The Sleep That Rescues Read online

  The Sleep that Rescues is published by Elder Signs Press, Inc.

  This book is © 2009 Elder Signs Press, Inc.

  All material © 2009 by Elder Signs Press and C.J. Henderson.

  Cover and interior design © 2009 by Deborah Jones.

  All characters within this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is strictly coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the written persmission of the publisher.

  FIRST EDITION

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Published in September 2009

  ISBN: 1-934501-15-8

  Printed in the U.S.A.

  Published by Elder Signs Press

  P.O. Box 389

  Lake Orion, MI 48361-0389

  www.eldersignspress.com

  Over the years, I have gotten to work with all sorts of people. Some of them have been quite easy to work with . . .

  Some. . . have not.

  And some have proven to be simply a delight.

  Of them all, however, one comes to mind above the rest.

  Competent, jovial, insightful, generous—all good words to describe them. So are talented, gracious, subversive and magnanimous.

  There are some people in this world who simply possess all the right attibutes for working with others. Some have to put forth a great deal of effort to make this appear easy. For others, it just looks natural.

  Of all of those with whom it has been a pleasure to work, however, one has stood head and shoulders above the rest.

  Thus, this book is dedicated to:

  William Shatner

  A gentleman and a scholar of brobdingnagian proportions, and someone whose innumeral kindnesses I can never repay.

  “In bed my real love has always been the sleep that rescues me by allowing me to dream.”

  —Luigi Pirandello

  “How many of our daydreams would darken into nightmares were there any danger of their becoming true.”

  —Jean Cocteau

  “The more a man dreams, the less he believes.”

  —H.L. Mencken

  PROLOGUE

  IN-FUCKING-CREDIBLE.

  Johnny sighed, his tired muscles tingling as the beautiful Kara folded warmly against him. Finally. His heart skipped repeatedly, missing multiple beats in an explosion of overwhelming happiness his conscious mind could not—had no desire to—keep in check. He could feel the power of the thumping muscle throbbing, racing within his chest, beating wildly—expanding at the very touch of her.

  Her–

  Man, thought Johnny, his mind reeling from all he had been through, this is unbelievable.

  Suddenly—all of it—all the hundreds of endless battles, the bloody killing, the continual, mindless, hideous slaughter—the on-and-on of it all—the desperate fights and comical brawls, the monumental swordplay and the multiple variety of traps he had avoided, the bizarre puzzles he had unraveled and the seemingly supremely formidable enemies he had conquered—all of it finally felt satisfying.

  Real shame.

  It was worth it, he thought, his breath coming in ragged, billowing sighs. Looking down at the dazzling beauty pressing herself hard against him, his mind’s defenses softened, his weariness evaporating as the energizing phrase whispered once more in his mind–

  Oh yeah, it was most definitely worth it.

  “My Johnny,” the near-fainting woman sighed. “My wonderful Johnny . . .,”

  The youth felt his whole body begin to tingle—to tremble in a manner he could only imagine was ecstasy. He could not begin to actually describe the feeling. There was nothing in his past experience to compare it with—amusement park thrill rides, his small, experimental experiences with alcohol and drugs, first fumbling attempts at sex—nothing. There was nothing in his short life to compare with what he was feeling at that moment.

  “Has any woman,” Kara murmured, her voice fading into his chest, “ever had such a hero?”

  The words were electricity to him. The lad tried again to find something in all his days to hold against the sensations coursing through his mind, but he could not. What held him then was something totally new, a sensation completely beyond the pale of anything he had ever felt before—beyond, he knew, what anyone had ever felt since the beginning of time.

  It was more than just some simple rush or thrill; what he was feeling, he was certain, had to be something the universe had fashioned uniquely just for him—a complete and overwhelming aliveness no one had ever previously known. It pumped through his veins, jolting his brain with a fiery vitality that shamed his wildest dreams.

  Man, what a blast this was, he thought. What an adventure, what a goddamned life. I mean, really—is there anyone in the entire universe who’s luckier than me?

