Into the Second World Read online

  Into

  The

  Second World

  by

  Ellis L. Knox

  Copyright © 2019 Ellis L. Knox

  All rights reserved.

  To my darling wife

  without whom Altearth would still be

  no more than notes and ideas

  Acknowledgments

  Thanks to the online communities for all their support, guidance, and wise counsel: to Mythic Scribes foremost, but also to SFF Chronicles and to the Fantasy Faction forums.

  Thanks to my editor, Kristy Stewart, for an outstanding job, not only in working through the seemingly innumerable permutations in foreign words and forms of address, but also for spotting continuity errors. Any that remain are entirely my own fault.

  The cover was done by Milo at Deranged Doctor Design, who are not at all deranged and are excellent designers.

  Table of Contents

  Salzburg Station 4

  Herr Doktor Professor 8

  The Queller Expedition 16

  Lamprecht's Cave 24

  Traps and Lures 30

  The Troll Gates 37

  The Tangle 43

  The Long Dig 50

  City of the Ancients 59

  The Second World 68

  Boat of Stone 73

  Hunting 78

  The Moon in the Water 87

  A Mighty Wave 93

  Houses with Hats 97

  First Dwarves 104

  A Voice Behind the Wall 111

  The Tower Golden 118

  The Tower Crystal 127

  Guardian 135

  The Tower Black 144

  Surface 151

  Salzburg Station

  I was late and it wasn’t my fault. Some fool of a dwarf had got the mix wrong coming out of Ingolstadt—I heard the coachman say something about impurities in the phlogiston tank that resulted in weak Steam pressure, or something like that. It could have been pixies in the fire box for all I cared. The train was already an hour late—a scandalous breach of practice for the Royal Bavarian Steam Line—and only one thing mattered: would Professor Queller wait for me?

  I was in a perfect frenzy those last miles, as the engine hauled its seven cars up from the Danube River toward Salzburg. I’m sure I presented something of a spectacle to the other passengers—an unaccompanied woman dressed in a split wool skirt with a heavy top and hunter green vest—for all the world like some naturalist out for a brisk country walk. I paced the aisle, asking the conductor the time, leaning over people to peer out a window, taking things out of my rucksack only to put them back again, and generally making a nuisance of myself. The fine gentlemen and two ladies who occupied the other seats stayed in them and gave me disapproving looks, but I didn’t care.

  This was a chance—very likely my last chance—to make my name as a journalist, a profession resolutely closed to women, unless we are content to write about Kinder und Küchen, as if females were interested in only those two subjects. I had, from my earliest years, been afire with a passion for Science, and scientific journalism was my life calling. I had spent years pounding on doors, enduring the skepticism of men (or worse, their leering patronage), and having a dozen sound articles rejected by a score of magazines.

  But now I had a “story,” as the newspapers call it. I was working at a newspaper myself, the last refuge of writers, and had been sent to join an expedition to rescue the famous explorer Étienne Fournier from the depths of Lamprecht’s Cave. My paper had agreed at the last minute to finance Queller when he encountered unexpected expenses, the terms for the financing being that a reporter (oh how I loathed that word!) must accompany the expedition.

  Before the huge engine had passed the final signal post I already stood at the coach door, ignoring the coachman’s urging that I should, for my own safety, please sit down. Drab warehouses and colorful shops slid past as the long, peculiar sigh of phlogiston Steam vented from a hundred valves, and the train eased to a stop on pure water vapor. At any other time I would have savored the display of magical engineering that is a modern Steam train, but today all I wanted was to get off as soon as possible. My feet would not stay still; my eyes darted this way and that; my hat was on, pack on back, walking stick in hand.

  The coachman sternly refused to open the door, despite my scowls, until he’d had the master signal. Once he finally opened the door, I nearly bowled him over. His “your pardon, Fräulein” was not at all sincere.

  At least I was out.

