Ralley commanded. He grabbed Jack’s shoulder, shoving him towards the ground.

  The flying machine glided closer, sliding through the air like a greased sled upon an icy lake. As it approached their side of the river, it dropped down towards them, its flat bottom remaining parallel to the ground the entire time.

  Jack realized that it was heading right for them, aiming for the platform where they were now prone. He caught a glimpse of rust-brown cloth out of the corner of his eye, and turned to see that Aubren was still standing there in full view, his gaze now fixed on the incoming machine, his fists knotted in a gesture of defiance.

  There was a sharp whistling noise, and lines of white fire flashed from the front of the machine to pierce the air just a few paces left of where Aubren stood. The “fire” had a brilliance like lightning, but with bolts which were unerringly straight.

  Against his better judgment, Jack reached out and grabbed a leg of Aubren’s trousers. “Down!” he yelled, and the stunned Aubren obeyed, dropping just as a line of white brilliance streaked through the air where his chest had been a moment earlier

  There were more flying craft coming over the river now. These ones were darker in color and faceted like giant crystals. One of them was larger than the rest, like a flat-bottomed, mastless ship soaring across the void. Meanwhile, Jack heard shouts, screams, and more whistling gun-fire from the narrow valley behind them.

  Had they arrived in the middle of a war?

  As the sounds of battle grew louder, Jack turned and risked a peek over the edge of the cliff, down into the narrow valley below. There were two groups of combatants, all of them well-muscled, brown-skinned men. They fought and flailed in a chaotic jumble in the confines of the valley. Bronze blades flashed, and whistling bolts of white light shot here and there from silver cylinders which men wielded as if they were hand-guns.

  The first group of warriors was climbing up steps carved into the side of the cliff, heading up to where Jack himself stood. They were a motley bunch, some clad in brown robes, some almost naked, and a few sporting a kind of dark, glassy armor the likes of which he’d never seen before.

  The second group was fighting its way through the valley towards the bottom of the stone stair, trying to capture the stairway from the first group. This latter group wore uniforms of some sort, kilts and tunics in a deep blue shade, with golden insignia on their breasts.

  Ralley was at Jack’s side now. He looked down at the battle below, his brow furrowed in concentration.

  “Ralley,” Jack asked. “Are either of these forces apt to be on our side?”

  Ralley nodded to the motley-clad group climbing the steps towards them. “Enemies,” he said. Then he poin
ted to the uniformed group in blue livery. “The ones in blue are her people. We’ve got to reach them.”

  A bolt of white energy whistled close to Jack’s ear. Jack jumped back, tugging Ralley with him. They’d been seen! There were more shots, excited cries—until an angry voice shouted out something that was clearly an order, and the shooting abruptly stopped.

  “Well … I have a feeling they mean to capture us alive,” Jack told Ralley.

  Ralley pulled his rapier from his belt. “I don’t think we should let them do that.”

  Flight would be a more rational option, or surrender … But with the contagious confidence in Ralley’s voice, and the strength he could bring to bear, Jack thought they might have a chance. After all, they had a good defensive position at the top of the steps, where only two men might walk abreast …

  “But I don’t have a weapon,” Jack said. “I lost my knife back on the island.”

  “We’ll get you one of theirs,” Ralley said, and nodded towards the horde ascending the steps. As if it were that simple!

  Jack scanned the plateau behind them. Should they need to run, he wanted to see if there was a clear route for their escape. The riverside cliffs were that way and beyond them, out over the glittering city, many flying machines were swarming, some of them spitting beams of white fire at each other.

  A number of the flying craft were heading their way, speeding across the river. Amongst them was the mastless ship-like craft they’d seen before, as well as others of a different design. These were crescent shaped, hard-edged and symmetrical, like crystalline claws, and their blue-black surfaces reflected the sun’s glare.

  Jack was so taken by the machines in the sky that it took him a moment to realize that there was a tall blond figure in a rust-brown uniform running towards the riverside cliffs, charging straight towards the oncoming flyers.

  Towards them?

  He tapped Ralley’s shoulder. “Aubren’s lost his mind. He’s running out to meet those flying ships.”

  “We have to watch out for ourselves, Jack,” his friend responded in that strangely clear, commanding tone.

  The motley-clad group of enemies had almost reached their position. A group of half-naked warriors led the charge, their faces decorated with rows of diagonal scars. More of their motley-clothed fellows came behind them, and behind them all was one of the officers in the glassy crystalline armor, barking commands and urging them on. This latter fellow pointed towards Ralley and Jack, and yelled out something, repeating it several times. His tone made it sound like an order—or a threat.

  “They want us to surrender?” Jack asked.

  Ralley nodded. “Yes. I think so.”

  “Ahh.” Jack adjusted his hat and braced himself for the onslaught. “They’re going to be quite disappointed, then?”

  Ralley smiled. “Probably.”

  #

  Strength. Power. Contempt for those weaker than yourself.

  That was the order of life, the way of the world. Brace Aubren had learned this at an early age, when his soldier father returned from the Marchien Wars. The conflict had transformed the man into an angry, vicious beast who filled the family home with his wrath.

  Aubren’s mother had become a sniveling, pleading creature, willing to do anything to stop the blows and torments. But young Aubren had quickly realized that he had a choice. He could be strong, endure the beatings, and use his anger to power his own strength.

  Or he could lie there and cry like a worthless woman.

  He’d chosen the former, and had never looked back.

  As his father had dominated his household, so he would have command over others. He chose to be strong, and to seek out sources of strength. He would sneer at those weaker than himself. This naturally included women, who were spineless by nature, as well as those womanly, weak males who failed to seize what was theirs to take.