  His mind was still staggered. Since first he had set foot in El Dorado, his old senses had come alive, been transformed, been so, so alert, so magnified, so warily active—everything had been so unbelievable. So totally, completely, galactically unbelievable. The endless fighting and killing and drinking and whoring, the sheer unrestrained wildness of it all. His mind had never been more clear, more focused. His life had never before had such purpose. Such meaning.

  “Tell me you’ll stay this time,” the panting redhead moaned. There was shame in her velvet voice, self-knowledge that she was being brazen, perhaps even unforgivably so. It did not matter to the young woman, however. She did not—could not—care. Gathering all her strength, she drew her lips close to her hero’s ear and whispered the words he had been waiting to hear.

  “Tell me you’ll be mine—mine forever.”

  I mean, it’s a real shame, ain’t it?

  The young man’s wild heart raced even faster. Wiping away the dripping sweat on his brow, he laughed at the impossibility of it all—and the foolishness of her question.

  Would I mind staying this time, he asked himself jokingly within his mind. He knew exactly how quickly he would do so—and how impossible such a thing actually was.

  Would if I could, babe. Would if I could.

  Still, even as his pragmatic side joked, the parts of his mind which had come alive so recently, that had battled for so long, against the most impossible odds, waiting for the moment he was experiencing then—when Kara would finally be his—they were practically frozen by indecision. They had worked at obtaining the impossible goal for so long that having finally obtained it, they could scarcely imagine what to do next.

  “Kara,” Johnny whispered, crushing his long-sought prize to his chest, unable to say anything in response other than the name he had practically worshipped for so long. Closing his eyes, he smelled her hair once more, felt her soft frame molding to his own, ran his hands over the silk-covered curves his fingers had ached to touch since his first sight of her.

  “Kara.”

  He whispered her name once more in a soft, fragile voice, a tone he had found little use for over the numbing months of the rescue campaign. He said the perfect word differently than ever before, however. This time, he uttered it with a new syllable, coating it with a lacquer of hope—a boldness he had not dared previously.

  The word for how long he had adored his Kara—yes, his Kara, not Princess of the Eternal Lands, not Goddess Priestess of Hypelsina, but his Kara—was “endlessly.” Since he had arrived in her land, time had possessed no meaning—not for John der Lance, J the Conqueror, Johnny—not for any of the men he had been, the times they had lived, or any of the places they had trod—not since any of them had first seen their dear Kara, learned of her, discovered her plight, vowed to save her.

  Time had held no meaning for him, not since then, and not now, either. Not now that he was finally
next to her—his queen, his woman—the unobtainable suddenly in his hands. At last he was with her. Breathing her scent, tasting her, holding her, crushing his lips against hers. At last.

  Finally.

  “My Lord,” the girl said with satisfaction as her mouth came away from Johnny’s. Smiling, she hugged him tighter as she added, “I still can not believe that our ordeal is finally over.”

  Over, thought the young man. It’s all over.

  So, we got another one, huh?

  What was that?

  Johnny’s head whipped around. Kara seemed not to have heard the faraway voice, but he had. Disembodied though it was, still it came to him clear as the waters of Mondropoor’s diamond lakes. It was a dull, cynical tone—the voice of . . .

  Of what, young Jonathan?

  Johnny paused. He had not heard the Oracle’s voice since the elder’s second death.

  Old man, are you really back? he thought, broadcasting the joyous desire as strongly as he could. Hoping against all hope that the wily shaman could have somehow cheated the black robe once again, he thought, Can you help me?

  Help you—again? How can I help you again? Now? Now, when it is over.

  The question did not have the sneering tone the Oracle so often employed. Indeed, it seemed . . . how could Johnny describe it? Puzzled, perhaps. Confused.

  Confused, wondered Johnny with a growing sense of dread. The Oracle . . . confused?

  The idea was ridiculous to him. Ludicrous. Tossing the notion aside, laughing at it, the newly crowned boy king aimed his thoughts at the Oracle once more.

