Dead World E-Book

Wayne Kyle Spitzer

• Herausgeber: Wayne Kyle Spitzer
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

After breaking their sworn oaths in a fit of forbidden passion, a sacrificial bride (Shekalane) and her fearsome escort (the ferryman Dravidian) find themselves alone and on the run in the subterranean river-world of Ursathrax. “Do you know what it is?” he said at last. She studied it, nodding slowly. “I think so. It’s a doorway, of sorts. It’s what awaits on the other side of death.” Dravidian nodded. “It is what Montair speaks of. Not death—but transition. For what winks out in one place winks on in another, always.” He stared at the fountain, his eyes seeming to dream. “If I were to step through that door ...” He turned to face her. “Would you come with me?” She looked at him longingly—at his fearsome mask—but hesitated. She trusted him, and yet, was this not how death would come? As a whispering seduction? “I don’t know yet,” she said. There was a soft hiss as he depressed the pad at his temple and swung the mask around to his back, then moved his lips to within a few centimeters of her own and paused, breathing slowly, seeming to draw her own breaths from her. “But you would consider it …” “But, Dravidian, where would we go? How would we survive?” He cupped her face in his hands. And though he was too close for her to see his face clearly, his beautiful eyes with their golden irises and Stygian pupils drew her in inexorably, like black holes with golden linings, if such a thing were even possible, and she whispered, “I would step through it ...” He took her in his arms and drew her slowly against him. “And would you find the strength within yourself to persevere even when the world turns its cold face against us?” “Yes,” she rasped. “Then run with me, Shekalane. To the end of Ursathrax and beyond …” And he gently but firmly locked his lips with her own.  

Leseprobe

DEAD WORLD

by

Wayne Kyle Spitzer

Table of Contents

Title Page

Dead World: A Heroic Dark Fantasy Epic in the Horror/Macabre Tradition

Prologue | Hour of a Thousand Paths

I | Ceremony

II | Sun Engine

III / Caveam Cristallum

IV | View to a Kill

V | Dialogue

VI | Explosion

VII | Dravidian Before

VIII | Dream

IX | Aftermath

I | Awakening

II | Crucible

III | Pursuit

IV | Threshold

V | New World

VI | Jamais Vu

VII | Valdus

VIII | Plato’s Cave

IX | Shadow Theatre

X | Escape

XI | Exorcism

I | Confessions

II | Reunion

III | The Cage

IV | Thesea

V | Lying in Wait

VI | Descent

VII | Return

VIII | Treasure Cove

IX | Between Two Worlds

Copyright © 1992, 2017, 2018 Wayne Kyle Spitzer. All Rights Reserved. Published by Hobb’s End Books, a division of ACME Sprockets & Visions. Cover designs Copyright © 2018 Wayne Kyle Spitzer. Please direct all inquiries to: [email protected]

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this book is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Comes a Ferryman

Prologue | Hour of a Thousand Paths

It was the first night of the Sacrificium, a night of sacrifice and death, a night when the black coins tendered in the Lottery would be tendered back. It was also the Hora Mille Semitis, the Hour of a Thousand paths—for that is the day the Sacrificium had fallen on this year—the hour when best friends might become enemies, when lovers of longstanding might betray oaths, the hour in which anything and everything was possible. And the alignment was felt: from the upper echelons of the capitol to the poorest quarters of the downriver provinces. For the message of Valdus’ rebellion had spread—whether it was a tract nailed to a door before quickly being torn down or a blast in the night that caused the power to fail in entire regions. It was a night for dreaming and for huddled collusions, for the breeze to course through rustling leaves, for long dead hearts to awaken and start pumping blood. The Sacrificium had once more come to Ursathrax, but so had the Hour of a Thousand Paths, and Valdus’ Revolution, and something else, something elusive but impossible to ignore, nebulous, but as real as the River Dire, which seemed to have stolen into the world on the wind itself.

I | Ceremony

The hooded and blinkered draft horse knew only the road before it. Of the alfalfa patches they had passed on the way to the ceremony it had shown no interest, although surely it had smelled the plants more acutely than any person. Even things that could have affected its very survival, such as the rawboned fox slinking through the willows along the River Dire, had garnered only a nervous whinny.

“Here we are, miss,” said Dr. Terazza, sounding far away even though he was sitting directly beside her. She’d been so focused on the horse that she hadn’t noticed they’d ground nearly to a halt.