  The Salzburg Station is newly built and quite striking, or so I am told. I scarcely noted the vaulted windows, the glass ceiling, or the colored phlogiston lighting—miracles of the Modern Age. I looked only at the people, a few score of them, who had come to greet the passengers. Fat businessmen stuffed into their suits were greeted by wives and families, students met chums, holiday makers got themselves snapped up by relentlessly helpful taxi men. All these milled in search of their luggage and then disappeared through the wide doors that led into the station and thence to the city proper. Soon all that remained was a handful of stragglers, plus two beggar gnomes, one sitting at either end of the platform.

  I had the misfortune of being too near one of them.

  The gnome stood silently, as they all do, back against the brick of the station wall, head lowered just enough to still make eye contact. She made the begging gesture, stretching out her hands with palms up, then bringing them in again so her fingers touched her chest, then out again. A slow, piteous rhythm.

  The gnome caught me looking and ducked her head further. Fingers touched chest three times now before her hands extended. Pleading.

  I fished two pfennige from my pouch and placed them in her hand. Her fur was badly mottled. The mewling sound she made might have been a thanks, but it set my teeth on edge.

  I turned away quickly. Beggar gnomes may be found all across Europa. Most people, myself included, walk past them as if they were not merely small but invisible. I cannot speak for others, but for myself I usually hurry by, not least because of a vague sense of guilt—for what they have become, and for the part humans may have played in that sad transformation. Once in a while, though, the whole business catches up with me. A few pennies don’t help me forget, but not giving bothers me even more.

  The last of the passengers were exiting the platform, leaving two men. One, a human, looked like a character from some Bolivian adventure book: black boots knee-high and well-worn, khaki pantaloons, a wide black belt, a rugged brown shirt, and a gray felt hat. He was tall, well built, and even from a distance I could see his eyes were pale blue. He scanned the platform, searching for someone.

  The other man was a dwarf. The green Tiroler hat on his head bore a ridiculous spray of feathers at its peaked top. Over a gray linen shirt he wore a leather vest covered in hammered designs. His face was dark, with deep-set eyes under a heavy brow. He looked at me, then looked past me, searching for someone else.

  I looked past them in turn. They might be my contacts, but I didn’t want them to be. I wanted a respectable German professor, his attentive assistant, and a few rugged bearers of respectful mien. These two looked less like members of an expedition of scientific exploration and more like they had just come from a local festival.

  At last, however, the matter was unavoidably evident, and we approached each other, uncertain as children.

  I spoke first.

  “Professor Queller?” I asked, though I knew it must be impossible. The man was too young, too outlandish, and not in the least scholarly. That the professor himself had not bothered to come was a discouraging sign.

  He snorted. “Not hardly,” he said in a pleasant voice. “I’m Niklot Thesiger. Professor Queller is my uncle. Are you from the Zeitu
ng?” Despite his quick smile, he could not keep incredulity from his tone, and he glanced over my shoulder as if he would spot the real reporter striding up. I chose not to bristle.

  “I am,” I said. “My name is Gabrielle Lauten. I am the journalist who is to accompany you.”

  Herr Thesiger laughed out loud.

  “I’m sorry, did I say something funny?”

  “She cannot come,” the dwarf declared.

  I was prepared for the objection. I was not, however, prepared to be laughed at.

  “I have brought your bank draft,” I said levelly. We had exchanged but a few sentences and already my defenses were up. I reminded myself to keep my temper.

  Thesiger’s manner sobered. “Sorry. I didn’t know there were female journalists, or that a publisher would send one on so dangerous an enterprise.”

  “One what? A journalist? Or a woman?”

  That would have to pass for temper-keeping.

  He laughed again, easily and with good humor. “Both, I suppose,” he said. Then he seemed to look at me anew.

  I am accustomed to the looks of men—they possess only a few. This was neither leer nor contempt nor indifference. His glance was more an appraisal—sizing me up, as the English would say. I bore his look, even when he gazed at my face and into my eyes. I returned the look with more frankness than politeness, and took my own measure of the man.

