Fantasy

The Kepler Sculpture Garden

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“Wow, uh, sculpture garden,” I said, trying not to let disappointment color my voice. “Yeah, this is fun.”

I glanced over at Meagan, wondering if she’d bought it. It was already our third date, and I still hadn’t worked out quite how I felt about her. Unable to make a decision, I eventually just threw up my hands and elected to base the future of our relationship on this third date.

I’d let her pick the location, and so far, I wasn’t particularly impressed.

Perhaps for the best, however, Meagan hadn’t caught my sarcasm. “Oh, it’s a really unique place,” she insisted. “The whole Kepler museum is amazing, but the Times Garden has always been my favorite.”

“Yeah, great,” I nodded, as she kept on prattling on about how much she loved the sculptures. I wondered if the museum had a food court. Continue reading →

Through the Mirror

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I glanced back behind me even as I slowed my pace.  I’d lost them – for now.  I could hear their footsteps, however, not stopping.

They’d keep on searching for me until they found me.  I needed to disappear.

The inside of the clothing shop felt strange with the lights turned off.  Mannequins loomed suddenly out of the darkness, their hands stretched out as though reaching for me.  I dodged around them, forcing my mouth shut and trying not to let any sound escape my lips.

There, in the back!  I hurried towards the doorway leading into the rear of the shop, below the sign that read CHANGING ROOMS.

As I ran past the counter, however, a corner of my jacket caught at a hook, extending out from the edge.  I felt the tug, turned to try and catch the falling item – but my fingers were too slow.

With a crash, a pile of hangers hit the floor, bouncing and scattering across the linoleum.  The sound echoed in the dark shop, and I froze, my heart beating wildly.

They must have heard it.  Distant footsteps paused, then picked up again as they changed direction.  They headed towards me.

No time to waste.  I abandoned my pretense of stealth, ran back into the changing rooms.  My eyes searched wildly in the dimness, searching for the surface-

I saw it.  A full length mirror, extending all the way to the floor.  I shoved my hand into my pocket, fumbling, searching.  I couldn’t afford to stop, to take the time to dig through my pockets and locate what I needed.

Stepping up to the mirror, I raised my hand, pushing out against the glass surface.  When I had first passed through, so many years ago, the glass had resisted, fought back, tried to push me back out.  I didn’t belong in that other world on the far side, it told me.  No human belonged there.

But I fought back, managed to slip inside.  And it grew easier with each successive trip.

Now, the glass barely resisted at all, parting like smoke.  I dove in, through the glass, closing my eyes instinctively like always.

I’d kept my eyes open – once.  The visions I saw made me determined to never make that mistake again.

My other hand still scrambled in my pocket as I stepped through the mirror, still searching.  For just an instant, I felt what I sought, but it slipped deeper into the jumble of items in my pocket.

“A long time, Mistress Delmora.”

“But no time at all, as it may be.”

They closed in on me, appearing out of the misty glass.  I knew they were there, of course, knew they’d come, but they always startled me.  Creatures of smoke, they appeared and vanished in seconds, dissolving away into the mist between the realms.

Finally, my fingers closed on the objects I sought.  “I have payment for my passage,” I quickly spat out, pulling the coins from my pocket.

The silver circles winked in the dim light as I tossed them to the creatures of shadow.  No hand moved to catch the coins, but they vanished, never hitting the ground.

I waited.  I knew the rituals.

“She has paid the price to cross,” one of the Ferrymen finally intoned, sounding almost regretful.

“We bid her safe passage, in honor of the accord,” echoed the other.

Their eyes, however, lingered on me.  “Until next time, Mistress Delmora,” whispered the first, as it melted away.  “In no time at all.”

“We will be waiting,” its partner finished, as they dissolved into mist.

For a moment longer, I stood still, gazing back through the floating glass of the mirror.  My pursuers wouldn’t be fooled forever, I knew.  They’d find their own way through, wouldn’t stop chasing me.

But I’d bought myself time.

Coat swirling around me as I pulled it tight, I turned away from the mirror, striding into the mist of the new world.

Layover

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Slumped back into the sagging bench seat at the airport, I gazed around at the rush of humanity around me as music blared into my ears through my headphones.  I did my best to keep my eyes moving, trying not to linger too much on any one face in case they caught my covert attention.

It certainly was a busy time at the airport, I noted, adding sourly a moment later that this was probably why my flight ended up being delayed as well.  Stuck in this place for another couple of hours, waiting for them to finally call over the half-incomprehensible intercom that the plane had finally arrived and was ready for boarding.

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Lost.

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The ship drifted, the deck softly rocking back and forth beneath me.  I could feel the shifting of the rough boards against my back, in gentle constant motion.

Gazing up into the sky, I watched sleepily as the mast rocked back and forth, its motion amplified by the boat beneath me.  Back and forth it swung, tracing a line back and forth across the innumerable points of light on the night sky’s backdrop.

Adrift.  Lost.  The words flitted through my head, but they meant nothing to me.

Almost out of time.

Occasionally, a spark jumped from one of the spar lines, earthing itself in the wooden boards.  My eyes couldn’t help tracking those bright little points of light, but I knew they were meaningless.

The last of my time, burning itself away.

What could they do?  I knew there wasn’t enough energy to jump away.  Adrift, all I could do was wait as the last little reservoir of energy slowly expended itself.

