The Bar at the Edge of the Sea

by Tom Abrahams

  A gust of icy wind blew across the endless plain. It blew through Zeke, chilling him to his core. The Watcher in front of him shuddered.

  A second volley of wind carried with it the beginning sounds of the ceremony. Pedro’s voice calling the celebration to order.

  He lifted his hands above his head and balled them into fists. It was a triumphant gesture that Gabe mimicked.

  “This is a banner day,” Pedro said. “It is a day to which all here aspire but few achieve. This path is rigorous. It is full of self-sacrifice, service above all else, and a belief in the redemptive soul of humankind.”

  The words echoed. Pedro let them hang there, dusting the cold air.

  “It is my privilege to serve you here at my cantina, both with refreshments and with nourishment. It is my duty to fill you when you are empty, to strengthen you when you are weak, to comfort you when you doubt, to listen when you confide, to counsel when you seek advice.”

  Zeke understood the metaphor. He also recognized that “providing answers when you ask questions” wasn’t part of the spiel. He suppressed a smile and kept his features expressionless. Any hint of emotion was bad form. Nobody had to tell him.

  Pedro opened his fists and stretched his fingers straight. “As Watchers we keep balance. We choose the side without weight. We force an equilibrium. Where there is darkness, we provide light. Where there is cold, we give heat. Where there is evil, we supply good.”

  Gabe opened his hands too. He looked out upon the gathered Watchers and their apprentices. He stretched his fingers skyward.

  “We also give shade,” said Pedro. “We chill fire. We soften the righteous. Ours is a duty without end, without relief, without rest. We remain vigilant. We remain steadfast in our charge. This is our collective duty and we have not failed. We will not fail.”

  Pedro lowered his hands and stepped to the lectern. He placed his hands on its edges and leaned on straight arms.

  His voice boomed. “That is not to say there are not those among our ranks who have failed. They have chosen the imbalance of tipped scales. They’ve taken it upon themselves to undo the work of so many. They think their cause, their ideas, their existence, is above all others. In this they are wrong.”

  This sermon was deeper than Zeke expected. It felt as much a warning as anything else. Was it directed at him? At the would-be Watchers? Or was it for the veterans, the ones who’d seen so much, who’d won so much but had yet to ascend?

  “This is our challenge as Watchers,” said Pedro. “Our true challenge. It is that we remain focused on the greater balance of all things. That we put aside our own redemption in favor of humankind’s.”

  Zeke understood this was a warning for all of them. Old and new. Green and weathered. Naïve and cynical.

  “As humans, in any level of existence, from any walk of Earth, we are fallible. It is a given. And that is why today is so special an occasion. It is why we celebrate Gabriel. A man of countless missions. A man of countless sacrifices. A man of balance.”

  Gabe took this as a cue to step forward. He stood beside Pedro at the lectern. His hands were folded in front of him now, covering the hanging tassels.

  Zeke craned his neck to get a better view. Gabe’s eyes were closed. Pedro’s were too.

  “And so,” said Pedro, his voice rising in volume and intensity, “today we consecrate this occasion with his Ascension. His Watch is finished. His new chapter begins.”

  In unison the entire audience repeated, “His Watch is finished. His new chapter begins.”

  Gabriel did not open his eyes. He did not move his hands. He did not speak.

  Instead his body, as it had on the yacht’s deck in Lucius Mander’s world, began to dissolve. It pixelated, becoming almost translucent, before it disappeared completely.

  In the instant before he vanished, Zeke thought Gabe smiled. It was just a flicker. Maybe it was the light, or the distance between them, but he was almost sure that he’d seen it.

  The ceremony over, Pedro opened his eyes and stepped from the lectern. He moved toward the front of the dais and descended its trio of broad steps. Once on the ice-packed snow, the tail of his robe puddled around him, he broke into his own smile. This one was unmistakable.

  He waved to the crowd and motioned toward the patio. “Bar’s open. First drink is on the house.”

