“I have traveled quite far to see you,” he said, his voice still deep, but carrying a note of jubilation. “I am Page Hybore of Whittlesea, servant of Queen Coralee and citizen of the Timeless Kingdom of Dembroch.”
I couldn’t help it. I gasped. Fireworks shot off in my mind. It felt as though I’d been shaken awake from a twenty-year slumber. Had I just heard right?
My eyes flew to Page Hybore’s chest. The shine on his tunic was a medallion, circular in shape, a castle silhouette inscribed in a ring of flames. My heart seemed to freeze.
It was the sigil of Dembroch.
The name of Dembroch had not passed my lips in several years, nor had it crossed my mind much. My knight’s brooch, first received at the age of ten, was tucked away four flights up, stowed in a box of knick-knacks, its allure forgotten alongside my hopes of regaining my physical fitness or achieving financial stability. The child who had once hoped and believed in Dembroch was now a grumpy old man, thirty-three years of age and at least three hundred in spirit, sharp in skepticism and forgetful of youth and joy.
“This is a joke,” I said flatly.
The man named Page Hybore cocked his head.
“This is no joke, I assure you,” he said. “Hear my words, Sir Nicholas. Dembroch summons you.”
He reached into the breast pocket of his mustard tunic and withdrew a bound scroll and a pocket watch. He held them out to me.
“But–but I’m not a knight anymore,” I stammered. “The queen—”
“The queen regrets her actions,” Page Hybore said. “We saw a time of peace, a calm in the eye of the storm. But the kingdom is in dire straits, more so than ever, and on the verge of collapse. We have reclaimed a temporary calm, but it shall not last long, or so long as the last period. I was sent to collect you. I have traveled over land and sea, through bitter cold and blazing heat, to find you. If we—if Dembroch—is to survive the coming nights, it needs its last defenders.”
My brain seemed to be short-circuiting. I wasn’t fully understanding the page.
“Dem—Dembroch,” I stuttered. “It’s in trouble?”
Eyes glowing green, Page Hybore gave me another look, a suspicious one that seemed to wonder if I was playing a game and kidding him or testing him somehow.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “It’s just… What’s happened?”
“There is much to explain, as you well know,” the page replied. “Suffice it to say a terrible famine of sorts has befallen our kingdom and a witch threatens our lives every moment she breathes. Now, please, come with me.”
“What about my friends?” I said, though I hadn’t called them friends in years. These were surely the other Reserves he spoke of.
“I have already reached out to them,” the page replied. “By now, they have received their summons and their chroniseal—”
“Their what?” I interrupted.
Page Hybore seemed impatient now. He held up the pocket watch.
“This is your watch,” he said, then pointed to his chest. “When you affix it to your Dembroch sigil, it creates a chroniseal.” He said the word slowly as though I were a child. “Press the winding crown and you shall be taken where you need to go. Now, if you please, Sir Nicholas, time is of the essence, a commodity we cannot afford to waste any longer. Come with me! Now!”
His last word caught in his throat. He clutched at his gullet and made a weird rasping noise. The next second, he fell onto me. He was heavier than I expected and we crashed to the ground. I wiggled out from under him and turned him over.
The man lay deathly still. His eyes, once vibrant and alive and flecked with green, were hazy and distant.
It took me a moment to realize it. The man was dead. Just like that. Dead. Gone.
“No,” I said to myself. This man had more to say. He could not die. Not like this. I needed to know more.
Before I fully knew what I was doing, I was hammering on his chest. After several pushes, I gave him mouth-to-mouth. I breathed for all it was worth, willing the page to come back from the brink.
Suddenly, just as I was about to compress his chest again, Page Hybore jolted back to life. He coughed and spluttered before looking right at me. His eyes were a soft blue, which was odd considering how green they’d been before.
“Sir Nicholas,” he gasped, holding his chest. “I—”
The words caught in his throat again. He shuddered violently and lay flat. His breathing became sickly and shallow. Trickles of blood ran from freshly opened blisters on his cheeks. He stared at the ceiling, mouthing without sound.