Eventually, I knew, there’d be no energy left.  I couldn’t produce enough on my own to keep the entire ship warm.  Everything would stop, and I’d be frozen, out of time.

There’d be no rescue.  After all, I hadn’t told anyone where I was going.  That’s the point of an adventure, isn’t it?  Brashly, I’d jumped out beyond the bubbles of fast time, out into the far reaches.  I had sought adventure, had been willing to embrace danger.

Had I been foolish? I wondered, feeling my fingers starting to grow colder.  Perhaps.  I’d been told that running out of time felt a bit like freezing to death.  Once it had progressed past the point of turning back, it didn’t hurt, but felt instead just like falling asleep.

I wouldn’t mind falling asleep.

Beneath me, the ship drifted.  I didn’t know how it ended up out here, way out in the far reaches of Slow Time, far beyond any civilization.  I’d searched the boat, hoping to find some hidden store of Time that could help me jump back to civilization, but I’d seen nothing.

Abandoned, empty, just another cold place for me to lay as my time ran out.

At least the sight was pretty, I thought drowsily, slowly, to myself.  All those little points of light, little points of time, comforting even just out of reach.

Slowly, I closed my eyes, crossing my hands across my chest.  I doubted anyone would ever venture out here, into the depths of Slow Time, but I’d like for them to find me at peace.

With my eyes closed, the boat still gently rocking beneath me as the last vestiges of my time burned away, I waited for anathema to claim me.

Suddenly, just as that bitter cold crept up my legs, I thought I heard something.  Some sound, just at the edge of my hearing.  I tried to ignore it, not wanting to stop with my eyes open.

There it was again.

I couldn’t lay in suspense any longer.  Despite the bitter cold of timelessness creeping around my extremities, I opened my eyes.

Another pair of eyes stared down at me.  Blue eyes, brilliant blue, dancing with suspicion, determination – and amusement.  They watched me carefully, watching as renewed time flooded back into me, warming me.

“Well, well.  Not what I expected to find out in the Far Reaches.”  The voice was deep, amused – but on guard.  I could hear the steeliness, beneath the friendly surface.

I said nothing, staring back into those eyes.  Their owner looked down at me for a moment longer, and then shrugged as he turned away.

“Coming?” he called back after me.

I’d planned on freezing, running out of time peacefully out here, but it seemed as though I was destined to end up somewhere else.  Fighting my cold, still half-timeless muscles, I pulled myself up and followed after my new companion.

A few minutes later, the boat came to a gentle stop as the last of its time ran out.  Objects couldn’t hold time well, and the last few sparks of time jumped off of the boat, vanishing into the nether.  With its last passenger gone, the boat cooled into blackness.

Eventually, there was only a dark shape, left forever adrift on the endless sea.

He’s starting to suspect he’s being poisoned.

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The table pinwheeled across the floor of the tavern, not stopping until it collided with a thump against the opposite wall.  All around the room, patrons cringed, hastily trying to gulp down the rest of their drinks.  They could sense the oncoming storm.

When a troll gets angry, smart adventurers make sure that they’re on the other side of a door, preferably in an entirely different building altogether.

Still, Mr. Loaf, the barkeep, came bustling out, his stained apron flapping about his stubby legs.  “Ah, Mr. Slate,” he greeted the angry patron, his voice making a terminal attempt at cheerfulness.  “Does something seem to be the problem?”

The troll, still crouching as though the table was in front of him instead of flipped against the far wall, nodded.  “Yus, something wrong!” he rumbled, shaking so violently that small flakes peeled off of him and tumbled to the dirty straw covering the floor.  “You poisoning me!”

At that accusation, a couple other heads lifted up cautiously from below their hastily erected shelters.  Poisoning was a serious accusation.

“Poison?” Loaf repeated blankly, rubbing his hands on his apron and succeeding in dirtying them terribly.  “What in the world makes you say that?”

In response, Slate thrust out his mug.  The barkeep instinctively leaned back, although the gesture was more of a survival mechanism than due to anything untoward in the drink.

A moment later, however, he paused.  Something wasn’t right.

Trolls, of course, enjoyed a molten concoction of blended lava and calcium, sometimes with floating pumice chunks and occasionally, if they were feeling especially fancy, with crushed silicon around the rim of the mug.  These drinks came in a heavily reinforced steel-plated mug, and tended to leave smoldering rings on the tables if left to sit for too long.

The mug in Slate’s hand appeared to be full of a watery, amber colored liquid.

After recovering from leaning back, Mr. Loaf reached out and very cautiously dipped a finger in Slate’s drink.  He lifted the wet finger to his nose, sniffed, and then assayed a taste.

“It’s beer,” he said after a moment.

“Yuh!  Poison!” Slate reiterated.  “You trying to corrode me!”

Perhaps because it was a simple mistake, Mr. Loaf relaxed prematurely.  He chuckled, patted the angry troll on his rocky shoulder, and then made his big mistake.

He attempted to use logic and reason.

“Listen, Mr. Slate, obviously there’s just been a little mix-up,” he said reasonably.  “Clearly, you’ve just gotten someone else’s drink.  There’s no need to be upset-“

His words trailed off as the troll lifted up the heavy, reinforced mug to his mouth and, without changing expression, took a large bite out of the vessel.  Metal crunched and shrieked in his mouth as his diamond teeth tore through the steel-covered hardwood.

