Two Renegade Realms

by Donita K. Paul

  No longer absorbed by the writing tools, Cantor took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and surveyed his surroundings. The late afternoon sun sifted through the trees west of Trout’s little homestead. He rotated his head, stretching his neck muscles.

  Jumping off the porch, he landed squarely on his feet in the wide area of grass and dirt just in front of the cabin. With the ease of long practice, he began the forms that limbered his body and kept him ready for combat, a habit he’d neglected lately. With the invasion coming, he should be all the more diligent in taking care of his fighting skills. He’d broach the subject with Bixby and Dukmee when they returned.

  Another frown creased his face. Where were his friends, and what delayed their return?

  Before he’d really gotten started, he almost abandoned his exercise. That was his problem. He was too easily distracted. He lacked commitment, lacked discipline. Stubbornly, he stretched his arms above his head and pivoted to the fifth stance of the first form.

  Forty-five minutes later, the sun had eased toward the western mountain peaks. Cantor blew out his last large breath and strolled toward the animals. He’d feed them before the others returned. That would be one less thing keeping them from the major issue they must face this evening.

  The gentle beasts greeted him, obviously counting his arrival as the harbinger of grain and fresh water. Cantor wandered among them, seeing to their simple needs and adding a gentle hand of appreciation. Shooing the chickens into the henhouse and shutting the door was the last chore of the evening.

  As he headed for the cabin, the burro made her happy, grunty noises. He turned to see her small hoofs beat a happy tappity-tap on the packed dirt as she danced back and forth, her head swinging over the short fence. Cantor grinned and looked to the trees. Bixby, Neekoh, and Trout strode out from the woods and crossed the open space at a fair pace.

  Cantor walked to intercept them. Old Trout charged past without a word. Neekoh shrugged as he went by, with his hands splayed palms up in a gesture that claimed no understanding of the old man’s mood. Bixby raised her eyebrows as she walked past with a little less sass in her lively steps.

  Cantor fell in beside her, his long stride kept in check so he could take her hand and slow her down. He leaned over to whisper, “Did you tell him?”

  She looked up with mischief in her eyes. “No, I thought you better suited for such a revelation. Or Dukmee.”

  Cantor sighed. “Dukmee, definitely Dukmee.”

  “We could argue that Neekoh was officially appointed his guardian, and therefore, it’s his responsibility.”

  As they came up to the cabin, Trout stood on the porch, looking at the drawings one by one. Neekoh sat on the edge, the cat already ensconced in his lap and receiving a thorough ear rub.

  Cantor and Bixby stayed on the grass and watched as the old man sidestepped along the wall, slowly. Very slowly. Occasionally he rubbed his hand through his hair or squeezed the back of his neck. He set his fists on his hips, crossed his arms over his chest, fiddled with his beard, hummed a monotone ditty. He didn’t speak.

  Neekoh got up, the cat in his arms. “I’ll go see to the animals.”

  Cantor observed the lad’s uneasy expression. “I’ve already done that.”

  “Then I’ll just keep them company a bit. Maybe sing something mellow as a lullaby. They like that.”

  Cantor cocked an eyebrow but didn’t stop him.

  Bixby sighed and tucked her tiny hand in Cantor’s massive one. “I wish Dukmee and Bridger would return.”

  Cantor silently agreed.

  Bixby’s thoughts intruded. “Where did they say they were going?”

  “The ruins.”

  “What had Dukmee found in the books? What was he checking on?”

  “You know he didn’t say.”

  “Typical.”

  Cantor grunted.

  “What do you think he’s thinking?”

  “Probably pondering some great archaeological discovery and not thinking of us at all.”

  He heard Bixby’s thoughts whirr and sizzle for a second.

  “Not Dukmee.” She thrust the words at him. “Old Trout. Chomountain.”

  Cantor bent his arm and stuck his thumb in his belt. Bixby still held that hand, so she floated up with the movement and hung beside his leg.

  He looked down. “Oh, sorry.”

  He lowered her so she stood on her feet. She glared at him, but then her eyes lost the flare of indignation and a sparkle of humor replaced it. They looked at each other. Then succumbed to a fit of laughter.

