... a gripping, thought-provoking tale that evokes a strong response within the reader, both on an emotional and an intellectual level. It is a dark fantasy that takes the reader on both an adventure-filled ride, but also a spiritual exploration... Action abounds in this thriller... Baxter’s prose is better than many in the genre... consistently solid and well-crafted... I found it a gritty, entertaining read that made me think. If you like your speculative fiction a little on the dark side, RealmShift is for you.
David Wood, author of Dourado and Cibola
Twice, ensconced in a tram, reading this tale, I missed my stop... Alan Baxter introduces us to a mystical world, a shadowed realm with forces beyond comprehension or principle... Baxter writes with conviction; he writes differently rather well. Physical and dimensional conflict is one of the best features of the tale. Effortless script makes gullible the reader... Prose flows smoothly, almost poetic. RealmShift is a novel I am loath to put down. A most surprising read. Quite a ride.
Eugen M Bacon, TCM Reviews
...fast-paced and engrossing... a book that was thoroughly enjoyable. 4 ½ out of 5
Linda Davis, clubreading.com
...entertaining and thought-provoking ...I enjoyed it immensely... an interesting blend of speculative fiction and thriller.
Julie Ann Dawson, Gloomwing
RealmShift has a strong foundation in an unusually coherent fantasy cosmology... This is a substantial dark fantasy novel written in clear, effective prose... seamlessly constructed with a plot that picks up speed slowly but then barrels towards its conclusion... Baxter shows glimmers of unusual talent in his world building and prose style. 7/10
Ed Kane, POD People
A fast-paced storyline that holds the reader right from the start ... nifty devices galore, from RealmShift to the Balance ... and a no-nonsense story-telling approach that lets the unfolding action speak for itself.
Van Ikin, editor ‘Science Fiction’
... always on the move it explores an interesting mix of mythologies... a rich novel.
Infinitas Books
Also by Alan Baxter
MageSign
The long awaited sequel to RealmShift
Available now from Blade Red Press
ALAN BAXTER -
BLADE RED PRESS
First Published worldwide, 2006
By Alan Baxter
Second Edition, 2008
Blade Red Press
This edition published by Blade Red Press though
Smashwords.com
Cover design by Blade Red Press Copyright © 2008
Cover Image – crystal skull by Donn Salt
http://www.donnsalt.com
The moral right of Alan Baxter to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.
Copyright © Alan Baxter 2005
All Rights Reserved
All characters and events in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
(Print edition: ISBN: 978-0-9805782-0-1)
Author website: http://www.alanbaxteronline.com
Publisher: http://www.blade-red.com
Blade Red Press Smashwords page:
http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/BladeRedPress
Both RealmShift and the sequel, MageSign, are available in paperback from Amazon and all good retailers – see websites above for details.
This book is dedicated to the memory of those beloved family members that had to leave too soon, through no desire of their own.
Steve, the greatest brother
&
Gloria, a wonderful mother
1
Torrential rain. The sky crying tears of shame to wash the filth from the streets of the cramped, choking city below. An impossible task, the filth ingrained in the buildings, roads, windows. And in the hearts and souls of the people. So few good people left it seems, everybody huddled in their selfish little boxes of material illusion.
Raindrops chase each other down the window pane, an endless race to the dirty, grey stone windowsill. Zig-zag left, right, left, always down. The drops make a repetitive tattoo on the glass, strangely soothing in spite of itself. The sky outside a solid leaden grey, like some great hand has closed the lid on a best forgotten box of horrors. It’s too dark for the time of day, mid-morning. The towers of the city stark and black, almost silhouettes against the slate sky.
In the street several stories below the neon light on shops, bright blue, pink, green, shimmers reflections on the tear soaked road. Little people scuttle back and forth like ants, hiding from the pouring rain under umbrellas and newspapers, protecting their designer suits and expensive hairstyles, preserving the image. Shiny, hard shelled cars slide up and down the road. Different colours, different shapes, but all the same, leaving brief trails of dry tarmac behind them, headlights painting yellow streaks in front. Thunder rumbles gently overhead, like the embarrassed god of this city clearing his throat as he averts his eyes.
Isiah sighed gently as he stared out into the weeping morning, the glass gently misting, fading away, his eyes sliding up once more to stare at the dead weight of the clouds. He could sense the impatience building in the figure behind him. Sighing again he turned slowly. He could not see the figure too clearly, shadow masking the bulk of it. Not like normal shadow, more like black light. And it was a bulk, malevolence exuding from its very presence, the only things really visible were two red, glowing eyes. A typical manifestation, the believer’s image personified like many others, yet unique in its own way. Isiah could sense various other images shimmering and shifting behind, within, but this was the one he was dealing with now.
