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Flush off our victory, throngs of new subaltern both from lowland clans and escapees from the plains showed up at Secondhome in miles-long lines. They’d heard that we accepted all comers and decided they didn’t want to live in an untouchable pit anymore. A hollowed-out cave was a desperate shelter for us, but quite luxurious to the lower end of most clan’s hierarchies.
All the new recruits nearly caused war with the Laval. This was stopped only when new chief Sor’ien killed his father and two elder brothers to take over the clan’s dealings. Decree number one was to cede a bit of land along the river bend to our new settlement. Even then bitter cousins, breakoff clans, and the odd over-ambitious band of near-adults attempting to prove themselves would keep provoking us up until the modern day.
So, two years have passed and we’re no closer to getting home than we were on day one. Arguably further away since we were putting down roots. First human-elvan crossbreeds were born literally nine months after the dam broke – blame Hector for that. By year two there were thirty children running around, some within our group, maybe eighty percent to an Earther-new world counterpart. Sure, maybe the Elvan weren’t for everyone, but most everyone shipwrecked from off-island was an anatomically modern human, or certainly close enough.
Richard spent more days in that subterranean chamber than not, deciphering the strange rune. I was caught up in day-to-day governance matters most days. Rare occasions of privacy were spent at one river shrine or the other.
“So, you’re nearly twenty-one? Is that the age of majority in your world?”
I shook my head. “Adulthood is eighteen. That’s the age you graduate school. I was already an adult technically by the time we arrived here. Still, after a few years here now, would’ve been graduating college soon enough. Much longer and it’ll be too late to neatly go back and restart our lives where they left off.”
The youngest of us, sans Rita, was well over eighteen now. None of us officially graduated high school. And those full-ride athletic scholarship offers were long expired. Oh, there were family used car dealerships or what have you to return to for some of us. But the primary trajectory of our lives was askew.
“Oh, so you want to stay here?” Aminia asked.
The river god kept cupping his hands and collecting water from the central shrine pool. He did this no matter which shrine we were at. Some sort of purification ritual.
“Would’ve been a lot easier if the way back came after a week, or a month. But two years? Five? Another decade? Most of us at least want to let our immediate family know we didn’t just drop off the face of the Earth. It’s just…” My voice trailed off.
“Transitioning back into society in your own world would be nearly as difficult as the original transition into this world?” Aminia guessed.
I shrugged. “Something like that. Kinda depends.”
“Would it be correct to assume that you, personally, do not wish to go home as well?”
“I… don’t know.”
“Ah. Well, if you were resolute in staying here with us, I wouldn’t mention it. But perhaps you should search the mountains for a way home?”
“Huh? You’re just mentioning this now?”
“The Torrent watershed is a massive. It took time to search. Yes, even for a god. Divinity works in mysterious ways. Now, there’s an underground runic summoning circle buried beneath the mountains that may prove useful. Seek out the Bird-Herders. The nearest one is in their territory.”
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Ancient plainswalkers possessed surprisingly advanced mining technologies. It wasn’t something we would’ve thought about, given how their society was organized before we’d annihilated their last water supply. Still, gazing into a ramrod-straight mining shaft cleaved into the cliffs separating tropical stormheaths from the arid highlands above, I couldn’t help but admire the artistry.
Our scouting party made our way into the depths by torchlight. Mapping out the tunnels by hand took weeks, per facility. The only way we had of finding our way back at first was a long length of rope, with extra rope tied to the end once it ran out.
Still, there were more collapsed passages than not, even back in the day. After two weeks spent mostly underground with occasional treks back for supplies and just to see the sun again, we discovered the central summoning circle. There’s one under each mountain.
Richard and I were the only members of our original band that were in the scouting party. The rest were local folklorists – both stormheaths and plains – and a few off-islanders who possessed non-zero amounts of knowledge in mining.
We discovered the central summoning pit, or whatever you call it, after two weeks of constant surveying. Getting the full picture by torchlight proved difficult, so that was another couple of days just running back and forth to light up the place.
To hear our local stormlander friends say it, there was no mention of these ‘summoning pits’ in their clan oral histories.
“Your creation myth is that you all walked out of holes in the ground one day,” I said. “What do you mean there’s no mention of this in your folklore?”
Our stormlander guides merely shrugged.
“These are summoning circles,” said multiple plainswalker guides, in unison.
Finally, a lead.
“What is a summoning circle?” Richard asked.
The plainswalker definition assumed we already had centuries of cultural context. They pulled their domestic servants in from other islands and, increasingly, other realms. How remained lost to history. Why seemed obvious: slave labor for the fields around their tree-mansion.