She looked down through the porthole window of the buggy, past the edge of the coffin road and past the long, wide, descending steps (which were abutted on both sides with pews of onlookers, some of whom broke etiquette and turned to look at her). The sacrificial pier was there, ashen black amidst the fog, its dim lanterns maintaining an outline as it stretched away from land—so that when viewed from the road it resembled some Cyclopean, crescent-headed polearm, the tips of whose blade vanished into river smoke.

“Yes,” said Shekalane. “Here we are.” She stared at the pier vacantly. “The ride seemed shorter this time. Isn’t that odd.”

“It seemed short to me, too,” said Terazza.

She looked away from the pier to find him looking at her intently, but kindly. “Perhaps it was only the company,” she said, and smiled at him warmly. “Thank you, Sestus.”

“The honor has been all mine, Ms. Shekalane. It’s a shame it took these circumstances for neighbors to get to know one another. I’ll be sure to free Milkweed when you are well clear, and to look after her after, you have my word.”

She gripped the cushion wing and stood slowly, mounting the short step delicately before proceeding onto the long step and finally the cobblestones.

“Ms. Shekalane ...”

She turned to face him.

“Whatever the Lucitor has called you home for, may your passage be a safe one.”

She moved to respond but hesitated, finding herself drawn to the draft horse again, which snorted and hung its head. She lowered her makeshift veil. “Goodbye, Sestus.”

He tipped his hat to her and snapped the reins, causing the carriage to lurch forward, the horse’s hooves clattering against the stones as Shekalane stepped to the edge of the stairs.

“All rise and face the chosen,” said the rector, followed immediately by a tumult of shifting bodies and thudding woodwork as the congregation rose from their pews.

The sound and the sight of it startled her—but sobered her, too, especially when the wind moaned and a silence fell. There were so many—where had they all come from?

She scanned the faces haphazardly, her attention flitting from one to another. Unklung was there, as she’d known he would be, nearly unrecognizable without his straw hat, and wearing a formal sash across his chest instead of his mushroom bag (all those hours together traipsing dry creek bottoms and shady, overgrown grottos!). Silentina was there, despite their friendship having cooled since her involvement with Valdus. And, to speak of the devil, he was there also—no. No, she could see that she was mistaken. The man in the green cloak and cravat was not Valdus.

“We love you, Shekalane,” someone cried.

And another: “Hear! Let’s hear it for our most beautiful teacher!”

Someone started clapping tepidly—then another, and another, until virtually everyone had joined in, and Shekalane realized she was misting up, even smiling, in spite of herself. The scene somehow touched her beyond words.

“The Lucitor won’t have a jimmy to get up if you get your hands on ‘im,” someone shouted, and there was laughter.

“Not after what He’s put you through!” Cheers.

“Who said he had a jimmy?” More laughter—which became a tumult, which, fueled by the jugs of liquor being passed around as well as everyone’s pre-ceremony jitters dissipating into euphoria, became a crescendo, which quickly became boisterous and carried on too long and led Shekalane to search the crowd for Valdus yet find him nowhere.

And then a raven cawed and a red dot fell wavering upon the rector’s ample forehead, causing those nearest him to gasp and cower, and this, too, spread throughout the crowd, as the dot swung in great but diminishing circles—touching everyone, it seemed, as though it were branding them—until the great, black bird alighted on its special platform and cawed again, this time with finality, ruffling its feathers, folding its wings, and staring coolly out at them with its one real eye and its one cybernetic one—beside which a scarlet light shown piercingly.

The rector fidgeted, and a bottle shattered somewhere amidst the murmuring crowd.

“Ah—yes, well...” He adjusted his robes and patted his torso, searching for something on his person. At last he withdrew a scroll from an inner pocket and spread it open.

“Who stands with this woman to express the good wishes of her family and friends?”

Everyone said, “We do!”

The rector made the sign of the inverted cross—tapping his left hip then his right, then his chest. “Benedictus Lucidus. Shekalane of Jaskir, you may proceed to the edge of the River Dire, whose waters are the sweat and the blood, the, ah, urine and the semen, of the Lucitor Himself, and present yourself to his courier.”

The usual introductory notes sounded from the great and terrible organ which sat to one side of the pier, and Shekalane waited for the inevitable pause between those notes and the music proper to take her first step onto the long, maroon carpet. When the music started, its notes sounding somehow weaker and less substantial than usual, she couldn’t help but dwell on why the melody was different for different groups of people—men from women, children from adult, the aged from all. But she knew why in her heart. It was because the men were going to fight for the Lucitor, the children were going to be trained, the aged and the infirm were going to die, and the women—at least those among them that a man or even a god might find pleasing—were probably going to be raped. How particularly perverse it was then that, as Valdus once explained, the music used for women had once been used to accompany brides on the happiest day of their lives.

