by Luke Norris
They reached the door and tried the handle. Locked.
“Okay,” Shael said reassuringly “Don’t worry. There’s a solution here. By applying some careful thought, there is always a solu…” she was interrupted by a loud crack. Oliver had forced the handle, and it now dangled loose. The door creaked ajar. Unbelievable! She checked hastily down the hall, but the noise appeared to have gone unnoticed.
“Targon? Eorol?” Shael gave them both perplexed stares as if to say am I here with three children? They all looked like they were part of some hilarious joke.
The hallway was dark. But there was light further down, and she could see the hustle and bustle of actors and stage crew. As she got closer, it became apparent many of the extras were in costume, some as highland soldiers, some as villagers or lowlanders in their polished armor. There must be hundreds, she thought to herself, astounded by the scale of the production.
“Oliver take off that robe!” Shael instructed, stopping them halfway along the hall. “Targon and Eorol, you do the same! We need to blend in. Wait here a second!” She went ahead, and rummaged through some of the props strewn around on the chairs and on the floor, and came back carrying a tower of furs and armor.
“This shouldn’t be too difficult,” Eorol remarked. “Look at all the costumes!”
“Oliver and Eorol.” She handed them what appeared to be lowland-soldier outfits―a leather jerkin and a shiny silver helmet. “Put those on!” Targon received the highland furs. They would suit his scruffy hair and beard. The highland actors were wild looking and easy to distinguish. “You look like children playing dress up,” she laughed, “but it will do the trick. Oliver put that on, don’t just look at it.” Oliver was staring at the helmet, lost deep in thought. “Oliver. Hey you.” His attention snapped back to the present. “Put it on,” she repeated. Sometimes Oliver seemed so present, and the next moment he would be in an entirely different place lost in thought or memory. He looked at the helmet again then slid it down over his head. Fierce brown eyes stared back through the slits. The scar on his chin visible. “Okay good. You look the part.” She said, slightly disconcerted by the convincing transformation.
They hardly received second glances as they walked amongst the cast. Actors and extras were consumed with their own outfits, some walking around in their underwear calling for outfitters to bring them their costumes, others in full battle regalia, practicing their fiercest faces in the mirror-lined walls.
The play must have started because people were already coming off the stage, and going straight to the costume change. There were actors lined up beside what must be the side-stage area. Sure enough, a view to the stage opened up as they drew closer. The four of them seemed completely unnoticed. Three people squeezed past her as though she were a stage prop. Shael relaxed a little.
They suddenly had a direct view onto the stage and became temporarily immersed in watching the play. A conversation between queen Verity, the prophet, and the lowland king. She glanced at the others. Targon was smiling, and mouthing along with the actors. Forbidden love was an important literary document, despite being a long-running theatre piece, and Targon had treated it as such, pouring over the account with a fine-toothed comb. Eorol seemed to be enjoying it equally as much. The sheer scale was mesmerizing. From their vantage point, Shael could see enormous stage backdrops, depicting Highland tundra, a river, and other landscapes.
Obviously the province of Shar valued theatre and the arts highly, to be able to fund such a large production. The four of them were quickly captivated by the performance and didn’t move from their spots. Even Oliver chuckled at different scenes. In some ways, he seemed more engaged than the others. Were those… yes those were tears. Oliver was crying. They were genuine tears. Strange. It wasn’t even a sad scene, just an interaction between Oliver the Highlander and Queen Verity.
The play drew on, and Shael found herself captivated like the others. It played on childhood fantasies. She was snapped out of her reverie as most of the extras shuffled past her toward the stage. They were about to reenact the unification war. This was where Verity meets Oliver, the highland king on the battlefield. Shael’s heart fluttered. She shuffled back slightly, behind the others.
The actor playing King Oliver was a classically handsome man, thick cropped wavy hair and a defined jaw. He was dueling one of the prophets. The two actors began spinning spears and acrobatically dancing around each other.