He took another breath and looked directly into those pulsing eyes. ‘You can’t have him.’ His voice was matter-of-fact, tired.
A wave of pure anger, tangible, swept the room. Its voice did not use the space between them to get to Isiah but boomed straight into his head. He hated that. Vaudeville. ‘We are already enemies, Isiah. Why make it worse?’ The voice sounded like worms crawling through the rotting flesh of the dead, amplified by hollow skulls. ‘Why make me wait for this black soul? I will not let him continue to insult me!’
Isiah looked down, slight shake of the head. ‘I suppose the expression “Patience is a virtue” is lost on you, isn’t it? Do you want to fight me for him now? You know he’ll eventually have come to your Realm, you’ll get him in the end. But I’ll find him first and he’ll work for me.’
There was an audible hiss and whine of heat bowing metal, the crackle of wood and fabric burning. The voice contained such fury, such impotent rage. ‘You are a thorn in my side, Interferer. It may not be worthwhile fighting you here but the race is on. I will send my Hell to your world, Isiah. I will harry your every move.’ The figure hunched, muscles tightening as it leant forward dramatically to point one black, taloned finger at Isiah. ‘And one day I will piss in your eyes as I watch you burn.’ There was a dark flash of light, brief glimpse of sloping brow, horns, taught, shiny, black skin, then nothing but the cloying smell of sulphur. The carpet and floorboards were burned away where he had stood, the pipes beneath grotesquely twisted like silver-grey candles left in the sun. With a slight shake of his head, Isiah picked up his tattered leather jacket, glanced once more at the burnt floor, and left the apartment. He knew where he had to go first.
He had been living here for some time now, no particular reason to move had arisen. It wasn’t often that he got a job in the town he lived in. Usually he was sent off all over the world, but this time work had cropped up right on his doorstep. It made him think of news reports on commercial stations, neighbours with shocked faces, I never thought it would happen so close to home!
Stepping from the building into the sobbing day, Isiah pulled the collar of his jacket tight against the stinging tears, headed for the station. There were rather more etheric methods of travel open to him, but he preferred to travel like humans, mortals. It kept him in touch. He could not think of himself as either human or mortal any more, but it was important not to lose contact with them. He had been human, centuries ago, but was certainly no longer mortal, no matter how much humanity remained to him.
After a short walk in the hammering rain he arrived at the station and trotted down the steps leading underground, shaking the water from his dark hair, pushing it back from his eyes. The stairs had leaves and plastic packets gathered up in the corners, bright graffiti battling for supremacy on the walls, and smelled strongly of urine and vomit. People jostled all around him, hurrying, heads down, insular. The ever-rolling human tide. As he came out into the ticketing area the metallic smell was a relief after the stairs, but the air was stale, processed.
He watched all the grey people, dividing up, tumbling through the turnstiles like cattle. Ticket in, click, ticket out, next, ticket in, click, ticket out, next. A guard leaned laconically against his little plastic booth, staring mindlessly at the crawling crowd, absently chewing on gum. Waiting perhaps for a torn ticket, a red light on the turnstile, something to do.
Isiah stepped up into the end of the nearest queue of commuters, slowly bumped his way along to the gateway. A slight gesture, mental pressure, and the electronics were overridden. The turnstile clicked open and he stepped through. No one noticed, not even the guard. No one ever did.
Walking toward the stairs, Isiah caught the scent of sulphur thick in the air, though he knew that only he smelt it. He smiled crookedly, looking carefully around, So it begins. He carefully started down the stairs, scanning with his eyes and his mind. There. Bottom of the steps, in among the shadows. He could not see it clearly with his eyes, but its presence was unmistakable. Minion. Demon. Sent as promised, a little piece of Hell on Earth.
Isiah could sense the malevolence in its aura, but also its mischief, joy at this opportunity to wreak a little havoc in the mortal plane. Isiah would have to be careful. The commuters all around him, bustling, jostling, would not be able to see it, of course, but they would see him. See him react if it attacked, like a lunatic swatting at invisible flies. He could move fast, faster than the mortal eye could follow, but he would have to deal with it quickly, draw no attention. People might not see him move as such, but they might see him vanish and reappear metres away.
