Elryk I

Laython was dark.

The sight of the skyline of the imperial city drove a knife through the boy’s stomach. So familiar. So warm, yet…

A dense, dark fog shrouded the night sky. The fog shrouded his senses. A foul scent of decay crawled through his skin, hot, dry, like a swarm of fire ants burning trails on him. An urge invaded his whole body. A desperate plea for the boy to run.

He ran.

The main avenue that cut through the city’s southern part started cracking under him. He ran… and he ran. Faster and faster… and faster still.

The ground beneath grew weak. He ran faster. The boy couldn’t look down, so he looked up. The pointy ruins of what was once a big, broad building pierced the starless sky like a jaw with black fangs.

He ran.

At the end, dead ahead, he saw his home. The Imperial Palace, intact. Coated in the royal reds and beige and whites.

He ran.

The ground beneath shook. A screech behind the boy assaulted his ears. He looked down. He fell down. The cracks gave way to darkness. He felt every fibre of his skin screaming a silent scream. He wanted to shout, to move, to breathe, but all he could do was fall. So he fell, and kept falling.

His chest grew tighter, his throat knotted. Vibrations shook his chest to the tune of a chanting in a language he couldn’t understand. He felt the damp fog quickly slapping his skin, now freezing cold, slowly creeping like thousands of slugs climbing his legs, and his arms, and his face. Then…

He felt nothing.
He felt something…
He felt pain.

The ground beneath was back. Under him, he didn’t feel ground, though. Not stone, nor wood. It was the fog, frozen solid, yet still sticky. The slime pulled on his feet more and more with each attempted step, making it hard for his slippers to leave the ground.

“Run!” he urged his feet. “Run!” he implored his calves. His voice was still silent, his thoughts too heavy to reach his body. The chanting, too loud. The ground, too strong.

“Run!” — a voice. A deep voice. Bellowing. Stronger than the ground. Louder than the chants.

He ran.

The ground beneath twisted into a ceiling. Then… wall. Then ground again. He stepped on what felt like spiral formations emerging from the ground, forming the ground. They looked akin to the ones forming the ruined walls of the ancient Ziggurat his home was built upon, yet distorted, corrupted, in pain.

The chant grew louder.

He ran.

Beyond the fog, green lightning… no, red. No green.

Shadows of two colossal figures flashed behind the dark fog. Their robes billowing. Dancing to that loud cacophony. Their rags dripped like sour sludge that once was syrup.

As the sick droplets fell from the shadows, they exploded onto the nothingness, spreading like a sickness. Green droplets buzzed like fire wasps, loudly to the tuneless tune of the chant, burning everything in their way. Red droplets marched like an army of mechanical ants, cold and merciless, consuming the very floor that sustained it.

The forming rivers of sickness converged on a distant wreck of a space cruiser.

Catuum.

Lightning blinded him.

Red! No, Green! No, White!

He tripped on one of the spirals. The ground shifted.

A smooth, metal-like surface pushed against his body. The fog dissipated. The cold grew colder. He opened his eyes, but all he saw was darkness. He ran. He stopped.

Ahead, green lightning flashed his brother’s shadow against the fog. Sword in hand, prepared to strike.

“Mark! Noooo!” the boy screamed.

Another lightning strike. A strike. He felt something fall in the distance.

A screech. His mother. No, his father… No… “Brother.”

He ran toward the shadow, but the solid ground dissipated into fog. He felt a void. He heard a red thunder. A green thunder. He saw nothing. He felt nothing.

He woke up.

The prince had cold sweat dripping down his brow. His bedsheets lay wet on the ground. Another one, the boy sighed.

From his shaggy hair, rough clothes, and the little bedroom underground, stuffed with toys from pulpy stories, one would not quite guess that that little kid was Prince Elryk of Laythe. The Little Prince, for some. Son to the Emperor, and brother to the Crown Prince. Most would be forgiven to assume the boy was destined to become a high lord through marriage, a business mogul, a knight of the Guardian Order, or even a Feday Captain. To him, though, his dream was to be just like his hero, Dr. Jones, legendary tomb raider and pulp hero.

A short, scrawny, and scrappy thing, he took his royal title as a joke, preferring to raid the kitchens for cakes and pastries and bother tourists and tour guides with his lower-born peers, the people who called him Little Ryks.

Usually his dreams were filled with adventures of Dr. Elryk, the tomb raider, adventuring with his friends, but today he dreamt of the boy once again. Since the Galactic Games started, every other night was just as haunted. His pet Valk, Phi, knew it. The clever little creature somehow sensed his nightly distress.

“What happened, Phi?” Elryk got up, picked her up, and started rocking her.

His pet Valk, Phi, like other Valks, is very sensitive. She sensed Elryk’s moods very accurately from the day he caught her scurrying around the kitchen’s rubbish bins. Recently, though, her moods have grown into more intense versions of Elryk’s.

“Ekkk,” she replied.

The boy took a snack from his bedside table, took a bite, and gave the rest to the Valk.

“Don’t worry, Phi, it was just a dream.”

She relaxed. He laid her on his bed and moved to get ready.

“Today will be a full day!”

“Ekk,” she said, watching him change.

“Maybe… I was thinking about some chocolate cake for breakfast.”

“Eeek,” she flapped her wings in agreement. She loved the kitchen raids just as much as he did.

“Then we will take Dr. Jones to his appointment with Victoria.” He picked the action figure up, putting it in his shoulder bag with a devilish grin. Phi jumped to perch on his shoulder. “Then it is decided!”