A deafening crack broke the air beside them, causing all four of them to jump in fright. A stagehand was holding a whip behind the curtain. He began cracking the whip intermittently. Shael could see somebody doing the same on the opposite side of the stage also.
“Sweet Verity!” Shael cursed, holding her chest in fright. “That’s meant to be thunder coming from the duelers’ spears,” she explained to Oliver. “This is just one example where the literature broaches fantasy.”
“Well, not if the spears were breaking the sound barrier right?” Oliver offered. “That’s what those whips are doing, the end of the whip is flicking around that quick.”
“Yes, but it’s an impossibility for a person to swing a stick at that speed. It’s just an author dramatizing the story.”
Suddenly Oliver looked pained. “I don’t want to watch any more,” Oliver said. “Let’s try and get to the storage room.” He turned away.
“Hang on.” Shael took his arm to stop him and pointed to the other stage entrance. “That’s Queen Verity. She’s going on soon. This is where they meet.” The actress had auburn hair and a petite build.
“I don’t want to watch anymore!” Oliver snapped, pulling his arm free and turning away.
“Okay relax,” the outburst took Shael back. What had suddenly possessed him? “We don’t have to watch the end, although we pretty much watched the entire play.” Then she mumbled sullenly. “It’s only the part where they make out on the battlefield―the best part.”
Oliver wasn’t listening, he had made his way to the very back of the stage. Targon and Eorol were engrossed in the play and weren’t going anywhere. To be honest, she would also prefer to be looking at King Oliver right now rather than following a crazy man down a dark passage at the back of a theatre.
There was a narrow passage that linked both sides of the stage. It was cooler back here. Deep in this old castle, the stone walls did not transmit heat very well. She pulled the large costume shawl she had snatched closer around her shoulders.
Oliver was examining a section of the wall. It was nondescript, apart from the stone bricks that all looked the same. He looked up at Shael and smiled. “It looks like nobody’s been here since I was last here,” he confirmed.
Shael looked around the empty hallway. “Um okay.” The sinking feeling that Oliver had led them on a wild goose chase was interrupted by exploding rubble, and flying stone fragments, as Oliver smashed a small stage riser into the wall. Shael grabbed his arms in panic.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she whispered frantically. Her eyes were wide. “There is a theatre production happening a few meters away. Have you completely lost your mind?”
“Is Oliver at it again?” Eorol laughed. He had come around the corner, followed by Targon. Just great! If they’d heard it, then the whole theatre company would walk around the corner any moment.
“Don’t worry,” Eorol assured her, “It’s just us. The finale has everybody completely absorbed.”
Shael didn’t feel relaxed, she felt disappointed, annoyed… and why was Oliver looking at her with such a smug expression? Oliver turned and nodded at the wall. They all followed his gaze to the damaged section of wall. There was something… what was that? One of the stones had a recess carved out
“How long does the play have to go Targon?” Oliver asked.
“It’s all but finished my boy. I’m afraid you’ve missed the ending if that’s what you were hoping to see.”
Oliver didn’t answer. He just stood there expectantly, with that goofy look o
n his face, his eyebrow cocked as if he were waiting for something. Suddenly the hall erupted with applause, indicating the final scene. By the sounds of the voices, it had been very well received. Oliver nodded. That’s what he’d been waiting for? He pushed on the strange stone in the wall, sliding it to one side with all his weight.
As the stone moved, granulated sand started pouring out from behind it. More and more sand poured onto the floor, creating a growing mountain at their feet, and spreading across the entire passageway, making a huge mess. Shael, Targon, and Eorol all stared, in disbelief, flummoxed, as sand flowed around their feet.
The applause still raged outside, vibrating the floor. Wow, that was some reaction. Oliver still had that irritating self-satisfied grin.
