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Issue Two

"Gold"

By Doc Fiction

 

THEN: FROM THE CHRONICLES OF THE NINTH AGE OF MAGIC

Soon after the magical and golden molten mass that had been the helm of Nabu travelled through time to the distant past, the oldest surviving good man on earth in that era passed away at an incredible age.

As the ancient man took his last breath, He Who Rules All freed a single divine drop, which ripped layers of atmosphere in its wake, creating a torrential rain from the skies. Underground rivers exploded to the surface of the earth with violent fury unmatched by the most violent volcano. For forty days and forty nights, rain and liberated rivers flooded the earth until the evil and violence of mankind was wiped from its face.

The divine waters found and cooled the magical golden molten mass and as the heat surrendered to the swirling supernatural flood, churning mountains of muddy earth buried it deep from sight.

At the close of the fortieth day, the rains were stopped. With many layers of atmosphere dissolved, never to return, the fury of the sun heated the earth with greater strength than ever before and the waters began to evaporate. The good men and women who were spared the calamity of the flood found stable footing and repopulated the earth. The sunlight heated the planet and the foods from the soil were changed, different than those that nourished before the waters fell. Animals ate the food, as did men and women, and their lives were the shorter for it.

The population grew and people again built cities. Time passed, and the strong willed again exercised power over the meek and put them to labor to further their greed for wealth and power. Many, many generations later, during the first days of empire, the magical golden mass was unearthed and those who eventually came to possess the metal did not fully know its power. The gold still held the mixture of mystical imprints of the Wizard Shazam, the Spirit of Vengeance and the Lord of Order, Nabu when it traveled through space and time at the end of the ninth age.

When first discovered, the gold was unworkable - resistant to all efforts of heat to melt it. A wise and holy man at the gold mine understood the metal was filled with power and used spells from the earliest days to bring it to melting heat at midnight of the next full moon. The gold melted, but with a price: The wise and holy man died a horrible death in his sleep when he sought rest late the next day.

The gold was formed into spheres and bars for easier transport and sent to the most powerful mystics, rulers and empires of the age. Not by chance, but rather by the hand of fate, in each empire the metal was given to the most skilled craftsmen. These craftsmen met with sorcerers, magicians and illusionists. The gold was used in the creation of objects of curiosity, wonder, religion, combat and power.

In Aegypt, the gold was destined to find its most powerful use in the hands of the court magician named Nabu. Aegypt's kings and dynasties prospered and ended through the following centuries, but Nabu lived through them all, aging little over hundreds of years. The common people whispered that Nabu claimed to come from beyond the stars, the royalty whispered that death could not find him because he had tricked the god of the last breaths into thinking he was somewhere else.

Nabu ushered Aegypt's strongest ages of accomplishments in reading, writing, agriculture and the arts. People in other lands regarded him as one of the gods. Filled with pride, Nabu did little or nothing to stop their praise and too often he encouraged it. As his power and influence with the people grew generation after generation, He Who Rules All saw Nabu's prideful heart and as punishment he placed enmity between Nabu and Aegypt's rulers, the Pharaohs. Many generations before Josef Ben Jakub read the troubled dreams of Aegypt's ruler, Nabu left the royal court rather than see the civilization he had cultivated destroy itself with a civil war between himself and the noble family. He revisited the court whenever summoned during times of dire trouble, but he left the Pharaohs and never returned when the ruler of Aegypt gave the order to kill all male descendants of Josef Ben Jakub's people. This people had been placed into the bondage of slavery to further Pharaoh's public works of vanity, brought about by the desire to overshadow Nabu and all other perceived threats to the royal authority.

Nabu knew, instinctively, that He Who Rules All was placing pieces on the mortal board to provide Josef Ben Jakub's people with a deliverer, and he did not want to be called on to do battle that champion.

He left the royal court and wandered the deserts. He called no land or tent home.