  Bixby jerked her hand out of Cantor’s grasp and covered her mouth, using the other hand as well as if that would help muffle her giggles.

  Cantor pressed his lips together and looked away from her, up toward the treetops and mountain. He studied anything his eyes fell upon, trying to tamp down the inappropriate mirth.

  When he thought he could control his emotions, he lowered his gaze to the porch. Old Trout stood on the edge, facing them, arms crossed over his chest and a glower showing through his straggly gray beard and bushy eyebrows.

  Cantor cleared his throat, partially to alert Bixby to the changed circumstances. “You don’t look like Old Trout anymore . . . sir.”

  “This,” said Chomountain in a commanding voice totally unlike Trout’s pleasant rumble, “is what I heard coming.”

  “Sir?”

  “Not clear, of course, but a mumble in my memory, a whisper in my conscience.” He rubbed his hands together with vigor. “Primen has called me back. Don’t tell me how many years. Knowing won’t change a thing.”

  He turned abruptly, strode into the cabin, and came out again, clutching the bit of polished silver he used for a mirror. He placed himself in the strongest of the fading light and inspected his face.

  He shook his head. “That doesn’t help a bit. I look just as I always have, not a day over two hundred.”

  “But . . .” Bixby said.

  He flapped a hand at her. “Yes, yes, I follow your line of thought. But I took up my position as right hand of Primen somewhere around my two hundredth birthday, and I haven’t aged since.” He winked at Bixby. “One of the advantages.”

  He paused and tilted his head as if listening. All Cantor heard was the soft soughing of the wind through the trees, the mellow calls of a few night birds, insects and tree frogs with their rhythmic clatter, and Neekoh’s soothing tenor working wonders with a pleasing melody.

  Bixby shifted to stand closer to Cantor’s side. “What do you hear, sir?” she asked.

  “I hear the symphony Primen began at the dawn of time. And Neekoh missing the high B every time he comes to it. I must tell that boy to lift his eyebrows when he approaches the top of his range.”

  Chomountain turned his back on them and returned to his perusal of the pictures. “Not all of these are of me.” He pointed to a sketch of a tall, thin man in flowing robes. “Arbinaster. A scholar from Alius. And with him is Borneodeme, an astronomer from Derson.” He moved to a set of buildings. “These are structures housing the parliament of Tatumknol. Why did the artists include these?”

  He whipped around, focusing on Bixby and Cantor again. “Who was responsible for shutting down my memory and isolating me? And to what purpose?”

  Cantor didn’t think he expected an answer. His own theories revolved around the Realm Walkers Guild.

  Chomountain nodded at him. “I know. With your animosity toward the guild council, it would be convenient for their involvement to have begun so long ago. But you’ve come to the conclusion yourself this isn’t feasible. A more powerful force has to have masterminded this.”

  Bixby bounced, something she often did when a thought had taken hold in her fervent mind. “We have to look behind the evil we can see to something bigger. Something outside of normal. Life like Primen and the mountain servants and the Primen warriors. They transcend time. Are there entities of evil like Primen’s force for good?”

  “There are entities wh
o once served Primen but fell away in pursuit of their own interests. We rarely deal directly with them, but with those mortals who cater to their demands in hopes of gaining power.”

  Cantor narrowed his eyes. “There are plenty of those in the Realm Walkers Guild.”

  “You’re right, son, and we’ll deal with them. Presently, our focus must be on the Lymen invasion.”

  Cantor’s mind skipped to the dragon and the scholar. Where were they? Dukmee usually handled any crisis that came up, but that silly dragon fell into trouble like a mouse fell into a pail of milk. Suppose Bridger had dragged Dukmee into some serious difficulty?

  He reached with his mind for contact with the dragon. Nothing. Of course, Bridger might be in a sound sleep. Since he’d been fighting this cold and taking Dukmee’s and Bixby’s elixirs, he’d been less responsive than usual.

  Cantor couldn’t shake his concern. “I’m worried about Dukmee and Bridger.”

  Chomountain nodded, then closed his eyes, tilted his head, and seemed to listen. In a moment, he opened his eyes. “There’s no disturbance in the air. I would think your friends have taken shelter at the ruins. We’ll look for them in the morning.”