As he processed these thoughts, it moved. Like a streak of black lightning, from the shadows into the harsh, fluorescent light, laughter like insane childrens’ minds snapping in dark corners. But he was ready. As it flew up the stairs he stepped with supernatural pace to the right, left arm thrusting out, palm flat. He struck the Minion full in its grotesque, slimy, fang-crowded face, deflecting it violently into the wall. With a crunch like stamping on dry twigs, it slammed into the tiles and dropped to the floor, draped across three steps. As it raised its head groggily, its eyes swimming randomly, Isiah gathered a handful of raw energy, released it with a flick. Evil squeal, black smoke and a smell like burning rubber. A couple of commuters looked up, surprised, Where did you come from? Then looked away again, not important.
Isiah paused for a moment, confused. That was pointless, only one. No threat at all, just a hindrance. It made Isiah think of the little sharpened stars used by Japanese assassins. Shuriken. Nasty little thrown weapons, not really designed to do any damage, just distract, confuse the enemy, make an opening for the killing blow. He would have to be careful, alert.
Isiah stepped onto the platform as a train hissed to a stop. With a mechanical sigh of resignation the train doors slid open and Isiah stepped aboard. He sat on the hard, dirty fabric seat of the electric train, contemplating finding a quiet corner in order to use a rather less mundane mode of transport to avoid further hindrance, any more sickening shurikens from Hell. With so many people around, nowhere was really quiet till he got out of the subway system. It was only a couple of stops. He let a field of energy build up gently around him to put off any more nasty little Minions that might be sent. Make them think twice before attacking. Not that they really think at all. A small, balding man with glasses like milk bottle bottoms and an oversized, threadbare suit in the seat beside Isiah shivered as the energy field built up. He glanced up and shivered again without knowing why; static shiver, not cold. Isiah looked down at him over his shoulder with no expression. The little man’s eyes widened slightly, owlish behind thick lenses, at Isiah’s black eyes and he moved over an inch. He made a point of ignoring Isiah, studying the material of his trousers intently.
The journey went along quietly for several minutes. Then a shimmer in the air, like heat haze, caught Isiah’s eye, smell of sulphur. Simultaneously, he sensed the shift between Realms and a slimy, taloned demon stepped into view, as if from thin air. There were some mortals who, for various reasons, would be able to see these evil interlopers, but not many. This was effectively another private visitation, for Isiah alone. Its effect was intended to be public, not its appearance.
It grinned maliciously, a forest of black teeth like miniature curved sabres. It sat there, just a couple of feet away, staring. Why is he doing this? Isiah let energy gather in his hand, raised an eyebrow to the demon, You want this? It raised one gnarled, black finger to its dripping lips, Shush. Its bile green eyes glittered mischievously. Suddenly it leapt backwards, flipped over in the air, landed in the lap of a fat black woman sitting opposite and melted away into her stomach, all in a fraction of a second. Dirty trick. The woman scratched absently at her rotund abdomen, staring thoughtlessly into space.
What would it do? Obviously sent to cause some havoc, slow him down. Why did this one have to believe in God and the Devil? All Heaven and Hell, demons and angels, it could all get so damned complicated. By far the most common belief in the west and by far the most difficult, the most complex and self-contradictory.
The woman turned her head slowly to look directly at Isiah. He saw the flash of madness in her eyes a moment before she leapt, screaming like a banshee, hands stretched out for his throat. People all around jumped, looking to see what the fuss was. Definitely a dirty trick. He could not simply destroy her in a carriage full of people. With the demon using a human, he had to move at human speed too. Everyone was going to see this fight.
He let her hands get almost to his neck, then grabbed her wrists, one in each hand. Twisting at the waist, he stepped up out of his seat and turned her into his place, using her own momentum. She hit the seat with a heavy thud, fingers writhing like little black snakes, straining for his exposed throat, long, red nails glittering in the fluorescent light. Isiah could hear the demon laughing maniacally within her. Her foot suddenly flew up between his legs. Just in time he turned in his knee, deflecting the blow against his thigh.
Other commuters were beginning to sidle away, heading for the train doors as it began slowing into the next station, but helplessly staring, fascinated. No offers of assistance, of course, no one helping to hold her down. Just watching, What a remarkable thing I saw on the train today! Isiah’s attacker was writhing under his grasp like a giant, round eel, still wailing, lips flecked with spittle, kicking wildly. It was getting harder to hold her down without hurting her.
As the train came to a halt at the platform Isiah reached into her mind with his own and grabbed the demon in a psychic headlock, their minds a mirror of their bodies. It screamed, its cry mingling with hers, one inside his head, one outside. As the doors slid open, he twisted again, throwing the woman by her wrists from one side of the carriage to the other, superhuman strength, tearing the demon from her mind as she flew, eyes wide and manic, into the wall between the seats and the door. There were gasps and exclamations from the other passengers as her banshee wail stopped dead with a rush of breath, winded from the impact. With a mental blow, Isiah crushed the demon away to nothing, its crazed laughter fading.