She glanced at the player as she proceeded and took note of old Harianna—her wispy white hair fluttering in the breeze, and her little nose just visible beneath the hood of her ceremonial robes. How many such ceremonies had the old woman played, Shekalane wondered, in the expanse of her eighty years? A draft horse whinnied from the vicinity of the carriage lot as if to whisper for her, Too many, Shekalane, including the ones for your son and your beloved Stachtyr, and now my back is curved and I see only the keys before me.

Shekalane scanned the crowds one final time for Valdus as she approached the pier, and not finding him, focused again on the pier itself. The sight of it did not torment her eye or fill her with dread as it once had, when she’d watched from these same steps as big Stachtyr disappeared into a cloud at its terminus. Nor did it seem to suck the very breath from her lungs as it had when little Sihadi was called. She had lost everything so long ago that her own selection in the Lottery was merely an anticlimax; she would miss the ragged children she tutored on Solstice-days, and she would miss the passions of Valdus—although he, too, however indirectly, had been taken from her by the Lottery years ago—but she would not miss the woman who had loved them, or the world in which they had lived. Seeing the children that one last time had been good enough for her—for she had specifically asked that they not be allowed at the ceremony. And as for Valdus, well, she now had her answer as to whether he had ever loved her or not. What he knew of love was reserved for his rebellion—his Quixotic quest to kill Asmodeus and to unseat the Lucitor—she was but a thing to draw strength from.

And what of you, Shekalane? Did you not share his passion for this at first? Was that not the very genesis of the affair? And would you not still be colluding with him intimately as well as strategically were the situation any different? Yes, but ... She shook her head. As with the children, their last encounter had been good enough. That had been a lovely night, the night they’d stolen away in Grintherp’s fishing boat to make stormy love beneath the Dire Borealis. Anything more, anything beyond his physical passion, any single thing expressed verbally or otherwise—would have merely disappointed. It always had.

No, at this point she wanted only to dash the cup of blood and sweat and tears to the ground. Black hole, white fountain, as she’d often expressed to her students. Death and rebirth. What was lost in this universe was lost; what was to come was not of this universe.

There was a commotion as she reached the bottom of the stairs and moved toward the altar—something that sent a ripple through the crowd and caused people to gasp and to express surprise. Shekalane turned to see a winged creature the size of her hand flying toward her erratically—an elfemale, its lithe, white form dancing bat-like through the hazy pools of light. It was Milkweed, and she was carrying something—something which, as the little creature fluttered wildly about her head, Shekalane recognized to be a tiny scroll.

But then the raven entered her frame of vision, cawing excitedly, and Milkweed dropped the thing to the carpet. The little elfemale darted away as the raven pursued, and what followed was an aeronautic dance above the transfixed crowd in which the ignudi tried to escape but was blocked at every turn by the raven. And seeing how distracted everyone was, Shekalane bent quickly and snatched up the parcel.

She turned it in her hands: the scroll was contained in an emerald ring which acted as a seal and bore Valdus’ standard, which glinted in the lantern-light. She swooned a little looking at it—this despite her feelings just a moment before. It touched her somehow beyond words; it was almost as though he were proposing to her—here, now, in her darkest of hours, when it seemed all the world had abandoned her, and with a rush of emotion she pulled the scroll out and put on the ring, then quickly opened the note.

It read: The emerald in this ring is a homing beacon, however its power source is limited. Activate it by pressing the emerald when you approach the Stygian Flowstones, or on my command (which will manifest as a vibration), whichever comes first. Stay alert. You will know what to do. Watch the gateways to the Forbidden Channels. Although he doesn’t know it yet, the ferryman is already dead. Power to the Revolution!

“Hear, hear,” shouted the rector as the airborne combatants vanished into the fog. He tapped his scepter several times. “Order, I say!”

She quickly stuffed the note into her patched, green shawl.

At last the congregation settled. The rector indicated that Shekalane should join him in standing within the great black circle sewn into the carpet, a circle which contained the Lucitor’s own standard—a giant, blood-red inverticus—which was made by connecting the dots of the inverted cross. She did so and he took her hand, then everyone bowed their heads.

“Our Lucitor Who art in His Mansion,” he began, which everyone repeated, including Shekalane. “Tremble we who come before you. Thy kingdom has come, thy will has been done, in the earth and not the heavens. Accept from us this night our blood and souls. And forgive not our wills, as we forgive not our willful. And lead us not to the tyranny of choice, but deliver us one and all down the River Dire. For Thine is the choice, and the predetermination, and the terminus, forever. Benedictus Lucidus.”

