by Adam Carter
HAVE IMAGINATION, WILL TRAVEL
Adam Carter
Copyright 2019, © Adam Carter. All rights reserved. No content may be reproduced without permission of the author.
Cover by Covermint Design. www.covermint.design
PART ONE
THE DARKTHORNE LEGION
PAST CHAPTER
“I don’t like that cloud.”
In all the years in his company, Heather Tarne had never known for Darkthorne to do anything he didn’t want to. While she had been wondering upon the excuse he might this time offer, she never suspected it would have been something quite so ... pathetic would probably have been the ideal word. For her part, Tarne tried to ignore the comment about the cloud, although as Darkthorne stood upon the hill, continuing to stare somewhat sombrely at the light, floating mass of general fluffiness, she decided he would not be moved until she at least asked what he did not like about it. Specifically. Of course, she reflected, as soon as she asked the question, it would give him leave to persuade her, or at least try to persuade her, that this venture was foolishness incarnate.
Foolishness incarnate. Tarne allowed herself a small smile, for those had been the exact two words he had used the last time there was something he didn’t want to do. “Heather,” he had said, “what you propose strikes only the chord of dementia, and your interpretation of our need is foolishness incarnate.” When she had calmly pointed out that they only needed go to the river to fetch some water, he had continued with his rant, and she had gone herself, returning before he had reached the end of Act II of his soliloquy.
Presently, however, he did not seem to be saying much of anything.
Finally, Tarne sighed and asked to his back, for he was still facing that damnable cloud, “What don’t you like about the cloud then, Jagrad?”
She had expected for him to go on about how its darkness portended only damnation for their mission, or how perhaps its brightness might give them away, or something else totally stupid, and was surprised therefore when he said simply, “I don’t like the way it’s staring at me.”
Tarne blinked twice in a vain attempt to assimilate any of this, and at last replied, “Jagrad, clouds don’t tend to stare at people.”
“All the more reason to be cautious of the ones that do.”
“Does it have a face?”
“It doesn’t need a face to stare, just an eye. Like a smug, all-knowing cat.”
Tarne placed thumb and forefinger to the bridge of her nose: she could feel the stirrings of a headache. “Jagrad, if you don’t want to go, you could just say so.”
“I don’t want to go.”
“Fine,” Tarne said, surprised at how easy that had been. “Good even, I’ll go by myself.”
“And I don’t want you to go, either.” Jagrad Darkthorne turned to her then, taking his eyes from the demon cloud for the first time since noticing (or imagining) it. Darkthorne was, to Tarne’s eyes, a strikingly handsome man in a rugged sort of way, although she would never have been stupid enough to have told him so to his face. Foolishness incarnate there, and no doubt. He stood at over six feet, and his attire, aided by his height, lent him the appearance of a nobleman. The son of a lord, he should have inherited much more than just the knighthood; although, through reasons of his own, had he surrendered his title, his lands, his servants, and become something of a nomad instead. His hair was shoulder-length, dark and curly, and there was a deep scar running the length of his right cheek, which only accentuated his roguish appearance whenever he deigned to smile. He wore a thin moustache and tiny beard central to his chin, but it was his eyes which always drew Tarne’s attention, for they sparkled with the exuberance of life and told anyone who met him that this was a man who dared all, a man who held no fear, and a man who cared for nothing more than the thrill of adventure and derring-do.
And if such could be ascertained solely from his eyes, Tarne figured him also to be a true master of deception.
Tarne turned from him then, bored already with his antics. “Do what you like, Jagrad, but I don’t reckon I have much of a choice.”
Darkthorne took her by the wrist, moving swifter than she had ever seen a man move, turned her around and smiled that winning smile, his eyes seeming only to gleam to even greater brilliance. “Heather,” he said smoothly, “I can think of better things to be doing, for the both of us.”
“Better than what?”
“Well, better than ... than whatever it is I’ve refused to do because of the eye in the cloud staring at me.”
Tarne sighed impatiently. “Well that’s just it. I haven’t even told you yet what we’re supposed to be doing.”
Darkthorne frowned. “You haven’t?”
“No.”
“Oh.”
“Oh?”
“Well, whatever it is, I’m sure I wouldn’t like it.”
“Honestly,” she said, pushing him away, “sometimes I have no idea how that strange little mind of yours works, Jagrad. And I think if I ever did, I’d likely have to be as crazy as you.”
“Charming,” Darkthorne said. “So, I guess this means you agree with me about not doing whatever it is that needs doing?”
Tarne ignored him. “Come if you like, I’m not going to force you.” She walked off down the hillside. “I’ll be in Naphtha if you change your mind.”
“Naphtha?” Darkthorne called after her. “Whatever would you want to go there for?”