Tales of Nabu's travels filled the Mediterranean. Barren fields were suddenly green and bountiful after Nabu created magical reeds to transport water. A wandering tribe of nomads became wealthy within one generation when Nabu shared the secrets of drawing sounds so they could be spoken repeatedly. Aegypt's empire eventually waned, and it was no coincidence that when Assyria ascended the stage of power, it was in their court that Nabu was found, worshipped as their god of writing, reading and planting. He was praised as the son of Marduk, chief of the Assyrian gods. The people took part of Marduk's temple and devoted it to Nabu and each new year they celebrated the future day when he would succeed his "father" of ruler of the gods.

Shortly after the Hebrew prophet Isaiah told his people to avoid worshipping Nabu, the ageless one first read The Prophecies Of The Third Age Of Magic. In that scroll he learned the prediction of his death at the end of the ninth age. That knowledge filled Nabu with troubled thoughts and sleepless nights until he realized his energy would be better used in planning and preparation.

It was then Nabu picked up his golden quill, dipped it in his own creation of blood-mixed ink from his golden bottle and started to write the first words of The Book Of Fate ....

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

OVER SIXTY YEARS AGO:

Five Star Reporter,Edward "Scoop" Scanlon, the American guest of British troops positioned at the shore of the English Channel , was the only man on the battlefield who considered himself lucky. Even his co-worker and friend - photographer Rusty James - would have gladly been anywhere else today.

The choppy waters of the English Channel were loaded with Nazi gunboats and battleships. German soldiers were reaching the shores. The sounds of mortars, big guns and small arms fire filled the air with deafening roars but Scoop Scanlon wasn't staring at weapons of war - he was looking at four new arrivals to the battle who had literally just popped in out of thin air.

Four American masked mystery men were now fighting side-by-side with British troops against a platoon of Nazi soldiers. Scoop knew their names - every Five Star Reporter worth his stripes could tell you something about the powerhouse called the Atom, the winged Hawkman, the mysterious gasmask-wearing Sandman and the magician called Dr. Fate. Scoop knew the editor at Fawcett Bulletin magazine would pay top dollar for a story and photos of these national heroes fighting the Nazis and he was going to collect that fat payday event if it meant dodging German bullets.

Scoop took a couple of short, deep breaths, grabbed Rusty's camera out of his hands and leaped from the safety of the bunker. Rusty yelled the five star reporter's name, but wasn't heard over the roar of warfare. Scoop zigged and zagged, ran full speed to the section of battle where colorful costumes and military uniforms tried to force death's hand for their own version of the greater good.

Just as suddenly as the heroes appearance, louder than the roar of gunfire and the shouts of agony and pain, a powerful high trumpet sound split the air, coming from above the black clouds of spent gunpowder. For brief seconds, all soldiers and supermen alike stopped fighting and looked to the blackened skies. Scoop remembered the passages from the last book of the Bible and wondered if this was the end of everything he had known...

A moment later he learned it wasn't, when twenty young girls with braided blonde hair wearing armor and bearing swords atop winged horses swooped down through the dark clouds of munitions powder and smoke. Scoop said "strange as the devil in church" to himself. The maidens soared just overhead at amazing speed, in an arrowhead shaped formation, flying straight for the quartet of costumed mystery men.

Scoop shook off fear like a mosquito and took photos. Each click felt like the pull of a trigger. Angry teenage girls from a Wagner opera took shots from the camera.

The golden helmet-wearing Dr. Fate looked up at the girls, and he started to glow. The formation of winged horses started to split, their flight became erratic, they lost control of their direction. The magician tilted his helmeted head back and shouted words in a long lost language and suddenly the entire battlefield was washed in blinding white light.

When the light faded, a fifth mystery man had joined the scene... he was over 150 feet tall, dressed in a dark green cloak, skin white as chalk. The black clouds of war moved out of his way as if blown by a mighty wind and sunlight bathed the ground around his feet. He grabbed the young girls and their horses out of the air like a young boy snatches fireflies at dusk. With each the touch of his hand a sound - like the single note of a song or a pipe from a church organ - filled the air. An orchestra of destruction turned the flying cavalry attackers to rainbow colored dust. The giant then grew even larger and walked into the English Channel where he knocked down German ships as if they were nothing more than bathtub toys.

