remained.
As Seether gathered his thoughts, he looked around to find Lili. and Fara had claimed the edge of the bed, sitting cross-legged like two gnomeling sisters about to be read a bedtime story. His breath caught. As if for the first time (at least the first time without the bugs) he noticed how stunning both of them were.
Then the strange, burn-scarred man began his tale in a fit of wheezes and coughs. After a sip or two of the Whitebone, he found his footing.
“I am known as Seether.” His pale eyes crawled around the room, taking in every one of them. His smile greeted anyone who would smile back. “My race was called fireborn, and then later, after our enslavement, fire bred . I am not crippled. I’m not ill. My people all look like me. Any weakness I might display now comes from my sorry old age, not from any kind of deformity, although I understand I’m quite wretched in appearance to most of your kind.”
Seether’s accent was strange, his S’s drawn out like sizzles, other inflections indicating an elegant tongue. He found himself wanting to hear Seether’s native language.
“So you’re just an old fart,” Nik interrupted him. “Like Brit.”
The rotund Thrasperville patriarch shrugged at Nik and stuffed another pastry into his mouth.
“Old, yes, but I still have a spark or two left in me as you saw on Swicki Hill. In any case, I am, what you call, an ultraworlder. Much like the amorphs who attacked your Southland farmers. But, to me, you are all ultraworlders. No different than the peoples of the dozens of worlds I’ve visited. You see, to be more specific, I am what you might call a gatemaker .”
“Gatemaker?” Niksabella said.
“I build gates. Between worlds. Points where beings may cross through the ether of space and time and step into another world as they might stride across the threshold between rooms.”
While Nikselpik had visited many places in between the worlds, especially in his infatuation with the Rapurian peoples of the north, who’d built such caches to store their wealth and knowledge, Nikselpik had never actually met a gatemaker before.
“How I came to be in your world is a sad tale, one I can sum up in two words. The Baron. A usurper from an outlaying darkzone world. He rose from the shadows and took control of an ancient stronghold called Weyar, where he dismantled the previous warlords and installed his own mercenaries. Our ambassadors to the normally festive gathering were sent home and barred. Peace was no longer celebrated. Instead, the Baron claimed that the War Council was a tool of justice to help settle age-old disputes on and between worlds.”
Dale harrumphed. “How conquerors get their start. Historically speaking.”
“Indeed. It was merely an excuse to extend his reach, to take control of smaller, unsuspecting worlds citing an agenda of justice and order. It was alarming—to those who cared—but the last ultraworld wars had ended centuries ago, and for the most part, there’d been relative peace. Who cared what powerless entities sat on the War Council?
“But the Baron brought his animosity to the darkzone overlords, who had been stewing in ancient defeats. He dredged up old hatreds and set allies against one another, all the while picking up the broken pieces and re-assembling them in his own design. Soon, he was making incursions into lightzone worlds and even some negative prime worlds, which are normally dead zones for ethereal travel. No one could have guessed his end game.”
“Which was?” Niksabella asked, rapt.
“Which is , you mean,” her brother corrected.
Seether shrugged. “I’m still working that out. Complete domination? In and of itself a task that would take thousands of years. Quite honestly, the last being who tried died of old age before they could conquer their ninth world. The Baron already has twenty-seven worlds under his thumb. That said, he has become reckless. Most likely he’s simply an ambitious despot
As Seether gathered his thoughts, he looked around to find Lili. and Fara had claimed the edge of the bed, sitting cross-legged like two gnomeling sisters about to be read a bedtime story. His breath caught. As if for the first time (at least the first time without the bugs) he noticed how stunning both of them were.
Then the strange, burn-scarred man began his tale in a fit of wheezes and coughs. After a sip or two of the Whitebone, he found his footing.
“I am known as Seether.” His pale eyes crawled around the room, taking in every one of them. His smile greeted anyone who would smile back. “My race was called fireborn, and then later, after our enslavement, fire bred . I am not crippled. I’m not ill. My people all look like me. Any weakness I might display now comes from my sorry old age, not from any kind of deformity, although I understand I’m quite wretched in appearance to most of your kind.”
Seether’s accent was strange, his S’s drawn out like sizzles, other inflections indicating an elegant tongue. He found himself wanting to hear Seether’s native language.
“So you’re just an old fart,” Nik interrupted him. “Like Brit.”
The rotund Thrasperville patriarch shrugged at Nik and stuffed another pastry into his mouth.
“Old, yes, but I still have a spark or two left in me as you saw on Swicki Hill. In any case, I am, what you call, an ultraworlder. Much like the amorphs who attacked your Southland farmers. But, to me, you are all ultraworlders. No different than the peoples of the dozens of worlds I’ve visited. You see, to be more specific, I am what you might call a gatemaker .”
“Gatemaker?” Niksabella said.
“I build gates. Between worlds. Points where beings may cross through the ether of space and time and step into another world as they might stride across the threshold between rooms.”
While Nikselpik had visited many places in between the worlds, especially in his infatuation with the Rapurian peoples of the north, who’d built such caches to store their wealth and knowledge, Nikselpik had never actually met a gatemaker before.
“How I came to be in your world is a sad tale, one I can sum up in two words. The Baron. A usurper from an outlaying darkzone world. He rose from the shadows and took control of an ancient stronghold called Weyar, where he dismantled the previous warlords and installed his own mercenaries. Our ambassadors to the normally festive gathering were sent home and barred. Peace was no longer celebrated. Instead, the Baron claimed that the War Council was a tool of justice to help settle age-old disputes on and between worlds.”
Dale harrumphed. “How conquerors get their start. Historically speaking.”
“Indeed. It was merely an excuse to extend his reach, to take control of smaller, unsuspecting worlds citing an agenda of justice and order. It was alarming—to those who cared—but the last ultraworld wars had ended centuries ago, and for the most part, there’d been relative peace. Who cared what powerless entities sat on the War Council?
“But the Baron brought his animosity to the darkzone overlords, who had been stewing in ancient defeats. He dredged up old hatreds and set allies against one another, all the while picking up the broken pieces and re-assembling them in his own design. Soon, he was making incursions into lightzone worlds and even some negative prime worlds, which are normally dead zones for ethereal travel. No one could have guessed his end game.”
“Which was?” Niksabella asked, rapt.
“Which is , you mean,” her brother corrected.
Seether shrugged. “I’m still working that out. Complete domination? In and of itself a task that would take thousands of years. Quite honestly, the last being who tried died of old age before they could conquer their ninth world. The Baron already has twenty-seven worlds under his thumb. That said, he has become reckless. Most likely he’s simply an ambitious despot
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