Author's Note: I realized sometime down the line that the vision I had when I first began "Across the World" was far too grand in scale for someone of my skill, work ethic, and, most importantly, attention span to properly accomplish. As such, though I refuse to redo the entire thing, I have decided to take the story down a path it had accidentally taken and where, despite my best attempts, it remained.
Also, I have decided to combine the earlier chapters into one long piece. I'm glad I did, since, thanks to "spell check," I managed to find numerous grammatical and spelling errors. It made me cringe a bit reading through the earlier part of this work, so much so that I almost wanted to redo the whole thing, but that takes work… Besides, I have an irrational attachment to my belongings that remind me of the past.
Chapter One
David sat alone, three empty seats surrounding the table he currently occupied. He had opted to sit in the middle of the room so as to not draw unnecessary attention to himself, looking to all the world as a mere passerby enjoying a drink at the local tavern. He could hardly hear the din of the tavern's patrons, his eyes glazed over as he contemplated the road ahead of him. Almost unconsciously he reached out and finished the last of his drink before settling back in his chair. Though he looked like a road weary traveler, complete with travel stained cloak and walking staff, David was in fact much more. Truth be told, David was a mage of the Grey Order, returning from a task assigned to him by his superiors. He shivered involuntarily as he thought back on the ordeal, his hand moving to one of the pouches tied at his side, checking for umpteenth time that his "prize" was still secure.
A small group of religious fanatics were moving through the tavern, their self-mutilated bodies and gaunt faces posing a pitiful sight as they asked the tavern's patrons for alms. Everyone they asked gave quite generously, their superstition overcoming the urge to keep as much of the day's wage as possible. David rose from his seat and made a bee line for the doorway. Fanatics like these made him uneasy, especially considering what he currently had in his possession. Besides, he needed all the money he had left to ensure he could make it back to Altdorf without too much trouble.
Unfortunately, luck deserted David before he was even three steps closer to the exit. One of the fanatics noticed him and made to head him off. Sighing inwardly, David kept up the pretense of ignorance even as the fanatic closed in on him. Finally, he was forced to acknowledge the man, whether he wanted to or not, when the fanatic placed himself between David and the door.
A close up of the fanatic revealed a large number of gruesome scars, carved to emulate religious symbols, etched all across his body. He wore coarse and tattered clothing, seemingly made up from animal skin that had definitely seen better days. His sorry state was a testimony to his unshakable faith as most would believe, or as David thought, his unbelievable stupidity. The man raised a box toward David, imprinted upon it was the stylized image of Sigmar's comet.
"Brother, you have yet to make a donation."
"I'm sorry, but I have no money to spare," David replied, trying to side step the man. However, the man would not be deterred, moving once again to block David's way. Damn these persistent bastards! David though vehemently.
"For your soul, brother," the man said, the box still held out expectantly in his hands. David noticed that the some of the other fanatics were beginning to notice him. Fuming, David realized he was defeated. He would rather suffer a bit of hardship on the road for lack of money then have a group of these fools preach to him about the virtue of charity for their cause. He reached towards his pouches, intending to give the man a few copper pieces before rushing out the door and into the cool night air. However, half way through pulling out his coins, a drunk stumbled into David, jostling his hands. The contents of several of his pouches clattered noisily onto the floor, and David bent to pick them up. So intent was he on cursing the drunk and fanatic at the same time, he failed to notice the fanatic's focus had completely shifted to an object that had fallen from David's pouches. However, David's attention was brought to the situation when he felt the fanatic's foot collide with his face as he lay stooped picking up his belongings.
The tavern quieted as the customers became an audience to the struggle between David and his assailant. The fanatic currently had David pinned on the ground, throwing savage punches at the disoriented mage. David was at a complete loss as to why the man had attacked him until he heard him scream,
"Demon worshipper! Damned follower of Chaos!" After that, David was no longer completely lost on why the man attacked him, rather, he was completely lost on what to do now. His assailant's companions were already moving surrounding him, pulling out a variety of crude clubs and knives. David threw the fanatic off, stumbling to his feet while attempting to put as much distance between the fanatics and himself as possible. His eyes caught sight of the cause of his woe, hardly several feet from where he now stood.
It was a small book compared to most, hard covered and bound with black leather. It was a common looking object except for one, glaring detail. Emblazoned in the middle of the book was the eight pointed star of Chaos, a demonic looking skull adorning its center, incriminating David as a heretic. Never mind the fact that the book was covered in numerous protective wards placed their by David himself, all these crazed fools saw was the symbol, and right now that was all that mattered.
One of the fanatics lunged, intending to skewer David upon a wicked looking knife. Thankfully, David's time spent with the Grey Order had bestowed upon him a slight proficiency with weapons, allowing him to turn aside the attack. Reaching for the sword hidden beneath his robes, he pulled it out and swung it in a wide arc. The fanatics stumbled away from the blade's biting reach, just as David had intended. These men were still citizens of the Empire, and David could not risk shedding innocent blood.