His work complete, the giant returned to shore and was suddenly no more than a normal man's size. The few remaining German troops on land surrendered the same instant, throwing their guns and weapons to the shore and their hands into the air. The "giant" walked over to Dr. Fate and Scoop was close enough to the magician to hear him call the name "Spectre." Scoop heard the following exchange:

Dr. Fate: "He still has the spear, then?"

Spectre: "Yes. His mind is warped, which limits its power. A seemingly small blessing, but we should be thankful - in the hands of a sane man, there would be little we could do to stop the spread of his nationalistic empire."

Dr. Fate: "The American government will not allow their heroes to take a direct role as long as he holds it. The American's pride may extend this war, I fear. In fact this very battle may have to be wiped from memory. We shall see."

Scoop Scanlon, the Five Star Reporter, was never able to explain what happened next.

He stopped taking pictures. His body seemed no longer under his control - as if someone else was directing his actions, yet he was not panicked by that realization. He lowered the camera and walked over to Dr. Fate, interrupting his conversation. He spoke words Scoop himself did not understand. They came out of his mouth in a strange language, but nonetheless the Five Star Reporter understood the meaning of the sentence.

"When the time comes in the tenth age, I HAVE BEEN ASSIGNED THE TASK TO CHOOSE," Scoop Scanlon said.

Dr. Fate and the Spectre both turned and looked at the reporter. A second or two (that Scoop Scanlon would later recall felt like an eternity) passed as the magician and ghost looked him square in the eyes. Dr. Fate went so far to place his hand on Scanlon's shoulder, like a father reassuring a small child. Scoop Scanlon saw his own reflection in the golden helmet, and without warning that reflection changed into the image of grey-headed older man. Scoop was not certain, but felt the image was one of himself, many years in the future.

While the mystery man's golden helmet hid all his facial features, Scoop was certain the magician was smiling at him. Then, the pair of heroes simply nodded to each other in agreement, turned, and walked to the other masked men in the distance, leaving Scanlon standing by himself some twenty yards away. Coming together as a group, the costumed men held a short conversation. The Spectre faded from view moments later. Dr. Fate raised his hands and the group started to glow before they simply blinked out of sight.

Scoop Scanlon stood still, uncertain of what to do next. His friend Rusty walked alongside.

"Way to scram out with the camera, hotshot - I had to use the old brownie since you took my good one out into the field. I got a great shot of you with Dr. Fate and the big scary guy, though, oughta make a nice secondary photo... Scoop? Scoop, you okay?" Rusty James asked his friend.

Rusty waved his hand in front of Scoop's eyes and the Five Star Reporter didn't even blink. Rusty took back his camera, saw there was one shot left on the roll of film, aimed at his friend and clicked. The flat sound of the shutter brought Scoop out of his trance. He started laughing as he remembered the Fawcett Bulletin's fat payday, slapped his friend on the back and headed for their hosts, the British soldiers. Rusty James looked at his buddy with a mix of relief and concern, then decided the whole thing was part of the stress of war. He joined his friend and headed to the safety of the British troops.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

TODAY:

Ethan sat at his old wooden desk, the only thing about his classroom on the second floor that belonged there, and wondered why he was so calm.

Everything but the desk was .different. Even Ethan's clothes were different. Gone were his normal Sunday attire of slacks, oxford shirt and sportsjacket... now he was garbed in dark green silk robes like some liturgical priest, with a thick golden lightning bolt design that fell from his neck to his waist. A gold cape was draped across his shoulders and held in place by a golden rope with skull-shaped pins at his collarbones. He had long gloves of a similar golden material, with interwoven designs of skulls, lightning bolts and ancient hieroglyphs worked into the fabric.

Ethan knew all of this was far from normal, and that he should be righteously freaked out by it all, but while it was all very new, just now it also seemed very. familiar somehow.

