Fan Fic: The Wonder Worlock: Part The Second
Posted by: Byron Brewer, Managing Editor
February 17, 2011 13:20 | Updated: 2 years 13 weeks Ago
February 17, 2011 13:20 | Updated: 2 years 13 weeks Ago
By Byron Brewer, Creator/
PART THE SECOND
Third rock from the sun. Or at least it used to be. Now it’s just a rock, swirling in a chalky emptiness. Whole but lifeless.
An alien wind whips across crimson sand dunes that once were fragrant fields with flowers of all hues, blooming amid the blue grasses nourished by purple rains. No pink clouds in its skies these days, but just a sort of dull endless daylight.
As the storms of air grow and wane in intensity, dust is picked up from its surface. Some consists of soils native to another galaxy, transformed chemically by unknown teleportational methods. Some consists of the last vestiges of a great people, a progressive planet. Amid that dust blowing in the wind are the scorched remains of a man once called Jackovich and a young girl named Allie. They are now truly a part of their Homeworld.
To this dead world in the heart of a dead galaxy comes the Wonder Worlock. Using his space-bending wizardry, the mage reversed the torrential furies that teleported the world from its home space to this alien landscape. To the cosmic adventurer, it was akin to following a trail of bread crumbs.
“Zootalaris! But this is a dead region of otherwise normal space,” he says to no one in particular. “Even the black force – that stuff between the matter most know – is as white as the bleakest, blankest mountaintops of Niflheim. This is just wrong. For the sake of cosmic balance, if not for the sake of the departed countrymen of she who was called Aloka, I must attempt a reverse teleportation.
“This world must return to its original place in the cosmic Scheme of Things!!”
Invisible sweat lines the insides of the Wonder Worlock’s ebony cowl as an interior struggle begins. Slowly, the eye holes of that mask blaze like coals on a hot summer grill and, almost as if they were bound in heavy shackles, his arms hang loosely to his side. And then … and then …
Achingly slowly, his limbs reach from his knees to the milky heavens, his weighty head pushing his large collar back and his cape flaps crazily in a wind from nowhere. The ground beneath his feet shakes and the planet begins to warble, almost fluid in its appearance now.
The implosion that follows is stunning, even from an area of space that floats on milky foam like so much breakfast cereal. Dead worlds collide, explode and careen out of their artificially placed orbits. New asteroid belts are swiftly formed amid the creamy cosmos. But one world is saved from the devastation left in the wake of the hex. Aloka’s world has returned to its original place.
Homeworld, still lifeless, is … home.
On the surface of the barren rock, now again orbiting its home star, the Wonder Worlock pulls his aching form from the ground onto a boulder. Soaked with perspiration, a finger flick summons a small storm cloud that rains cool H2O down on the ebony wizard and the dead world beneath him. The ground of Homeworld soaks his shower up like a thirsty sponge. It is the first time in the history of the planet that fluid consisting of hydrogen and oxygen both has fallen here.
My work here now begins, he thinks.This will attract the attention of the high order life form responsible for these acts. No one can blame nature for these teleportations! Aloka’s Almighty Se-Jus had no hand in this. No, the energies I followed to the Sargasso space have the feel of Creation itself. Someone or something is doing this that hails from a place that was young when the All-World was new.
He floats above the planet recently returned to its origin point, this mage in black, contemplating his actions of the last few hours, still horrified for having returned the girl’s soul to Everwhen before it had spent an hour in the Hereafter. He had only attempted such a hex twice before, and the personal horror of those acts haunts him still, haunts him now.
This world is dead and lifeless, but it will shine like a beacon in the fog to my opponent, the Wonder Worlock thinks. Its sense of completeness, of reality will be out of sync with the girl’s world absent from its vanilla puzzle. The reverse teleportation will stick out like a z’nyte chip in a coalism barn! This, the high order power – whatever its genesis – will not be able to tolerate! I have but to wait … and watch.
The cosmic powerhouse doesn’t have to wait long as an aperture opens above Homeworld and what comes out chills the Wonder Worlock to the bone: a bodiless voice, more in his head than his ears, emanates from the hole, colors of every hue and intensity warbling around in its form like a liquid rainbow.
“I am Nomad! Before there was this, there was I. What have you done, wet worm? My Completeness has been compromised and one of the hard balls has been taken from There and brought back Here. I am building There with materials from Here and have been robbed. You must be stopped, dark man-thing. You must be stopped!”
