Terminus

This time, George kept his eyes closed when he walked between worlds. It helped, a little. There was still that feeling of nothing, of being nothing, but it was shorter and he could ignore it by humming the Horst Wessel song as loudly as he could. There was no tyrannical father here to whip him for singing Nazi Germany’s national anthem, no one to tell him what to do!

Of course,that wasn’t entirely true. When the song was over and done, he peered over at the blue-robed guy who had come with him. That guy was his ticket back. He couldn’t kill him, if it came down to it. Well, George had no doubt he COULD, he’d spent the entirety of the trip down the tower gazing at the back of the guy’s skull and marking every opportunity that he’d passed on to tackle him down stairs, or take the dinner knife they’d given him and get a killing cut in, and came to twenty-one opportunities all told. But George had learned with great reluctance that just because you COULD do something didn’t mean you SHOULD. Not now. Not until it was safe.

“Behold!” the blue guy said. What was his name? Banker? The wizard spread his arms, and gestured vaguely around. “Behold the Terminus!”

George counted murder opportunity twenty-two, and turned, slowly, taking it in.

Okay, he’d been prepared to be unimpressed. Yeah, the big glowy tree with the pointy eared green guys (and girls, and THAT had gotten his mind chewing on some possibilities,) had been a sight. But inside it was smaller than he’d thought, barely five stories high in the hollow.

Terminus was huge.

They were on a smooth stone platform about the size of Yankee Stadium’s field, and it was only one of about twenty that stretched out in the distance, separated by hundreds of yards of empty air. They were arrayed at various heights, supported by great stone pillars carved with horned horses, winged people, and armored guys brandishing weapons in all directions. Each platform had a wire lattice above it, stretching up towards a vaguely minaret shape. For a second he was reminded of the Kremlin’s domes, and he bared his teeth. Were they secret commies after all?

Then with a flash, a crash, and a bang, lightning bounded out of the swirling black clouds high above, struck one of the wire lattices on a far platform, and darted down the sides and away, illuminating wiring all down the pillar until it was lost in the depths of the slightly less black clouds about eighty feet below.

Completing the turn, George stared at the stone ring behind them. There were turtle-like heads carved into it, next to dead and rotting turtle-like heads on iron spikes. The blood ran down gutters, and he caught a whiff of really foul decay. He had an inkling that if they weren’t so high up, and the winds weren’t constant, then it’d probably stink pretty bad, here.

He glanced back to Banker… Banger? And he saw the man assembling what looked like a kite. Another one was tucked under his arm.

“What’s that?”

He didn’t expect a direct answer. They didn’t like giving those. And George rolled his eyes, as his question was met with a history lesson.

But he listened anyway, because looking around the platform, it didn’t look like there was anywhere to go that wasn’t a long drop into the clouds. Unless the size of it was hiding a ladder off the side, he needed Brandon to show him the way.

That was irritating. George didn’t like relying on other people for directions. It wasn’t manly.

Oblivious to George’s irritation, the man went on.

“Elythia is not yet conquered. As such, the King’s law prevents the platform from being lowered without good reason. After all, the first defense against enemy incursion is gravity. This is why I was sent to guide you.” Banquo pushed a kite into his hands. “Hold it above you, hang on with all your might, and jump off precisely where I jump off.”

“What?” George blinked. He’d caught the last few words of that. “Wait, we’re jumping down? Into THAT?” he waved at the clouds below them.

“Unless you have a better way,” Bologna smirked. He turned and started walking toward the nearest edge, maybe a hundred feet away.

“What if I fall? What if it doesn’t work?” George hurried after, feeling fear rise in his gut.

“Then I suppose you were not the Chosen One after all.” Bester sneered back, then suddenly turned and ran, raising his kite above his head, and leaping off the edge.

George watched him go, swallowing hard.

All his life, he’d hated feeling afraid.

It had been his motivator from the first day he could remember having memories. The point he stopped being a toddler, and started being a kid.

Then he got a little older, and learned that fear was shameful. But no matter what he did, he couldn’t stop feeling it. And he hated it.

So George did what he always did, and ran headlong at the thing that scared him, trying to beat it.

It wasn’t courage. He knew it wasn’t courage. Courage was when you didn’t care, when you were manly and tough, and you didn’t feel fear.

No, he did it because either he’d win and not be afraid anymore, or the thing he was afraid of would kill him and he wouldn’t be afraid because he was in heaven.