In front of Ethan, opened on his wooden desk, sat a very large book with empty pages. Ethan looked at the book - thick, dark brown leather cover, gold-leafed edged pages, a bit yellowed with age but not brittle like so many old papers he'd seen over the years. Taken as a whole, the book reminded him of an English Bible from the 1600s he'd seen in a private library two years ago.

Twenty minutes ago, when he'd touched one of those blank pages, words had suddenly appeared:

"Sit and read. There is much to learn and not much time."

When he had lifted his hand in surprise, the words had quickly faded from the book's page. Startled and needing to clear his head, Ethan walked around the room and tried to find the door. He spent ten minutes searching behind books and bookcases. He tried to pry a large mirror loose to see if it was actually a door, but no, it was only a mirror. When he decided there was no door out, he followed the book's first suggestion. He sat down.

Now, he was ready to follow the second suggestion. He slowly lowered his hand to the blank page again to read.

As his fingers touched the blank parchment, different words appeared on the page:

"You are the chosen."

As Ethan's mind read that last word, a huge, thick gray chain - a type Ethan had only seen in shipyards - shot up through the bottom of the spine of the book, missing his eyes by only inches! The chain rose up in the air, above book and reader, and swerved like a thing alive. The snake of iron links darted this way and that until it seemed to "see" Ethan sitting at the desk. With blinding speed, the chain fell to strike Ethan's head, who could only lift his arms to protect his face.

At the moment the chain would have met his hands, Ethan opened his eyes, peered through his crossed arms and saw that instead of striking him, the chain was floating before his left wrist, changing color, from gray iron to brown and then black onyx, followed by ruby red which quickly became blue before lightening to emerald green and, changing once more became amber before settling on a glistening gold. As the chain became golden, a sound like a thunderclap filled the room. Ethan shut his eyes instinctively at the noisy boom and when he opened them again, he saw - and felt - the heavy chain was now fastened to his gloved left wrist in a large shackle. The chain was roughly six feet long and trailed from his wrist to the floor, then up again to the bottom of the spine of the book where it met the cover with heavy bolts. The old leather cover was changed, it was now more metallic in nature and shared the same golden color as the chain.

Ethan's earlier state of calm was now totally gone, and a surge of energy raced up his spine as he realized he was chained to the book.

He pulled at the chain, slip his wrist through the shackle, unsuccessfully. Now the old words on the page had disappeared and new words were forming, spreading like wildfire over dried forest on the facing page. While he couldn't see it happening with his eyes, Ethan knew all of the pages of the book were now filling with words.

Wanting to put distance between himself and the book, Ethan stood up. The chain and the book rose from the floor and desk and floated in the air. Without warning, Ethan started floating as well!

"Whoaa, whoa - hey!" Ethan yelled as he, the book and the chain drifted through the air.

"Stop!" Ethan thought and immediately, he returned to standing on the ground while the chain and book remained suspended in space.

The book was now just lower than Ethan's chest level. Instinctively, he reached out with his left hand to hold the book. Upon contact with his hand, the book moved with Ethan's motions, acting more like a part of his body than a foreign object. The chain responded in kind, lowering itself to his side - weightless to Ethan, but the sound of link rubbing against link betrayed that its weight was, in fact, considerable.

Ethan caught a sense of motion from the corner of his eye, and turned his head to the north end of the room where he saw someone else - in a mask, no, a helmet , - had entered. Ethan raised his right hand, as did the man - "no, wait - NOT SOMEONE ELSE, that's me! " Ethan thought.

HE was standing before the large mirror. HE was wearing the gold cape, green robes and a golden helmet that covered his entire head. Ethan was looking at his own reflection!

He raised his right hand to his face and felt his fingers touch his cheek, but the reflection showed his hand touching a shiny, glistening helmet!

"I - I don't understand - how -"

As he spoke, the book in his left hand began to stir, like a puppy squirms when it wants to be freed from its owner's grasp. Ethan relaxed his hold on the book, and as it opened, it floated through the air until it rested at chest level again. Pages turned so quickly they created a small breeze in the room. The air went still as the pages ceased to flip. Ethan looked down and saw a large group of words that seemed to be lit from underneath. He started to read:

"You have been chosen to carry on the work of Nabu, last of the Lords of Order. Because of his sacrifice in the ninth age, in these ages, your toll is paid for the use of magic.