Around the tavern, the other patrons hastily checked their weapons, either displayed or hidden.  A fight was about to break out.  Their keenly tuned senses of danger, trained from many years of adventuring, were quivering like taut bowstrings.  A party of archers in the corner checked their taut bowstrings.

Mr. Loaf could sense the approaching fight, as well.  He’d been a barkeeper for many years, and he knew when a little willful destruction of property (which he tolerated, considering how he overcharged for ale) was about to erupt into a full-fledged brawl (which he frowned upon, because no one ordered more drinks halfway through a brawl).  Now, with no other options left, he resorted to the last arrow in his verbal quiver.

“Perhaps a credit is in order,” he suggested quickly.

Before he spoke, Slate had been rumbling, the deep grumble that a volcano emits just before violently erupting.  At these words, however, the rumble stopped, and the troll frowned in puzzlement.

“Credit?” he repeated.

“Yes, exactly,” Loaf continued, following up quickly before the troll remembered where he’d parked his original train of thought.  “How about I give you a credit for this and… let’s say, two… other drinks on tonight’s bill?”

Trolls were generally dense, but even creatures of anthropomorphic rock could sense when they had leverage in a deal.  “Three,” Slade countered.  “An’ one of them’s gonna be a River Rock Eruption.  With real agates, I can taste bad ones.”

Mr. Loaf quickly weighed the costs of a brawl versus the cost of a drink with real agates.

“Done, but no more than three agates,” he compromised.  “And you pick up my table.”

For a long time, the troll remained silent – although Loaf knew that he might just be still working through the problem.  Finally, he shrugged his mountainous shoulders.

“Kay,” he announced, standing up and heading over to retrieve the table.

Mr. Loaf bustled off to the back to prepare the troll’s drink before allowing himself to let out a small sigh of relief.

Once back in the kitchen, out of sight of the drinkers in the front room, the barkeep rounded on the unfortunate server who’d brought out the troll’s most recent drink.  “I told you that he has to be falling-down drunk before you try and slip him the beer!” he cursed her.  “He’s stupid, but he’s not stupid enough to drink straight beer before we’ve put at least a couple loads of lava into him!”

The woman tried to defend herself, but Loaf just turned away, shaking his head.  He never should have let that Assassin convince him to take this job, he grumbled to himself.  This whole thing was turning into more of a hassle than he’d ever wanted.

Next time, the damn nob could just try and get his mark with a sledgehammer when Slate passed out in the alley.

"Recommended by 4 out of 5 doctors!"

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“Hello, gentlemen.  Today, we’ve called you all in because all of you have previously prescribed Trexaphil, and we want to offer you a chance to spread the word.  Now, for the record, can we get your names, and your specialties?”

“Dr. Newman, trauma medicine.”

“Dr. Cooper, gastrointestinal disorders.”

“Dr. Arthur, pediatrics.”

DR. HAARLAX GARJHALLARAXX, PLAGUE, PESTILENCE, AND LAMENTATION.

“Dr. Daniels, orthodontics.”

The presenter paused for a moment, his brow furrowing.  Something didn’t sound quite right, but he couldn’t put his finger on what felt off.  He decided to press on.

“Great, thank you.  And according to our records, each of you prescribed Trexaphil within the last year.  Going down the line, can each of you explain what you prescribed this medicine for?  We’ll start with you, Dr. Newman.”

“Thank you.  Yes, as mentioned, I prescribed Trexaphil after a trauma patient reported headaches and chills that made it difficult for him to focus on his physical therapy after an accident.  The Trexaphil did a great job of helping increase his mental focus, and I’m happy to report that he made a full recovery.”

“Thanks, Dr. Newman.  And now, let’s hear from Dr… Cooper, why don’t you speak next.”

“Yes, of course.  A patient of mine was receiving treatment for a secondary bowel infection, and he needed an anti-inflammatory that wouldn’t also further compromise his damaged gut microbiome.  Trexaphil was suggested to me as a solution, and I was pleased to note that it caused no shift in his microbe populations.”

“Wonderful.  And now, how about Dr… er, I’m not quite sure how to pronounce-“

ME?

“Er, yes.”

IT’S GARJHALLARAXX.

“Uh, yes, of course.  And you prescribed Trexaphil, did you?”

I DO NOT RECALL – AH, YES, THE SMALL PURPLE PILLS.  WE BELIEVED THAT THEY CONTAINED SIGNIFICANT LEVELS OF ARSENIC, AND INSERTED THEM VIOLENTLY INTO THE WATER SUPPLY OF A VILLAGE TO USHER IN A NEW DARK AGE OF DISEASE.

“I, uh, I don’t think they actually contain any arsenic.”

THEN THAT IS WHY OUR DARK VISION DID NOT COME TO PASS!  BLOOD AND DEATH UPON YOU FOR MISLEADING US WITH YOUR FALSE ADVERTISING!  WE SHALL FEAST UPON YOUR FLESH-RENT CARCASS!

“Right.”  The advertising executive felt very uncertain about how to proceed.  He’d never had a focus group member threaten to feast upon him, although one angry senior citizen had once thrown a half-full can of Pepsi at his head.  “Well, um, perhaps we should just jump ahead.”

Yes, that seemed like a good idea.  Something about the fourth doctor kept making him want to scratch at his skin.  “So, I will take a simple yes-no vote.  Would you recommend Trexaphil to patients who may currently be unsatisfied with their drug regimen?”

“Yes, I would.”

“I agree.  It did wonders for my patients.”

