Into the Rift: The Limits, #4

INTO THE RIFT

BY

J.C. BELL

SMASHWORDS EDITION

* * * * *

PUBLISHED BY:

J.C. Bell on Smashwords

INFINITE LIMITS

Copyright @ J.C. Bell, 2018

All rights reserved

Registered 2003 @ Library of Congress

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This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living

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are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

THE ENDLESS ROAD

INTO THE RIFT

DEAD GODS

EPILOGUE

THE LIMITS SERIES

INFINITE LIMITS

SANCTUARY

LIMITS @ INFINITY

INTO THE RIFT

NOTE TO READERS:

Into the Rift is the fourth novel in the Limits series. I recommend reading it in the intended order, but also welcome and encourage any reading, of any of my novels, in any manner, format, or location that you prefer.

As always, keep the feedback coming – reviews, even bad ones, help make good writers.

Thanks, and enjoy,

J.C. Bell

http://infinitelimitsjcbell.wixsite.com/jcbell

PROLOGUE

The battle for the Sanctuary was over.

We left the Rift behind us . . . to never return. Once more we cheated death . . . once more we escaped the clutches of the Plague.

When we arrived in the Seventh World we were hailed as heroes; the so-called ‘Guardians of Death’. They believed in us . . . believed we could save them from the coming of the Dark Army. But those who survived the Sanctuary knew that our victory was hollow, knew that we had failed. Instead of returning with an army of gods, we returned with a handful of mortals, who, despite their great powers, were all susceptible to death and defeat at the hands of the Dead Gods.

We had failed.

The Dead Gods were more powerful and corrupt than ever before. No longer could we reason with the Dark Army, or hope to survive by appeasing their needs. They now sought but one thing – an end to all life. And they would stop at nothing to see that need fulfilled.

Our future was certain. Death would find us, no army would ever be strong enough and no wall high enough to hold it back.

No matter the truth of it, the survivors did just that; they joined together and focused all their skills and energy into transforming a mountain range into a wall. As a fortification it would amount to naught, but as a symbol the wall gave them hope . . . perhaps even a future.

To me it seemed death was our only future.

In my eyes, the wall was a false promise, if not an outright lie. Our children would grow beneath an illusion of peace, ignorant to the fact that every day their inevitable deaths drew nearer.

I couldn’t bear to watch their illusion unfold, watch the survivors veil their children’s minds in a lie. So I turned my back on them and lost myself in the untouched wilds of this planet; what had become known as the ‘Seventh World’.

. . . for many years I walked the land.

Away from the Rift, surrounded by the world’s raw beauty, I almost knew peace . . . Then I heard the summons of an old friend. His death was at hand; a peace he most rightfully deserved. I could not refuse his call. After the sacrifices he had made, to honor his life and offer my respect was the least I could do.

Thus I returned to the Rift, and what was now the city of Lock Core.

That’s when I saw it for myself . . . the culmination of their efforts, their hope -- their Great Red Wall. The rising towers topped with silver spires; the smooth, polished, cliff-like walls -- impossible to scale for even the most agile elf. Not since gazing upon the God Tree of my home-world had my vision failed to take in the breadth of such a massive structure. How the survivors could have built it – and in such a short span of time – seemed impossible.

Despite what I knew of the Dark Army, at the sight of it I couldn’t help but fall prey to the illusion of hope the wall inspired.

Then I was reunited with my friend . . . and I saw his greatest creation – his child. Half human, half elf; as I gazed into her grey and white eyes, I saw the truth of it . . . the wall was more than an illusion, more than a symbol . . . much more . . .

The Red Wall was a true chance at a future -- our only one.

The life of my dear friend came to an end . . . but a new life had begun . . .

I once convinced myself it was over -- the universe was scorched of life. But suddenly anything seemed possible. I couldn’t escape the feeling that others might have survived . . . and that life remained . . . hiding in the darkest corners of the universe. And if so, they too should have hope and a future.

While the others rejoiced at their creation, and sought comfort and peace in their new world, I set my sights on the Dead Worlds. I sought survivors . . .

Once more I entered the Rift . . .

Once more I found only suffering and death . . .