He stepped from the train and walked quickly toward the exit sign, chuckles and hushed conversation from the commuters around him, Poor fellow, How embarrassing, I hope he didn’t hurt her. She would be bruised but okay, confused more than hurt. Not his problem. His problem was a ten minute walk as he had had to get off the train a stop too soon. This was really going to be a pain if it continued.
Isiah hurried along the rain soaked streets, the dirty city downpour refreshing after the cramped confines of the underground train system, keeping a careful lookout for any more demonic hindrances, but the walk was thankfully uneventful. Arriving at his destination Isiah looked up, squinting against the rain, at the dully glowing sign, O’Malley’s Pool Hall. Pushing the door open, he stepped into the building, suddenly enveloped in artificial heat and light.
He climbed the steps leading up to the first floor slowly, letting his mind gently scour the large room above before he reached it. Smoke, beer, mixed emotions, depression, hostility, competition. Not a great deal of joy.
Reaching the top of the stairs he turned into the pool hall and looked around. There were several tables, a dozen or more, with little crowds around each one. Lots of denim, leather, hair, tattoos. There was a thin crowd at the bar. An undercurrent of clinking glasses, converging conversations, the solid thock of cue ball on colour, all overlaid by the sound of Dire Straits piping out from a juke box through cheap speakers. Nebulous clouds of cigarette smoke hung in the air, gently swirling, glowing under each long, rectangular table light. Shadowy faces in the corners, under faded prints of cars, motorcycles, bikini girls, covered in nicotine stained glass, gazed aimlessly at one table or another.
Isiah walked towards one of the nearest tables, the players pausing to watch him approach. Isiah quickly scanned their thoughts. It was obvious which one they looked to as a leader. Bald head, shaved, long beard, more tattoos than skin, arrogant stance and expression. Mean. Isiah nodded as he approached. Mean didn’t.
‘You guys know where I can find Samuel Harrigan?’
The painted one shrugged, shook his large head. ‘Never ‘eard of him.’ He wasn’t lying. The others shook their heads too with sneering expressions, Wouldn’t tell you if I knew.
‘Okay. Thanks.’ Isiah felt them watching him as he walked away. He headed over to another table, more of the same people around it. Each person individual, but all strangely the same. Modern tribes. There was no obvious leader in this group. He stepped up to the table, not looking at any one in particular. They stopped playing to look back.
‘Anyone know where I can find Samuel Harrigan?’ He felt it immediately amongst the general shaking of heads. There. He was shaking his head, but thinking of Samuel. He knew him well. Isiah stepped around the table nearer to this one. ‘You sure?’
The man looked left and right, confused, Why did he pick me? Isiah leaned forward, the table light illuminating the left side of his face. The pool player tensed a little inside as he looked into Isiah’s black, bottomless eyes. ‘Where is he?’ Isiah’s voice was deep, very threatening when he spoke quietly like this.
The pool player looked to his friends again, then back at Isiah, trying not to look into those eyes. ‘I don’t know, man.’
Isiah put a little psychic pressure on, made him feel like something was squeezing his brain. Something was. ‘Where is he?’
The pool player’s eyes widened, his adam’s apple bobbing as he tried to swallow. Isiah sensed a big man to his right step forward. Hostility. ‘Leave him alone, pal.’ The man’s voice was like gravel in a wooden box.
Isiah didn’t take his eyes from the one in front of him. As Dire Straits faded from the room the susurration of conversation seemed to swell slightly. ‘Step back friend, and I won’t hurt you.’ Isiah’s presence was powerful, his confidence obvious. A pause. Piano began to float in the air. Isiah concentrated on the heavy, not really listening, but he recognised it. There was a long moment of discomfort as the man tried to decide what to do, unsure why he was so uncharacteristically scared of this stranger. It was a power struggle. No contest. Of course, it was Queen flooding the air. The big one stepped back a little, uncertain. The one in front flicked his eyes to his friend, back to Isiah. His head was beginning to hurt. He started to blink rapidly.
Isiah leaned slightly nearer to him, penetrating the small man with his onyx eyes.
‘He’s at home. His apartment. At home. I’m sure....at home.’ He was telling the truth. Isiah picked up an image of Samuel, finishing a beer, stubbing out a cigarette, See ya later, Ralphy, I’m heading home. Good. Now I know what he looks like.
‘Address?’
A minute later and he was walking back down the stairs to the street. The little crowd around the pool table looked at each other, a little embarrassed, a little confused, Who was that, Weirdo man, You okay Ralphy? Isiah headed towards the address he had been given. Not far, five minutes walk at most.