“Sir?” I stuttered. “Page Hybore? Are you—”
“Listen,” he murmured, finally finding his voice, the words quiet and weak. “My Sinclair. My Emily. They lie hidden in Dembroch. They need your help. Tell them I love them. That I did this for them. Help her to find the safest shores. It’s where…” His voice lost strength and I didn’t quite hear the words—I thought he said fairest tragic or perhaps terraced magic. He took a rattling breath and, louder, said, “And the witch—”
Page Hybore grimaced and shook violently again. His eyes flashed green.
“Page Hybore!” I cried.
“Beware, Sir Nicholas,” the page managed to say as he convulsed. “Save the kingdom. Save my—”
And suddenly, he lay still again. The green light left his eyes and they were blue once more, fading in vibrancy until they were dull and lifeless and blue. Bruises began to form under his chin, spreading up into his face. His bloody cheeks flowed red.
I sat in stunned silence, unable to process what I’d just seen. Page Hybore was dead again, and this time, deep down, I knew he wasn’t coming back.
◆◆◆
Wheels squeaked as Page Hybore’s body, zipped up in a black body bag, was borne away on the coroner’s stretcher. The police asked me what I knew, and I lied through my teeth until they had gone. Pushing past my curious neighbors, I locked myself into my apartment room and, from my pocket, pulled out the two items Page Hybore had given me.
Examining them, my heart beat fast. It was as though with Page Hybore’s death, the child within me—that young, resilient, adventurous Nick that had been buried deep under my adult logic and sense—had risen once more, eager for the quest ahead. For the watch and the summons. For Dembroch.
The watch was made of a metal I’d never seen, a shining black speckled with gold flecks. It seemed an ordinary pocket watch, though it read eleven-o’clock when the correct time was seven, and the time would not change when I tried to reset it. Additionally, curiously, the back was not enclosed. I could see all the inner gears that clicked and spun in mechanical precision.
I turned my attention to the scroll. It read something like this:
Dead are the last defenders of Dembroch, helpless is the queen. In this, our darkest hour, we call upon you, our last knights and dames of the Reserve. Set your affairs in order and fly to the defense of your queen, her people, and this land. We pray for your safe voyage and shall expect you by first light of summer. Fly to us, our last knights and dames, and save your Timeless Kingdom of Dembroch.
I folded the note and sat on the edge of my bed. My hardened heart thudded away, breaking free of its skeptical shell. My mind spun like a leaf twirling down a river in the woods.
“It’s real,” I breathed aloud.
After all this time, Dembroch, my renounced knightship, the queen—they were all real.
My brain screeched to a halt as I thought of the queen named Coralee. I remembered my youthful yearning, my letters, and my childish crush. My cheeks burnt red though no one was around. For the first time in my life, I prayed she hadn’t received any of my letters.
But it didn’t matter. Not anymore. Dembroch was real and its queen was calling for help. My friends and I had to answer.
I recalled the faces of Clay, Jenn, and Meghan, my old childhood friends and stepsister, my fellow ex-defenders of Dembroch. I wondered if we could still be considered friends, now that they were
all big wigs in Seattle and I was still here in Midvale. Clay ran his parents’ store, Jenn was a psychiatrist with more problems than her patients, and Meghan was a CEO of a booming tech company. They seemed like strangers, and it didn’t help we hadn’t spoken in years.
Time to change that, I told myself, standing from the bed and reaching for my phone. After fifteen years, it was time to get the gang back together.
CHAPTER 5:
A Reunion of Friends
A week later, as the longest day of the year gave way to night, Dave’s Diner—the childhood haunt of my friends and I—was packed to the gills. Lagers crowned every table. Hearty laughter echoed off the walls. Friends and coworkers clinked glasses in cheers to the weekend. Ol’ Dave, the bartender who seemed to outlive any customer who walked into his diner, greeted visitors with a cheery bellow.
For the first time in twenty-some years, four orange cream malts sat on the bar counter, thawing slowly. I sat at the farthest seat, keeping an eye on the diner’s front door, thinking I should have ordered beers instead of our old childhood drink.