The Endless Road

The Seventh World

Post Exodus, 105

The seasons varied in the Outlands. In the frozen north, winter was eternal; darkness became a season, covering the icy landscapes for months at a time. In the southern lands, where dense jungles hid the sun in a canopy of leaves, rain was the major season; a torrential downpour that turned the jungle floor into a river. In the west, year round, the great desert knew only blistering heat by day, and bone-chilling cold by night.

The surest method to gauge time in the Outlands was the passing of the ‘midnight sun’, a bright comet that blazed across the Seventh World’s sky once every year. From the peaks of the Northern Ice Chain, to the unknown end of the bitter and lifeless Southern Ocean, the Midnight Sun left a fiery tail for all to see.

Adros had watched the Midnight Sun cross this world’s sky eighty-two times since last he had seen his old friend; a lifetime for some, but for the ageless elf, the eighty-two cycles were only another season – a brief season of peace before the time of chaos and death returned.

His time away had been spent in a journey of discovery through the wilds of this ‘Seventh World’. Adros had learned a great deal about the planet since then; not only had he walked from one ocean to the next, mapping the land, but he had also encountered a vast array of indigenous life; both plant and animal. Truly the planet was a living world – perhaps the last in existence – and truly it would provide safe harbor for the Triad of Races.

But now his journey was at an end, another season had begun. He was returning to the Rift, to the red-walled city designed to defend it, and to the one man most responsible for the wall’s creation . . .

Brontes . . . You had such high hopes for this world, Adros thought, truly wishing he shared his friend’s vision; that Brontes’ dream of peace and safety in this world was a reality. Though he would not admit it, one of the reasons he left the city was that he couldn’t bear to see their wall, their false hope. And to see his dear friend give everything to its creation – including his immortality.

After the battle of the Sanctuary, as most of the survivors set to crafting their wall, Adros took to the Outlands. For one thing, he was at home in the wilderness. For another, if this world was truly to be their home, it had to be known. His affinity with nature and fighting instincts were best served in that regard; or so he told his old friend.

He prayed that Brontes was unable to sense his guise. Adros knew his friend wouldn’t dream of reading his thoughts, but how much could he read upon his face? Adros never hid the fact that he thought Brontes and the others were naïve to think they could stop the Dark Army. Because of this belief, he lost many friends among the races – but never Brontes. Some even claimed he was a coward, and that he had given up, not only on the survivors, but on life itself. Admittedly, their words held a great deal of truth. He was a coward. Though not for the reasons they suspected. The real reason he couldn’t stay was that he lacked the courage to look upon his friend, to see his scarred face and return his twisted smile in kind. He lacked the courage to lie to him, to pretend that everything would be all right, and the peace of which they dreamed was finally realized.

What Adros really wanted to say was that he was sorry, sorry for failing him in the Sanctuary, sorry he wasn’t strong enough to stop the Dark Army, and sorry that his failure left Brontes a ruined man.

No matter if he sensed the truth, Brontes would never deny Adros his freedom, and knew he deserved to reap whatever sense of peace he could from this world before the coming of the Plague. Brontes also knew that no matter what Adros claimed, when the time did come to face the Dark Army, the Elf Prince would be the first one standing atop the wall – likely the last one as well.

Uncertain if they would ever meet again, Adros and Brontes bid each other a brief, but heartfelt farewell. Without looking back, Adros set out to explore the world they now called ‘home’.

Can your wall save this world, old friend? Adros wondered. Is there any way to stop its death?

As he sat perched atop one of the world’s giant elms, he almost believed it was possible – to stop the Plague. With the land spread out before him for miles upon miles, the raw beauty and natural harmony of this world nearly dropped even his defenses.

Originally, after they left the city they headed west – following the foothills of the great mountain range. But on their return journey they came from the south, where their path led them to the marvelous forest of untouched elms.

The typical elms reached heights upwards of five hundred standard feet, and were undoubtedly ancient -- thousands of years old. But the tree Adros had climbed dwarfed all the others. It was beyond ancient. Its existence likely spanned the ages, harkening back to before the Age of War; to a time when peace was still the dominant sentiment among the worlds.