Wave after wave of other-dimensional energies bombard the Wonder Worlock, sending the spacefarer reeling. A simple conjurer’s cone, cast by the experienced sentential of the spaceways, captures the energies and funnels them back at Nomad, angering the high order life form. The right hand of the Wonder Worlock then glows white-hot, and begins to grow and extend to mammoth proportions. Simultaneously, twin tongs appear above the giant sentient aperture. “Behold! The Pinchers of Power and the Guided Muscle!” the mystic master psionically shouts as the giant hand grabs the nothingness that is Nomad. The Pinchers of Power then attach to each edge of the creature and the warbling rainbow is darkened – momentarily, at least.
A white dot forms in the gloom and the colors of the dark aperture flare to life again, oddly like an old color TV set being turned off in reverse. Immediately, crimson shards of poison fire at the Wonder Worlock like so many arrows from a machine gun. The first barrage takes the mage by surprise. While they do not pierce his personal force field, thus saving his life, their velocity cracks his secondary shields, causing him to double over, wince and tumble aimlessly above what remains of Homeworld.
Catching his balance as he plummets, the Wonder Worlock raises his right hand as he now soars above the scorched desert that is Aloka’s world, summoning the Eternal Fingers of Flame. Nomad is surrounded by the hellfire and begins to show signs of weakness around its edges. But solar winds from within the animated aperture cool the Flaming Fingers, finally blowing them out entirely.
Amid its own winds, Nomad is not quick to notice breezes blowing from elsewhere. The Wonder Worlock has summoned the mighty Vortex of Viruses which encircles the living wormhole and begins to break down the chemistry of the high order entity’s molecular structure. In true danger, Nomad forms an egg about itself that floats only seconds before the aperture is healed entirely. When the egg cracks open, the oval floats out and the goop spills all over the dark mage.
The Wonder Worlock calls for refreshing rains from the heavens to wash the bacterial-like quagmire off his physique. He then strengthens the storm and directs a bolt of celestial lightning at Nomad. Unfortunately, the eerie energies only heighten the power of the living gateway!
Freezing winds begin to blow as the Vortex of Viruses again engulfs Nomad’s warbling form. The whirling winds then create a downward spiral, literally sucking Nomad into an alternate dimension. The cosmic conjurer takes a breath, thinking the moment’s respite might become a battle victory. It is then the air crackles above Homeworld’s corpse, as the being known as Nomad reenters our reality through – itself!
Cloaking his psionic activity, the Wonder Worlock warps light waves through and around his form, effectively becoming invisible. The pit that is Nomad grows dormant, telepathically seeking out his quarry while ultraviolet energies search for the mystic’s heat signature. But as the gigantic oval floats mere miles above the third rock from the sun, another hole starts to open next to the godlike being.
The Wonder Worlock has opened – the Dread Dungeon of Doom!
The Dragon of GazaIV! The Tridactyl Trio! The Great Ilahk! The Dozen Dwarves of Wons Etihw! Mork! These deadliest of cosmic denizens pour from the Dungeon, as an irresistible vacuum sucks the high order entity called Nomad slowly towards it. Somewhere, invisibly, the Wonder Worlock smiles a satisfied smile.
“What trickery is this?” Nomad says as the Dwarves are immediately dragged in and through its many-colored form by tendrils lined with spikes. “Parlor tricks? Now you don’t see them, now you do? Bwahahahahaha!”
The violet Dragon of Gaza IV leaps at Nomad, but its colors splash outward and engulf the reptile. When the colors dissipate into gas, so does the Dragon. The troll-like Mork points his glowing finger at the gas and it transforms suddenly into flowers of the same color. Then, the petals explode toward Nomad. “Noonah! Noonah!” screams the barbarian.
At that time, Ilahk pokes his mammoth hand into the abyss of Nomad, and – if it is imaginable – the oval is visibly pained. “Noonah! Noonah!” Mork screams again, but mindlessly attacks Ilahk, who is then sucked into the Dungeon along with the troll. “Noonaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhh!!”
Nomad turns toward the three-headed flying reptile known as the Tridactyl Trio as the creature pulls together its facial composition and three fanged mouths dripping in poison snap around the edges of the hole in space. Nomad’s colors flicker, and again crimson shards of poison fire all about. But they merely bounce off the lizard’s scaly body. “Rrrrrarrrr!!” is the Tridactyl’s only response.
“I will not fail! There depends on Nomad!”