  The gathered crowd broke ranks and started toward the porch. Pedro pushed through the swinging doors and disappeared inside. Zeke stood for a moment, watching the assembled climb the porch.

  Li touched him on the arm. “Want to play cards?”

  He faced her and put on yet another awkward grin. “Cards? Like poker?”

  She beamed. “I’ve been practicing. Texas Hold ’Em. I’ve gotten good at counting cards.”

  “Sounds like cheating.”

  She batted her eyelashes. “You don’t trust me?”

  This was a loaded question. And he wasn’t sure he did. Until now, he’d always felt a rush of guilt when flirting with Uriel. Now he felt that same discomfort with Li.

  He was standing with the woman for whom he’d waged his soul, yet he felt little connection to her. At least not the way he felt about Uriel. There was something temporal about his relationship with Li, as if it had an artificial limit, an expiration date. His visceral connection to Uriel, however, was timeless. When he was with her, or anywhere near her orbit, it was as if time stood still.

  He glanced toward the building, lifting his eyes above the porch. There was a new marquee above the door. It was a neon sign that boasted the name of the place and its slogan. The letters flickered in a way that Zeke was almost certain he could hear the electric hum associated with the gas-filled tubes.

  They spelled out PEDRO’S CANTINA in large pink letters. The slogan was underneath in smaller blue lettering. It was something Zeke hadn’t seen before. He smiled at the slogan. It was perfect. He wondered who’d come up with the idea. Pedro. Or maybe Uriel. It was her sense of humor. His eyes scanned across the words again. He smiled, thinking of her.

  “THE BAR IN THE MIDDLE OF NOWHERE”

  Epilogue

  There was a blast of cold air in his face, and for an instant, Desmond Branch was certain he was in a world covered in white. But as soon as it flashed in his eyes, it gave way to a sparkling sea. Sunlight reflected off the surface in golden hues, dancing on the waves, which undulated in the same direction toward the horizon. He was alone in the skiff on a plank seat that stretched between risers on both sides of the small boat. A lone oar was on the floor next to his boots. The boat rocked on the waves, drifting with the current.

  A gull swooped low in front of him and arced high into a cloudless sky as it called to him. It seemed to beckon him onward, and he followed its path, shielding his eyes from the sun as it flapped its wings and dove low, riding the air above the endless sea. He tracked the bird’s path, his chin dipping to his chest to see it glide toward an island.

  Branch cupped his hands over his eyes and narrowed his gaze, focusing on the island until he realized it wasn’t an island at all. It was a structure. An outpost.

  He scanned the endless sea and saw nothing else at first. Just the lone outpost, an oasis in a vast stretch of blue wilderness. It dawned on him in that moment he was alone. No Le Grand. No crew. And the Saladin…where was his ship? What was he doing in this skiff?

  And then the pain came. It was a searing heat that stabbed at his gut. It doubled him over and he clutched his midsection. His thin cotton shirt was wet and sticky. He pulled his hands away to see them covered in blood.

  His mind swam and his vision blurred as the pain soaked through him. He squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again. The horizon yawed. The lone structure, the oasis, appeared to bob.

  He needed to get there. Whatever it was, maybe someone there could help him. He reached down, against the pain, and grabbed the oar. With both hands he gripped the handle and dipped it over the side of the skiff. He dug it beneath the surface and pulle
d it back.

  A sharp bolt of pain tore across his stomach and he cried out. His shriek was inhuman. He didn’t recognize it as his own. But he pulled again, propelling the skiff forward against the current and toward the oasis.

  Branch rowed three more strokes before sliding to the other end of the bench. He repeated the painful motion a half dozen times and switched sides again. The progress was uneven. He wasn’t taking a straight line to the oasis, but having only one oar made the task that much more difficult.

  A cold sheen of sweat ran from his forehead to his chin. His neck, his back, his thighs were damp with perspiration. The sharp fetid odor of an unwashed body wafted with each new pull of the oar. It mixed with the thick, metallic odor of blood and made Branch retch.