Then there was no more platform under his feet, and George clung to the kite as he fell into the clouds.

The clouds passed quickly, as George fought to keep from screaming. He wasn’t sure how fast he was falling—

—and then he was out under them, and oh, okay, THAT was a city.

Was Terminus the name of the platform area they’d arrived on or the city itself? He didn’t know, and he wasn’t about to appear ignorant the next time he got a chance to talk with the blue guy. And he was pretty sure there WOULD be another chance now, because the city was approaching slower than it should be. The kite was doing its job, and he had plenty of time to take in the sights.

That was good. There was a lot to look at. Even if his arms were starting to ache a bit.

About a dozen big towers, easily the size of New York skyscrapers, rose almost to touch the lower layer of clouds. Each one was a different style. One looked almost baked from terracotta, with spiraling layers that reminded him of the Tower of Babel illustration in his kid’s bible reader from school.

Another was black, obsidian black and square, with white spikes clustered on its vertical surfaces. It was the plainest of them, but it was bristling with ramparts and platforms that he was pretty sure would let defenders shoot down easily at anything below them. It would be a nightmare to take without decent weapons and maybe a few truckloads of explosives.

There was a yellow one that shone with gold, opulent and laid out like he imagined a proper wizard’s tower looking, all impossible spires and pointy turrets. It was thinner at the base than the zenith, and he was pretty sure it would have been impossible to build and keep standing without magical help.

These three and more, all whirled past as he craned his neck, trying not to shift the course of the kite too much.

And then, once he got lower, he saw what lay at the base of the towers.

It was huts, mostly.

Huts and shoddy houses and tents, slapped together with junk of all shapes and sizes. Wood and cloth and bits of carved, broken stone. Metal and what looked like giant bones, and more exotic things in a few cases.

The towers stretched up high, and the encampments around them huddled in their shadows, some surrounded by crude stone walls, but most open and sprawling.

That said, none of them touched. The towers weren’t far apart, a few miles at most, but unlike the connected cities and suburbs that George had seen out of plane windows, these seemed to actively avoid points of connection. A few had paths and roads carved into the brown-black mud, but all of them veered away at the point of connection. It was almost like there was an invisible border around each tower and its associated land.

Still, if there was, it wasn’t inviolate. He saw a few wagons and the tiny specks of people trudging across the plain in a few spots, obviously moving from one area to another. There was some trade, at least.

Fewer people than he expected for a place this big, though.

And then he saw it, twisting around and gazing at the center of everything.

The stone pillars that held up the platforms came down, looking like great, stone totem poles with all the carvings. And they made a ring around a big fortress, that had a bunch of smaller towers rising in rings toward a central column.

It reminded him of a tree stump. This one was ringed with spikes, similar to the black and white tower, but each spike was conical and jutting sideways rather than vertically.

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His former co-workers would have joked about dicks. But George had been raised properly. Besides, they were narrower at the end than at the base, so his co-workers would have been wrong, like usual. At least he’d been spared the annoyance of having to set them right!

It was about this point he realized that he’d lost sight of Bonky. Or Baccarat? What was his name? Either way, the guy had been a blue speck below him, up until the point he started turning around to look at things. But now that he looked down, he saw that his motions had taken the kite off course a bit, and he was close enough to the ground now, that he was having real trouble reacquiring his guide against the cobbles and buildings and walls of the central keep. There were a lot of random colors and textures, and George’s eyesight wasn’t as good as it used to be.

But this was obviously all Bosco’s fault! The bastard had set him up; George had no doubt of this.

Were the rest of the wizards in on the plot? George had known they couldn’t be trusted. He’d have to land, lose his clothing, blend in with the rest of the people down below, and find a way to lower the platform. Brando had been a fool to mention that in front of him! Now that George knew it was possible, he was confident he could make it happen. He just had to find the right people to threaten, or maybe he could acquire some weapons first. Or perhaps he’d be better off immediately going to ground, and hiding until the people who were no doubt waiting to ambush him finished searching for him…

All of George’s nascent plans were dashed as he aimed toward a mostly-empty square between two moderately-populated streets, and saw a familiar blue-robed form strolling unhurriedly towards his landing zone. For a second George contemplated dropping on him, but his arms were throbbing and aching, and he wasn’t sure if he dared risk shifting the kite to try and ambush the guy.

