World in the Satin Bag

(Note:  This is not official version and may be removed in the near future.  This do not reflect what is read in the podcast version, nor any other version you may encounter.  I have preserved the rough form for posterity — or something like that.  This novel has since been rewritten.) James awoke into a world of light so bright that he had to squint just to be able to see anything at all. All around him was a vast nothingness that led nowhere. There were no walls, no ground, and no sky. He wondered for a moment if he were in heaven and if he had died. The pain that he had been expecting wasn’t there and when he brought his hands to his face he could clearly see that no gashes or scars were there. It was as if he were completely untouched, further adding to his fear that he had in fact died and gone to heaven. Then someone appeared as a faded shade of gray. The figure walked leisurely, only fully becoming visible when the two of them were mere feet apart. The face of the man before him smiled warmly beneath a sandy blonde beard that hung at his neckline. Two faded green eyes looked down, further adding to the warmth of the smile. Then a hand extended. James took it and stood. No sensations came to him. No lightheadedness; no pain or weakness. When he looked into the eyes of the man before him, though, sensation came in short waves, exposing warmth and cold, chills and shivers. The man only grinned wider and then spoke softly. “This is a rather bizarre occasion.” James recognized the voice immediately. “Dulien?” Dulien nodded. “You’re not dead by the way. And I can still hear your thoughts, though they are more muffled when they are thoughts within thoughts.” “Thoughts within thoughts?” “Seeing how you are not dead, but you aren’t exactly dreaming either, you are capable of thinking even though your mind is thinking this right now.” “That doesn’t make much sense.” Dulien shook his head. “No, it doesn’t. But not a whole lot about you makes sense.” There was a long pause. Then Dulien continued, “When you return to the real world you’ll be in quite a lot of pain I imagine.” “What happened?” “You lost control.” “But, how did I lose control. Where did all of that energy come from?” “It came from you. Sometimes,” Dulien came forward and knelt down to look at him eye to eye, “magic comes at such speeds and in such quantities that the user cannot comprehend it. It simply tears its way through, just as it happened to you. I suspect that it came from your world. As you said, it is a world without magic, yet magic exists everywhere. With magic forgotten in your world it is no small wonder that it would try to use you as a vessel to escape its confines. Magic is alive in some ways.” “Alive?” “It doesn’t think if that is what you are implying. But it certainly has desires that it must fulfill. Being cooped up is no way for magic to live.” “So, it just tore itself out of me.” James shifted his position. “Yes, unfortunately. This is, to say the least, new and disturbing for me. You should be dead. Magic like that would kill most anyone. I’ve faced powerful magic before…this is something entirely new. Your soul should have been destroyed.” He nodded, remembering how Dulien and defied Luthien so long ago, too long ago. “I’m well known for that, yes, but unfortunately I think people have forgotten that it was I who invented the Fearl. Some more ambitious fellow capitalized on the idea.” It came as a shock to James, and at the same time there was a sense of wonder and fascination. He couldn’t help being slightly overjoyed at knowing that the Fearl he owned was the same one with the imprint of its original inventor. Something about that made him feel lucky, though ‘special’ likely would have been the term used by everyone else. Dulien put a firm hand on his shoulder. “I don’t understand how the magic of your world works, nor do I understand how this magic can simply cross worlds so easily, as if there were no barrier. Magic can’t really do that.” “But it is doing that.” “Yes. Listen, many have tried and many have wasted away their lives trying to find ways to access other magic. The only ones that ever succeeded were those that managed to connect our worlds, but even then they were limited to what the magic of this world was capable of. They could never touch the magic of Earth. You are the only one that I have known to do such a thing. And…” “Let me guess,” he interrupted with a hint of sarcasm, “that makes me special.” Dulien curled his lip in a soft smile. “Exactly.” The light suddenly faded. There was something strange about it all, like it was all a magnificently elaborate and very lucid dream. As the light dissipated, he had the sensation of falling nowhere, and then sleep. James woke up into a world of agonizing pain. He couldn’t pinpoint it to any one place because every single part of his body ached, even where he thought it shouldn’t. He couldn’t open his eyes. Instead, he grunted and groaned and protested to whoever would hear him. Flashes of light flickered in his eyelids, mostly white, but some like little red pixels from an old video game. New bursts of pain ran through him as someone touched his legs. He cried out, but he couldn’t move his mouth much at all, so the sound came as a muffle even to his ears. Then a pair of fingers pried his left eye open and more pain stabbed him. His vision was blurred and he desperately tried to focus in on the face