  Things had been clear in his mind. Until this night—this day?—when his world had been torn asunder.

  That frail, bookish clerk Quenn had thrown Fane, his fellow Grenadier, through the air in a mockery of the natural order. And then Aubren had been taken here, to this hot desert place, where there were machines that flew …

  Machines that flew, and carried men.

  But they weren’t just transports. Aubren had realized that instantly, understanding their true purpose as he saw them glide forward with the grace of birds of prey.

  They were weapons. Weapons of a magnitude that would put anything back in Garatayne to shame! Heavy engines of destruction, ready to rain down white-hot beams of death on those weaker, ground-dwelling maggots below.

  And each of them was controlled by a single man. One man with all that power! Aubren had seen that clearly. And it had filled him with an urgent need …

  He longed to control one of the flying weapons, wanted it more than he had ever wanted anything in his life, like a hunger in his soul. He wanted to meet the powerful lord who commanded such forces, to somehow impress upon the man that he, Brace Aubren, was worthy of taking charge of such a machine. Whatever nation or cause that great man supported, he would fight for him—so long as he, Aubren, might control one of those weapons, might wield such strength!

  So, as the flying machines glided towards the cliff’s edge, he ran towards them. He stopped only at the very edge of the precipice, panting with the effort of his run as a thrill ran through his body. There, he raised his arms, a sign of peace and surrender. Surrender now, for one reason only: so that he might one day soon fight with a strength he could barely imagine, to serve this lord whose power was unequalled.

  Two of the glassy black ships swam in the sky overhead, while the ship-like craft, made of wood reinforced with bronze and iron plates, descended to the plateau beside him. A door on the front of it fell open to become a ramp to the ground, revealing a cluster of brown-skinned, scar-faced soldiers inside.

  “I am yours to command,” Aubren told them, smiling as he bowed low. “But I think your master will want to meet me?”

  #

  As the first of the attackers reached the top of the cliffside stair, Ralley unleashed his fury. He slashed out with his rapier so quickly that, rather than a single blade, it appeared to Jack as if there were a hundred sharp iron needles dancing in the air.

  The scar-faced, nearly-naked enemy slashed at Ralley with his own weapon—a long bronze blade which had a curious hooked curve at the end of it, like some odd hybrid of a sword and scythe.

  Ralley ducked under his foe’s swing, and then his startled attacker walked directly into the deadly web of iron that the red-haired youth wove with his rapier. Crimson slashes appeared across the man’s chest and throat, and he fell back. As he did so, the strange hooked sword dropped from his hand, clattering to the ground at Jack’s feet.

  Well, Jack thought, stunned, it really was that simple.

  He knew that Ralley had been a fencing champion back at the University, but this was incredible. He had never seen anyone fight that fiercely. Ralley truly was a man possessed, and the whole thing would have been quite unsettling had Jack actually had time to ponder the matter.

  As it was, there was little time to think. Jack quickly bent and grabbed the hooked blade which Ralley had procured for him. The weapon was heavier than the sabre he was used to, and the balance was odd; but it would be serviceable.

  Another enemy fell, the tip of Ralley’s blade piercing his chest. The fellow beside him slashed at Ralley, who jumped sharply left, avoiding the blow. Ralley landed in an awkward stance, shifting his arms to balance himself. His foe smiled, raising his sword to strike while he had the opportunity …

  “Ralley!” Jack yelled in warning, rushing forward.

  But his friend was already reacting. Before the attacker’s blade fell, he threw himself forward, lashing out with his leg in a fierce kick. When Ralley’s foot impacted the man’s hip, his foe spun backward, his momentum carrying him over the side of the stairs and into the abyss below—where he plunged down w
ith a startled scream.

  Two more men charged up the steps, and Ralley laughed, his voice booming out: “Am Oberkion em maeb!”

  “For Queen and Country!” Jack shouted, and he ran forward, seeing a gap where he might plunge down the stairs to take on some of the attackers farther below.

  It had been a long time since Jack had seen real combat. There had been many drills with the Dragoons when he’d been stationed at the palace, but, intense as they were, they hadn’t been the same. He’d been little more than a boy when he’d fought in a real war, in the Marchien, earning battlefield promotions from pike infantry to musketeer over a year of hellish combat.

  Now, that old chaos and the smell of blood were in the air, and he felt ready. Indeed, perhaps it had been too long. Something in him that felt like a terrible tight spring, wound up for years and years, was now suddenly uncoiled.

  As Jack ran down the steps, a robed warrior thrashed out clumsily with his sword. Jack blocked the strike, then slid his own blade underneath, where it pierced the man’s chest. Jack yanked the hooked end of his scythe-sword from the man’s flesh as his opponent tottered backward and fell over the edge of the stairs, into the precipice.

  Jack raised his blade, looked around for another enemy to confront—and found one of the soldiers in the glassy black armor charging towards him. The man let out a haughty laugh that was barely audible amidst the sounds of battle, and struck at Jack.

  This foe’s technique was much better than that of the others. He wielded a larger version of the hook-ended sword, holding it in both hands, using his entire body to direct powerful slashing attacks. Jack had to duck and weave as often as parry, and the fight soon became wearying. Panting, he wondered if all the years and tankards of ale hadn’t caught up with him … He managed to slash at his opponent’s chest, but the glimmering armor there deflected the blow without a scratch.

  Worried now, he tried to focus, blocking out everything else, only concentrating on himself and his opponent. And soon he realized that he had one small advantage. It was clear that his enemy, skilled as he was, was not used to defending against thrusting, stabbing attacks. Jack’s hooked sword did not seem to be designed for such, either, but with a little luck, if he waited for the proper moment …