They set running for the kitchens, running through the all-so-familiar ancient foundations of the Palace, built by peoples long forgotten. Through the stairway and into the Service Halls, and finally to the kitchen. They hid behind a counter.

“Hmmm… I’m thinking about the good old chicken run.”

Phi jumped from his shoulder and set flight. She flapped her wings, turning over a couple of trays meant for the big-shot Senators, alerting the staff.

“Not this again, Elryk!” Geribal, the old kitchen master, knew Ryks long enough to know his tactics. Ryks, in turn, knew he was always in such a hurry he could scarcely counter any of the raids.

The daring raider jumped from behind the counter, and as quick as a mouse, he evaded the kitchen staff. Flour flew. Silverware and pans crashed on the ground. The kid pounced, grabbing the whole cake, still inside the container, and ran to the door.

“I told you, kid!” the old cook moved to pick up the mess left behind. “All you have to do is ask!”

The kitchen doors closed. They were clear. Phi flew back to his shoulder and stared at their prize. Shelter chocolate cake, filled with caramelised coconut, Phi’s favourite. It took them no more than five minutes to empty the container. Phi, not satisfied, took to licking the crumbs of sugary gold left on her friend’s face and shirt. Elryk didn’t mind, though; her little tongue was fast enough to clean him before the second part of the day.

In less than a minute, they were presentable enough to pretend they were tourists, and in less than ten, they made their way to the Grand Entrance Hall, where a group of tourists were ready to begin their tour with their target.

Ryks made his world-famous “I am not from here” face and joined in, while Phi flew outside to call for the squad.

Slugging through cavernous halls, he noticed again each marble bust of each long-dead Emperor. Some his kin, some not, all known to him as if they were his best of friends. The tourists paid little mind to the stories being told, or the faces on canvas or stone. They were there to gawk at the grand halls and take pretty pictures… and Ryks would give them the best damn picture of their gosh-darn vacation. He just had to wait for the perfect moment.

The panoramic elevator took them to the Senatorial Spire, then through the Senatorial Art Exhibit. Victoria, the tour guide, took them through each painting, telling their story to the half-bored tourists, most there to fill time between events of the Galactic Games.

“…And this is an oil on canvas of Senator Chu Benko presenting the Three Suns Acts,” the guide said for the hundredth time that week. No enthusiasm in her voice. She wasn’t that old. Maybe of age with Elryk’s brother, Mark. “Anyone here from the Three Suns Sector?”

A single red-faced tourist raised his hand.

“Have you ever heard of the Act?” she conjured the tour script line in her head.

He shook his head in response.

She exhaled, frustrated. Inhaled…

Ryks heard a flap of wings above. He looked around. Davey, Geribal’s son, snuck behind one of the statues. The boy spotted Petey by the elevator door, waiting for the signal. Victoria continued the tour. One more painting, two, three. The brave leader of the bunch signalled to his Valk.

“…As you can see here, Emperor Lucinius is holding a red heart in his left hand. The painter meant it as a symbol for—”

“This is boring, Vicky!” Ryks stepped forth, interrupting her. He raised the Dr. Jones doll. “Tell them about that one time he stopped a speech to fart!” he said, making his best impression of the doctor.

Silence.

“C’mon, Your Highness, not this again,” Victoria sighed. The tourists looked around, confused. One realised who the kid was. Another took a picture. That was the sign. Phi flew down to the guide’s head and closed her wings around herself. To the tourists, the Valk looked like an awkward piece of headwear. Another picture.

Davey snuck behind Victoria, then made a run for the elevator. Ryks was not far behind. Victoria shook Phi off her head, but when she realised what had happened, the kids were already halfway through the hall.

“C’mon!” Petey was pressing the elevator button as if that would make it come any faster.

Bing

As soon as the elevator door opened, Ryks and Davey jumped inside. Petey followed suit, without realising he bumped a Senator slightly. She gave them a very ugly look but said nothing. When the rush settled a bit, they realised the elevator was going up. Petey and Davey looked at Ryks.

“Did you get it, Davey?”

The kid nodded, lifting up Victoria’s key card. Ryks smiled. They had won, so it made no matter where the elevator was going.

“What is this, though?” Davey asked. He was just as scrawny and scrappy as Ryks. He wasn’t as clever, but that was okay. The kid was way better at sneaking around, so it made no difference.

“The key to our new hideout!” They had been looking for a hideout to stash their comics and treats for a while. Ryks once saw one of the maintenance staff use the service elevators to reach the main ziggurat’s roof with his key card, and he thought it would be so cool if they made their hideout there.

Bing.

The elevator doors opened once again. The Senator left, still annoyed. Petey pressed the button to go back to the basement levels. Petey was by far the largest of the band—and the dumbest. He was so cool, though. Once Petey dared him to headbutt a door open… and he did! Also, they didn’t know where he came from. He just appeared one day and kept coming back. Once he said his dad worked for a game company, and they were making a new Dr. Jones game.

Through the ride, they kept planning their new hideout. Davey said he could definitely steal a gaming rig from some forgotten room in the Palace, and Petey said he could easily carry up some tents and boxes. It was all coming together, until…

Bing

The elevator doors opened once again, but not to the basement levels. They were back in the Entrance Hall, and waiting for them was Ken, the family’s nanny droid, and his brother Mark—and he wasn’t happy.