The ‘midnight sun’ will be coming again soon, he thought as the wind whipped through the forest, numbing his cheeks. The summer sun was setting earlier with every passing day. Midday had only recently passed, yet already the western sky was covered in an orange and red glow. Dimly lit stars could even be found, twinkling against the backdrop of the fiery sky.

Very soon, he whispered, his words accompanied by a puff of mist.

From his vantage point, the great mountain range was once more visible; its giant peaks towering higher still than even the mighty elm in which he stood. The largest peaks vanished in a thick covering of clouds.

Far below, dusk’s light was mirrored in the crystal-clear waters of a large stream. The waters were born of the mountains, feeding the valley below and winding their way through the forest. The river had proven a helpful landmark; by following it upstream, it had guided them northward on their journey home.

Adros had spent the return journey in haste, it wasn’t until he came upon the massive forest that he took a respite. For his companions, the trees provided much needed shelter. For Adros, they provided a valuable vision of the land, with which he could fill in a large swath of his maps before his mission came to an end – at least, that’s why he thought he stopped. But once he began the ascent up the trunk, it became clear that the real reason he paused was that he couldn’t resist the urge to climb one of the ancient giants; so akin to the God-tree of his home-world.

At the sight of them, memories of a better time filled his mind.

Even his body remembered, the moment his thin fingers took hold of the thick bark ridges the muscle-memory of his youth was suddenly restored. He was young again, an elf-child in the prime of life, born to the branches and as comfortable with the climb as he was walking. As nimble as ever, he made short work of the ascent, and was soon above the forest canopy. With a clear view of the land below, he began to convert the valley into a map for others to follow. He had done the same in all the lands he had come upon over the past eighty-two years. And during that time, his collection of maps, and wealth of knowledge, had grown into a book. A book that, when he returned, he meant to share with the rest of the survivors – that is to say, only after he shared the final moments of life remaining to his friend . . .

We could be at home here, he thought, and swore that when he returned, he would pass on the forest’s location to his people, and by doing so hopefully pass on the traditions of their ancestors as well.

Though saplings compared to the elven God-tree, the Graelic, the elms could still restore his people’s affinity with nature. Most of them could no longer remember it, their home-world Ki'minsyllessil. Those that did – like X’ander – wished it could be forgotten. To them, the only memory of the Graelic was that of the corrupted Dead Tree – a place of suffering and pain.

Often he wondered if X’ander should have been left there to die. Unlike the other elven children he had saved from the Dead Tree, X’ander had hung from its limbs far too long. No matter the beauties they encountered in this world – the elms included -- his eyes remained as glazed and empty as they were the day he found him hanging from its branches.

Such beauty . . . he mused. It has been too long.

He frowned at his maps; a lifeless collection of lines of elevation and numbers. His mind no longer registered the topography of the land as raw data, but as brilliant colors and rich textures. Only a painting could truly capture the land, and only one crafted by an expert hand. He fought the urge to scatter his works to the wind, and attempt to create the latter.

Instead, he was content to sit there -- the only sound the wind whispering in his pointed ears, the tree gently swaying back and forth -- and let the vision of beauty burn into his mind as a memory; a small slice of time that he could claim as his own. The rest of his near immortal existence would remain devoted to others, but that moment of beauty would be only for him.

Once more he contemplated Brontes’ peace . . . How he wished it was real. And oh how he longed to share it with another . . .

Alana, my love . . . he thought, remembering his other failure. Where have you gone?

In his lifetime, he had been to countless worlds. On every one, he always held out hope he would find her. But after discovering one dead world after another, his hope dwindled. And after the horrors of the Sanctuary, it was all but a certainty she was no more – or even worse, that she had been taken by the new, even more corrupt version of the Plague.

If he had thought for a moment she could have survived out there, alone -- when entire galaxies died -- he would have returned to the Rift and tore it apart to find her. But even so, he wouldn’t be the only one out there, searching . . . The Dead Gods were out there hunting as well. And if he didn’t find her in time, they would find him and then this world, and put an end to hope and to life itself.

He had seen too many planets die to believe that this one would be different . . .

As long as the Rift remained, it would never be different.

