Waylon's Crossing - 2. Chapter 2: While the City Sleeps

Waylon's Crossing
Chapter 2: While the City Sleeps

Alan was on edge and it showed in his work. This was the fourth pipe he'd broken and if he kept going at this rate he wouldn't have enough to fill his quota. He cursed under his breath and dropped the sad remains of the mangled tube in the refuse pile, shaking, hand gripping a blacksmith hammer tightly. There he stood for a moment, staring at those four useless tubes. His eyes closed and he sighed. Should have known better than to try and work the day of a full moon, he thought. Idiot.

The leather apron that hung around his neck was stifling in the hot, clay chamber, but he needed to clean up and he honestly didn't trust himself enough to do so at the moment, what with all the burning coal and sharp utensils. He kept the apron on and set down his hammer, taking a quick look out the side window only to discover, grimly, that it was nearing dusk. The sun hovered mere millimeters above a distant mountain, suspended there as if it might decide to suddenly shift from its thousand year old course and hang about a bit longer. Alan hurried with his duties and cleaned his father's shop; he had a couple of hours, tops, maybe. Being a werewolf could be so very, very time constraining. Though I suppose it's better than being a vampire. He smirked at his own joke.

It was a great thing that his father did -- letting Alan use his shop -- even if it was only on the off days. He had to buy his own coal, of course, but his father had even given him a small section for that and his inventions and gadgets.

He looked down at the beginnings of his newest contraption. So far, what he'd made was fairly close to the original design, and what wasn't sat in various boxes about his workspace. Not for the first time that night, he wished he'd gotten someone to pay him for this. Three months’ worth of groveling, begging, and pleading had left him empty-handed, forcing him to prove his invention himself. He'd saved up the money from Kynan's commissions and bought the materials he was using now.

An involuntary smile crossed his lips as he thought of the tall man. Kynan was massive in comparison to his five and a half foot frame, but he had an interesting smile that seemed to be both inviting and dangerous. His demeanor was lively; his laugh was contagious; he passed energy to others as if it was hot bread. In the few fleeting times Alan had talked with him over the years, he'd been nothing but impressed by the man, even if he wasn't the most open about what he did. It was always Alan that carried the conversation while Kynan sat reserved, though attentive. He never had much input but at least he always seemed interested. That, and Kynan was always so generous. Whenever he came to pick up another batch of rounds for his guns, he always paid Alan with some sort of new, intricate jewel, or a handful of smaller jewels, or both. The first time Kynan came, when Alan was fourteen, Alan had a family friend appraise them, a jeweler by the name of Batya. As soon as Alan opened the drawstring and emptied the contents of the small pouch, Batya gasped.

"Ba!" she said, gaping. Her eyes were wide in shock and she was holding her chest.

"What?" Alan asked. "What is it? Is there something wrong with them? They're fake aren't --"

"Bamani crystals!" she exclaimed. "Bamani crystals! I haven't seen one of these in years! Where would a young man like you get such a rare stone? Never mind how you got so many, how did you even get one?" Bamani crystals could only be harvested deep within the demon world, where even demons were reluctant to tread.

Alan just shrugged. He wanted to tell her of the strange man who had commissioned two guns from him, but in all honesty he was a bit afraid. Alan hadn't been sure who this man was back then; he hadn't known he was a Watchman. So he remained silent at her persistence and kept shrugging. When Batya realized he wouldn't talk, she continued on with her examination.

They were indeed Bamani crystals, multicolored and flawless. Stunned, Batya sat contemplating for several minutes before offering Alan a price: "One hundred gold pieces."

"One hundred!" Alan squeaked. On a good week his father might make twenty! To the young werewolf, one hundred gold coins was a fortune. "Is that how much they're worth?" The words came out breathy, excited.

"Yes, and that's how much I'm offering." She could more than triple the purchase price and the gems would still fly from her counter. "Let's draw up the contract now ...."

Two hundred gold pieces for two guns, one for that bag and one for after he'd finished. A fortune, in Alan's eyes. He used the money to build a heater for his house. He'd even gone a bit further and made the man some exploding bullets, with his own special touch of course. They had quite a powerful kick. Kynan had been so impressed by them that he often commissioned Alan for more, never in person of course -- Kynan said it was for Alan's safety and Alan never questioned that -- but through the most bizarre form Alan would ever know: through his dreams.

Alan packed up a small sack of his belongings and headed for his house. He was hurrying; the moon had yet to rise but the sun was gone behind that distant mountain and only the last vestiges of an orange-pink glow remained. The market place near his father's shop was beginning to close; farming vendors packed up their carts with their unsold chickens and veggies and fruits and reattached their mules; shops closed and locked their doors. Alan began jogging, passing people on ladders lighting street lamps and the City Watch out patrolling. Home was on the outskirts of the city. It was cheapest there and, for the most part, solitary. A peaceful place to lay his head and get his work done.