As Nomad begins to metamorph into a mocking version of the flying reptile, Blue Bands of Bedevilment string like Christmas ribbons from limbo, binding the quasi-solid wormhole. Then they quickly contract!
Another primal scream, this one also heard by the ears of the Wonder Worlock. Nomad is trapped!
As the Dungeon of Doom and the Tridactyl fade, the cosmic crusader spins a web of null-time around Nomad’s physical form … or what there is of it. For the self-proclaimed ruler of There, time effectively stands still on the physical plane.
Face to “face,” the Wonder Worlock locks perceptions with the high order entity. While mere moments pass in our universe, on the Astral Plane a cataclysmic bout resumes: mystic vs. monster, Here vs. There! But as he battles, the Wonder Worlock also probes. He searches for mental treasures, hidden secrets – and strikes the mother load!
“Your secret! I know it finally!” the reanimated mouth of the mage shouts to the hole in the heavenly tapestry. “You are NO villain, no cancerverse to the cosmic balance. Your origin at Creation’s Point proves you to be no foe of the Natural Order, but part of that Order! You are a dimensional gateway but one that has gained sentience. You may be the first of a new high order race! I ...”
“What say you?! I am not a mere gateway from thence to thither! No amoeba crawling under a skyscope! I am a King! A Conqueror!! I am making a kingdom. I come to Here and use these blue marbles, these building blocks to build There!”
“You teleport living worlds across space/time,” the Wonder Worlock continues, his eyes reflecting light from the nova burst he earlier heard. “You feed on the fear of the planet’s residents, yes? You always bring the planets to the place you term ‘There’? … Portal. Wormhole. Gateway. But with a brain!”
Silence orbits the stationary Nomad as the Blue Bands unravel and the “King of There” assumes its natural form.
“A sentient wormhole? New life form? The deaths that line my road from Creation may be easier to bear with this knowledge. Why has the extinction, the destruction, the deaths of these beings not bothered me before??”
“Because you are growing, Nomad. Learning. Becoming self-aware.”
“I just may be in your debt, Wonderworlock. But tell me this …”
It is at this point that a gigantic bush grows forth suddenly from the barren grounds of Homeworld. The bush then ignites into flame, and from those fires steps a man. A human male, gravely wounded of wrists and ankles. He wears a crown of thorns and a simple purple robe.
He looks straight at Nomad, ignoring the Wonder Worlock.
Then he strikes!
PART THE THIRD
White fire crackles around the slight arm of the young man, the corona of light around his body heightening. On his visible wrist is a blood wound that has been extant for well over 2,000 years.
The pattern of color and consciousness in front of the robed man is there one moment, and then …
Then, nothing. Literally nothing.
A cold wind blows on the witness to this act, causing that ebony figure chills down his spine. Under his cloak, his heart beats a thunderous beat.
“Why?” he finally asks. “WHY? WHY?!”
“Because,” answers the robed youth, “I am Se-Jus.”
PART THE FOURTH
There are worlds within worlds, worlds beside worlds and worlds made up of the worlds we know or think we know. They are not mere theory; they are as real as a newborn’s first cry or a murderer’s bullet.
Feel the presence of one such world. Feel the heat of its sun on the life forms below as they go about their workaday realities. Feel the chill of its twin moons along the face of that world, regular cyclical eclipses as predictable as those lives themselves. Feel then the return of warmth. Feel the joy and angst and worry and depression and pride and anger and loyalty and protectiveness and parental instinct of a world, a real world.
Its name, its location? Those facts do not matter. Its reality does.
See now the smile of precious times, of child’s play and mother’s love. See the young one chase crystalline insects across the blue grass of a commune park common, beneath the azure skies, pink clouds and dual crescent moons of a particular day. See the pardonable pride of a father as he orders a Fiznik-cone for his daughter, the light of his love reflected in the eyes of his nearby spouse as she aids their only daughter in the collection of j’kalief flies; they will keep the girl’s room lit for three solar units. See the smile of precious times, of child’s play and parents’ love.
“Here’s your Fizbik-cone, Gayle,” the father says, offering his only daughter a well-loved frosty treat.
“Thanks, Daddy,” she says as her parents embrace in a bit of late-afternoon woo. “Oh, you guys, not again. You’re crushing my net of j’kalief flies!! Mama? Daddy!!” Then she sighs, and notices the pink cloud in the sky today almost looks like … well, a hole in the heavens.
“Neat!” Gayle cries, and suddenly her food is down in the park’s thick blue grass.
No more Fiznik-cones.
-- FINIS --