  He had a sturdy face, a little heavy and square to be called handsome, but his generous mouth and brilliantly blue eyes held one’s attention, and his rich brown hair tumbled from under his hat in a boyish way. His clothes showed not merely wear but neglect. Certain women I know might consider him charming. I made a guess at his character; I was not charitable.

  I had not the least idea what opinion he formed of me.

  “Are you fit?” he asked at last. The question caught me on the back foot.

  “I am not sickly,” I replied, “if that’s what you mean. Nor am I frail. I don’t shy from hard work, and I’m not afraid of bugs.”

  He chuckled, but was instantly serious again.

  “We shall face rather more than bugs, Miss … Lauter?”

  “Lauten.”

  “Sorry,” he said. I guessed he was the sort of man who said that word often.

  “There will be long marches on short rations,” he continued, “and plenty of dangers. Are you afraid of the dark?”

  “Certainly not. I’m not a child!” Was he trying to irritate me?

  “Are you afraid of heights?”

  “None I’ve encountered,” I said.

  “Your accent is Plattedeutsch,” Thesiger said.

  “I’m from Stralsund,” I replied.

  “Not too many cliffs along that coast,” he observed. He rubbed his chin, which was clean-shaven.

  “You’ve not stood on the cliffs of Rügen.”

  He raised a dark eyebrow in reply.

  “I can out-work and out-last most men I’ve met,” I declared with severity. “I will not be a drag on the company. More to the point, you must have me, for that is the condition that comes with the money.”

  “Ah,” he said, and his mouth tightened and his eyes narrowed. “I thought that was an odd clause to add from your publisher. Now I understand.”

  “Exactly so,” I said. I permitted no warmth to the words.

  He shrugged.

  “But I’m not in command of the expedition,” he continued. “My uncle is. Before you are officially in the expedition, which means before we can turn your publisher’s draft into coin, we need to visit Professor Queller.”

  His tone gave me no reason to be hopeful.

  “Let’s get going, then,” I said, shouldering my bag.

  Thesiger held out a hand. “Let me carry that for you,” he said.

  “I can manage just fine, Herr Thesiger,” I said, trying to sound casual rather than proud.

  “I’m sure you can,” he replied amiably.

  It was irritating to have irritability met by friendliness.

  We went out through the Salzburg Station and I was still too preoccupied to notice its wonders. The Queller Expedition so far was a disappointment. This Thesiger fellow was altogether too frivolous for my taste. We were meant to find the great Étienne Fournier, a famous explorer lost in the depths of the earth. Very likely all we would find would be a forlorn journal and a rotting corpse—hardly a matter for jokes. The dwarf looked more like an Alpine blacksmith than an explorer, still less a rescuer, and he was sullen besides.

  As for Professor Queller, everyone said he was a temperamental crackpot, a once-respected scholar who had gone down long-lost alleys of myth and legend and refused to listen to the reason of more established scientists.

  My own opinion was very different. I’d read his publications, from back when he could get published. As outlandish as were some of his theories, I was persuaded by his essential point that certain ancient myths conceal the secrets of the Five Folk—humans, elves, dwarves, gnomes, and fae. I already had notes toward portraying the misunderstood genius who dared the depths.

  That was my “angle,” as the newspaper people called it. I would soon find out if Queller in any way matched my conception of him.

  Herr Doktor Professor

  We left the station followed by the covert glances and open stares of the good bürgers of Salzburg who, I fancied, had rarely seen quite the likes of us: a human man dressed as if heading to Africa, a human woman in hiking gear bearing an outsized rucksack, and a ridiculous-looking dwarf. I smiled to myself. It was silly and even childish, but I was absurdly pleased at being scandalous, however faintly.

  We had not gone three blocks along the boulevard when someone called out to us in a thick Venetian accent, “You go off to find the Fournier, si?” A short, well-dressed man in red and gold silks waved an arm toward the mountains in the distance.

  Herr Thesiger only nodded in reply.