“I’m a bit cautious, but I see no reason why it shouldn’t be used in the right situations.”

Feeling strangely fearful, the advertising executive turned to Dr. Garj-whatever his name was.  “And you?”

SNIFF.  THE SMALL PURPLE PILL DID NOT CAUSE ANY PESTILENCE OR AGONY.  IT EVEN SEEMED TO MAKE SOME OF THE PUNY MORTALS HAPPIER AND MORE COMFORTABLE.  IT SHOULD BE DESTROYED BY RED-HOT SCOURING IRONS.

After he forced his leg to stop quivering, the executive paused.  That might not have been a perfect endorsement, but he’d take it!  “And finally you, Dr. Daniels,” he finished, feeling his heart start to rise.

“I actually feel that Trexaphil didn’t perform significantly differently from other options on the market, and it isn’t worth its elevated price.  I don’t recommend it.”

The marketing executive sighed.  Still, four out of five was good enough to progress to the next stage of the advertising campaign.

“Well, thank you very much for your time, gentlemen.  Please, feel free to help yourselves to snacks and complimentary coffee before you leave.”

Eat You Alive

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The two men headed straight for my table, tucked back into a corner at the back of the bar.

I felt my unease growing as I sized the pair up.  I’d assumed that my watchdogs would be normal men.  Mercenaries, maybe, or ex-military.  A couple muscle-bound toughs, easy to dispose of when I no longer wanted them watching me.

But when these two men entered, their eyes immediately found mine, not even bothering with the rest of the bar’s patrons.  The bigger of the pair showed no change of expression, but the little one flashed a brief, smirking little grin at me.

I’d picked the table at the back so that I wouldn’t be interrupted.  Now, I found myself casting longing glances towards the bar’s rear exit.  Maybe I should have sat closer to the door.
“Well, well, Mr. Check,” the short little man greeted me, his toothy smile appearing once again on his face.  It seemed to come and go with little warning; one moment it would be absent, and the next second it would appear in full bloom.  But even as his mouth twitched into a little grin, his eyes remained constant, glazed over with treacherous ice.  “Is good to meet, you might say.”

I nodded to the little man, although my eyes darted to the larger of the pair.  He’d sat down at the table as well, although he barely fit in the space between the booth and the table’s edge.  Huge and corpulent, his expression remained utterly blank.

“Oh, don’t mind Mr. Rook,” the little man said to me, flapping one hand at his acquaintance.  “He doesn’t speak  much.  All the better for you, too, if he doesn’t open his mouth.”  The little man chuckled heartily to himself, as if he’d just made some sort of joke.

The Rusty Tap didn’t have waitresses.  The bar only had a single, grizzled barkeep standing behind the shelter of his counter, bottles at the ready.  I liked it that way.  But now, the little man raised his fingers up and snapped, and the old man tottered out from behind his shelter, bringing several dirty glasses over to us.

“Now, Mr. Check, my name is Bishop, and this master of poetry beside me is Mr. Rook,” the little man went on, his eyes remaining focused on me as the barkeep set drinks in front of us.  “We, for our sins, are to be your guardians.”

I nodded again.  I’d expected this.  When I took the job, there had been a comment about “monitors.”  This pair, however, wasn’t what I’d anticipated.

Bishop lifted up his glass, examining the strangely reddish liquid inside.  He took a sip, and closed his eyes in appreciation.  “Ah, that’s the stuff.”

My eyes, moving almost of their own volition, tracked over to Rook.  The barkeep hadn’t poured him a drink, but had simply deposited an entire bottle of some dark alcohol on the table in front of the big man.

As I watched, Rook picked up the bottle by its base and, without any change in expression, bit off the cap and neck.  I could hear the glass crunching into shards as he chewed.

Beside him, Bishop shook his head with a little smile.  “Oh, Mr. Rook, where are your table manners?” he asked, clucking his tongue like a mother at a child.

“Ate ’em,” Mr. Rook replied, spitting flecks of cork and glass.

Bishop returned his focus back to me.  “Now, Mr. Check, you understand your role in this little plan, yes?” he asked.  “It has already been explained?”

I had to lick my lips before I found my voice.  “Yes,” I said.  “You’re going to remove the guards, and I swipe the case while everyone’s distracted.”

The little man nodded, smiling once again.  I could see extra redness on his lips from his drink.  “And then, you will bring it to us, and you’ll receive your payment,” he finished.

“Hold on.  I thought I was bringing the case to whoever hired me?  The brains behind this heist?”

Bishop tutted, shaking his head.  “Ah, Mr. Check.  When an ant finds that a boot blocks his path, he does not speak to the boot’s owner.  No, he shakes his little ant head, adjusts to his new course, and thanks his lucky little stars that the boot didn’t crush him.”

For a moment, the little man’s smile vanished, and he looked as wooden and emotionless as his partner.  “Do you understand my little metaphor, Mr. Check?”

I understood him.  Still, I had to know how much of a leash I’d been given.  “And what happens if I disagree with it?” I asked.  Surely, they wouldn’t try anything here, in public, before I’d even pulled off the snatch for them.  They still needed me, needed my talents.

“If you disagree?”  Bishop looked as though the idea had never occurred to him.  “Why, Mr. Rook, perhaps you can suggest what we might do in that situation?”

The big man’s eyes tracked over to me.  “Eat ‘im?” he asked hopefully.