Over the arm of my chair hung my old satchel, one from my youth that I’d worn to look like a suave, swashbuckling adventurer. In the satchel, I had packed the book about Dembroch knights and dames, the gold-flecked pocket watch from Page Hybore, the handwritten summons from the queen, and my Dembroch sigil. It was everything I thought I’d need if my friends arrived and we really made it to Dembroch.
As I sat there, a thousand thoughts ran through my mind. Was it really real? Why had Dembroch and the queen and Page Hybore waited so long to call us? What dangers did they face? Could I dare to stand and fight whatever it may be?
I’d gone looking for Dembroch. After high school, after my friends went their separate ways, I’d collected all my savings and gone hunting. I saw such beautiful sights—mountains so high they touched the clouds, oceans bluer than the sky—and met people of new cultures, different worlds, and unique faiths. Every moment was like a spark from a raging fire in my soul, but the magic soon faded. For all my searching, I never found Dembroch. Never found anyone who had heard of it.
The money ran dry after a few years. So did my hope. I returned back home, the only place I’d ever known, and lived with my Dad. The love for Dembroch I’d harbored since a child started to rot. A few months later, Dad died. I was on my own then. For good. With nowhere else to go and no one else to depend on, I’d finally grown up. I stopped writing letters to the queen. I got a job as a local handyman, sold the house, and hid away from the disappointing world in my tiny apartment.
I didn’t look back fondly on those times. I sank low. Even lower when the Internet had come around and I’d searched for Dembroch. All I’d found was an entry from an old encyclopedia, citing that Dembroch was a small island fishing community with less than a dozen citizens.
Such a small, boring, little land couldn’t possibly need protection, I decided. Deep down, I started to wonder if, all this time, I’d been a naïve, gullible child, seeking a fairy tale in a sewer.
But here I sat, some ten years later—fifteen since high school, twenty-five since I’d first heard of Dembroch—and the kingdom was back in the forefront of my mind. How had I never found it? What could this tiny little island need help with?
It all circled around, but it all kept coming back to Page Hybore. It was difficult to deny a dying man’s final words.
The door to the diner opened. A motion-sensing frog croaked loudly to announce a new guest. I spun around—but it was just Old Sal from three streets down. He already looked several sheets to the wind, maybe even a whole comforter set.
“You look much harder at that door, you’ll have to buy her a drink,” said Ol’ Dave.
I snapped out of it, exchanging a smile with the barman.
“What you thinking about so deeply?” he asked.
I shrugged. There was no sense in keeping it a secret.
“Remember that ad we found when we were kids? About the knights and dames?”
Ol’ Dave grunted in remembrance. We’d caused quite a ruckus that day when Clay had shown us the newspaper clipping.
“It was real,” I explained. “A guy from there found me last week—”
“Must have been the bloke who came ‘round here looking for you,” Ol’ Dave mused. “Sent him that way.”
“—and he died to tell me…that place we volunteered to protect…it’s real. It’s in trouble.”
The bartender leaned closer to me, losing interest in his clientele further down the counter.
“I know, it’s crazy,” I said. “I’m not even sure if I believe it. It could be a lie.”
“I’ve heard crazier. Seen stranger,” Ol’ Dave mused. “The way I see it, every story has a grain of salt, even the tallest tale. Every one of ‘em has just a bit of truth. So maybe you were right when you were younger. Maybe that place is out there. So why haven’t you gone yet?”
I shrugged again. “I know how to get there, but I don’t want to go without…you know, the gang.”
The door opened again, and I spun around again, but it was just some mill workers.
“Good of you to keep your word and get everyone together,” Ol’ Dave said. “Promises—real promises—are difficult to make and even harder to keep.”
“They have to get here first,” I said.
“And if they don’t show?”
I didn’t know how to answer that.
Down the counter, shouts came for more drinks. Ol’ Dave hurried over to fix them up, leaving me with my thoughts. All the while, I kept an eye on the door. Several more patrons arrived, but none of them were my friends.