He felt it; no matter where he went in this world he felt it. Somewhere north of the mountain chain the Black Door was pulsating, beating in tune to his own heart . . . and as always, the peace that Brontes spoke of dissipated into an illusion.

Adros picked up his maps, and once more the land became sterile lines, the mountains wavy contours on a piece of parchment. He had a job to finish, and a journey to complete. The young elf prince so enamored with art, nature and love was no more. His heart grew cold. He had to be strong . . . stronger than before . . . stronger than the Plague.

Since the fall of his home-world, he had honed his mind and body to a keen fighting edge. That ‘edge’ did not simply fade away at the mere sight of the cliffs of red granite encircling the Rift. Nor did he wish it to. His existence was devoted to fighting the Dark Army, and so long as the Dead Gods remained, so too would his fighting edge. He knew in the city it would quickly dull, but in the Outlands it would keep him alive, and carve him a path through the new world.

Yes, there was a time when his life was devoted to caring for and nurturing nature, and to be surrounded by it was a welcome blessing. But that was another life . . . another elf he no longer understood, nor cared to. He was a warrior now, a weapon.

So it was, he completed his maps and abandoned the romantic elf prince atop the elms. He ensured his blackened staff was securely strapped to his back then began his descent. Once more he was Solo Ki, the One Elf -- his keen edge sharp as ever.

Tumbling down the branches like an acrobat, he came to the earth. Even now, after all this time, he still found the sensation of solid ground unpleasant. He was born amongst the clouds, it wasn’t until the Plague came to his world that his feet first touched the earth.

He did his best to ignore the strange feeling of walking on solid ground and headed out to rejoin his companions, who had made camp beneath a cavernous gap in one of the elm’s trunk. As he moved, darkness quickly replaced the orange sky. It took but a moment for his white pupils to adjust to the shadowed forest. As they did so, a bluish glow appeared in the distance, making his path even clearer. Following the light, it wasn’t long before he found his companions and their living cave -- a twenty-foot arch at the base of a giant elm. Together, they awaited him beneath the archway and a fiery halo of mage-fire.

As if hiding from the light, slumped over in the darkest corner of the cave was his adopted son, X’ander. The mage-fire shone on the top of his bald head, yet was unable to ignite so much as a glimmer in his dull eyes of grey and white. A thick wool cloak hung loosely over his frame; a varied multitude of blades hidden in the folds.

As it was since Adros first saved him from the Dead Tree, his silent and deadly shadow had followed in his footsteps during his journey through the wilds; his mood darkened even further since the horrors of the Sanctuary.

Side by side at the entrance to the cave, a pair of robed figures stood vigil, their bodies covered with brilliant licks of blue flames. Though a slight display of their power, the light it generated could be seen for miles, and the warmth felt from several yards away.

As Adros neared, they let their hoods fall. One revealed the soft, lean features of a woman; the rest of her frail, stick-like body hidden by her black robe. Her hair was as dark as her robe, and cropped short, lying flat upon her head. Her brown eyes, once so downcast and sullen, now had an eternal gleam – particularly when they rested upon her husband – who was at her side, his face likewise revealed. His hair was shoulder length, and bound behind his head into a high-ponytail. It was light-brown in color; but greying at his temples. His features were dour. His skin was worn and dry like the leather of a well-traveled boot. At first glance, he seemed a harsh and unforgiving man, but his stern demeanor easily broke as Adros neared. A wide smile crossed his face, revealing the kindness beneath the tough, leathery exterior.

Instead of coming over to great Adros, the final member of their group trudged away from him, retreating to the back of the cave. The being raised a handful of wrinkled and stubby fingers in a half-hearted salute before grumbling, Bout damn time. With great care he removed his vest of many pockets, easing it to the earth like a new-born babe. It may as well have been his child, the many precious stones within the sum of the dwarf’s life. After he safely set it down, he then kicked off his boots of brown leather and settled his squat four-foot frame to the ground. I told em not to worry . . . and that the last thing they had to fear was Prince Adros falling from a bloody tree, he continued before tucking his bedroll beneath his head.