Bishop reached over and patted the arm of his partner.  He might have wanted to pat the man’s cheek, but he couldn’t reach that high.  “Only if he disagrees, Mr. Rook,” he corrected gently.

Mr. Rook’s eyes remained fixed on me.  “Looks tasty,” he said, taking another glass-shattering bite out of the bottle.  “Crunchy.”

“I think we make our point, Mr. Rook,” Bishop took over, smiling at me once again.  “And I’m sure that Mr. Check agrees with me when I say that this will be a routine and civil affair.  We will provide a distraction, he will snatch the case that our employer desires, and he will then pass it over to us in exchange for payment.  There will be no issues.”

I nodded, but Bishop kept his eyes locked on me, his smile looking more and more out of place on his face by the second.  “And if he fails, or takes a single step out of line,” Bishop continued, his voice dropping into a whisper, “we will chase him.  He may run, he may flee halfway across the cosmos, but we will always follow, will always find him.

“And then, Mr. Rook will eat you alive.”

For a moment, Bishop’s face was twisted and filled with snarling, endless fury as he glared at me.  A second later, however, he blinked, and was as smiling and genteel as ever.

“Now, you will be at this address in two days’ time,” he said, passing a small, grubby slip of paper over to me.  “You’ll see the distraction, and you can make the snatch.  Once you have the case, we will contact you for the exchange.”

Bishop stood up, straightening the lapels of his black jacket.  “And now, we have other errands to run, Mr. Check,” he said, giving me a slight little mocking bow.  “Come, Mr. Rook.  Let us be off.”

As they stood, the barkeep perked up, light coming into his sunken eyes.  “Hey, youse two haven’t paid,” he called out, once again daring to emerge from behind the safety of his bar.

This was a mistake.  As he stepped over towards Bishop, Mr. Rook’s hand shot out, closing on the bearded man’s throat.  I saw the barkeep’s eyes go wide as the big, black-clad man dragged his head down and in.

With a crunch, Mr. Rook bit a chunk out of the man’s head, swallowing as blood ran down his chin.  “Mmm,” he grunted, before diving back in for another bite.

As his partner chewed with gusto on the barkeep’s exposed skull and brain, Bishop reached out with a long, skinny finger, dipping it into the dripping stream of blood.  “A bit too aged and bitter,” he observed, licking his finger clean.  “Not entirely unpalatable, however.”

From the sound of Mr. Rook’s crunching, he would happily devour the rest of the barkeep’s twitching body, but Bishop snapped his fingers.  “Come, Mr. Rook,” he called out as he turned towards the door.  “We have no time for dalliances.”

With a grunt, Mr. Rook dropped the now mostly headless corpse down to the floor.  Wiping his mouth with one sleeve, he followed after his smaller partner.

For a minute, I just stared down at the corpse lying nearly at my feet.  Some of the bar’s other patrons were finally recovering enough to scream, but I kept my mouth tightly shut.

No, these definitely weren’t the normal guards I’d been expecting.  Whoever wanted this case was willing to go to extreme lengths to ensure they received it.

I could feel foreboding bubbling up inside of me, but I knew that I couldn’t escape.

Climbing the Tower, Part III

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Continued from Part II.
Start reading at Part I.

For a moment, he just looked up at the young woman standing above him, offering her hand.  He couldn’t hold back from asking.

“Are you real?”

She just shrugged.  “Are you?” she replied.

There was no way of her knowing, he realized.  Even if she was a projection of his mind, she would act this way.  He was too suspicious to get any answers, even from himself.

He took the proffered hand, and she hauled him up to his feet.
For a moment, as he caught his breath on his unsteady feet, the two of them gazed around.  Up here, the dust was even thicker; it felt as though no one had stood here for centuries, maybe longer.

That might be true, he reminded himself.  No one knew how high the Tower went.  No one really knew anything about the Tower, not even where it truly stood.  The gates opened to it, once every three years, and all citizens, of the Lowers and Heights both, came pouring in.

To not try in the Tower was to drop to the bottom.  Only those who climbed could ascend in life.

But as far as he knew, no one had ever reached the top.

The girl was standing next to him.  She was waiting for him, he realized with a start.  When he turned to her, he could still see a faint spark of wariness in her eyes, but she still waited.

When he turned to her, they didn’t need to speak.  To speak was to waste breath.

Instead, they climbed.

The stairs now spiraled around the inside of the room, ascending higher and higher in a spiral that slowly tightened.  They paced each other, trying not to watch each other’s steps for weakness, trying not to judge how much energy the other still possessed.  They climbed, until the hole in the middle of the room had shrunk to nothing as the stairs closed in.

Eventually, long after they had both lost count of the number of stairs they’d climbed, they reached a door.

And on the other side, in a small room, they found the man.

The man sat on a throne, a massive monstrosity covered in wires, tubes, glowing lights, and many things that were completely unrecognizable.  He looked thin, wasted away, with long and stringy hair that seemed dirty and ill-kempt.  His eyes gazed forward, and a thin crown of silver metal sat on his temples.  A closer look revealed that the crown seemed to be attached to the rest of the chair via a thin wire.

As they approached, the man suddenly straightened up, life flowing back into his face to make his eyes faintly gleam.  “No,” he gasped, staring up at them.  “You can’t be real.  Please be real.”

He exchanged a look with the girl.  She stepped forward; she’d always been the more trusting.  “Who are you?” she asked, moving closer.  The old man didn’t seem like a threat.