  He stopped rowing and grabbed again at his gut. Sweat stung his eyes. His mouth was dry. The once comforting briny scent of the endless sea was nauseating.

  Sucking in a staccato breath, he reached again for the oar. As he did, he caught movement at the edge of his vision. He turned on his seat and saw an armada of small vessels three hundred meters behind him. He tried counting them but couldn’t. There were too many. Two dozen. Three dozen. More.

  They were coming for him.

  Leading them, in the center boat was a tall man. Was he a man? Were any of them men?

  He stood at the bow of his boat, an admiral commanding his navy. His bony hands rested on narrow hips. Rags of clothes hung like drapes on his narrow frame.

  His long jaw seemed to stretch beyond what was reasonable. And his teeth. His teeth. They were sharpened to fine points, like daggers, and they glistened yellow in the sunlight.

  Before he pivoted back to begin moving the boat in earnest, Branch thought he saw the man flick a gray tongue across the front of the teeth, drawing blood as he did.

  With renewed purpose, the pirate ignored the pain and the welling fear. He worked the oar, rubbing his fingers raw from the effort. But the Horde drew closer. And closer.

  The oasis was closer too. But not enough. He could not outrun them. Not with a single oar and no help.

  The panic consumed him. Where was he? How did he get here? Who were these creatures, if not men, who were chasing him?

  He kept paddling. One side. The other. Back again. He chopped at the water, dug deeper beneath the surface. He moved as fast as his wounded body would allow.

  The muscles in Branch’s back spasmed and he stopped mid stroke. The oasis was close enough he could see it looked like a large dwelling. There was an overhang with a covered area that wrapped around the exterior of the structure. Steps led from the covered area to the water.

  Standing at the top of the steps was an old man. A thick white beard covered the lower half of his face and neck. He wore a vest, a shiny buckle on his belt, and large boots.

  The man stood motionless. Even when Branch called out to him between rows.

  “Help me. Can you help me? I’m hurt. I need help.”

  Branch couldn’t remember the last time he’d asked someone for help. When he’d needed any help in the past, he’d demanded it. He didn’t ask. That wasn’t who he was.

  That brat, Anaxi Mander. He hadn’t asked her for her help. He’d forced it.

  A series of images flashed in his mind. Anaxi. An eight-headed monstrous snake. A mirror. A diamond. None of it made sense to him in the moment. He did wonder what had happened to the girl. And where was the sword he sought? Wasn’t it his?

  He searched the floor of the skiff. No sword. Nothing but a slosh of seawater mixed with blood.

  “Help me.” This time it wasn’t a question. “Get off the steps and help me.”

  He knew the man could hear him. But the bearded mute didn’t move. It was as if he couldn’t hear the cries, the demands.

  To his right, a skiff pulled even with him. Aboard it were two gangly men. Their skin was dark. Not brown or olive. Black. The skin was charred as if burned to a flaky delicate texture that a strong wind might blow away. One of them grabbed hold of the side of his boat and kept the two connected. Branch slid away from them on his bench. Behind him he heard the armada. They were upon him now. This was it.

  He faced the two in the boat next to his and growled at them, “Give it your best.”

  He could see their bones in spots. And their eyes. Their eyes were sunken and devoid of life. There was something evil about them. He felt it in the air.

  One of them looked squarely at Branch and lifted a small knife. As quick as a flash, the creature extended his arm and whipped the knife into Branch’s right arm.

  The blade sliced into him with searing heat. An explosion of pain sent fire to his fingers and up his shoulder.

  But Branch didn’t give up. Instead, thinking he had nothing to lose, he reached across his body with his left hand, grabbed the handle and pulled the knife from his arm. Blood sprayed from the wound.

  Branch lifted himself from his seat and launched his body at the two skeletal attackers. He landed on the closest one and drove the knife into the deep socket of its eye. The creature let out a hiss and disintegrated underneath him.

  Knife in hand, Branch swiped through the air backhanded, dragging the blade across the other hordesman’s neck. Again, a hiss and ashes.