Moving as quickly as he could, he snatched up the book and ran straight for the door. Suddenly, a noise that sounded like thunder filled the room and David felt a slash of pain across his forehead. Instinctively he threw himself flat just as a second noise followed the first. A moan of pain escaped one of the fanatics as he crumpled to the floor, a crimson stream flowing from a wound in his chest. Turning his head, David saw the source of the noise.
A man stood several tables back, a pair of smoking pistols was held in his hands. A great coat covered most of his body, concealing whatever other weapons he may have. All across the man's attire were holy verses and protective wards betraying his profession, a witch hunter. Cursing, David jumped to his feet and rushed through the door, finally leaving that cursed tavern. He knew, without looking back, that the man was already after him.
The cool night air felt refreshing upon David's skin as he rushed through the darkened street. He might have taken time to enjoy the beauty of the still night if a crazed fanatic was not presently chasing him. This fact was further accentuated by the loud discharge of a pistol, followed by a chunk of brick chipping off the side of the building David had just swerved behind.
Thankfully, the fresh air was quickly clearing David's mind, the initial panic of being shot at was beginning to die down. The quick reprieve given to him by the cover of the building he now huddled against allowed David to search his mind for an appropriate spell. Exhaling a calming breath, he pulled the spell from his mind. Allowing himself a brief moment of satisfaction as power surged through him, David watched as his body began to fade from sight. Soon, David had disappeared completely, leaving only shadow and the meager light cast by the few street lamps.
David's pursuer rounded the corner, pistols at the ready. All that greeted him was the sight of an empty street. Through the veil of magic that hid him, David observed his pursuer. The witch hunter moved cautiously around the street, casting suspicious glances at every shadow. By sheer chance or ordained fate, the man inched ever closer to David's position, oblivious to the hidden mage. David knew he could not avoid confrontation for much longer. Drawing his sword in a deft motion, he lunged at the man, the spell concealing him fading away. With a cry of surprise the man fired his pistols erratically, busting a street lamp. The flame dies and part of their street is cast into shadow.
The sudden lack of light caused David's eyes to dilate. His sword swing came up several feet short, the momentum of the strike carrying him in a clumsy stumble. Before either of the men could react, they found themselves in a jumble upon the street. Lashing out blindly as his eyes began to adjust; David felt his fists collide with the street, his assailant's face, and the street again. A sudden, flashing pain upon his brow confirmed that his opponent was flailing blindly as well. David prayed to whatever powers out there that the man's pistols were either jammed or empty. The deafening cry of a pistol crushed that hope, along with part of his hearing. Another strike to his face caused lights to dance in front of David's eyes, a sickening feeling of nausea beginning to permeate his senses. The damn witch hunter must be using the butt of his pistols, David thought vehemently.
David knew he had to end this quick, his mind racing for a way. A second retort from one of the pistols destroyed coherent thought as its loud cry echoed within David's skull. But before David could reestablish his thoughts, a strangely comforting feeling of warmth was beginning to spread along the right side of his body.
As David fell sideways onto the street, he still could not grasp what had happened. Even as the witch hunter straightened up to full height, David's own sword grasped tightly within his right hand, David still could not comprehend the situation. But as the cold steel of the blade entered his midsection, David finally understood.
He had been shot. Not only that, he now had a sword sticking out of his body. As the waves of pain finally registered within his mind, David cried out, shattering the peaceful atmosphere of the night. David was no healer, but he knew the wounds would be fatal.
Despite the pain, David was a bit disappointed that he did not see his life flash before his eyes, instead only seeing the witch hunter pull the sword from him and cast it aside. All he saw was an ignorant zealot with smug satisfaction dancing in his eyes. It was a maddening sight. A mixture of emotions swept through David, even as he felt his own life leave him in the form of a sticky, red liquid. However, the most dominant was anger. All that mattered now was that David did not die alone.
Without thinking, David reached within one of his pouches.
David's hand grasped a rough, textured surface: leather binding. The mage felt compelled to use the tainted book's power as means of revenge against his opponent's ignorance. It felt so right that before he could even register the action, he dispelled the wards binding the artifact.
Immediately a chill settled upon the area, the remaining light of the street lamps doused by the sudden cold. An unsettling presence surrounded the two combatants, a strange stifling feeling accompanying it. A maddening scratching suddenly began in the back of David's mind. It seemed that the demonic entity that had been bound within the book was hungry, and was now currently looking for access to David's mind and soul. In his weakening state, David knew he could not keep it at bay for long and did not relish the thought of having his soul devoured. Cursing himself for his weakness in allowing the demon to influence him and thrice damning the witch hunter for driving him this far, David began focusing his will in an attempt to stop the demon's probing.
The witch hunter also had felt the release of the evil within the book, his tense posture revealing his unease. Despite the darkness, David imagined he could see the look of terror on the witch hunter's face. The man was oblivious to the danger that was now surrounding him, his attention focused on seeking external threats. The near complete darkness only added to the man's confusion as every instinct within him raged, warning him of danger, urging him to flee. When the man suddenly convulsed and dropped on all fours, retching pathetically, David felt a mixture of sympathy and vindication. However, the witch hunter refused to die quietly. As David watched, incredulous, the man rose to his feet, words of prayer pouring from his lips. Whether the prayer in itself was holding him together, or sheer will power, David neither knew nor cared. The mere fact that the man was once more on his feet was unsettling enough.