“Please,” he gasped, looking up at the pair of them.  “It has been so long.  I want it to stop.”

This didn’t feel right.  “We shouldn’t,” he spoke, but even as the words passed his lips, the girl was already moving forward.  She tugged the crown free of the old man’s head, and he listed forward, half-falling out of the throne.

As the old man left the throne, however, an alarm sounded, and his eyes widened.  “It cannot be empty,” the man hissed, waving weak fingers at the seat.  “Someone must guide it!”

The girl exchanged a look with him.  He ignored the alarm, however, focusing on the old man.  “Is this the top?” he demanded, glaring down at the wretched figure.

The old man stared up at him.  “You cannot go higher without a guide,” came the faint words, gesturing towards the empty throne.  “I…”

He leaned closer, listening.

“I could not,” the old man gasped out.  “I was alone.  The Tower needed a guide, so it brought me here.  No one else came.”

When he looked up at the girl, she was peering closer to the mechanical throne.  “I think… I think that this controls the Tower,” she said in hushed tones.  “I think that this is the center for everything.”

He said nothing, but he looked up.  There was no other door leading out of this room, but he could feel more of the Tower above them.

The girl was waiting for him to say something, but eventually she spoke.  “One of us has to stay here, sit in the throne,” she said, speaking slowly as she thought through the idea.  “The other can’t ascend unless someone controls the Tower.”

He waited.

She stared at him for a long minute.  When she glanced down at the old man at their feet, neither of them was surprised to see that his labored breathing had ceased.  “It’s going to be me, isn’t it,” she said, the words not a question.

Without waiting for him to answer, she sighed, lowered herself into the seat.  “Before you go,” she said, looking up at him, holding the crown in her hands.  “I have to know.”

“Ask.”

“Will it ever be enough?”  Her eyes were beseeching, more vulnerable than he could remember seeing them.  “You’re so driven to climb.  More than anyone else, more than me.  I could never keep up, even now.

“Is it ever going to be enough?”

He didn’t have an answer.

After a long silence, stretching on for an eternity, she sighed.  “I should have known better than to expect an answer,” she said, lowering the crown onto her head.  “Especially from you.”

As the crown reached her temples, she jerked, her muscles going rigid for an instant before she settled back into the chair.  Her eyes opened again, but they were unfocused, as though she was looking at a different landscape.

“Go now,” she said, her voice deeper, flatter.  “Climb, fool.  May you never reach what you seek.”

Behind the throne, he saw a door in the wall.  It had always been there, but at the same time had not existed until this moment.  He didn’t wait, running for it.  The door handle was icy cold, but it turned in his hand.

On the other side, he saw more steps, leading up into the darkness.

“It will never be enough,” the girl called after him in her flat voice, the voice of the Tower, as he left the control room behind.

Her words echoed after him, and he ran.

Climbing the Tower, Part II

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Link to Part I.

He sprinted across the room, his eyes dodging down to his feet to watch for obstacles, and then back up to make sure he didn’t collide with any of the gauzy hangings that broke up the room.

Those wall hangings separated the large room into many smaller booths.  From the other side of the curtains, he could catch little flashes of movement, the gestures soft and alluring and feminine.  Faint voices called out to him, beckoning and tempting.  He couldn’t make out any specific words, but the meaning behind those calls was clear.

He knew that if he stopped, he couldn’t resume.  This would be as far as he made it inside the Tower.

It wasn’t enough.

He kept on running, even as his breath burned in his throat and lungs.  He thought he’d seen a door on the other side of the room, and he did his best to keep on heading in that direction.  The gauzy hangings obscured his view, but he tried to keep his path straight.

The rugs and soft pillows were treacherous underfoot, but he made it through without falling.  And there, on the other side of the room, was the door.

Made of wood, with a brass handle, it looked surprisingly ordinary.  He threw it open and ran through as it closed behind him.

On the other side, he was suddenly outside the tower, an external staircase made of massive hewn blocks of stone.  He sucked in a breath, feeling the chill of the air, and began climbing.

As he climbed, a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye made him turn his gaze.  It took a moment for the sight to resolve itself inside his mind, but he nearly stumbled when it clicked.

There was another set of stairs also spiraling upwards, separated from his set by maybe a couple dozen feet of empty air.

Those other stairs weren’t empty.  The girl was climbing them, her head down as she tried to control her breathing.

Shocked, he called out, a wordless cry, half-strangled as he exhaled.  It was enough, however, and she glanced up.

For a moment, their eyes linked.

“What if we see each other inside?” she had asked, as she traced a squiggle in the spilled beer on their dirty table.

He shook his head.  “No one sees anybody else inside the Tower.  It’s impossible.  After you split in the hallways, you’re on your own.”

“But what if?” she insisted, not letting the subject go.  “Should we help each other?”

For a long minute, he considered the question.  “There’s no way to know for certain,” he finally stated, shaking his head.  “How can you know that it’s truly who you believe, and not an illusion?  Trust nobody.”

She nodded, but he thought he could see a look of sadness flick briefly across the girl’s face.

She was keeping up with him, he noticed.  He thought that she might have said something, but the blood was pounding too hard in his ears for him to hear anything but his own heartbeat.  He glanced up, and saw that, another hundred steps ahead, the stairs ended with a door.

He didn’t bother seeing where the woman was headed.  He was through the door as soon as his hand found the handle.