  Neekoh approached the cabin cautiously. “I thought I’d help with dinner.” He held out the egg-gathering basket. “We’ve got an abundance of eggs. And I picked some vegetables to make omelets.”

  “Excellent, dear boy!” Chomountain gestured for Neekoh to come up on the porch. Clapping him on the back, he said, “You know, I think I’ll go off fish for a while.”

  Neekoh grinned. “You’re all right, then? I mean, you aren’t upset? You can be Chomountain and not Old Trout without a fuss?”

  “Certainly. It’s poor form for the right hand of Primen to go all fussy on people.”

  A LONG NIGHT

  Dukmee was not going to wake up. Bridger had been watching him for hours, and, though his eyes stared ahead, he only blinked once in a while. That was not awake — that was something else.

  Bridger wondered if the sun had gone down yet. The light was the same intensity it had been when they first entered the room. For a while, to relieve the boredom of watching the mage, he’d searched for the source, but even after careful examination, he’d not been able to detect where the strange light came from. He did notice that he cast no shadow, and neither did Dukmee. Air flowed through the room without windows, doors, or vents.

  But the puzzling room soon lost its fascination, and ever since it had been a long, dull wait. Bridger had satisfied his hunger several times now, but boredom put an edge back on his appetite.

  “I should feed you,” he said to the nonresponsive scholar. “That’ll give me something to do, and perhaps food will stimulate whatever is choked up in you, and you’ll come round. It worked when Old Trout prepared food for you and Bixby.”

  He removed a tin pot and a bottle of water from the hamper, then dug around until he found dried meat. He held it up to show Dukmee. “Not sure what this is. Probably deer or cow. Or maybe turkey.”

  He broke the jerky into bits and dropped it into the pot with water. Blowing a tiny flame, he warmed the thin soup. “Ought to have something else in there, but you may not be able to swallow.”

  He reached into the hamper and brought out carrot, cabbage, and onion. “Now that will taste more like a stew. Of course, it won’t be thick. And I’m not going to give you the chunks.”

  By intermittently blowing a thin stream of fire on it, Bridger set the stew to simmer. In between flames, he sat back and looked around.

  “Nothing’s different. No way out. I don’t suppose the passing of day changes anything. You know, the slanted sun rays hitting a trigger outside and doors opening up in here. That sort of thing. If I had been the master builder who’s so skilled and all, I would have set up something astonishing like that. Just so the innocent people trapped inside, through no fault of their own, would have a delightful surprise at the end of the day.”

  Since Dukmee didn’t offer any conversation, Bridger hummed a few tunes as he waited for the vegetables and jerky to soften and flavor the water. He sang two of the songs he knew all the words to and skip-sang through several he didn’t know so well. Of course, the choruses were easier, and he sang those louder.

  He looked at Dukmee, wondering if the scholar enjoyed his efforts to entertain or wished he would stop. At that moment, he missed Cantor. Cantor would be full of advice. Sing softer. Don’t sing that one. It doesn’t make sense. Start singing lower so you can reach the high notes at the end. Stop singing.

  On rare occasions, Cantor would sing with him, and he had a wonderful voice. Of course, his name referred to someone who sang during worship ceremonies. They’d heard cantors in sanctuary in Gilead.

  “Soup’s almost done, Dukmee. I’ll have to move you. I hope it doesn’t hurt.”

  He left the pot simmering and picked up the unconscious scholar. “Only I don’t know for sure if you’re out, ’cause your eyes are open, and it feels like you’re watching me. Which is kind of creepy. Hmm, you’re shivering. I wonder if you have a blanket in one of your hampers.”

  Before putting him down again, Bridger used his breath to warm the stone floor and wall where he would prop Dukmee. He then sat him down as gently as possible, returned to heat the soup again, then came back to look for hampers that might contain blankets.

  “Pillows would be nice too.”

  He found a bag of Dukmee’s clothing. Another sack held books. “This is almost an entire library.”

  Bridger read the spines he could see. “All astronomy.”