“That vibration is not coming from out there is it, Oliver?” Shael sighed. He didn’t need to answer. She shook her head. The vibrating became coupled with the sound of grinding stone. To her utter disbelief, a section of the wall beside Oliver, twice as wide as she was, began moving upwards. All of them, apart from Oliver, stared with gaping jaws, as what appeared to be a giant, automatic, stone door slowly raised itself in front of them.
“This sand was supporting the door’s counterweight,” Oliver explained. “As soon as I let the sand flow out, it created a cavity underneath, letting the weight drop. It’s attached via a pulley system to this door.” He watched proudly. “After all this time, I really am astounded that it didn’t seize up,” he said, shaking his head in amazement. “He was a true master stoneworker,” he added quietly.
Shael nodded numbly, not really hearing Oliver. Her eyes were fixed on the dark room that was taking shape. But as the door came to a halt at head height, she realized that it was only a small room, if you could even call it that. Not more than three feet cubed. Empty, apart from a couple of items on the ground. A very small chest, and a long narrow item, wrapped in brown leather so old it looked like it might perish at the touch.
Eorol stepped forward eagerly to inspect the items. But Oliver’s hand was on his chest stopping him before he’d taken a step. Eorol glanced at Oliver suddenly tense, but then relaxed and shrugged his shoulders.
Oliver stepped forward ushering Targon over. Targon’s eyes were wider than a child’s at Solstice. “What have you got here, my boy?” he said, more to himself than to Oliver. He shuffled over eagerly and bent down to examine the little chest.
Oliver watched Targon and indicated for him to open the chest. “You will have more of an idea of its worth than I, in today’s market,” Oliver said.
It was made of wrought iron, and the lid had a simple latch which didn’t appear to be locked. Well If someone were prepared to break through this wall then a small lock wouldn’t do much good anyway I suppose. Shael thought, watching Targon open the lid.
The chest was filled with silver and gold coins. Not grotties. No, some other kind. Targon let out a whooping laugh. They looked old, like the ancient silver Wasat coin in the Naharain history museum. But this… this was an entire chest, containing both gold and silver coins. Could they really be authentic? As if reading her mind, Targon looked at Shael and nodded.
“They’re genuine so far as I can tell, Shael,” Targon said, sifting his hand through the treasure. “I couldn’t even put a value on these. Forget about a single wasp, you could have a whole fleet.”
Shael didn’t know what to think. None of this made sense. Oliver had stored this treasure of priceless value in this elaborate sealed off room, that looked as if it hadn’t been touched in who knows how long. Clearly, Oliver was not as crazy as he made out to be. This was real. Undeniable. If Targon was vouching for the authenticity of the coins, and he was the authority on such matters, then this was potentially the most valuable find, well, ever. To make things more disconcerting, Oliver seemed apathetic about the whole business as if this chest only contained his wardrobe. Shael wanted to fence off the area and catalog each piece.
“So let me get this straight, Oliver,” she said. “You had this ancient Wasat treasure, and then hid it here in this old castle?”
“Not personally,” Oliver replied. “An old friend actually left it here for me. It looks like he’s left something else here for us.”
“You trusted another person with this… this priceless treasure. Ponsy’s hammer!” Shael exclaimed.
“Yes, I believe so,” Oliver replied, moving to the item wrapped in leather.
“You believe what?” Shael didn’t understand his comment.
“The old dog left it here too I think.”
Shael shrugged her shoulders, looking at Targon for some sort of clarification to Oliver’s cryptic language. The old man was not paying attention to her, he was completely transfixed on the unveiling of the second object that was taking place. Eorol was leaning close over Oliver’s shoulder with a possessed look in his eyes.