“But it can move people between islands? Even between worlds? When was this last used?”
“In times immemorable” – it was always in time immemorable.
An elevated, octagonal observation platform was picked out by Richard to serve as our basecamp. Though the plainswalkers had written language and evidence of hand-written literature in the past, no documents could ever have survived in the damp, waterlogged environment. Everything about the history and function of these pits was basically hearsay. We were flying blind.
“These runes are the key,” Richard said several times, pointing at the various labyrinths below. “Look: same symbol. There would’ve been floorboards above these summoning seals. It would summon a portal. But how…”
“Rich, there weren’t any runes in the field,” I said.
“Doesn’t matter. Maybe they can be activated remotely? Or maybe their activation burnt all evidence away? Who knows. Maybe we were sent here on purpose? Or pulled in? If so, there’s got to be a way to reverse it.”
Again, that internal clock to get back home while maintaining some semblance of a normal life was ticking in my head.
“How long are we talking, timetable wise?”
“Need some kind of documentation. Need examples.” Richard looked around the barren observation platform frantically. “Going to need to read up on plainswalker history. Could take months. Could take years. More manpower, the better.”
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Five of our number were assigned to Richard’s portal research duty – including young Rita. We called her an intern, as a joke. An intern is a – oh, never mind. A few friendly bird-herders kept watch over the tunnels.
I left the research to Rick. It was his wheelhouse. Expanding the settlement, negotiating land sharing agreements with the neighbors, and mediating between the patchwork of a dozen cultures at home took up most of my days.
Richard came back to the settlement that he named only once or twice a month, usually to resupply. When he did, he stayed in his office with that strange runic table. Didn’t take a genius to realize that he felt in his bones there was some sort of connection there. Even if he couldn’t prove it.
Months passed like this. Rita and the volunteers bounced between a site in the plains, the tunnels, and a third site somewhere further up the Torrent.
Still no word of any breakthrough, or even the ability to teleport anything at all. I’d secretly given up any hope of ever seeing home at that point, just didn’t want to admit it. If we were going to be stuck here for the long haul in the best cases scenario, might as well get used to the idea.
If we’d known the price that would have to be paid to capitalize on these discoveries, we would have never pursued the warp-magic angle.
The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
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The turning point came on a noon siesta during a period of advancing primary moon. I was asleep on a table in our makeshift common area. I found myself poked in the ribs by a pint-sized creature.
I looked up, rubbed my eyes, then looked down. It was Rita.
Her eyes were wide. Like a child with a secret she wanted someone to know but promised not to tell about.
“Could you get healers to the mine?” Rita asked.
“Oh?” I shook my head, still unsure what was going on. “How come? Rick building something there? We can send some guys to help.”
Rita gave a shy nod.
“Why do they need doctors? Er, healers?”
Rita was about eight years old at this point. Spent equal amounts of her life here than on Earth at that point. River temples and elvan clan-mottes were just normal for her.
“There’s a lot of people there.” The young girl averted her eyes.
I raised a skeptical eyebrow. “What does Rick need so many people for?”
Rita backed away, nervous.
“Uh, Rita? What’s wrong.”
“I’m not supposed to say,” Rita said, and ran off.
Kid was fast and I was tired. She ran off into the caves of Secondhome. There were quite a few half-carved cubbyholes that the youth of Secondhome could hide in but adults - ha, we were adults now, twenty-one but felt like a gruff, weary forty -- could not.
No matter. This ominous request for medical aid seemed probable cause enough to check out Richard’s office.
I checked the room with that strange etching we found. He’d been modifying it with bits of wood, stone, and adhesive. It looked identical to those larger runes we’d discovered deep in the mines.
There were also, effectively, lab notes. Scribbled into the margins and blank spaces of our old textbooks.
“Day 1267. The mechanism behind our arrival here is finally revealed. Some ancient form of teleportation or interdimensional warping was once used by the highlands clans to acquire slave labor. This could open ports across multiple islands per local folklore. Older, less corroborated tales claim they could pull in victims from another dimension. Will have to investigate possible inspiration for Earth legends of the Faye when I get back.”
I did some math in my head. That would’ve been the exact day we discovered that underground summoning pit.
Entries grew less frequent and increasingly scribbled-out and barely coherent.
“Day 1298. Proof of concept achieved with a sacrifice of a few of those big chickens. Warped a rock from the plainsland manse to the Secondhome office at exactly midnight yesterday. More valuable catalysts are required. But what?”
I flipped to the end of the textbook.