(Note:  This is not official version and may be removed in the near future.  This do not reflect what is read in the podcast version, nor any other version you may encounter.  I have preserved the rough form for posterity — or something like that.  This novel has since been rewritten.) James heard the sounds before he looked. They were close and he imagined that he could actually feel the breath of wicked monsters along the nape of his neck. Powerful howls forced him to close off his ear canals. He’d heard them in the distance moments before, but now they were immediately behind. There were screeches unlike the Nu’thri, like children screaming at that unnaturally high pitch, inhuman. Then there was the sound of the Nu’thri, screeching in protest somewhere farther behind. Then he looked, chancing that brief moment when the trek ahead seemed without obstacles. His heart leapt into his throat, his stomach too, and he gulped frantically to push them down. The beats of his heart became wild with fear and terror. His skin crawled with goose bumps and every hair on his body, except the ones on his head that were far too heavy to move, stood up at attention, while his pupils became narrow like lifeless circles embedded in his skull. The creatures that followed were far removed from being human, yet at the same time they bore disturbingly human characteristics. The three beasts in the lead of the pack were wolves, but not ordinary wolves. They were larger than any man James had ever seen with obvious muscles flexing and rippling down their flanks. They ran on all fours, but hobbled on their two front legs as if they could run on both two and four legs. Long snouts, enshrouded with thick, oily, silver fur met with jaws filled with sharp yellow teeth, monstrous in every way. Spittle dribbled from their lips and their eyes were unnaturally blue as if they were dead. The fur ran all the way down their flanks to stretched, bushy tails; claws dug deep into the earth with each movement and their snarls filtered through the air of other sounds. James knew immediately that these were werewolves. The landscape rushed by as he rode, the soft ashen earth bursting alive at each hoof beat. Iliad led him one way, and then another, winding around small fires that thrust new ash and black smoke into the air, flames lost in the dark and only noticeable by the sounds and the continuing motion of new burned material. The air became suddenly warmer as Iliad led on. When James took in his surroundings again he saw massive fires burning everywhere—a hot spot. The flames were visible and rose up into the sky like hungry fingers. The sounds were deafening, so much so that he could hardly hear the sound of his own steed plowing along. Howls came again from the rear. He peered once more, saw the beasts, and turned back. Fear engulfed him. They were going to catch up, there was no doubt in his mind. The steeds were fast, but not fast enough. Mirdur’eth turned sharp right, following Iliad, and then sharp left, and back again. They wound around a huge flame, the heat causing a sudden tinge of pain on James’ face. He leaned away and then they were away from it. Then all stopped. On both sides of them were flames and molten ash festering in tiny pools. Ahead the flat ground abruptly gave way to a tall cliff face too steep and high for anyone to climb. The cliff was obsidian all the way up, dark and shimmering with the light from the fires. James turned Mirdur’eth, catching Iliad’s eye and seeing the panic in the man’s face. He saw Pea and Darl too—sweat trickling down to their chins—and Triska with her soft, motherly complexion turned into a dirty and stern parody of her former self. He knew instantly that they were trapped, even as he turned and beckoned Mirdur’eth to gallop in the opposite direction. The werewolves were there first, waltzing out of the shadows and black plumes with wicked grins upon their faces, if such a thing were possible. Heads low, mouths frothing with anticipation, they ambled forward and covered the only escape route, spreading out across the small expanse of open space. Their eyes gleamed with the flickers of orange flame, turning their unnaturally blue eyes into sinister moons reddened by the path of the sun. Each were entirely the same, no distinguishing marks whatsoever. Yet it was the one in the middle that seemed to lead as it took a few steps and let out a mighty howl, leaning its head back as it did so. A moment later and the other two followed suit. “Dismount,” Darl said. “Why?” Iliad clung to the reigns as if they were his only hope of survival. “Werewolves have no regard for other living things. They’ll kill the horses and Blaersteeds without thinking twice. A meal is a meal to them.” Iliad seemed to concede, moving his gaze from Darl to James, and then to the three werewolves, now pacing back and forth as if contemplating the best action to take next. “At least we have magic on our side,” James said with a fake grin, then hopped off of Mirdur’eth. “Not really,” Pea said, dismounting. “Werewolves are resistant.” “And cunning.” Darl drew James’ sword for him, handing the hilt over. “A scratch can be healed, but if any of you are bitten after this is over I will not hesitate to kill you.” Pea grimaced. “I thought you would say something of that nature. The feeling is all too mutual my grumpy friend.” James lifted his blade, feeling the weight. It felt no different in his hands than it had days ago, yet doubt in his abilities appeared in his mind and stuck. The corrupted Masters were easy, he thought. They had no physical weapons,