“Benedictus Lucidus,” everyone repeated.

“Do you have final words to say, Shekalane of Jaskir?”

She shook her head. She had already said her goodbyes.

He turned her hand palm-up and unfastened his knife sheath as Shekalane looked up at him through the frayed veil—her greenish-brown eyes steady but not without fear—then slid out the knife and laid its sharp edge across her palm.

Shekalane nodded once. Still, he hesitated—until the raven came cawing back and relighted on its upraised platform, its piercingly-lit third eye seeming to focus on him and its tiny beam cutting through the gloom to paint the back of his hand with a scarlet dot. Swifter and more assuredly than she might have thought him capable, he drew the blade across her flesh—then quickly cut his own, re-sheathing the knife and clasping her hand tightly in both of his.

He held like that for several seconds, squeezing so hard his hands shook, then gently placed his palm on her head and just as gently pushed, saying, “Down,” until she was on her knees before him.

“Lift your veil.”

She lifted the veil.

“Good. Now, Shekalane of Jaskir, do—”

A great foghorn sounded in the blackness out over the river, a blackness so complete it might have marked the border of the world, and both he and Shekalane jerked. The distraction with Milkweed had put them behind schedule; regardless, no one was ever prepared to hear that sound, not if they’d attended a thousand such ceremonies.

At last the rector continued: “... do you, ah, if accepted as a bride to our Lucitor, whose bile is the bath of all things tarnished, promise to, to ...”

Shekalane was looking up at him from her hand—which was bleeding profusely—as if to say: Is this how it’s supposed to be?

In his eagerness to please the raven’s camera, he had cut her too deep. He fumblingly withdrew a cloth from his robes and handed it to her, his fingers trembling, which she quickly used to make a crude tourniquet. Then, his thoughts flustered, he withdrew a small, black book from an inner pocket and opened it to the mark.

“Very well. So, ah, do you, Shekalane of Jaskir, ah, promise to share all that He has bestowed upon you, including but not limited to your youth, your beauty, and your skills as a courtesan, and to support Him in all endeavors, big and small?”

The foghorn sounded again, as terrifyingly as the first. And although she knew it emanated from an earthly source—a dragger, one of the great and terrible ships from which the ferrymen launched their gondolas and which transported them upriver after they’d delivered their charges—it didn’t sound earthly. She could only liken it to the sound a tuba made at its lowest note, but then that note changed to one that was slightly higher ... and lingered there, as though the universe itself were brooding over some alien and inscrutable purpose. As a tutor, of course, she knew there could be no such thing as sound in a vacuum. But if there were such a thing, perhaps in a place where all the laws of physics had been turned upside-down, she felt certain that the other-worldly horn was what a black hole itself would sound like.

She heard something pattering softly against the carpet and glanced up to see the rector gripping the book tightly within his wounded hand, trying to slow his own bleeding.

“I do,” she said.

“And will you, if it is decided otherwise, and so that others shall not want for space or bread, submit to death by our Lucitor, whose enzymes and proteins are the building blocks for all Ursathrax, and do so without hesitation or recourse—”

The foghorn sounded again, as if angrily impatient. The signaling torches needed to be lit, yet she knew it was expressly forbidden to do so before the vows were completed. She also knew, as the second note faded back into whatever haunted realm it had come from, that there would be no fourth sounding. The ferryman was already on his way.

The rector tried to hurry things along: “... and do it without recourse to violence?”

“I do,” said Shekalane, then quickly corrected herself: “I will.”

“Then I now pronounce you one with the Lucitor, and forever estranged from those who are not. And what the Lucitor has torn asunder, may no man reconcile.” He made the sign of the inverted cross, then raised his bloodied fingers, flicking them once, twice, a third time, spotting her face with maroon. “Rise and replace your veil.”

The crowd shouted: “Benedictus Lucidus!”

She stood but gave pause, for amidst the chorus were the voices of children. Her children, she realized, seated right there in the front. The entire class was there, including round, red-headed Alana and mute, feral Lat, who had come to them out of nowhere—simply washed ashore one day—like a piece of beautiful driftwood. He sat slightly apart from the others as he always had, and seemed truly lost, just completely and utterly alone.

Shekalane glanced at old, bespectacled Mabellisa, unsure whether to love her of hate her for ignoring her edict; had she known the children were there, she would have given last words! Especially to poor Lat, who had no friends or family but Shekalane herself—for she had always bonded best with singular and unique personages, be they children or adults.