“Day 1348. Catalysts acquired. Came looking for food, thought they were going to Secondhome. Dumb fucks. This more elaborate of concept looks promising, but I need more.”
I shook my head, at a loss for words. That sounded fishy at best. I ran to the surface.
“Hector? Is Richard here? What about Rita?”
“Haven’t seen Richard in weeks,” Hector said. “Rita and the rest of Rick’s away team just left though. Headed northeast I think.”
That would send them towards the old mines, and bird-herder territory.
“I’m heading out. Send anyone who is available back to those mines… belay that, send stormlanders. Plainswalkers. Anyone who didn’t come here on the bus.”
Pieces of a puzzle were still falling into place in my mind. Just knew that it would be best to have non-Earthers at my back in this moment. No telling who Richard’s been talking to. And I may have had need to do battle, even kill, my fellow busmates in the near future.
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The nearest bird-herder village was a ghost town. Not a good sign. They’d been the ones who promised to guard the ruins for us.
Reinforcements came in a band of stormlander subalterns who’d volunteered to be part of our warrior band. Eventually formed this kind of ad-hoc militia-formation into Secondhome’s ‘minutemen’ after a concept from our old history books. At any rate, their most experienced member was a man called Kev’kurien. Temporarily embarrassed warrior caste type.
I was the only member of this band who’d seen these tunnels before, so I took point. The color designations were already in place. We followed the purple bands.
What did we find? Holding cells. The beginnings of a raised platform over the northernmost summoning pit. And absolutely nobody, not even a corpse, was present.
Richard had been writing here too, on ancient, yellowed highlands parchment ruined by the elements. There were tables, labeled “inbound.” No names, but numbers, clan designation, and a batch listing, one through eight. All inbound, no outbound.
“What the hell is happening here?” I asked.
“This place is cursed,” Kev said. “Is this some outlander ritual?”
I explained the situation as much as possible. At this point outlander pidgin was advanced enough that there was no pained, guttural grunt in place of a proper explanation. Started with the ancient highlander summoning pit angle, best not to turn our only allies against outlanders in general.
“These logs say they’ve been taking people from the highlands too,” I said. “We should check in on them.”
“Let the plainswalkers fend for themselves,” said one of the stormlander warriors.
“Whatever’s happening here is going to affect the entire island,” I said.
Maybe even beyond that, but stormlanders didn’t care about anything that occurred out of eyesight of the island’s waters.
Kev agreed, and so we cut through the tunnels on the way towards the plains once more.
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The high plains were arid, their farms fallow, long before we ever warped into that glen. Damming the Torrent would not have saved the high central valley. Anything less than a hundred-year irrigation project merely delayed the inevitable.
Some hundreds of years ago the valley was wall to wall farmsteads. Familial clans lived in finely manicured tree mansions around natural watering holes. The time spent manicuring these elaborate treehouses was made possible by a workforce ground side that was, well, less than willing. So devoted were these elvan to the aesthetics of treetop aristocracy that they maintained these houses long after it became unviable to keep their own families fed.
Dozens of farmsteads bordering the mines had gone missing, and recently. Those that remained would not talk to us or even leave their treetop homes. A single, smaller manse would dare talk to us – a location you young ones should recognize. The last couple scions of that house had pulled up the treetop step ladders as if under siege.
“Are you not with the outlanders who stalk the plains at night?” They called down from the treehouses.
“No, but we’re here to help you with this… stalking problem. What is happening over here?” I asked.
“One of your kind has kidnapped the other houses in their sleep. All who remain are terrified, holed up in their mottes unwilling to even venture down for a drink.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “Look, whatever is happening, we’re going to stop it.”
“They’re taken to the mountains and never return. My cousin disappeared for seven days but escaped. He says the perpetrators were moving to the Torrent, where there would be more subjects to use as a catalyst.”
“Does your cousin know what a catalyst is?” I asked.
We were still flying in the dark regarding Richard’s plans.
There were some mutters from the treetop manse.
“He doesn’t want to say.”
It was as much of a lead as anything else.
“Stay up there until this is over. I’ll send a plainswalker representative to come get you, and you can have safe berth at Secondhome whenever you need it.”
Some hidden contraption caused the top half of the manse’s stairs to unfurl. A youngish, heavily pregnant woman walked down as far as the steps would take her.
“It will not be safe to move for several months,” she said. “But after that time, I may take you up on that, outlander.”
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Quickest way back to the stormheaths required us to cut through the mountains again. No sooner did we head out than were the plains beset by a drizzle, uncommon for the arid environment. Long-dormant flowering thorn-plants peeked out of the cracked soil to soak up as much moisture as possible.