Another hour crept by. My spirits fell. I drained my malt and pushed my chair back from the counter, resigned to head home and figure things out on my own. At least then, if it was a prank or lie, I would be the only witness to my foolishness and gullibility.
Just then, as I threw my satchel over my shoulder, the diner’s door opened. The frog croaked. I looked around, prepared for disappointment, but instead, I did a double-take. In the doorway stood my stepsister Meghan.
She had grown a foot taller since I’d seen her. Her hair was pulled back in a tight bun, and her face looked even tighter. When she saw me, she smiled a thin little smile and strode toward me, her pantsuit swishing crisply.
I met her halfway, wrapping her in a warm hug. She embraced me slower. It felt like hugging a cardboard cutout.
“Doing well, Nick?” she asked.
“Fine,” I replied. “It’s great to see you again, Meghan!”
“It’s Meg,” she corrected.
“Sorry,” I said apologetically. “Come on, Meg! Have a malt! Or a beer. I can get you a beer if you want.”
I led her to the counter. She accepted the malt and we toasted, making faces at the strong taste. Without abandon, I launched into conversation, asking how she was, what she’d been up to, how life was going. She wasn’t incredibly talkative, and I sensed a tenseness in the air between us. When I asked what was wrong, her eyes narrowed.
“Why are we really here, Nick?” she asked.
I stammered, not yet ready to bring up Dembroch.
Just then, the door to the diner opened again. A croak of the frog ushered in a potbellied man and a skin-and-bones woman. The couple glanced around the bar, spotted Meg and I, and made their way toward us. The woman ambled along, but the man strode with purpose. His personality seemed to fill the room. It was obvious he was headed right for us, though I didn’t know why until, with a jolt, I realized the couple was Clay and Jenn. Geeze, we’d all gotten old.
Clay practically tackled me with a hug. I was stunned to see how different he was. Age hadn’t been kind. His buttoned shirt and tie strained around his potbelly and fleshy neck. Worry lines crisscrossed his face and grey peppered his hair, but despite it all, he seemed full of energy and life.
“Gosh, it’s been too long!” Clay exclaimed, his voice louder and more confident than I remembered. “
Would you look at us all? It’s like we never left.”
“Meghan?” asked Jenn, who had finally arrived beside us. Her voice was slow and sad.
“It’s Meg,” my sister replied.
Jenn acknowledged this sadly and the old friends greeted one another stiffly.
Like her husband, perhaps like me too, Jenn had grown significantly older. Though she had done up her hair and wore fancy clothes that outclassed the patrons of Dave’s Diner, she had a distant look in her eye and a well-practiced frown. Her hair was thin, her face weary. She wore a wedding ring fit for a queen, its diamonds shining like a flashlight. Jenn had always like the shiny stuff.
“Thanks for coming,” I said to her when we greeted.
“Clay insisted,” Jenn replied. “I’d rather have stayed at home.”
I tried to chuckle, but I realized she wasn’t trying to be funny.
Suddenly, it hit me: we were all together. The four of us were once again at Dave’s Diner on a Friday. And yet…only Clay was smiling. And he was the last one I’d expected to be ecstatic. Growing up, he’d always been the quiet, thoughtful, stoic friend. His energy and bravado seemed…well, I wasn’t sure at the time, but he didn’t seem like the Clay I knew.
So there we were, the four friends together again. We all stood opposite each other, Clay grinning, Meg crossing her arms, Jenn staring off into the distance, an atmosphere of uneasiness hanging amongst us like a faint, unpleasant stench that wouldn’t go away.
I gestured to the malts.
“A drink for the good old days?” I asked.
“What good old days?” Meg asked.
“I’ll say,” Jenn mumbled, looking nonplussed.
Clay shrugged his shoulders. “Jenn and I can’t stay long. Places to go, people to see. We just wanted to swing by and say hello. You’ve all been well?”
Meg mumbled in agreement. I didn’t know where to begin with the recap of the last decade of my life, but I didn’t have to try. A second later, Clay zipped up his coat and waved a farewell.
The Age of Knights & Dames Page 3