When he arrived home, Alan threw his sack onto his bed and began preparing for his coming change. His father had showed him many years ago how to control the instincts that welled up during the full moon by using a form of meditation. When he was younger, he had felt quite foolish practicing. Meditation was usually reserved for old monks and priests and being as young as he was, as rambunctious as he was, he was much more partial to experimenting. He only half-heartedly attempted to "find his center" and "find balance" and "clear his mind." His two sisters, only a few years younger than him, disregarded the training completely.

That first transformation was hell for Alan. Only by sheer force of will had he been able to stay focused and balanced. By the time the night was over, he was raining sweat and smelled like a rotten cabbage field. The moment he changed back, he collapsed on the floor and slept for the rest of the day. His sisters weren't so lucky. Alan's parents had to tie them up and secure them in wolf traps their first nights. He was sure the two never really forgave his parents for that.

Time passed as Alan prepared. He pulled out his favorite mat and set it in front of the large back window. He looked at a couple of candles longingly -- he loved the feel of a candle-lit night; it did wonders for meditation;"Atmosphere is key!" his dad would always say -- but decided against them. No, candles left unchecked for hours might not be the best idea. Not after the time that one had fallen on him....

By the time he'd made his safety checks and locked and barred the doors, he could feel the onset of the change. Alan sighed as he made his way over to the mat. Undressing and folding his clothes, he opened the curtain before sitting cross-legged in front of the window. Sure enough, the full moon stared back at him and, bathed in moonlight, his features began to change.

Fingers, he thought, repeating the order he'd change in his head. Fingers first, then fangs. Claws formed on his hands and the skin on his fingers began to change color, turning darker. As brown fur began to sprout on each digit, he felt his canines elongate and his mouth shift.

Ears and muzzle. The tips of his ears became pointed and they crawled up to the top of his head. His face pushed outward and darkened. Nose, fur, feet, legs. His nose turned wet and jet black. Senses rushed to him, but he pushed them aside. Thick, dark fur began to sprout all over his body as his feet changed into paws and his legs bent and shaped themselves as a wolf's.

He closed his eyes and breathed in and out, in and out, rhythmically. He focused his mind on the steady rythym of his breathing. Hands and arms. Both elongated, creeping away from his body. His hands grew a paw-like texture on their underside.

Body, tail, head. He felt a pair of ribs recede and his spine realign. A tail formed and he experimentally gave it a swish. His cranium flattened and his jaw finally set in place.

Eyes. The last change. It was a subtle one, but his favorite. He felt the dark color of his eyes swirl away, replaced by a brilliant gold, and it was complete.

This, he thought. This is my true form. This is natural. This is the balance. I am at peace. I am at peace.

Through practiced efforts he cleared his mind. The beast hadn't even had time to reach the surface. He'd learned his place many years ago and he rarely bothered to add much more than a whimper. Even though he wore its body, the wolf was no match for Alan.

*          *          *

Passage from the Dioses, Book of the Ancients
Alpha; Pssg 2; Vrs 8-14, 32-62

"... And Light prevailed over the Darkness of the Sky, and in its vastness, the Nothing was overtaken by a warmth and glow that spread for miles and miles and covered the ages and blended time. And in the Pleasantry came into existence a Great Being of the Light, and He was kind and gentle, thoughtful and young, imaginative and inquisitive. And He yearned for knowledge of the Light, He strove to understand it, He sought to protect it always. But He was as a child, and as a child, He was careless.

"... Then came a day when He decided that He might try to carry the Light around with Him. He moved in close and took a hold of the Giant Orb. It was hot and fragile to the touch, but He only gripped it tighter, more carefully. He walked along the floor of the Universe with the Light in his Arms. There were many Planets to discover and look over and some even had minuscule things growing upon them, in a whole range of colors and shapes! He was astounded by His miraculous discoveries, but grew tired from holding the hot, heavy Light. He was drained with each step, and His mind began to be wearied and tired. He sweated and breathed heavily. His vision became cloudy and the Light began to slip; it threw Him off balance and as He tried to hold it up again, He tripped over a small planet. The Light flew from His hands and crashed onto the floor of the Universe, breaking into thousands of pieces and scattering all over the Cosmos, leaving only the Small Core. The light could no longer reach the furthest points in space when it was broken, and in the dark background the scattered pieces became the Stars.

"The Great Being sat near the small planet, contemplating, for a long time, looking sadly at the Heart of the Light. He looked down upon the planet and said, 'This planet shall be called Earth, and this Core, the Sun, and I will be henceforth known as the Guardian; for it is by My Decree and My Word that I shall remain here and watch over this fragile Heart. It was by Mine own foolishness that it was broken, and it will be by Mine Hand that it is forever protected!' And so He did, and so He became the Guardian of Light."