But he did not get an answer; nor should he really have expected one. He turned back to regard the cloud, swearing blind it was no longer there, although resolved himself to the possibility it was just sleeping, or blinking. He thought about how he had first met Heather Tarne. At twenty years of age, she was younger than him by just a year, although she had far more sense of the two of them. He remembered riding into a small village several years back, when Heather had been barely into womanhood. The simple folk there had been busily burning her at the stake and had been so intense upon their day out they had failed to notice his approach. He had ridden through the assembled masses and cut the young woman free of her rope bonds with one single swipe; then he had taken her about the waist and had hauled her up behind him, riding off through the greatly angered mob. They had deemed her a witch, he discovered later, and he had laughed at such absurdities as the two of them sat down later that night to share some tea and a light meal. Unfortunately, he could not get the fire to restart once a strong gust of wind had extinguished it, and all his efforts had proved to be in vain. Tarne had placed a finger to the logs, tossed on some form of fine powder with her other hand, muttered something he had not understood, and flames had erupted from the logs once more.
“Can’t see what made those folk believe you were a witch,” Darkthorne had laughed.
Tarne had frowned and said, “Weren’t you watching just now? I produced fire from my very fingers.”
“Uh, yeah, I did notice actually. How did you do that anyway?”
“Magic,” she had replied simply.
“Oh,” Darkthorne had said, for his laughter had all but faded now that he was beginning to see what she was doing being burned at the stake to begin with. He had realised he would have to say something before she turned him into a newt or something, and held up a pan and some leaves. “Tea?”
Darkthorne’s reverie was cut short in that instant, however, for the eye cloud reappeared in the sky above him. It had not gone after all; it was just winking at him. He shook his head; sometimes even he didn’t understand his insanity. Then he hurried off towards Naphtha, hoping the demon cloud would be moving off in entirely the opposite direction.
*
Heather Tarne arrived at Naphtha and found it much as she
expected. The dwellings were little more than thatched abodes. There were some buildings made of wood and even stone at the foundation, although these were reserved for the more important buildings of the settlement: the townhouse, the mayor’s residence and the local tavern for instance. There were signs of structural damage and evidence that entire huts had collapsed, for there were areas of ruination as though something had collapsed and had yet to be properly cleared away. The ground jutted upwards in several places as though there had been some terrible earthquake, although thankfully it did not appear to have affected the people’s disposition too greatly. Tarne could see people moving about their daily routines: carrying bread to the market or water from the well or coins from other people’s purses. She even passed a school, open to the air, where the children were seated around attentively as their teacher spoke to the entire class at once. Tarne was suddenly returned to her own schooldays, although they were many years behind her, and most of those whom she had known back then were either dead or would never speak with her again. Strangely enough, she could not seem to recall any of their names, or even picture their faces, although since they would form no part of her future, she found such was unimportant.
The past was something best left behind her.
Her spirits lifted somewhat when she caught sight of the two for whom she had been searching. The villagers were a poor breed and as such their clothes, while not unkempt, were woven of cheap fabrics, and their shoes were well-worn and holey. She found them speaking with one of the village elders and they stuck out of the crowd in stark contrast to everything else around them.
The first was a tall woman, taller even than Darkthorne, of an extremely gruff nature. She wore the furs of her people, no matter the weather, for they were of religious significance to her. Her dark eyes were always brooding and seemingly bored at the same time, her dark skin accentuated by the two crimson slashes of her people’s tattoo across either cheek. There was a broadsword slung about her waist and a battle-axe resting upon her back, and she knew how to use either weapon to greatest effect. Her name was Sara Kiel, and she had joined with the small band of travellers not through choice, but necessity. She had departed the company of her people some years earlier, although had never revealed her reason. Tarne knew little about Kiel’s homeland, only that it was located far away in the depths of some of the coldest mountains, and Tarne had no intention of ever visiting them.
The man standing beside Kiel was shorter. That wasn’t his name, it was just a description. He was also less noticeable (nor did that mean his name was Les Noticeable), but such was his intent. Damian Parkes, known as Sparky to his friends, was perhaps the most skilled pickpocket Tarne had ever met. He was also a gambler, a liar and a card shark, and Tarne often wondered why they allowed him to travel with them. Darkthorne, however, had his reasons. Tarne hoped to one day get them out of the man, and knew until then she would have to keep her purse firmly sown into her garments. Sparky was indistinct; no beard, no moustache and no distinguishing features. He kept himself as low as possible, hunching whenever he could and standing beside really tall people so no attention could come his way.
Tarne hoped he had not been plying his trade with the people of Naphtha. They were meant to be helping them recover from their disasters, after all.
“Tarne,” Kiel said tonelessly as she approached.
“Hey, Heather,” Sparky said. “How’s his Lordship this morning?”
“Seeing ghosts,” Tarne said, then added to his slightly perplexed expression, “Don’t ask.”
Kiel did not ask, and moreover did not seem to care. She indicated the elder. “Karagas here was telling us how they’ve managed to restock most of the supplies the fire-water consumed. He believes they should be back on their feet within a few weeks.”
“That is good news,” Tarne said, relieved. “I’ve seen whole communities fall to something like this.”
“Are you any closer to identifying the source of our problems?” the elder, Karagas, asked hopefully.