You will wield great power, yet you will be powerless.

You will be considered among the wisest, yet you will question like a novice.

You will be considered the source of certainty, yet confusion will be your constant companion.

You will be friend to the Thunders and the tools of Vengeance are yours.

You are chained to my word and it is chained to you and nothing will break the bond.

You are destiny, you are eventuality, you are fortune.

You are FATE."

"I am Fate?" Ethan thought.

"Is - is this like that old Piers Anthony series I read in high school, where people become embodiments of abstract concepts like Death and War? I've heard of some Doctor Fate who fought as a member of the oldtime JSA. Am I supposed to be some sort of Justice League metahuman hotshot? Look at that big fat lightning bolt on this outfit. For crying out loud - I may as well be the high priest of Elvis," Ethan thought.

He looked back at the book. It seemed to be in the mood to give answers, and Ethan decided he should ask it some questions, but he didn't know how to ask.

He turned it over in his mind - should he write the question in the book and wait for it to write an answer back? Could the book answer questions in the first place? He pondered it a bit longer before settling on the direct approach, silly as it might seem.

"Book," Ethan said aloud,

"Is it possible there has been some mistake? This is supposed to be a Sunday School classroom, not exactly where one normally looks for metahuman magicians in crazy costumes."

Words began to glow again on the page. Ethan started reading:

"You have been chosen to carry on the work of Nabu, last of the Lords of Order.

Because of his sacrifice in the ninth age, in these ages, your toll is paid..."

"Yes, already read that," Ethan said, "let's start at the beginning then - if I'm this chosen one, then what is this 'work of Nabu'?"

The pages of the book began to turn, first slowly, then gained in speed. The room around Ethan faded from his vision and instead, another sight started to come into view.

As the book's pages slowed, Ethan started to see more clearly, saw that he was now floating several stories above a parking lot outside of a tall building!

As his vision sharpened to his new surroundings, the accompanying sound also increased. He heard frantic shouting, high-pitched screams and the unmistakable sound of gunfire.

Two men dressed in bizarre costumes ran out of the doors of the building - Ethan took the scene in and realized he was right outside of a metahuman robbery attempt in progress. The two criminals had ridiculously large firearms, and from the design of their costumes it was obvious to all that one had decided to theme himself after electricity, while the other was claiming powers of ice or cold. The pair exchanged gunfire with armed security, oblivious to Ethan's presence. The security guards, to their credit, were hopelessly outmatched but weren't backing down from the overwhelming attack, trading pistol fire with fiery arcs of lightning and blasts of snow and ice. The bravery of the security guards inspired Ethan.

"Metahuman crooks, teenagers from the looks of them," Ethan thought, with a tinge of anger. The pages of the book began to turn again as he wondered "so what now?"

The pages stopped and words in the book started to glow. Ethan's right arm with its gloved hand, without his realizing it, was extended at the costumed criminals as his left hand and arm held the book still. He read the words:

"Your fate is for lightning and the chains of justice to end your rampage!"

The pair of metahumans realized that the situation had suddenly changed. They stopped firing at the security guards and turned their attention to the new arrival who was dressed in green robes and golden helmet, who floated in air and held a big book with a large chain. The pair shouted cross words at each other, pointed at Ethan, as if engaged in argument.

Ethan realized his amplified voice had gotten their attention. The voice was his own, only immeasurably louder, and had a hissing quality that sounded like heavy sand running through a brass pipe. As the word had left his lips, the air above the pair of crooks began to twist about, shimmering as if quickly heated. Ethan was reminded of the mirage effect from hot city streets or desert sands can produce, and he wondered why there was no fear in his mind or heart as the pair raised their weapons in his direction.