The witch hunter staggered painfully towards the fallen mage. With his severe wounds and his attention focused on keeping the demonic entity of the book at bay, David was helpless against any physical threats. His opponent suddenly cried out in pain, a testimony to the demon's fond attentions, but the man refused to fall. Pulling a wicked looking dagger from a sheathe at his side, the witch hunter continued to move towards his perceived source of the problem, David.
David felt death reaching for him, the last of his energy spent. His mental barriers fell away one by one until his soul lay naked before the demonic forces of the book. At once the mage felt the roaring energies rip at him, attempting to tear apart his very soul. If David could have given voice to his agony he felt sure he would have woken the dead, a likely possibility with the forces involved.
The witch hunter suddenly faltered, falling hard to the ground next to the stricken mage, his face distorted in agony. David felt the Chaotic forces assailing him lessen. It seemed that faced with the prospect of two weakened victims, the demon would not wait to rip into both. David hoped it was enough.
With the demonic entity's attention divided, David was given an opportunity to strike. He began to replace the broken wards in an attempt to rebind the demon. However, the demon proved too strong to be bound by the mage, weak as he was from his wounds. Still David persisted, having remade two of the simpler wards already.
He felt his vision suddenly blur, then falter completely. David knew he had no more time left. Beside him he still heard the muttered prayers of the witch hunter, the man's voice laced with delirium and pain. David knew that the two wards would not be enough to hold the demon at bay and could only pray that no one else would come to harm. He hoped against all odds that his mistake, his moment of weakness, would be dealt with without complication. It was a childish hope. Blackness overwhelmed the mage and David knew no more.
Everything was grey and insubstantial. An oppressing atmosphere dominated the realm, a choking, cloying feeling. In here, there was only pain. Malicious laughter boomed throughout the domain, shaking it to its non-existent core. The laughter continued, manifesting itself as a black stain, a taint, upon the grey world. It was the hand of insanity itself. It spread throughout the empty space, covering everything with its own presence, consuming all.
The sound of thunder suddenly interrupted, disturbing the strange realm. The laughter ceased. The thunder continued to grow in volume and repetition, driving away the mists of unconsciousness. The dream world began to fade, but still the black stain remained.
He woke with a start, scattering the bits of trash piled around him. A ripped and dirty cloak was wrapped around him, smelling of the filth that surrounded the area. The man found himself within an alleyway, the bright morning sun shining somewhere overhead. A carriage pulled by a pair of horses passed the alley's entrance, its passengers staring with undisguised disdain at the dirty figure huddled within. The man paid them no mind, instead his attention was focused on the echoing noises of the horses' clattering hooves upon the cobbled street. Thunder. Pieces of his previous dream began to from within his mind.
The man shook his head in an attempt to clear such stupid thoughts from his psyche. Dreams were just that, dreams. Dwelling on such thoughts were not befitting of someone of his status.
With a sudden jolt of realization, the man realized he had no idea as to who he was. In fact, he had no recollection of anything. Deciding that this situation must be remedied immediately, the man began to search his mind for any clue onto where he was, who he was, and what he had been doing. Events, places, people, all passed within his mind's eye without rhyme or reason. Everything seemed like a blur. A name flickered within his mind and he pounced upon it. David… David Faust was his name. So thrilled was he about this sudden development and so intent was he on continuing this quest that he failed to notice the man approaching him from further down the alley. When the stranger's shadow fell upon him, it was too late. Before he could react, David found himself locked in a heap of thrashing limbs.
Pummeling one another and cursing at the same time, the two men managed to extricate themselves from each other. Scrabbling to his feet, David rose to what he hoped was a competent defensive stance. However, his "assailant" remained upon the ground, rubbing his chin where a lucky strike had bruised it.
"You have a pretty good arm there, friend," said the stranger. The man's relaxed posture and calm voice clashed with the situation's gravity. It seemed evident that the man did not wish for confrontation.
"Why did you attack me?" David inquired, confusion evident in his voice. Despite this however, he kept up his bravado by staying in a fighting stance.
"I didn't mean to. I just tripped on some of the junk lying around here, I swear. I only wanted to talk."
"Talk?" replied the other, incredulous. The stricken man rose to his feet, dusting off his attire. "Strange clothing you have there," David commented, finally dropping his guard and indicating with a hand at the man's clothes. An inquisitive look passed across the fellow's face before he looked down to examine himself.
"Strange indeed," he muttered, examining his now filthy great coat and the numerous texts and symbols adorning it. "What do you suppose it all means?" he asked, fingering one of the strange symbols..
"Wouldn't know. Hell, I don't even no where I am," came David's reply. The other man broke into a grin.
"Well that makes two of us, friend. The name's Jorrik Moulton," the man extended his hand. After a moment's hesitation, David shook the hand heartily. He seems harmless enough, he thought.