  Old friend, he asked, his spirits rising ever higher at the arrival of his mentor during his moment of triumph, can you not tell me what to do next?

  It is over.

  The Oracle’s words rang grimly in Johnny’s head. He should know what the old man meant, he knew he should know. But, though he had always been able to decipher the sour elder’s meanings in the past, somehow he could not grasp exactly what he was being told this time. As he continued to puzzle over their meaning, however, the Oracle’s words came to him once more.

  It is over.

  What do you mean, responded Johnny. Yeah, I’d say it better be over. I did it all. I beat the Vandelesh, drove out the Clan of Kerzil. I recovered the Silver Cup, divided the Yarl, killed Trobor and rescued Kara. I lead my knights and conquered all of the vast plains of Dy’gra.

  How do they get this way?

  Johnny’s emotions boiled. He had won through. The battle was his. The princess was his. But . . . something was wrong. These voices in his head, out of nowhere, saying words that had no meaning. And the Oracle on top of that. Not telling him anything, simply repeating the same words again and again . . .

  It is over.

  “Stop saying that!”

  Kara looked up, her mostly blank eyes filling with a semblance of confusion.

  “My Lord,” she said with surprise, pulling herself a small space away from her savior. Half-aware, half-frightened, she asked, “why do you rage so? What is the matter?”

  “It’s . . .” Johnny stopped, confused. Trembling. How to explain? What could he say to make his goddess love understand when even he did not?

  It is over.

  No one’s sure. We got no threads yet, really.

  Johnny slammed his hand against his head. Letting go of his love, he staggered several paces from her, hitting himself again—then again. He could not think—could not concentrate—not against the confounding chatter of all the voices overlapping within his mind. For so long his purpose had been simply, perfectly clear—find his mentor, learn the ways of magic and the sword, reach the kingdom, defeat the baron in battle so he could prove his worth, take up the quest, gather his band, turn back the hordes, overthrow the ruler of the savage lands, save the princess once she was kidnapped, and then, and . . . then . . .

  It is over.

  Oh, my God.

  The words etched with needle cruelty across Johnny’s heart, ice crystals bonding with glass, screeching in his ears.

  Yeah, just somethin’ new the chump generation has found to goof themselves up with.

  And then he remembered—not all of him—not all of it. Just a part. A tiny part lodged off toward the back of his brain. Suddenly, thought, memories returned. He could see once more the needle from the corner of his eye, could remember the offer. He felt the laughing joy anew, the thrill of not being able to turn it down, not thinking for a moment he had any reason to do so.

  It is over.

  J the Conqueror continued to hold Kara, great tears breaking free from his closing eyes. His cheeks went wet, his body heaving as he cried for joy. He had finally triumphed. Victory was his. At long last, it was over. He had conquered all. He had won every prize. It was over. He was, undeniably, the greatest in all the land. There was nothing more to prove. The princess was his. The kingdom was his. There were no more battles to fight. No more tests. Nothing lay in his path any longer.

  It was over.

  But, as he tried to arrange it all in his mind, his hands trembled, sending shivers through his beloved. Sensing his distress, Kara held him all the closer, shutting her eyes as she asked;

  “What is it, my Lord? Tell me.”

  Johnny smiled. Unable to hear the back of his mind, unwilling to shatter the image which far too much of his brain had accepted as truth, John Warren Marshall—not John der Lance, not J the Conqueror, not even Johnny, hero of the plains, simple John, son of Robert and Grace Marshall—stopped struggling . . .

  And in that moment, he heard a new voice. Not one from the back of his mind, not his mentor, not the faraway pair he could not see, it was not any voice he had ever heard before. Indeed, it was composed of qualities unlike any he had ever heard in all his life. Not human, not electronic, not from a cartoon.

  “Johnny,” it beckoned, a flat, hissing whisper that sounded of dream and reward, “Listen to me, Johnny . . . bit by bit . . . follow the gold.”

  You see his eyes—just there—that. Did you see that?

  “The city of gold . . . bit by bit . . . you can find it, Johnny. Only you can find it.”