Another room, this one dark and featureless.  Another set of stairs.  Another room.  He kept on climbing, losing track of how many levels he’d ascended.  The burning in his lungs had become a steady ache, sapping his strength, but he couldn’t stop.  He had to keep on climbing.

Another door led outside, another set of stairs spiraling up into the gray and cloudy sky.  Clouds now obscured the ground, as well; he kept his eyes on the stairs to avoid vertigo.

These stairs seemed older, less used, he noted with the tiny little abstract part of his mind that remained disconnected.  The stones were crumbling, and a few of them fell away, off the edge into nothingness.  He heard no sound of them hitting the ground.

There!  Off to the side, he saw the other set of stairs.  She was still there, still running and climbing.  She looked tired – no, he corrected himself.  She looked absolutely exhausted.  She looked like she was about to give out at any moment, go tumbling over the side like those stones.

He kept climbing, sucking in big breaths of the thin air.

Another room at the top.  This one was round, and looked to be filled with ornate decorations, all covered in a thick layer of dust.  In the middle of the room, a raised dais held a ladder, ascending through a hole in the roof.  In one corner, he thought he saw a golden throne, the shine of the metal hidden under centuries of dust.

He knew that, if he were to sit on that throne, he would be a king when the competition was over.  He could rule, wise and just, ease the suffering of many.

He didn’t even pause.  He grabbed the rungs of the central ladder and hauled himself up.

The ladder, impossibly thin but sturdy, ascended through darkness.  He thought he saw ropes off to the sides, the shapes of bodies swinging on a hundred hangman’s gibbets.  He saw hooks and chains, tearing unidentifiable pieces of something apart.

And for just a moment, through the darkness, he thought he caught the shape of the girl, climbing.

Looking up told him nothing.  The ladder kept on going.  His arms burned and barely responded to his commands, but he kept on climbing.  A couple of times, he locked his arms through the rungs to catch his breath, but he never let himself pause for more than a few seconds.

Finally, something was above him.  He reached up and pushed open the trap door with the last of his strength, hauled himself up, and flopped onto the floor above, panting.

A hand dangled in front of his eyes when he opened them.

“Come on,” the girl said, looking scared even as she held her hand down to him.  “We can make it.  We’re close, I know it.”

For a moment, he did nothing.  Could he trust her?  Was this real?

But his strength alone wasn’t enough.  He took the hand, and she pulled him up to his feet.

Looks like there’s going to be a Part III next week!

"Grandpa, tell us a story!"

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“Urp.  Johnny, stop hitting Miranda with that!  What even is that thing, anyway?  Some sort of foam cross?”

“No, Grandpa, it’s a Minecraft sword!”

“Minecraft?  You kids and your TV games.  Whatever it is, stop hitting Miranda with it.  Give it here.  Let’s see.  Ugh, this is the sort of toys they give you?  No wonder everyone’s declaiming your generation as lazy.”

“Wot’s declamming?”

“Nothing, angel.  Okay, get into bed, and I’ll tell you a story.  Come on, tuck in the covers.  There you go.  Now, what do you want to hear about in a story?”

“Fighting!  Knights with swords!”

“Dwagons!”

“Yeah, and dragons!  Like Mirry said!”

“Don’t call me that!”

“Okay, okay, settle down.  Dragons, huh?  Well, I actually do have a couple stories about those big beasties.  But you’ll have to both stay in bed, and no getting up to hit each other.  Deal?

“Good.  Now, everyone always pictures dragons as being around back in the Middle Ages, back when brave and valiant knights would joust with them on the backs of horses, fighting them sword against scale.  But just because that’s when dragons were most prevalent, it doesn’t mean that they disappeared as humanity rose.

“No, they just became more cunning.

“You see, once humans started showing up to fight the dragons with cannons and gunpowder, the dragons soon figured out that might was no longer the way to win against these pesky little pink-skinned fighters.  Most of the dragons began taking the form of humans, walking among us.  Now, they corrupt and savage us from within, claiming their treasure through trickery instead of force.”

“Like da Repubiccans?”

“Yes, Miranda dearest, I’m pretty sure that most of the damn Republicans are dragons in disguise.  But that’s not what this story is about.

“You see, while most dragons gave up their giant lizard shapes, there was one who was too proud, to arrogant, too stubborn to accept this new change.

“His name was Carathax, and he was one of the most powerful dragons to ever fly over our world.

“Carathax saw the technology that humans now used, how we mastered steam and metal and pistons, and he sought to take these advantages for himself.  He used his cunning and his wealth to hire humans, artificers, to craft massive plates of armor for him, to augment and increase his strength through the use of steam and pistons.  He gave himself bladed talons and shielded wings, and the heat of his fiery breath drove steam through his armor.

“For thirty years, he roared and raged in pain as the human craftsmen built his armor, gave him the weapons to turn his fiery breath and scything claws into a true engine of pure destruction.”

“That’s stupid!”

“What do you mean, Johnny?”

“Well, why would humans give all this to a dragon?  Why would they help him get stronger so he could kill them?”

“Carathax offered a lot of money.  And humans have always been willing to compromise their ideals for money, I’m afraid.”

“I still think it’s dumb.”

“And my boy, I agree with you.  I’m glad you can see it.  But these humans gave Carathax what he wanted, and finally, nearly half a century later, the great dragon’s modifications were complete.  Now carrying his terrible armament, the huge wyrm lifted off into the sky, setting out to bring destruction to the land.