He felt the fight coming as soon as he turned past the end of the alley after the pool hall. A big shift in Realms, rolling mental shockwave, immediate smell like cordite and a coppery taste, as different worlds briefly merged. He looked around quickly and saw the haze of RealmShift in the street ahead. He’s trying to expose me, get me in a fight out in the open. People screaming, calling the police, as a madman frantically leaps about, like he’s fighting dozens of invisible assailants. Except the assailants are only invisible to them. Imagine trying to explain it.
There were muffled popping noises as, one after another, they began to appear. Too stupid to know that they were supposed to make a public fight Isiah knew that they would chase him down. He quickly turned back to the alley, running at supernatural speed, and ran to the dead end of it. Skidding to a halt, he spun around just in time to intercept the first of them as it leapt, a flying mass of teeth and claws.
Isiah twisted quickly, pistoning out a powerful punch. There was a satisfying crunch of bones as it tumbled away and hit the ground with a wet thud. By force of will he gathered in a rush of energy, compressed it, then, leaning forward in a stance to brace himself, put both hands out in front and let it fly, full into the faces of the next wave of shrieking, slavering abominations. There were dozens of them. A bright fan of raw energy, blue, crackling, so powerful, pulsed from Isiah’s hands. There was a hissing and wailing, a smell of burning, then the rest were on him.
Isiah fell over backwards under the weight of more than half a dozen stinking, slimy horrors, biting, clawing. Hot stinging slashes sprang up on his hands and face. Now he was really angry. With a yell from his repentant soul he tore them to pieces with his hands and his mind, throwing them left and right, ripping them limb from limb. Grabbing them from the air as they leapt, slamming them into the ground. Wave after wave he repelled, desperately keeping his ground. Then it was over. Isiah rose to his knees, panting for breath, gingerly feeling the depth of the gashes in his face, hands, arms. His jeans and jacket were soaked and muddy, reeking of the detritus of the alley and the demons feotid slime.
He drew in a deep breath, pictured the flesh of his face and hands in his mind, and carefully began reknitting the skin, speeding up the cellular activity, rapid healing. The cuts and gashes slowly filled in, the burning pain subsiding.
A sound caught his attention, to the right. Isiah spun around, energy crackling around his outstretched hand, ready for another attack.
‘Ss’okay mishturr. I’m leavin’ okay?’
Wino. Eyes wide in terror, half empty bottle hanging loosely, forgotten, in one hand. He just saw Isiah thrown around, scratched and cut by things he could not see, then he saw all the cuts heal themselves. All in the space of a couple of minutes. Can’t blame him for being scared. If he was the only person that saw then it will be alright. No one would believe him, assuming he ever told anyone.
The wino hurried off down the alley, back bowed, staggering slightly from left to right, and turned into the street. Isiah stared after him for a second, then turned his face up to the leaden sky, rain pattering his eyelids, cheeks, lips. Cool and soothing. He raised his hands up to either side, letting the rain wash the slime and ichor away, wash the dirt and stink from his jacket and hands. Slowly, his breathing settled. Thunder pealed again overhead, a deep throated, rumbling growl.
He had had enough of this, these shuriken were getting more offensive.
Isiah sat back on his heels, closed his eyes. He slowly let his spirit slip free from his body, flew the astral sky swiftly to the address he had been given. It took mere seconds. He located the building, looked around quickly. There was a small alley between it and the next building. No one would notice him appear there, under the fire escape steps. He retracted his spirit back to his body like it was on elastic, opened his eyes. Looking around, no one else had appeared, the wino was still gone. He closed his eyes again and began to travel.
Picturing the fire escape in his mind, he let his entire body lose cohesion, molecules separating, becoming one with all matter, merging space. The familiar, slightly nauseating feeling washed over him as he stretched, opened. Then the sensation free blackness that he becomes, no temperature, no sound. Not a lack of sound, like a silent, empty room, but no sound. It didn’t exist, in between. Neither did light. Molecular absence. Just thought, pure consciousness, unfettered. Briefly he was in two places at once, then only one again. Light rushed through his mind, molecular collisions permeated his entire being. Then the heavy, tense feeling as his body reformed and it was done.
He opened his eyes, looked at the fire escape overhead, the road out front. No one around. Good.
Isiah got to his feet and hurried around to the front door of the apartment block and went inside. He climbed the stairs at a faster than human pace, not bothering to wait for the elevator. As he rounded the landing to the fifteenth floor, Samuel’s floor, he felt it. Divinity in the air. Strange, that can’t be Samuel...
Januszek66