Tarne had been told the troubles they had experienced, and had seen similar things before, or at least heard about them. She had never actually seen the occurrences, only the aftermath. So far as she had been told, the ground had split apart and a strange, thick crimson liquid fire had oozed up out of the very earth itself, spewing into the air in fountains or else seeping through rents in the ground like water through tiny cracks in a bottle. The fire-water had apparently been extremely hot when it had appeared, although as it cooled it had turned into rock, which was why there was no evidence.
“I’m doing what I can to determine what happened,” she assured the elder. “To be honest, I’m not even sure it’s magic we’re dealing with here.”
“Surely some evil sorcerer has placed a curse upon this land,” Karagas said anxiously.
“Perhaps not,” Kiel said flatly. “Perhaps your people have angered the gods, and this is how they’ve chosen to wreak their terrible vengeance for your sins.”
“Or,” Tarne said, shooting an angry glare at the other woman, “perhaps there’s a reasonable, rational explanation for what’s happened.”
“Maybe the world’s coming apart,” Sparky suggested.
“Oh, well I’m glad we cleared that up, then,” Tarne said.
“What?”
“Nothing, forget it.” Tarne had been labelled a sorceress and a witch from a very early age, although the truth was that she merely understood the world better than most. She could select the correct herbs which would cure sickness, she could predict the weather sometimes if she was high enough to see what was coming. She could find water when needed and had developed a simple device to make sure she always knew where north lay. She understood more about geology, geography, chemistry and physics than most people upon the planet, and for this she was branded a witch. Perhaps it was witchcraft, she often reflected, for surely the mystic arts were only a matter of having more knowledge than everyone else. If she was a witch, however, she could not see there was anything wrong with being a witch, and while she might always try to hide her knowledge, there were times she could use them to great advantage. Such as in this instance where she might be able to find the real reason for this strange fire-water, without having to resort to labelling it as the demented action of some unhappy deity.
“The eye in the sky!” Darkthorne’s voice carried to them all as he ran into the village. “The demons have their gaze upon us!”
Tarne closed her eyes and silently counted to ten. Then she counted ten more on top of that. When at last she opened them, Jagrad Darkthorne was, however, unfortunately still alive.
“Jagrad,” Tarne said with a smile sweeter than he deserved, “could I please talk with you a moment?”
Darkthorne sensed by her tone that she was about to berate him for something, and so instead clapped his hands together loudly. “Better idea,” he said. “You go off and solve these people’s problems while Sara and I patrol the outskirts of the village in case the Nagas decide to attack.”
“Jagrad, there hasn’t been any evidence the Nagas are even in the area,” Tarne protested.
“Better to entrust the protection of these people to forward-thinking rather than just throw their fate over to chance, no? Come along, Sara, we have borders to patrol.”
Darkthorne marched boldly off and, with a shrug directed Tarne’s way, Sara Kiel fell in behind him. Tarne stared after them, her anger and disbelief mixing to equal proportions.
“Pardon me,” the elder Karagas enquired, “I know it’s not my place to suggest such things, but why ever did anyone see fit to knight that man?”
“I agree with you implicitly,” Tarne told him icily. “It’s not your place to suggest such things. Sparky, can you handle things here while I try to fight the approach of this fire-water?”
“Sure thing, Heather.”
Tarne turned and departed without another word. Jagrad Darkthorne had left his order a long time ago and seldom spoke of his p
ast. When he did, it was with a distant reverence, as though he regretted ever having left home but knew that there was nothing he could ultimately have done to prevent it. Whatever his reasons for leaving, Tarne had vowed not to pry into his private affairs. It was one thing for her to question the man’s commitment to sanity, but it was quite another for a complete stranger to voice her thoughts. The name of Darkthorne carried weight wherever they travelled, even if Jagrad no longer had any connections with what that name entailed, and she could not afford for it to become sullied with notions of insanity. Presently, their party could stop at any village or town and be almost guaranteed a warm reception purely on the basis of Darkthorne’s title. She would not allow for anything to hamper that somewhat useful ability.
If nothing else, it would instantly remove the main reason she considered Darkthorne to be of any use at all.
Tarne stopped walking once she had gained a fair distance from the others. The village was not a large one, and thankfully while its people had been curious about these newcomers, they had known to leave them alone that they might do their work in silence. Tarne would not have said she was a particularly unsociable person, although there were times when simple people angered her. She would never have admitted it to anyone, or even to herself, but she considered herself to be of above-average intelligence, and she despised those who would say or do stupid things. There was no excuse for stupidity. Inadequate schooling could perhaps have been an excuse. And lack of access to books. Then of course there was the fact that some people were just too far away from civilisation to learn much of anything. But still, there was no excuse for stupidity.
She knelt upon the ground. There were cracks within the stone at her knees, through which grass was even now beginning to grow. That there was already grass growing through these cracks told her that there was likely massive geothermic activity directly beneath the ground, even though it was cold to the touch now. If her theory was correct, it would mean that pressure had built up beneath the earth and had exploded outward as liquid heat, which had then cooled once it emerged into the lower temperatures of the outside world. She had read about theories which suggested that the centre of the world was formed of molten rock and that it found release through the various areas across the globe which people had labelled volcanoes. There was every chance, therefore, this fire-water was nothing more than molten rock.