Tenderly, Duncan turned the page he read to the next, skimming the lists of begats. His eyes found his family name about halfway down the page. His fingers pressed lightly above the ancient ink; the ring on his finger caught the light and, for a moment, seemed to hum.

The signet ring had been in Duncan's family for generations and generations beyond measure. The ring was solid gold, pure enough to be scratched by a nail or molded like wax before a fire, but the ring neither warped nor tarnished. The ring could very well have looked exactly the same since its presentation to Duncan's long-ago ancestor.

Until recently, the ring had rested, hidden away, inside the family crypts deep beneath the cathedral; however, upon Duncan's rise from simple justiciar to magistrate, he'd found the ring on his bureau. Awed and insatiably curious, he'd slid the ring on his finger. To this day, he could not get it off again.

A great-great-aunt had last worn the ring. Upon his father's advice, Duncan had read his ancestor's journals. She'd written down as much of the ring's history as she had uncovered.

"The wearers," she wrote, "always seem to know when and to whom the ring shall pass. One day, the ring shall loosen upon my own finger and I, too, will give the ring on."

Except she never had. Even in death, the ring would not relinquish her hand. How it then came to be in Duncan's room, no one could say. There was one last thing he'd read regarding the mysterious ring:

"I knew there could be no escaping the agents of evil, and yet I prayed as I ran. Perhaps I was more fevered than I yet knew, or perhaps something of ancient mysteries resides within -- all I can say is that, one moment I was alone, frightened, and ill, surrounded by my enemies, and the next safe."

She'd written also that many previous wearers of the ring seemed to have an uncanny luck for anticipating danger. Some even were said to be Touched, able to foretell the future.

Duncan didn't believe, as his aunt had, that the ring was sentient. To him, a ring was just a ring -- a rather plain ring, if truth be told. If the ring were as old as history seemed to indicate, then there was most likely some magical ingenuity behind the strange tales; and everyone knew that coincidences and just plain luck became folklore and legend with the passing of years.

All he could say for certain was that all the previous wearers had lived during turbulent, dangerous times. The city of Waylon's Crossing had been at peace for many years, remaining peaceful even after that fateful day when as a young man he'd picked up a curious object from his bureau.

Then why this funny feeling prickling at his breast? This uneasy presentiment was what had brought him out of a comfortable sleep and halfway across the city to the old cathedral. He'd meant only to take a short walk, but his feet had carried him unwittingly across the darkened city streets, through the park to pause on the street known as Angel's Way.

The cathedral was a remnant of ancient times. Scholars still studied the ways of the old Priests of Light, but there was no God, no Guardians to whom to pray, and the priesthood had died out. Few people outside historians and scholars even remembered that there ever had been a god. Once, the whole city had been a monastery of sorts, educating all within its walls equally. That had changed with the coming of demonkind.

Waylon's Crossing sat on a hub of the Borderlands. When the World of Eternal Night and the World of Light collided, there was at first no obliging frontier or neutral lands. There was one world, and then the other, as if a curtain had been drawn across the land. Whole cities and towns vanished into the barren rock of demonkind's home world.

With the sundering of the connection between worlds came the Borderlands, a frontier between both Light and Dark that had neither sunrise nor sunset. The Borderlands were not continuous; rather, they existed in pockets. Some were so small as to not be seen by non-magical means, and others large enough to be their own worlds. The number and variation of these Borderlands was infinite. Many of Duncan's ancestors had explored those wastes, finding as much variation in terrain as the Borderlands themselves.

Time, too, was different. In some places, time moved swifter than in the city; in other places, slower. A person could take one step into one place and see many days, and then step back across to find only hours having passed, or years. Many had crossed into the Borderlands and never returned.

In all the World of Light, there was not a single other place which had as many access points to the Borderlands. Each territory had one or more access ways to other areas of the Borderlands, and even other city-states. If a person knew the way, he could step from Waylon's Crossing, into the Borderlands, and out again in a city across the world. By wing, the way was often quicker. Trade was now something most city dwellers took for granted, but such had not always been the case.

With a sigh, Duncan pushed the ancient book back on its pedestal and stepped away. Stained glass spilled moonlight into the front of the cathedral and the pedestal upon which rested the history of the church. On the wall behind the Book of the Ancients was an equally ancient wall-hanging. The sunburst on white background glittered in the moonlight.

Full moon tonight, mused Duncan. Turning around, he looked out into the cathedral and its empty pews. The marble columns and arched roof were exquisite. Workmanship such as this had long been forgotten. Only a few like places remained in existence.

Duncan strode quietly to one of the pews. Even as a boy he'd found the cathedral comforting. He did his best thinking here. He sat, hands in his lap, gazing upward at the painted ceiling with its luminescent angels and silvery-white clouds.

