by Rob Scott
Garec drew several leather strips from a pouch at his belt and firmly tied the strangers’ hands behind their backs. He picked up Mark’s sweater and jacket from the sand as Sallax ordered them up the beach towards the thick foliage of the coastal forest.
‘How did you do that?’ Steven asked under his breath.
‘I don’t know. I just relaxed my mind and the words came to me,’ Mark whispered back. ‘It’s not possible, though. I mean, suppose we’ve come back in time and this is early Europe. I don’t speak those languages… neither do you.’ He took several steps, looked back at their captors and added, ‘Listen to me. Back in time, what am I saying?’
‘Hey, at this point, all we can do is wait and see. When I saw the phone bill and those beer cans disappear into that tapestry, I knew this was something different from anything we could ever have imagined.’ Steven closed his eyes and tried to slow down his thoughts. Then it happened; a handful of foreign words took shape in his mind. ‘Where are we?’
Mark flashed him a quick grin. ‘That’s it. That’s how I did it.’
‘It’s none of your rutting concern where we are,’ Sallax answered, jabbing Steven in the lower back. ‘You just keep moving.’
Steven muttered, ‘Sorry I asked, I guess.’
Mark stifled a laugh. Steven felt better knowing they were together. It had taken every ounce of courage he could summon to step onto that tapestry, and when his foot had come down in the shallow inlet, Steven knew they really had uncovered something supernatural, something completely and utterly unexpected. Strangely, he was not as afraid as he’d expected to be – waiting all night on their porch, not knowing, had been more frightening; that had paralysed him with fear. Now, even with his life in danger, he was glad he had taken the risk.
‘You didn’t tell me you brought beer,’ Mark continued, softly, ‘or were you thoughtless enough to lob empty cans through? Typical – God, but I could use a cold one now.’
Steven surprised himself by managing a laugh, but the moment passed when he felt the tip of Sallax’s blade in his back again.
It was early evening by the time they reached their destination: the forest surrounding Riverend Palace. Stopping at the edge of the palace grounds, Sallax pushed his prisoners to their knees, ‘We wait here until dark,’ he said curtly, leaning against a large maple tree.
Mark looked beyond the trees to the crumbling palace in the distance. ‘Why not now?’ he asked, more to observe their captors’ reaction than expecting an answer.
‘Mind your rutting business,’ Sallax said.
Garec came to sit near the two prisoners. ‘It’s several hundred paces of exposed ground between here and the palace. If you’re really Malakasian spies, then you’ll understand why we wait here. I’m afraid you also understand why we can’t allow you to leave with that information.’ His tone was almost apologetic.
‘We’re not spies,’ Steven told him, trying to remain calm. ‘We already explained-’
‘Yes,’ Garec interrupted, ‘you said a magic cloth transported you to our forest from Coloridio or someplace. Surely you understand our hesitation in believing such a story.’
‘But it’s true,’ Steven tried again. ‘We were in our own home last night. Look at our clothes: it’s much colder where we live.’
‘Yes,’ Garec agreed, ‘it is much colder in Malakasia.’
Steven and Mark looked at each other and shrugged. They mutely agreed to try again after they reached the old castle. It was clear, even from this distance, that Riverend Palace was in ruins, the moat dry and the outer battlements crumbling in numerous places along the wall. Once an architectural monument to Rona’s royal family, it was a dismal reminder of a more prosperous time. Mark could see that the roof over several wings of the sprawling stone structure had caved in.
Looking to Garec, he said, ‘I love what you’ve done with the place.’
‘Time, weather, nomads, even local masons needing stone have all contributed to its disrepair. Legend has it the palace was once a grand residence. I sometimes enjoy imagining what it must have looked like,’ Garec mused, almost to himself.
‘Who lives there?’ Steven asked.
‘Lived,’ Garec corrected. ‘The Ronan royal family used to live here. Of course, they haven’t been around for the past nine hundred and eighty Twinmoons.’ Steven and Mark exchanged a curious glance. ‘But don’t pretend this is all new to you.’ Garec was suddenly angry. ‘It’s your rutting horsecock of a prince who keeps us in this situation. I have to sneak about the forests of my own country. Palace grounds are forbidden, forbidden for Ronans to visit. They should be a monument, a national treasure, but instead they rot out there while we sneak around under the heavy hand of your murdering dog tyrant leader Malagon.’ Garec glared at them then rose and walked to the edge of the long meadow separating them from the palace.