  Now he was in a boat with two oars. He put the knife in between his teeth and bit down. Then he spun around, facing the armada, took both oars in his hands, and began rowing.

  His right arm was weaker than his left. He was losing so much blood that his vision blurred. Breathing was difficult. But he managed the effort and rowed away from the armada as the tall man, the admiral, appeared to watch him with admiration before urging his navy to resume its pursuit.

  Branch had a chance now. He was getting closer to the oasis.

  A faster skiff caught up with him, its bow at his stern. Branch tried to gain separation but couldn’t before one of three creatures aboard leaped forward. It dove through the air to tackle Branch and drive him into the floor of the boat.

  The skiff tipped hard to one side, giving Branch enough leverage to pull the knife from his now-bleeding mouth. He rolled onto the beast and drove the knife downward. He’d not finished the plunge before the attacker disintegrated.

  Another attacker, who must have snuck onto the boat, grabbed him from behind, its bony arm around his neck. Its claylike fingers grabbed at his face.

  But Branch used his boot heel to push himself backward and onto the attacker. He swung an arm out to his side and jabbed the knife into crepe-like flesh. Then he dropped to the floor of the boat on his back. A cloud of ash plumed around him.

  He scrambled to his knees and saw the oasis was close enough now to swim. As another attacker tried to reach him, Branch rolled over the gunnel and into the sea.

  He sank at first, water filling his boots and pulling him into the depths. The light above grew dimmer as he dropped, as bubbles of air poured from his nose and mouth in what seemed like an endless stream of air.

  The saltwater stung his wounds. His gut. His arm. His mouth all burned with the sensation of rum on an open wound.

  It didn’t matter. He was free of the Horde.

  With his wits about him, he began to swim toward the surface. One stroke after the other he was closer; the light grew brighter. He didn’t swim straight up. Instead he moved at an angle to take him closer to the oasis and farther away from the pursuing Horde and its vicious admiral.

  A final pull with what little energy he could muster, Branch surfaced and sucked in a wet breath. Swallowing the salty water, he sputtered and spit. Only a meter in front of him was the oasis and its steps. Above him, looking down, was the bearded man. Expressionless, the man did nothing to help. Branch reached for that step and touched it. His fingers slipped from the soft wood but found purchase.

  The bearded man smiled. He looked away from Branch and called out to the Horde.

  “That’ll be all, gentlemen,” the man said. “You know the rules. Go back to whatever hellhole you crawled from and lea
ve us be. My friend here has had enough.”

  Acknowledgments

  ACKOWLEDGMENTS

  Thanks to you, the reader, for embracing this story, Zeke, and the idea of the Watchers. I hope you enjoy devouring these adventures as much as I enjoy cooking them up and serving them.

  I couldn’t do what I do without my wife and children. Courtney, Sam, and Luke are more supportive than I could ask and more giving than I deserve.

  I appreciate the confidence and hard work of the team at Aethon. Rhett Bruno, Steve Beaulieu, and Pauline Nolet, and Filip Dudek have each had a hand in making this book what it is. Rhett and Pauline makes the words sing and Filip and Steve make it so I hope you judge the book by its fantastic cover.

  Thanks to Jonathan Davis and the team at Audible Studios for a Hall of Fame performance in the audio version. He’s a master at his craft.

  To my author friends, Steve Konkoly and Nicholas Sansbury Smith, both of whom have championed this series of novels. I’m humbled.

  Stay tuned, there’s more Zeke on a not so distant horizon…

  About the Author

  Tom Abrahams is an Emmy and Edward R. Murrow award-winning television journalist and member of International Thriller Writers. He is also a Kindle Unlimited All-Star, an Audible 5 Star Favorite, and author of more than two dozen novels. He writes in several genres including dystopian, sci-fi techno-thriller, post-apocalyptic, and political thrillers. His stories combine the realistic with the fantastic and have sold copies all over the world. The dramatic rights for his "A Dark World" trilogy are optioned for television and film. He's married with two children and lives in Southeast Texas.

  http://tomabrahamsbooks.com