“You win again, Brutus,” George muttered to himself.

“What was that?” the blue guy asked, frowning at him, with that ridiculous goatee twitching and pointing his way.

George didn’t answer. He hit the ground, almost fell, and jogged until his momentum was gone. It only took a couple of dozen steps. He let the kite go, and had the satisfaction of watching Bumpo chase after it. Well worth the dirty look he got after the guy retrieved his little toy.

“I said, you got a pretty city here,” George told him.

“It is the center of all universes,” the wizard smirked. Then the smile faded. “Though your world does have a few larger, which is curious. I do not know how your primitive peoples managed that without any magic at all.”

“Good old American ingenuity and hard work!” George declared, happily.

“Of course,” the wizard said, losing interest and turning away. He beckoned, absently. “Come, then.

George tucked his hands in his pockets, and followed along. He still didn’t like wearing the robes because they were too much like dresses, and dresses were for girls, but at least they had pockets in them. These people weren’t all primitive idiots. Just mostly. Still, he figured he’d leave bringing democracy to them until he was back home and giving his full report to the President and Congress and J. Edgar Hoover personally.

“You’ll be a hero, Georgie!” the dead rat whined. “They’ll give you so many medals! They’ll rip your shirts up they’ll be so heavy, Georgie!” it said, as it kept pace alongside them on the streets. They were passing a few people, now that they were out of the square, so George waited to reply to it until they had a brief lull in the bystanders.

“Okay, rat. They tell me you’re part of my brain now so I guess we’re stuck working together.”

“But Georgie, I’ve been telling you that for days now—”

“Yes, but what reason did I have to trust you? Look at you! You’re disgusting! Why would I get such a pathetic and disgusting familiar?”

“Georgie, I didn’t choose this form. Something in you chose—”

“No I didn’t!” George yelled. A few people down the street looked down at him. The blue wizard, who he’d decided was called Balancer, didn’t bother looking back. None of the wizards seemed really surprised by him talking with his familiar any more.

But George was a little embarrassed by the onlookers staring at him. Enough of them looked freakish that it bothered him, because they were looking at him like HE was the freak. He wasn’t. No matter what anyone said. “I didn’t choose your form,” George told his familiar. “Stop lying.”

The dead rat looked away. “I don’t know if I could lie to you, Georgie.”

“And call me George!”

“But you’re not George. You’re Georgie. Deep in your heart, you’ll always be Georgie. And you know that’s true.”

George went to kick the rat, and it disappeared. Bastard! he thought. Maybe there was a way to get that thing out of his head. He’d eaten the last dead rat that had given him grief. And yeah, that had been a mistake, given how sick he’d gotten afterward, but this rat was making him sick anyway. It’d be worth it.

Balancer continued, oblivious, and when Georgie stopped plotting ways to munch on his own brain and actually bothered to look around, he saw that they’d moved through the alleys and side streets, and were about to join onto a main thoroughfare. And okay, now this was starting to get impressive.

The street was divided by a long, rectangular crevice into darkness. As he watched, slabs of stone moved through the crevice and occasionally zipping in the open space between the walkways. Items and occasionally people sat on the stones, bound in by ropes and chains, but they were moving at a pretty good clip so there wasn’t much time to study them.

To either side of the crevice, above the main part of the divided street, were walkways that joined together in the center. Balancer was heading to one of the many staircases that climbed up to the upper walkway. The people who made up a steady stream of foot traffic gave him a wide berth. Less so for George, forcing him to dodge and weave around oncoming pedestrians. In the end, he had to put some speed on to keep up with the wizard.

The upper walkway was much more sparsely occupied. And everyone up here was wearing a badge of some sort. None spared him more than a glance. He eyed them as they went, marking up each of the differences without being TOO obvious about it. Here, one woman with her hair up in braids and a metal shirt had holes in her lips that teeth poked through. Another giant of a woman was ashen gray, with burning red and black eyes. One hunched, small man hurrying by with an arm full of scrolls had a spare set of joints between his elbows and his hands.

And as they went, the oncoming traffic soon started outnumbering the people going the way Balancer was leading them.

Ten minutes into the walk, they were just approaching the inner ring of the city, and George was starting to feel it. “Hey!” he called, putting on a burst of speed to catch up with the blue wizard. “Why didn’t we fly over this part? It’s taking forever.”