Mark pieced the information together and risked a quick exchange with Steven in English. ‘So, this is Rona. They’re enemies with MalaMalasomething, wherever that is, and Mala- Malasomethingelse is the prince who rules with, and I’m guessing here, a bit of a heavy hand.’ He would have continued, but Sallax hit him hard across the temple with the back of his hand.
‘I told you to use Common,’ he ordered. ‘You wait: if Gilmour says you die, I will be especially pleased to cut your heart out and feed it to a village dog.’
Mark shook the ringing from his head. He’d had enough. He lashed out at Sallax’s legs: a wide, sweeping kick caught him behind one knee, knocking him to the ground. In an instant Mark was on him. Although he couldn’t free his hands, he did manage a fierce blow to Sallax’s nose with his forehead before Garec pulled him away.
Blood ran across Sallax’s face as he stood, breathing deeply, and drew his rapier. ‘We only need one spy for interrogations,’ he growled, seething with rage as he moved deliberately towards Mark. ‘Say good night, my friend.’
Mark tried to slither out of his way, but as Sallax raised his blade to strike, Garec stepped between the two men, wrapping his arms firmly around his friend in an attempt to pin the bigger man’s rapier to his side.
‘No, Sallax. This isn’t war; this is murder. We don’t kill unarmed prisoners. We are Ronans, remember?’
Sallax was too angry to speak; Garec continued, ‘Here, wipe your nose. Have a drink.’ He drew a wineskin from his pack. Mark crawled back to Steven’s side, but he wasn’t fast enough to avoid a brutal kick to his ribs.
‘This is far from over, spy,’ Sallax growled.
‘Untie me, you big bastard,’ Mark taunted Sallax between laboured breaths. ‘Set me free and we’ll see how tough you are, shithead. I’ll make you swallow that sword, motherfucker.’
‘Mark, calm down,’ Steven whispered, trying to stop his friend railing at the now-impassive Ronan. ‘You’ll get us both killed, and I’m pretty sure if we’re dead here, we’re dead at home too. For God’s sake, shut up.’
Finally, Mark gave up cursing and fell back to the ground, coughing violently and fighting to catch his breath.
Brexan woke with a powerful headache. She wasn’t sure how long she had been unconscious; just a few moments, she assumed. Sitting up in the sandy dirt, she rested her head in her hands until the pain subsided. She cast a curious glance around the forest, but saw nothing of the almor. ‘If it wanted me, I’d be dead,’ she said to herself and struggled to her feet. On the ground where she had fallen were the pages the merchant had given her earlier that morning. Retrieving them, she noticed the wax seal was broken. She looked around self-consciously before reading the message scrawled inside. The pages contained a detailed drawing of Riverend Palace and the surrounding forest. Arrows and symbols gave directions for an assault, by two platoons of soldiers, apparently, and outlined the direction from which they were to attack a large building inside the courtyard. It looked like Lieutenant Riskett’s platoon would approach from the south across the battlements and through a large window at the east end of the building, while Lieu
tenant Bronfio’s platoon – Brexan’s own – would attack from the north, through the portcullis gate, entering the building from the west.
Brexan folded the pages back up: it was obviously important Lieutenant Bronfio get them as quickly as possible. Ignoring her aching head, she began jogging through the southern forest towards the outskirts of Estrad Village. She wondered if the mysterious strangers she had seen on the beach earlier that morning were somehow involved, perhaps even the reason for the impending attack. She cursed her bad luck as she followed a game trail: she must reach Lieutenant Bronfio by dawn tomorrow; failing to deliver the message and plans would put her fellow soldiers at risk – and end her career in Prince Malagon’s army. As one of only three women in Bronfio’s platoon, she already had to work much harder than her male counterparts to earn the respect and admiration of the officers. Losing her horse and failing to deliver critical espionage information would ruin any chance of promotion, even to the rank of corporal, for at least the next ten Twinmoons. She ran on, alone and afraid, hoping desperately to avoid any lurking Ronan partisans who might take her prisoner or, worse, kill her on the spot for being stupid and irresponsible enough to get separated from her unit this far into occupied lands.