  “I wish you the luck. Another expedition turned back yesterday, it is said.” The Venetian gave a friendly wave and turned away.

  “Another expedition?” I asked.

  “Four I know of,” Thesiger replied. “Two—now three—have had to abandon the project for one reason or another.”

  “And the fourth?”

  “Never heard from, much as with Fournier’s own expedition.”

  “I knew there were others,” I said, “but not what had happened with them.”

  “One was Alec McEwan’s. I was worried about that Scotsman, for he’s experienced, but he got caught up into trouble up in the mountains, tangled up with a viscount or some such. Heiko—that’s Heiko Baak, the Frisian explorer—made it to the Gates, but his guide got killed and that was that for him. He’s headed off to a mammoth cavern system in Columbiana. That leaves two. I’m not sure which one turned back yesterday, but I’d guess it was the Spaniard. Can’t remember his name.”

  Turned back, abandon, killed.

  “None of that sounds encouraging,” I said.

  Nik ignored my comment. “That leaves Arne Sak. If anyone is going to make it through the Troll Gates it would be Arne. He’s a tough old bird, and canny. He’s got a good jump on us, but this time I’m going to beat him to the prize. Whatever that turns out to be. That no one’s heard from him might mean bad news for us, or bad news for him.”

  We had been walking for only a few minutes, but I was already a little winded. I suspected this man was testing me by lengthening his stride, so I lengthened my own to keep pace. But I was carrying a heavy pack while he was not. The contest was unfair, but I was hardly new to unfair contests. Even so, I was glad when we stopped a little way along a grand avenue.

  We stood before graceful iron gates set in a wall that hid some great residence from the common rabble of the street. Two men in livery swung the gates wide. I hesitated.

  “Where are we?” I asked.

  “Schloss Mirabell, Fräulein,” one of the guards replied with a curt bow.

  “Come along,” Herr Thesiger
said. “Uncle will be getting impatient.” He grinned. “It doesn’t take much.”

  We passed through the gates and along a smoothly graveled path beneath tall linden trees. Rhododendrons formed a deep green wall on either side, their blossoms filling the air with a heavy sweetness. We shortly emerged into sunlight. Before us stood Schloss Mirabell, a grand building four stories tall and looking nothing like any castle I’d ever seen.

  “It’s a residenz now,” he said as we walked. “Used to belong to some count or other. Now it’s apartments for diplomats, businessmen, and the occasional university professor. Right on the river, it is.”

  He walked even faster without appearing to do so. I kept up, but mainly through sheer determination. I hoped he wasn’t going to play games of this sort often. The dwarf kept step with us, but I could hear him puffing mightily.

  We swept into the building as if pursued, then up two flights of stairs. I had no time at all to admire the luxurious decorations of the place, nor the still more luxurious residents who lounged on divans. My head was down, minding my feet.

  At the top of the second flight, he glanced around. His eyebrows went up when he saw me at his shoulder. He nodded once, briefly. I thought I might have passed some sort of test, but my heart was running like a rabbit.

  Never mind him, I thought and nodded in agreement with myself.

  The hallway was as long as a street, but he stopped at the second door and opened it without knocking. I followed.

  We passed through an ornate antechamber and entered the main room, which was as big as a ballroom. Across the way stood a set of glass doors separated by white columns painted to appear like marble. The floor was tiled, and the whole place echoed.

  The dwarf took himself to one side and settled in like a juror, arms crossed. He didn’t even bother to remove his silly hat.

  To my right, an ogre leaned against the wall. He gestured for me to come stand with him.

  Ogres are tall as a species and this one was tall for an ogre—well over eight feet. He was neither less nor more horrifying to look upon than any other of his kind. His eyes were uneven, deep set, and nearly covered by absurdly heavy eyebrows. His mouth was wolfishly wide, going far back toward his ears, and he had filed his teeth into heavy points, a custom among ogres. His body was wide shouldered and heavy legged. He rumbled a greeting, a sound like a river of rocks running underground.