When they originally set out from the city, hundreds were among their party. Now, including himself, only five remained. Most had been humans, a sizable group that decided to put their faith in Adros’ tracking abilities and survival skills in the hope he would guide them to fertile, hospitable lands in which they could establish colonies. The humans who originally set out were long since dead. Many perished along the way; some from weariness and age, others from injury and the elements. But many of those who began the journey succeeded in creating communities far removed from the Rift. Their legacies remained in the form of growing cities, now brimming with generations of their descendants. The land was bountiful, allowing the humans to thrive in their new-found colonies. So much so, that several major trade routes now lead back to red-walled city the dwarves named ‘Lock Core’. From the Outerlands, the trade routes now delivered everything from purple dye harvested from the flowering desert cactus to giant sea sturgeons fished from the Eternal Sea.

But the greatest trade of all was in silver. The Dwarves swarmed the mountains to find the ore, without which, even the sharpest blade they crafted would be utterly useless against the Plague.

And the being most responsible for locating the hidden treasure was one of Adros’ remaining companions, TOphin the dwarf, a mineral and ore expert who set out with Adros, likewise seeking knowledge of their new world -- mainly its natural resources. Many of the current silver mines came to be from TOphin’s notes on the mountain range. As he traveled further along the mountain, so too did his kin, following the very maps he created.

Because of silver’s importance, if TOphin found even a trace of it, they had cause to report back to the city. The pair of Magi in their group made such instantaneous reports possible. Both of the Magi were powerful and trusted companions. Adros had fought alongside them on more than one world – including the Sanctuary.

The female Mage was the lithe – but powerful – Kendal; a woman whose kind-hearted nature was matched only by her fierce fighting skills and power of the Oneness. She was a legendary hero of the Sanctuary. Without whom, none of them would have ever left the planet of black glass. Adros could name few warriors as fearless and powerful as Kendal. It was an honor to have her as an ally and a friend.

If ever she became and enemy . . . it would likely be the end of the One Elf.

Never one to leave her side, her husband Ollius walked every step with her, hand in hand. Another survivor of the Sanctuary, as well as leader of the Exodus, Ollius was a former Gatekeeper of worlds and as blessed with the Oneness as his wife – when she wasn’t consumed by a battle frenzy.

Being a former Gatekeeper, Ollius happened to be an expert in interstellar communication. As such, he had been able to replicate the technology back in the city, what he called a ‘mirror pool’. Essentially, the pool enhanced the natural telepathic powers of the Makii. By channeling the Oneness, the pool could absorb telepathic thoughts from great distances. And when another joined their mind to the pool, such thoughts could be shared. But the greatest benefit of the ‘mirror pool’ was that when paired with a similar pool, the Makii had been able to share their thoughts between worlds, no matter their distance. Though such ‘pools’ continued to exist throughout the ruined universe, Ollius feared testing them, lest he find the Dead Gods peering back. If so, they could uncover his thoughts, and worst of all, the location of their hidden world.

It had been years since their last communication with the city of Lock Core, but sadly, three weeks ago Ollius received a message . . . Brontes was on his deathbed.

And so it came to be, the Elf Prince’s venture into the wilds was at an end . . .

Adros was returning to Lock Core to see his old friend for one final time.

With the coming meeting he began to regret his journey -- as peaceful as it may have been. Adros could name only one man in the universe more caring and honorable than Brontes, and that man was so pure and good he had ascended to true godhood. Adros owed his life to Brontes, and the lives of every last one of his kin. Together they had faced the demon Ostedes and were both nearly destroyed by him. It was Adros’ fight, but Brontes refused to let him fight it alone. Because of his choice, Brontes suffered unimaginable physical pain, and permanent disfiguration. And it was all Adros’ fault.

It was time to say what he should have so long ago -- that he was sorry. Until now he had been too afraid to speak the words. But before Brontes meets his maker, he deserved an apology.

Adros nodded to the others as he entered their camp. The Magi moved to great him, while the venerable TOphin continued to rest his head of grey hair against his bedroll. As expected, X’ander’s presence was all but ignored, as if his existence was an afterthought.

Did you find what you were looking for? Ollius asked with a smirk, guessing that Adros had personal motives for climbing the tree.

I saw the Elf Prince die . . .

Yes, he flatly replied, causing Ollius to grow somber. "We’ll be upon the mountains within a week, and if our luck holds