A vision appeared along the path ahead. The robes and braided hair stood out immediately.
“Michael. Michael Martinez. Dear Michael. You need to get to the third temple along the river bend. Now.”
Aminia’s vision appeared to me and only me. Kev called out to me, asking if I’d seen some sort of spirit.
“What is it?” I asked. “Is it Richard?”
“It’s taking everything I have to transmit a vision through atmospheric moisture like this. Consider it prerecorded, in your parlance. Get to the unfinished temple, the one that floods at high tide. I won’t go near it. Can’t stand it. Defilement.”
All at once, Aminia’s divine visage disintegrated as the rain stopped. The only evidence that a drizzle even occurred were flowers along the roadside, already beginning to wither.
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We rushed through the mines on the way back to the stormheaths. I left half our number behind to barricade the entrance, to ensure nobody else could ever utilize the summoning pits again.
Kev and a small team of known-loyal stormlanders returned with me to Secondhome.
“Have you seen any sign of Richard, or his henchmen?” I bellowed at Hector.
The force of my booming voice must’ve taken Hector by surprise.
“Jesus, boss. What’s eating at you?”
“Richard. Where is he?”
“Rick’s down in his office, as usual. Rita and the others haven’t come back. Guess they’ve set up some kind of secondary site up the river somewhere?”
The third temple. Right. Well, Richard was underground, in the settlement. At least I could end this right here.
“Something the matter, boss?”
I put my hand on Hector’s shoulder. “He’s doing something to the locals. Trying to reverse whatever sent us here at their expense.”
Hector’s eyes went wide. They still looked too small for his face now that his glasses were long gone.
“He asked for volunteers to go to his office. Elvan only.”
I took off running before Hector finished his sentence.
Random citizens, Maria’s healers, human and elvan, people of all kinds waved to me as I ran through Secondhome, hands on my war bat.
I threw open the birdskin flap to Richard’s office. The room was normally lit only by dim candlelight, but today there was an sickly purple glow from a now-illuminated rune dead center in the chamber.
“I’ve got it.” Richard declared, standing atop the rune.
Six hunched over figures lay evenly spaced around the runic circle. Their bodies seemed elongated, distorted by a field around the rune.
Richard looked back at me, not terribly concerned.
“Spatial warping is child’s play. Just need to perfect the interdimensional aspects. Going to need more resources. Toll ought to be massive.”
Wreathed in a blinding purple blaze and a with whiff of sulfuric odor, Richard vanished. The room was left dark and empty aside from the tangled corpses of his six less-than-willing volunteers – five stormlanders, one plainswalker, all duly invited residents of Secondhome.
Belatedly, I noticed that a crowd had formed behind me. Most of the bus crew, Hector and Maria included.
“Maria. These bodies.” I was stammering. “Medical attention. No saving them. Just make sure they’re dead.”
“Michael, there’s nothing left.” Maria managed once she took both hands off her mouth.
Torsos were elongated, “spaghettified” was Hector’s fancy term for it. They all met in a grizzly knot where the rune now sat, dormant. Feet kept twitching, again and again.
“This is ancient magic,” Kev said. “Forgotten for good reason.”
“Can we really go home?” asked one of our teammates.
“What happened to those guys?” asked a cheerleader.
“Nobody leave the compound until I return.” I was already heading back topside.
Two of Kev’s warriors had clan-kin among the volunteers. They had to stay to bury the dead. Kev still had my back.
“Michael, you need to explain what’s going on.” Hector said, struggling to keep up as I neared the exit to our cave compound.
“One of you outlanders has taken to abducting clansmen,” Kev said.
“So we, uh, arresting him?” Maria asked, having given up on trying to provide aid to a fused mass of mangled lower torsos. “Hell, we don’t have any precedent for what to do with lawbreakers. Not since Murphy…”
“Stormlanders don’t do jury trials,” I said.
Hector put a firm hand on my shoulder right before I reached the sweltering heat of high noon.
“Whose side are you on?” I asked Hector.
“One of the in-laws was among his volunteers,” Hector said. “Hell do you think I feel? I’m coming with.”
“You can barely see.”
“Can see well enough to put my hands around the bastard’s throat and squeeze.”
I shook my head. “Send word to the Laval. Their new chief owes me a favor and will be glad to have a potential problem off his hands. Maria, you stay here too; might have injured coming in.”
“Oh, and both of you,” I said before I stormed off. “Keep the rest of us in line. The original crew. Until we know more about what exactly Richard’s doing and why, I don’t necessarily trust the rest of us not to help him punt a stormlander or two into these sacrificial circles if it means a possibility of a route home.”
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