The dinner aven had nearly passed when Brexan reached the encampment. Another platoon had arrived; she recognised Lieutenant Riskett pacing outside Bronfio’s tent. All around her, people were readying themselves for the coming conflict. She hustled to the lieutenant’s quarters to deliver her message.
Brexan explained the delay – leaving out the almor attack; she wasn’t sure they’d believe that – to an exasperated Lieutenant Bronfio and waited, sweating, filthy and tired, while he contemplated the pages she had handed over. She’d decided to say nothing of her encounter with the almor: most Malakasians believed the demons to be just a legend, and she was pretty sure her story would be interpreted as nothing more than an elaborate excuse for losing one of Prince Malagon’s mounts. Instead, she blamed a riding accident.
Now, standing at rigid attention outside the lieutenant’s tent, she ignored stares from Riskett’s soldiers while friends from her own platoon grinned at her, some in compassion and others in ridicule: it would be a long time before she would be allowed to forget that she’d lost her horse.
Lieutenant Bronfio appeared through the flaps of his tent, looked Brexan up and down and ordered her to make ready for the assault on Riverend Palace.
‘Get a mount from the pack animals. There are a few sturdy enough,’ Bronfio told her. ‘I commend your determination to get these pages to me, soldier. However, in the future, I would encourage you to be more careful with His Majesty’s horses.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Brexan replied, then, glancing towards her fellow soldiers, added quietly, ‘Ah, sir? There were others on the beach, sir. They were-’
‘Never mind that now,’ Bronfio interrupted, annoyed with the young messenger. ‘Just ready yourself for the morrow.’ Brexan shut her mouth.
When night finally fell, Garec motioned for the two prisoners to stand. ‘We’re going in… stay low, and don’t say anything until we’re inside the battlements. One word out of either of you and we’ll leave your corpses for the spring flowers.’ Steven and Mark nodded assent. Sallax said nothing as he started out into open ground. Covering the distance to the crumbling battlements took less than a minute, but for Steven it felt like an eternity. Remembering the accuracy with which Garec had fired arrows at his feet that morning, he feared there would be other archers, assassins or snipers watching for this Ronan Resistance group.
‘I don’t even know what they’re resisting,’ Steven grumbled, staying as low to the ground as possible. Though his head and shoulders were bent, he felt as if his backside were exposed for any passing archer to skewer like a ham.
But when they reached the palace, he thought they might have stepped onto a big-budget film set. Even in its dilapidated state, Riverend towered above them, an imposing stone edifice black against the night sky. It was difficult for him to believe it had all been constructed for one family. The main building alone looked like it could easily accommodate several hundred guests. It stood now, a disintegrating relic from a majestic past Steven could not begin to understand. A small part of him was excited, wanting to get inside and look around.
Steven’s thoughts were interrupted when Garec took him by the arm and guided him to a narrow opening in the battlements. He was glad they didn’t have to climb over the walls with their hands tied behind their backs. The stone ramparts reached nearly thirty feet into the sky and although they were crumbling in places, scaling them would be a difficult task, even for experienced climbers like him and Mark. He squeezed through the thin breach in the fortress’ defences and found himself in a large courtyard.
Garec and Sallax immediately relaxed and Steven guessed they had reached a safe area. Still afraid to speak, however, he and Mark followed the two partisans towards the main building across the courtyard. There was an enormous stained-glass window in one of the outer walls. Steven had travelled through Europe while in high school; he’d seen many examples of stained-glass, and he was certain this window dwarfed the largest he could remember by several times: he estimated it was nearly a hundred feet high and fifty feet wide. Even in the dark, illuminated only by the light of the twin moons, Steven could see this was a stunning example of both creativity and engineering, even though several of the panes had been shattered – most likely falling victim to children throwing stones before fleeing back across the crumbled ramparts.