Balancer looked at him like he’d suggested the moon was made out of cabbages. “We would die. None arrive to the House of the Unicorn, save on foot, with open hands, and words of praise.”

“We’d die? Is this more magic stuff?”

“Magic, yes. And also quite a lot of archers ready to shoot any who attempt flight to bypass the outer wards.”

“Ah. Controlled airspace. I hear you, pal.”

“Of course you hear me, I am speaking to—” Balancer cut himself off, and looked away briefly, goatee waggling as his face quivered. “You must keep your words civil while in there. Do not castigate your familiar. Do not speak foolishly. Make sure you words mean what you mean to say! Understand and obey!”

George felt rage rise in him, hot and hateful. Who is this asshole to try to tell ME what to do? For a brief second, he thought of pushing the man off the walkway, seeing if he could splatter him with one of those superfast stone slabs going past.

But only for a second. Then he remembered the guy could fly. George simply nodded, and fell back behind him. Nobody’s my boss unless I make them my boss. And I just have to play along, see how tough this King really is, he reminded himself. Once I help them fight off those commie turtle hordes, might be I could take that crown. Just gotta keep the guys up top happy until everything comes up George.

The palace was a collection of spires, rising impossibly up. As tall as the towers outside, but thinner and pointier. Grim-faced guards in crimson and purple armor stood with swords at their sides, arms folded, surveying everyone who passed through the eight-story tall gates. There weren’t many people coming in; those that did had golden unicorn badges, just like the one that George was wearing.

Balancer did NOT have a unicorn badge. The blue wizard tapped a patch on his robe that looked like some sort of bird, as the guards approached. Three of them peeled off and walked around him, one waving a wooden stick over him as he spoke. George reached for the translation charm in his pocket, the one that the wizards had given him, but stopped when two of them looked his way, sharply.

“Easy, fellas,” George said in his best John Wayne drawl. “I’m on your side.”

They didn’t look impressed, and rattled off primitive talk at Balancer. He squawked back. They must have liked what they heard, because the guy with the stick backed off, nodding, and the others stepped back, literally waving them through the gate.

The courtyard was pretty enough, if you liked gardens. It reminded George of slides he’d seen of some place in Holland, with tulips and paths and stuff like that. The inner keep, surprisingly, wasn't as tall as the towers. It was a single sheet of crimson, shiny stone, formed into the shape of a three-story building. Stone pillars ringed it. Eleven had animal heads carved into them, bowing toward the building.

“Compose yourself,” the wizard said, heading toward the central keep. “You are about to be in the presence of the King.”

George followed, but couldn’t get the contrast out of his mind. Compared to the spires that ringed it, and the city outside, it was… well, pretty basic. Not as impressive as George expected. “I expected him to be up a little higher,” George said, glancing up at the spires, as they walked in the shadows of the giant stone towers.

“We cannot move him until it is done,” Balancer said.

“Until what is done?”

“See for yourself,” the wizard gestured at the opening crimson and purple-veined doors, and the two heavily armored, masked guards who uncrossed spears as they drew closer, and parted to let them in. “From here you go alone. Good luck.”

George glanced at him, sidelong. Then he walked past the guards, and into the darkness.

*****

It actually didn’t take long, though to George it was an eternity.

And when he emerged into the sunlight again, he was shaking.

Balangor, that was the wizard’s name, he remembered it now. Fear brought clarity.

Balangor looked upon him, smiling. It wasn’t a cruel smile. George thought there was sympathy there. But in that moment, he hated Balangor, hated him worse than anyone he’d ever hated, for bringing them there. For just walking him to… THAT, like a goat to the slaughter.

“And now you see,” Balangor whispered.

“How?” George asked.

Balangor blinked, “what do you mean?”

“How is he still alive?” George’s voice cracked as he spoke.

Balangor looked at the guards behind him, and motioned George to follow. Only once they were away, did he speak. “He will not be forever. But he is taking a very long and very painful time dying. A very long and painful time indeed.”

George stared at the back of the wizard’s skull, as he followed him away from the thing he had seen sitting on the throne. The thing that should not be.

And though he hated Balangor, he pushed it away. He had bigger worries, as his fear began to ebb, and the gears in George’s mind started to turn.

There was no seizing that throne. Not at THAT cost.

George needed to get back home, tell the President, and convince him to burn this entire city to ash with nuclear fire.