Otherworld: A Son of Two Realms

Chapter 10: "The Great Marcus Ward"

Their last conversation was still vivid in Jack's mind. Marcus had scolded him for wanting to transfer schools. Jack had tried to explain the pressures of living with a famous father but, to Marcus, the argument sounded like the gripes of a spoiled rich kid. A shouting match had ensued without either side gaining any ground and, in the end, Marcus had withdrawn in a rage and ordered Harriet to transfer Jack out of state.

Bits of dust hung the hallway like stars shimmering in the morning light. Jack passed the guest bedrooms, the smaller residence kitchen, the movie theater, and his old bedroom, eyes fixed on the double doors at the end of the hall.

One door to the library was already cracked opened and Jack silently pushed it in, catching his breath at the scene. The two-story room was a labyrinth of freestanding bookshelves, holding thousands of carefully cataloged volumes. More shelves were built into every inch of wall space, expect for the east-facing side of the room, which was paneled floor-to-ceiling with glass windows. A wide fireplace opened on the opposite wall, flanked by ornately framed maps, some of Earth and some of Guildron. In the center of the library a massive oak table that could comfortably seat thirty ran the length of the room.

At least that was how it used to be. The library that Jack now stood in was nothing like the one he remembered.

Sunlight trickled in through the grit and grime that layered the windows. The once-polished surface of the oak table was now barely visible beneath several layers of open atlases and almanacs. Crumpled pieces of paper dotted its cluttered surface like freshly fallen snow. A ladder stood next to the six-foot tall map of Guildron by the hearth. Someone had placed a few dozen bright neon push-pins into various points and tied yarn to connect some of the locations. The fire itself burned brightly, fueled by spent logs and a tiny mountain of more discarded books and paper. Between the rows and aisles of shelves, books were strewn across the floor; some piled into teetering waist-high stacks, others lying open, face-down on the carpet. But most troubling of all were the lines of twine strung across the room, upon which were clipped sheets of paper like shirts hung out to dry. The pages weren't regular printer or notebook paper, but thick, yellowed parchment, full of gibberish. On some were written a few sentences in some foreign language. On others, large, peculiar characters had been sketched with what looked like a paintbrush dipped in black ink.

The entire scene was like something out of a crime movie, where investigators cover the walls of their office with clues to solve a case. But what was there to be solved here?

From the library's second level, Jack heard a hushed grumble. The second level was only half the size of the first, ending in a curved balcony overlooking the oak table. There was a sound of crumpling and suddenly a ball of paper soared over the balcony, landing atop the table, into a stack of similarly discarded pages.

Cautiously, Jack made his way around the table and up the staircase. While the lower level was filled with books and documents, the upper level was more a museum, with glass cases containing a collection of meticulously crafted War of the Roads props, from compasses and costumes to swords and shields. At the far end of the room, a row of track lights pointed to a glass case containing Brigand's Bane, the fabled broadsword used by King Wayland to defeat the Brigand Warlock Kurzon at the climax of the final film. A real-life blacksmith in Ireland had spent months crafting the weapon.

Jack heard another grumble followed by a furious scratching he recognized as quill on parchment, a sound he only knew from the movies. Walking around a pair of mannequins dressed in chain-mail, Jack saw a man seated cross-legged in the middle of the floor, surrounded by loose parchment pages and an old ink bottle. Without looking up, the man reached to his side and dabbed his quill in search of the ink bottle. He made it into the lip of the bottle but withdrew the quill with just enough force to tip it over. Ebony liquid pooled onto nearby papers which quickly soaked up the ink.

The man swore furiously, swatting the bottle across the floor and snatching up the pages, wiping away gobs of ink with stained hands. It was only then that he noticed Jack.

And it was only then that Jack recognized his father.

On the back cover of his books, Marcus Ward was a handsome, sharply dressed, middle-aged man, with carefully cropped hair and an intense gaze. But this man clutching inky pages stared through long greasy locks and pursed his lips beneath a salt and pepper beard. Marcus wore a wool tunic and dark overcoat that looked exactly like a costume from the movies. In fact, Jack suddenly realized that one of the mannequins in the corner had been stripped bare.

"Dad?"

Marcus stared back, eyes feral. "Jackson?" The word was raspy, strained, but his eyes softened with recognition. "You came." He rose slowly, letting the pages and quill fall from his fingers. "I knew you would."