  That was it—I’ve seen this. That was it.

  And, in a flashing instant, Johnny fell into the beckoning oblivion.

  We just lost him.

  Knew it, answered the other voice. Told ya . . .

  And this time, Johnny accepted his fate–

  I seen this before . . .

  And the darkness that had waited so patiently finally fell across him as the two dispassionate ambulance workers pulled the sheet over his face and began making out their report . . .

  I seen this before . . .

  Even as young John Warren Marshall began his greatest quest, searching the final unknown beyond for a city of gold he could see ever so clearly through his blood encrusted, long-closed eyes and the cotton sheet covering them.

  CHAPTER

  ONE

  “MR. MORCEY, LOOK OUT!” cried the older man. “There’s another one.”

  Paul Morcey did not waste time looking about, quickly ducking instead as a screeching bundle of wings and fangs and leathery fibers violently slashed the space over his head. Claws raked the air wildly, grasping at the balding man, trying to at least snag his foot length pony-tail as he dove for the floor.

  “Guoooofffff!” Air rushed out of the ex-maintenance man as he slammed against the marble walkway. His move had been neither well-planned nor well-executed, but it saved him from the terror’s razored attack.

  “Leave these nasty t’ings to me boys, now,” shouted a large black man over the increasing din. “Dis be our job.”

  Stepping forth into the open, a compact automatic weapon in each hand, the towering figure made a rolling motion with his shoulders. Instantly, well-trained men appeared in response to the silent signal—behind him and at each side.

  “Ah, me brothers,” he said in a thick accent that spoke of exotic islands and the reality of pain, “let’
s kill us some bad t’ings—now!”

  Gunfire rocked the museum halls in response to the command. Shotgun blasts tore through creature flesh, splattering fluids, pulping narrow eyes and conical ears, shredding wings and leathered bones—and more. Two of the things went down in immediate response to the opening fusillade, shrieking a foul, terrible noise that almost sounded like language. Instantly, three more of the gruesome shapes appeared out of the shadows, each of the new trio markedly faster than the first.

  “Second team, news flash,” the balding man shouted into his headset, desperate to be heard over the reverberating din of the gunfire. Pointing at the new arrivals, he bellowed, “we got company!”

  The shooters turned, one too slowly. Fangs clamped on the man’s neck just above his protective vest, tearing into his flesh. Bone snapped. Leather lips smiled. Blood pulsed in a wild arc, showering across the polished stone flooring as well as those standing nearest the victim. As multiple weapons swung toward the thing’s direction, it let go its now-dead prey and beat its massive wings furiously, trying to gain height even as its fellows dove toward the marksmen. Gunpowdered thunder shattered the night once more, missing their mark by inches, tearing gouging holes in the marble wall beyond.

  “Damnit, Pa’sha!”

  The bellow swelled from a tall, thin man with intense, blazing blue eyes. Small boned, but square-shouldered, he pointed around wildly at the priceless paintings all about the invasion force with one hand, tugging at his tie with the other, as he screamed into his throat mike over the gunfire.

  “Remember where you are!”

  “Goward man, right,” snapped one of the gunman, a wiry deep-black Jamaican. Nodding, he added, yelling to the others, “De teacher speak most cool—wrong bang bang and kiss goodbye the gentle mystery of dey Mona Lisa’s smile.”

  “Also most terrible law suits and other annoying t’ings, my brothers, don’t you know?” answered their boss. “Okay, me Murder Dogs,” he shouted to his men. “Show de man we know our business.”

  “Yes, daddy man!”

  Pa’sha’s forces returned to their defensive crouches. They moved forward slowly, their guns frozen in their grasps, their eyes scanning the walls and ceilings carefully. The men watched the areas ahead of themselves, as well as behind, their minds constantly repeating the warning that the things they were waiting for could come from any direction. Ignoring the mounting tension as well as the beads of sweat gathering across their brows, the force continued sweeping forward, weapons ready, waiting for their targets, following the lights—eyes searching–