Dorn hated America. It lacked order. It coddled the weak. The rules of behavior were contrary to nature. Common women were arrogant, badly disciplined; peasants pressed for their rights; the wealthy kept the masses subservient through financial debt instead of fear; and leaders were subject to criticism and even ridicule, such as on the players’ farce Saturday Night Live. Madness. Dorn rubbed his temples in an effort to relieve the growing pressure.
The Quinta do Noval ’83 slid down his lordship’s gullet and warmed the chill from his bones. He didn’t like the Park Plaza’s vented heating and longed for a real fire to stoke under a large stone mantel. Nothing was real in this world; the food was processed and bloodless and even the warmth was an illusion. The city smelled worse than brimstone, noxious waste belching from the asses of a million horseless carriages. Mass production by scientific trickery produced a lot of nothing. The masses hoarded material goods as if they were nobility-fooled into believing the purchase of soulless objects would overcome their ingrained defects. The right car or the toothpaste with a catchier tune will bring them closer to being noble. As wines went, though, port came closest to the spirits of home. It alleviated the throbbing in his temple, which had been growing worse since their arrival in this cursed world. It was also becoming harder to hide the pain from his underlings. He found himself drinking more of the wine the longer he remained here.
This world was not an easy place. Like hawks in a maelstrom, they struggled through it, denigrated in the effort of not drawing attention to themselves. Limited sorceries, restricted violence, and the inability to freely draw manpower from local denizens without leverage over them. More than that, there was no way to tell how high-grade magicks might react on this plane. Some unknown cosmic balance might be tipped. Such a thing could make the situation worse-the ensuing chaos might cause difficulty in their search. So they had to wade through the mire of orthodoxy, risking a spell only when needed, and slinking off like weasels after raiding the coop.
Dorn leaned against the mantel of his bedroom’s faux fireplace and pulled an ornate silver locket from his pocket. It opened on a hinge and he studied the tiny portrait within-Lara, his mother’s youngest sister. A few strands of her platinum-white hair encircled her image. He sniffed the strands, pining for any remnant of her scent. Lara had been more of a mother to Dorn than the woman who pushed him from her thighs could ever be. How long had it been since he had last seen her-her soft, scented skin, alabaster hair, and sympathetic amethyst eyes? The depiction, perfect as a photograph, followed him with its gaze. What was she doing at this moment? Was she free? Would Uncle keep his word? Dorn could not suspend his longing for her. It was there, below the surface, every moment of the day no matter what he did, as though he were under a spell. Even the port failed to dull its ache.
A renowned artist from Fhlee, whose race in adulthood grew to be no larger than a young child and were sought throughout the realm for their diminutive work, had painted the likeness with tiny hands. Dorn had set a few of their villages ablaze to bring them into line with his uncle’s reign. Though the artist was a slave by conquest, so fine was the portrait of his aunt, that in a rare act of veneration, Dorn actually paid the painter with gold instead of a flogging. The portrait was his anchor to home.
A knock at the door reverberated through Dorn’s headache.
“What?” he roared.
The gentleman entered-tall, lean, combed and manicured, in gray pinstripes, white gloves, and a black long-tail jacket.
“Oulfsan?” Dorn asked, pocketing the locket.
“No, master. Krebe.”
Dorn noticed the slight hunch in the man, the nervous twiddling of fingers. Krebe’s speech was heavy on the tongue.
“I’ll never get used to you two switching about,” Dorn said. “Well…?”
“On their way up, they are, sire. Wounded it seems.”
“I should hope so,” Dorn said, as though this was the least they should be. “When does Oulfsan return?”
“It don’t work like that, me lordship. ’Tis random.”
Dorn considered the man, ill-suited for his body, and waited for something to change.
“Leave me,” Dorn said.