  In the next hamper he found a wool blanket and a small pillow. “Right!” Bridger cheered. “Later, I’ll shift into a bed and use these to tuck around you.”

  He inhaled deeply. “Ah, that does smell good.”

  Bridger drained the soup through a sieve so Dukmee would only have to drink the broth. Hopefully he wouldn’t choke. The dragon really did not want the scholar to sip the soup down his windpipe instead of the food pipe.

  He brought the mug over to Dukmee and tried to hand it to him. “Just not going to be able to do it, are you? Okay, but don’t complain later that I did a messy job.”

  Bridger sat against the wall, took Dukmee into his lap, and leaned him back against his scaly chest. He tucked a cloth under the scholar’s chin, then picked up the mug again.

  “Good. It’s cooled off some. I don’t suppose you could open your mouth and then close it. That does seem like a very minor request.”

  He nudged Dukmee into a position where he could see his face from the side. Guiding the cup to Dukmee’s mouth, Bridger tilted it just as he reached his lips. With the rim of the mug, he parted the lips and poured a drop or two in.

  “At least we didn’t spill it. Did you get anything?”

  Dukmee swallowed.

  “Hey! You did.”

  For the next half hour, Bridger dribbled the soup between Dukmee’s parted lips.

  “I’ve got an idea,” said Bridger when he almost finished the second mug. “You’re doing a great job of swallowing. We can use that to communicate. I’ll ask a question and if the answer is yes, you swallow once. If the answer is no, swallow twice. What do you think? Is that a good idea?”

  Dukmee swallowed once.

  Bridger put the mug down. “Do you want to do it now?”

  Two swallows.

  “Why not?” Bridger watched his friend. “Oh yeah, yes or no questions. Do you want to have some more soup?”

  Two swallows.

  “Do you want something?”

  A lone swallow.

  “What?” Bridger waited. “Oh, do you want dessert?”

  Two swallows.

  “A drink?”

  Two swallows.

  “Well, that makes sense because your dinner was all liquid.”

  Bridger cast around in his mind for what Dukmee might want. What do I usually want after a busy day and dinner?

  “Sleep?”

  Dukmee
swallowed once.

  “Okay, let me clean up the mess, and then I’ll settle us down for the night.”

  He eased the man off his lap and went to put things away. Dukmee had finished all the broth, so Bridger downed the cooked vegetables in one gulp. He put the unwashed pot, the knife he’d used to cut ingredients, the spoon he’d used to stir, and the mug to one side. He didn’t have any means to wash the items.

  He warmed the blanket, then the stones where he intended to sleep. Finally, he shifted his lower half into a soft mattress and pulled Dukmee into his lap. He’d left the blanket just out of reach so he stretched his arm to get it. Covering Dukmee was no problem, but the dragon fumbled as he raised the scholar’s head and tucked the pillow underneath.

  “Goodnight, Dukmee. It sure would be nice if you’d move around a bit in the morning. And talk too. Remember, you’re going to read the walls and get us out of here. Well, goodnight. Don’t worry about things. You need to relax and sleep. Things have a way of working themselves out.”

  Bridger wiggled a bit to get more comfortable. “And things always look better in the morning.”

  First thing in the morning, Cantor looked under the tree where Bridger usually slept. The dragon had not come back during the night. Cantor turned full circle, eyes squinted and examining the sky. No sign of the dragon flying back. He transferred his gaze to the toes of his boots, contemplating where that blasted beast could be.

  Looking under the tree again, he noticed the small, multicolored Jesha doing her morning wash. Her face, whiskers, and ears looked fresh.

  “Where’s Bridger, cat? Come to think of it, where have you been since yesterday?”

  Jesha paused in her ablutions long enough to give him a disdainful look. Her eyes shifted to somewhere behind him. Cantor turned, fully expecting to see Bridger and Dukmee crossing the field. Instead he saw Chomountain.

  The old man had tossed aside his plaid shirt, blue pants, and old boots. He wore long, flowing robes in colors that rivaled the beauty of a peacock. He smiled as he approached.

  “Still anxious about Bridger?”

  “Not anxious, sir.”

  Chomountain cocked an eyebrow.