Starting, Duncan came half to his feet, looking around. The cathedral was empty.

"Hello?" he asked, pitching his voice to carry. That prickling sensation on the back of his neck intensified. Was he alone? No one else seemed to be here, and all the sconces burned brightly. Duncan had carried out that task himself as an acolyte. He asked again, "Hello?"

The ring on his finger pulsed. Duncan grabbed his hand with the other, standing fully to stare around, anger pounding in his temple.

"Show yourself!"

Within Duncan's sight, the shadows along one wall swirled, deepened, and from them stepped a man. Hair of smoke, skin like milk, eyes of silver, and clothed in shadows. Duncan's mouth fell open in astonishment. An elemental!

"There is great unrest in your city," said the man, with a voice like a harp. The air rippled as he glided closer.

Duncan gulped, hand fisting around the ring, now ice-cold on his finger. "The city called you?"

The elemental inclined his head in a regal nod. "The Ancient One called. I came. What assistance do you require?"

Elementals were neutral beings, so said the histories of the Demon Wars. They were also solitary creatures, not deigning to mingle with earth-bound creatures, except possibly for the Fae. There were Earth Elementals, who of all the elementals were the most shy; Fire Elementals which were the rarest; Water Elementals, who, it was said, had vanished into the deep many centuries ago; and Wind Elementals, the most capricious of their brethren.

Duncan bowed, but he frowned with concern. "I do not understand," he admitted.

"Do you not speak for the Ancient?" asked the Elemental, one sculpted, shadowy eyebrow lifting. His face seemed chipped from marble, but his eyes were warm. Teasing, then, not mocking.

"I --" The ring pulsed again, hot this time. "I do not know."

The elemental seemed to sigh. "So much has been lost." His eyes turned inward, then forward to the book in its pool of moonlight. He bowed, and then turned back to Duncan. "I am honored to serve. Let me be your eyes and ears in these troubled times."

The ring warmed almost to burning, but coldness filled Duncan. He shivered. "Uh, thank you."

A smile tipped the corner of the elemental's mouth. "Fare well, young one," said the lyrical voice. The darkness around him seemed to intensify for an instant, and then unraveled.

Duncan blinked, and then he was alone. He wiped his brow with one shirt-sleeve. He sat down shakily, leaning his head back against the pew. He lifted the ring to eye-level. The metal was cool again, as ever it was.

"Okay," he murmured, suddenly so tired he didn't want to walk home. "No more wine before bed." He grabbed the pew in front of him and heaved himself to his feet. Next door in the barracks for the acolytes and scholars, would be an extra bed. He would rest there.

What he didn't realize was that, when he awoke, the ring would be gone from his hand.

*          *          *

Hours passed in silence. The night was still. Only the rhythm of Alan's breathing could be heard in the small house, slow and steady. His parents were across town in their house, as were countless other werewolves in the city, in much the same state. They could be arrested if they were not. A werewolf at night was something not to be taken lightly.

It came as a surprise to Alan that a familiar nudge touched his mind. Somewhere in the abyss he recognized the pull and his mind drifted toward it.

And then he was falling.

Falling and falling into the blackness of his mind, he wasn't eased but grabbed, strangled by sleep. He couldn't breathe for a moment but continued to follow that pull, so familiar, he could almost see who --

//.. Enter Dreamscape..\\

He lay on something hard and flat and smooth, like marble. The smell of the air around him was dull. His body felt odd, like it had shifted somehow, like he was still in his wolf form, but different.

He sniffed again and he caught a familiar scent on the air. Opening his eyes, Alan saw a great deal of things he didn't understand. He was in what looked to be a park, but it was gray and dull and seemed to be without sun or moon, without time. He lay curled up upon a bench, nuzzling against his now pure white fur. In front of him was a large wolf with horrible red eyes. The wolf itself frightened Alan, but the look on its face was not menacing. Instead, it looked as if it were pleading with him.

They stared at each other for a moment, shocked. Then, the wolf's mouth opened and Kynan's voice cried, Help me! Alan!

The city shimmered and Alan heard the beginnings of a scream when the illusion dropped and Alan was once again plunged into darkness.

\\ ..Exit Dreamscape.. //

"Kynan!" he yelled, opening his eyes. He was in his house, it was still night, he was still a wolf, but now he was sprawled out on his floor. Had that been Kynan? Was he in Alan's dream or Alan in his?

It didn't make sense, but the message was clear: Kynan was in trouble. Wolf or not, he owed so much to the man. He didn't hesitate, leaping to his feet and smashing through the window.

There was only one park in the city where Kynan could be, the one overshadowed by the massive Cathedral on Angels Way, at the direct center of the city.