“And he knew his target – King Llanar.

“King Llanar had, before he became a wise and just king, been one of the world’s greatest dragon slayers.  He had used not just his strength, but his wits, outwitting dragons and luring them into traps where their normal strengths – their muscles and flight and fire – could be turned against them.  He had become both famous and wealthy for killing these rampaging dragons, but he gave back much of his wealth to the people.  He was the most popular king to rule.

“But in the fifty years, King Llanar had aged, and although he was still a strong and just king, he now had a thick gray beard, and he could no longer lift a sword as high or swing as hard.  He still kept himself trim, but he knew that his dragon fighting days were over.”

“Why did Cartha wanna kill the king?”

“Good question, my dear!  As it turned out, although not even King Llanar knew this at the time, the king had been the one to slay the dragon Selendria – Carathax’s broodmother.  From when he was young, Carathax had sworn revenge.

“And now was his time.

“With his great mechanical modifications, Carathax flew across the kingdom, setting fire to entire towns in a swoop.  His armor turned away arrows, his bladed talons cut through nets and snares, and his great jet of flame, fueled through the tubes of the human artificers, burned hot enough to melt even stone.  He killed many at each town, and to the fleeing survivors, he roared out his challenge to King Llanar.

“And even far away, across the land at his castle, the king heard that challenge, and he responded.

“He rose from his throne, gathering his strength, calling for his attendants.  ‘The kingdom is in danger,’ he told his court, ‘and I must ride out to save my people.’

“‘But you have not the strength or speed of your youth!’ cried out his advisors, his most loyal knights.  ‘You cannot hope to win!  Let us go in your stead to fight the great dragon!’

“But the king shook his head.  ‘It is with me that the beast demands battle,’ he told them, as he pulled on his shining armor, strapped on his sword, Wyrmsbane, which had served him so faithfully in battles long before.  ‘And I will not let any others die in my place.’

“And so, on the great fields of Karanor, King Llanar rode out to wait for Carathax. He went alone, and carried only a shovel and his sword.  He brought no armies, no great siege weapons.

“Two days later, the skies above the king grew dark with smoke, heralding the beast’s arrival.  Like a plunging meteor, Carathax dropped from the clouds to land in front of the tired and muddy king.

“Beneath his weight, the very earth split, the grass burned black by the heat of the creature’s inner fire.  ‘Dragon slayer, killer of my brood mother,’ Carathax greeted the king, spitting out drops of liquid fire with each word as he glared.  ‘Your kingdom is half in ruins – and after I have killed you, I shall set the other half ablaze, to burn forever!’

“‘I am sorry for killing your mother, but she killed us,’ King Llanar yelled back, as he tried to stand in the burning heat of the dragon’s very presence.  He leaned on the shovel he had brought, using it for support. The king did not even wear his sword.  ‘I have no quarrel with you!  You can leave my kingdom and do no more damage, and I shall not pursue you!’

“But the massive dragon shook his armored head.  ‘Never!’ he howled.  ‘I have sworn bloodlust, and I will see you BURN!’

“And with that, the great dragon beat his wings and lunged forward, towards the lonely king.  Llanar didn’t even have time to turn and look for his sword Wyrmsbane, for it was not even on his waist.  He had nothing but the shovel.”

“Wait!  Grandpa, what happened next?”

“Oh, you’re still awake?”

“Yeah!  You have to finish the story!”

“Okay, very well.  But I will turn off the lights.  It’s too bright in here.

“Ah, that’s better.  Now, where was I?  Oh yes.  So the dragon lunged forwards, towards the helpless king.  King Llanar just stood there, tired and muddy and leaning on the shovel, watching as this massive, heavy, armor-coated dragon bore down on him.

“And then something quite strange happened.

“As Carathax crossed the difference between him and the king, the ground, already cracked and ablaze from his very presence, suddenly opened up beneath him!  The ground cracked open beneath the weight of the dragon, and suddenly, the great wyrm found himself falling!

“With a great roar of frustration, the dragon plunged downward, into the huge pit!  The hole was large and deep – the king had spent his whole time at the fields of Karanor digging it, covering it up with a thin shell of wet mud.

“The dragon’s great heat had made the mud brittle, and the weight of his armor and mechanical devices broke through the shell.  Carathax tried to beat his wings, but he was too heavy, and could not lift off fast enough to keep from plunging down into the pit.

“And as he landed down in the pit, his belly slamming down onto the ground beneath, he landed directly on top of where King Llanar had buried Wyrmsbane, pointing straight up in the mud.

“The weight of the dragon plunged the sword into his chest, piercing between the plates of armor and into the great dragon’s heart.  Carathax let out one last bellow, and the heat of his fury burned the walls of his pit until they were black as coal and hard as stone.  But even he could not pull the blade from his chest, and that great cry was his last.

“For a long time, King Llanar stood at the edge of the pit, gazing down at the corpse of the great wyrm.  He leaned heavily on his shovel, still breathing deeply.  Wyrmsbane, his sword, was beneath the dragon’s weight, too far down to retrieve.

“And then, the king began the long, slow process of shoveling the dirt back into the hole he had dug, making sure that Carathax was lost to the world forever.”

“…Johnny?  Miranda?”

“Ah, good.  Sleep tight, my dears.  And remember, even the greatest beasts can be vanquished with courage and forethought.”