Oliver pulled the leather away to reveal a long slender forged iron handle, bound in leather strapping that was also perishing. The iron was almost black in color. Blackstone iron most likely, because there was no sign of rust. At the base of the handle was a spike. The top was bulky, and the leather wound with twine so old, that when Oliver pulled on it, it all but disintegrated. He removed the leather wrapping to reveal what looked like the head of an enormous hammer, about a foot long. It didn’t look like any tools she had seen, and the shape didn’t lend itself to any functional purpose that she could think of, like smithing or carpentry. An old weapon? A war hammer perhaps? Despite the slender design, it would be heavy, being completely forged of blackstone iron. Shael doubted she could swing it.
“I’m glad he was able to let this go,” Oliver said earnestly. “He always wanted the family life with Ayla. He left this here as a message, to let me know he found the life he’d always sought.”
If Targon was excited earlier, now Shael was genuinely concerned for the old man’s health.
“There is writing here!” Targon said quietly, leaning in, trying to make out the small letters. “It’s… strange. I should be able to read it if it’s from the period. These letters, they’re…”
“It’s not a language you know, Targon, my friend,” Oliver explained. “In fact, there is nobody left who knows that language. I am the last.”
“One of the clan languages perhaps?” Eorol suggested.
“No, it’s something else,” Oliver said. “I always thought it was a hateful language, but learned later that my introduction to it was unique.”
“What does it say?” Targon asked, still examining the strange symbols.
“It says ‘Remember who you are!’.”
They all slowly turned to Oliver. The same question on all of their lips. Shael couldn’t bring herself to ask it.
It was Targon who spoke first. “Oliver,” he said, almost with trepidation, as if he wouldn’t be able to bear the weight of the answer. “Who did this weapon belong to?”
“This,” Oliver said, hefting the hammer and testing its weight, “was the weapon that Ponsy had forged for himself, when the highland militia was created to repel the lowland press gangs. A cumbersome thing if you ask me. The spear is more elegant, but Ponsy was a big man…” Oliver stopped when he saw they were all staring at him with their mouths open. “I can explain,” he laughed. “The versatility of the spear means it can be used in many different situations, behind a shield wall for example…”
“Oliver!” Shael stopped him. “Are you claiming that this is the war hammer that Ponsy, the Highlander, used in the unification war? As in Ponsy’s hammer hammer?”
“Yes, he fought with this in the final battle,” Oliver confirmed, passing it to Targon impassively as if it had the importance of a mere stage prop.
Targons arms strained under its full weight.
Targon, Shael, and Eorol all looked at each other for a moment. “Ponsy’s hammer!” They exclaimed in unison.
If what Oliver was saying could be verified, then suddenly the priceless chest of coins seemed inconsequential.
This was too much. Shael wanted some truthfulness. “Oliver, how have you come to possess these items. You know you have been keeping secret the most significant find since the second epoch, if not the most significant find hands down.”
At that moment an actress walked past them down the passageway, looking confused at the piles of sand on the ground. She didn’t give the small chest, or hammer a second glance, as she hurried on past.
“How about we continue this discussion in the wasp?” Oliver suggested. He took the hammer from Targon, who was struggling with its weight. He hoisted the chest under his other arm, and with that started making his way out, in the direction they’d come in.
Shael looked at Targon and Eorol, who in turn looked equally as stunned. “Come on, he’s right,” she said. They all snapped out of their temporary paralysis and jogged after him.
Things felt surreal, in slow motion, as Oliver walked through the crowds of jubilant actors congratulating themselves. To them, Oliver was just carrying two more stage props, and not the most priceless treasures on the continent.
10
BETRAYAL
Shael sat in the wasp in silence. Oliver was talking quietly with Targon about highland feuds. Shael felt like her foundations were cracking like she was on a listing ship that would roll over any moment. Just hold it together. If Targon hadn’t been so adamant about the authenticity of the items, she would have thought it a bogus prank. And what about the strange manner in which Oliver had stored the items? None of it fell into her idea of logical behavior patterns. It was primarily Oliver’s nonchalant attitude that was unsettling. Why wasn’t he handling the items with the reverence they deserved? she thought as she sat there frowning in silence, watching the two men.