He was still appreciating the intricacies of the window by moonlight when Mark nudged him gently in the ribs. His roommate gestured towards the window’s lower left corner, from where a soft, eerie glow emanated. Steven understood they were not alone. There were others waiting inside.
SOUTH BROADWAY AVENUE, DENVER
‘Have you tried him at the bank?’ Jennifer Sorenson hefted an oak rocking chair to Hannah, who was perched in the back of a customer’s pick-up truck. ‘He must be at work today.’
Hannah wiped her forehead across the shoulder of her T-shirt, leaving a small wet stain. It was cooler in the street than inside the antique shop, and she welcomed the job of loading several purchases for an elderly couple.
‘No, I tried there and Mr Griffin said he hadn’t seen him all morning. Apparently they were at the pub last night, but Steven left early with Mark. I tried him a few times at home but only got his machine.’ She nodded thanks to her mother as Jennifer handed her a length of rope.
She began tying two small end tables together. ‘I mean, I can understand if he wanted a night away from me. We’ve been talking three or four times a day and I do feel a little like I’m back in seventh grade, but why would he miss work today?’
‘Maybe they had too much to drink,’ her mother suggested. ‘They might be home with the phone unplugged, nursing massive hangovers.’
‘Not him, he’s too responsible for that, and Mark sounds the same. I know they both drink some, but missing work? It doesn’t fit.’
‘Well, you’re supposed to go out tonight, right?’ Jennifer asked and, seeing Hannah nod, said, ‘Go home. Get ready and see if he calls. If not, try him again, but Hannah, things happen. People sometimes find that-’
‘Yes, I understand he could be avoiding me, but I’m telling you it’s not like him.’ She accented her point by pulling a half-hitch tight against the pick-up’s bed. ‘We moved very quickly into this relationship and if he’s running, it’s as much my fault as his. I just want to know nothing happened to him last night, because even if he were dumping me already, he wouldn’t be missing work.’
Hannah jumped lightly to the sidewalk, shook hands with the customers and waved as they drove off along Broadway.
Jennifer Sorenson wrapped one arm affectionately around her daughter’s shoulders. ‘I’m sure he’s not dumping you, and if he is, then he’s the wrong one anyway.’
‘Thanks – but I’ll be okay. Maybe I’ll
drive up there tonight and ask him what’s going on. If he really is sick, he might be glad to see me. And if I’m getting dumped, I’d just as soon have him do it before I haul myself to the Decatur Peak trailhead at 4.30 tomorrow morning.’ She returned her mother’s embrace. ‘I could use the extra sleep and you could use the help here on a Saturday.’
‘Well, it’s after 5.00 already. You go home and get ready. I’ll get things cleaned up and close the place down. If you’re still home when I get back, I’ll take you out tonight.’
‘Thanks, Mom.’ Hannah gently kissed her mother on the temple.
She unlocked the chain securing her bike to a wrought-iron bench in front of the store and jumped astride for the quick ride across the neighbourhood. Her helmet dangled loosely from the handlebars and Jennifer scolded her from the store entrance. ‘The helmet belongs on your head, Hannah.’
Donning the helmet, Hannah shouted back, ‘Is that where it goes? I’ve been wondering where all these damned bumps on my head were coming from. I’m sure I’ve lost forty, maybe fifty IQ points crashing into things this summer. Oh well, you’ll have an unmarried, brain-damaged daughter to look after in your old age.’ Shooting her mother a bright smile, she pedalled off.
Jennifer Sorenson allowed the door to close behind her and stood for a moment gathering her thoughts. Twenty-seven years later and she was still amazed at how much love, worry and compassion a parent could feel. It had begun the moment Hannah was first placed in her arms, and had continued unabated, day and night, for the next three decades. As a younger woman, she would never have guessed that raising a child would be the most meaningful and important thing she would do in her life. Feeling inadequate, unable to help Hannah deal with the potential heartbreak of a failed relationship, she quickly opened the door again, stepped outside and called quietly, ‘Be careful, Hannah.’ Her daughter was already several blocks away; she couldn’t hear, but Jennifer, feeling better, returned inside to close up the shop.