The shimmering air started to take form, and a giant MOUTH, of all things, took shape. The "mouth" opened and revealed row upon row of teeth, smiling like Lewis Carroll's Cheshire Cat. Just as quickly, the mouth parted its jaws and revealed a pitch black throat - then massive bolts of golden lightning belched from the mouth and attacked the electrical-and-cold themed pair. They reeled from the suddenness and might of the onslaught, the bolts blasted the ground beneath their feet and shattered their weapons like a dilapidated barn splintering before a mighty tornado.

The mouth closed, but stayed in place above the criminals.

The two costumed men slowly returned to their feet, dazed and scared. They looked at Ethan, then the mouth, and back again - not sure what would happen next.

Seconds later, the mouth opened again, this time vomiting a torrent of massive chains - similar to the one on Ethan's arm, but with full crushing weight - onto the two men. The heavy links crashed into them with terrific force, again knocking them to the ground. All but two chains slowly retreated back into the giant mouth. the two remaining chains wrapped around the criminals and covered them from shoulder to knees. Unable to move, the pair screamed in terror as the chains withdrew... they were lifted up off the ground and "swallowed" by the mouth, which shut its jaws, smiled a wide, toothy grin and faded from view.

"Wow," Ethan thought to himself.

The pages of the book turned again, and the scene in the parking lot faded from Ethan's eyes. He knew he was going somewhere else... but where? The pages weren't answering as they continued to turn faster and faster, then as they slowed Ethan began to once again make out some details.

He was floating still, now higher in the air, maybe four or five stories up, in front of a tower that looked like a large chess piece, the rook, made of concrete and stone. This structure was very, very tall but not very wide, like a lighthouse, Ethan thought. A wrought-iron fence surrounded the structure on the ground, and it had no gate for entry. As he floated around the structure, Ethan noticed the building had no door or windows and he wondered how one could enter or leave. The pages started to turn again and as his vision faded Ethan wondered where he was going next.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

NOW: Williams City

Sargon the Sorcerer and his large assistant, Kassadar, gazed deep into the dark crystal sphere. Deep in the darkness, a tiny point of light revealed an image of Ethan floating before the doorless and windowless tower.

"He has the book," Sargon hissed through his old, dry lips.

"Yes, Master," his assistant responded, "I think our men failed to stop the old preacher from delivering it to the chosen one."

"You think? YOU THINK?!?" Sargon screamed, which brought on a fit of coughing and spitting and hacking. The old magician twisted in his wheelchair and blood began to bubble at the corner of his mouth. His hands traced frantic, small mystic symbols in the air. Ancient words poured from his lips, rising in such volume and intensity that Kassadar thought his master would die from exerting such effort.

"Master!" his assistant said, trying to help stabilize the frail man, "You must control your anger!"

The wrinkled old man raised his left arm. His age-spotted hand had long fingernails and bore a ruby ring. Without warning, the hand began to glow and using it like a knife, he plunged it into the chest of his assistant. Kassadar became motionless, like a mannequin of his former self as his mind, soul and spirit fled his body. Sargon shook with heaving convulsions and his arm throbbed with horrible pain as a copy of his essence was pumped into the body of his assistant.

In moments, the withered shell that had been Sargon the Sorcerer collapsed in his wheelchair before sliding out to the ground, dead.

The eyes of his assistant were shut tight and as he started to open them, he let out an ear-splitting scream of terror! Slowly moving, learning the muscle responses of his new arms and legs, he walked to the bathroom and threw cold water onto his face.

He looked at the face that stared back at him from the bathroom mirror as water dripped into the sink.

"Behold," the man said in self-mocking voice, "the new face of Sargon."

He walked back to the crystal sphere, avoiding the sight of the dead man on the floor.

He looked at the image of Ethan floating in the air, chained to the book, and said,
"Forty hours to take The Book Of Fate from its new owner. Forty hours to claim my rightful place."

He walked over to the dead body on the floor, tried to avoid looking at its face. He opened the suit jacket, knowingly found a hidden pocket and pulled out a piece of weathered chalk. He drew a circle on the floor and began to chant.

The room containing his former body slowly started to fade from Sargon's view.

- TO BE CONTINUED IN FATE ISSUE 3 -