by Rob Scott
Six draught beers, one bacon cheeseburger, an enormous order of French fries and a forty-two-thirty-one victory later, Howard Griffin stumbled from the pub and up the street towards the corner of Miner and Tenth. When he reached Steven’s house, he was surprised to find the door unlocked and slightly ajar.
‘Stevie,’ he slurred into the front hallway, ‘Stevie, I am pissed at you, my boy, but CU won good this afternoon. So you’ve caught me in a good mood.’ Seeing no one coming out to greet him, Griffin meandered through the house towards the kitchen. Several beer cans stood on the counter near an open pizza box and Howard picked one up, realised it was nearly full and took a long draught from it before spitting the beer back into the sink.
‘Christ, it’s warm,’ he complained, then, shouting to anyone who might be listening, ‘what the hell are you doing leaving warm beer out here? Someone might drink it.’
He giggled as he pulled out a cold can from the fridge, then headed towards the living room.
If Howard Griffin noticed the shimmering air and flecks of coloured light dancing above the incongruous tapestry, he didn’t show it. Instead, he came awkwardly around the sofa and dropped heavily onto the cushions. Finding no ottoman on which to put his feet, the inebriated bank manager slid the coffee table out into the middle of the room and rested his boots on the finished wood surface. He rubbed one hand across his bulging stomach, and was distracted by the sight of a large expanse of cloth spread out across the floor.
‘Sheez, what an ugly rug,’ he gurgled, eyeing the tapestry now bunched up against the legs of the coffee table. ‘You guys must have stolen that from the bathroom at a bus station. Stevie, I am never going to let you live this one down. I wouldn’t even buy that ugly bastard, and I like tacky decor.’
Yawning widely, Griffin stood up, stretched and, with a loud groan, started back towards the door. In the kitchen, he found a pen and scribbled a note on the open pizza box: STEVIE: CALL ME AS SOON AS YOU GET IN, YOU DERILECT BUGGER. He was not quite certain how to spell derelict, so he deliberately ran the letters together, but even in his weakened condition he could spell bugger, so he made the letters much larger, as if he were a child practising for a spelling quiz.
Message completed, he moved the box to the edge of the stove near the refrigerator, where Steven would be certain to read it. Then he pulled from behind his ear the cigarette he’d bummed from a drinking buddy earlier that afternoon and, failing to find matches, turned on the gas stove. He placed the cigarette clumsily in his mouth and leaned into the flame until the embers glowed red and the smoke stung his eyes. He had not smoked regularly since his move from Boulder to Idaho Springs, but he allowed himself one cigarette every six months – or when he was under particularly difficult stress. He was not sure which excuse counted today, but he inhaled deeply regardless.
Making certain he had locked the door behind him, Howard Griffin walked into the waning afternoon sunlight. It was much colder outside now, and he took a moment to zip his jacket up tightly before making his way towards home in an ungainly drunken shuffle.
He had no idea the gas stove in Steven and Mark’s house continued to burn.
Rob Scott
The Hickory Staff
GREENTREE SQUARE
Several hours had passed since the strange beasts had attacked the Malakasian horses, and neither Mark nor Steven had heard any sound coming from the lower floors of the palace, or outside their window. They had fled the first suite of rooms for another on the same hallway, hoping Sallax and the enemy soldiers would be too busy battling one another to find them.
Brynne, exhausted, had fallen asleep several minutes before, despite the afternoon heat. The two friends whispered to one another, trying not to wake her.
‘You know what’s funny?’ Mark looked over at Brynne’s silent form, then leaned back against the cool stone of the chamber wall.
‘That a teenager who doesn’t know the rules governing the use of a semi-colon will have Asian characters tattooed on her ass?’ Steven replied, managing a smile.
‘No, although that does stagger my imagination,’ Mark chuckled. ‘Think about it. We’re here in another world. With two moons, it has to be another world. We can look back as far as the pyramids at Giza, 2,500 BC, long before there was metallurgy or weaponry of this sophistication in Western Europe, and there is nothing that speaks of two moons.’ He stopped for a moment to gather his thoughts, then continued, ‘And this language we’ve both apparently learned instantaneously, it’s not a Western language and it’s not a precursor to any modern European language. But these people appear to live in a culture similar to our early Europe. Their features, this architecture, some of their weapons and even their clothes: they all look like they fell right out of a history textbook.’
‘So, what’s your point?’ Steven asked. ‘You don’t think we came back in time. Great. I don’t believe that’s possible. Hell, I don’t believe any of this is possible, but it’s happened.’ He absentmindedly ran one knuckle along a seam between two large stones in the masonry.
‘For all the similarities, there are things missing, though,’ Mark went on. ‘Simple things, critical things we would expect to see in a culture that mirrors early Europe this closely.’ Again, Mark glanced over at Brynne, but she still slept deeply. ‘For example, every western culture dating back centuries has brewed coffee. Can you think of the Ronan word for coffee?’
Steven smiled. ‘In the two days since I fell through an unexplained hole in the universe, located, ironically, in our living room, I have been nearly killed by a bowman sniper, imprisoned, lashed to a stone wall in a crumbling palace and threatened with ancient weapons. I have not, however, at any time during all this excitement, thought about the Ronan word for coffee.’
‘Try it now,’ Mark encouraged.
Steven closed his eyes and relaxed his mind. Ronan words came almost as easily as English for him now, but, despite his efforts, the word for coffee did not emerge. ‘That’s strange,’ he said. ‘I can’t get it. I keep coming up with “tecan”, but I don’t think that’s right.’
‘I think that’s more like some sort of herbal tea: jasmine-sleepytime-fruity-zinger tea or some such nonsense,’ Mark replied, ‘but I’m only guessing based on the information that magically appeared in my head when I landed on that beach.’
‘You know what this means?’
‘That our magic tapestry could possibly have brought people from our world to this world long before it brought us,’ Mark said. ‘I can’t think of any other way aspects of this place would so closely resemble our world… only a former version of our world. Culture is a function of any group’s values, traditions, beliefs, myths and behaviours. If cultural values, weapons technology and architecture from early Europe managed to get here, maybe the same way we arrived, those values and innovations might have embedded themselves in the fabric of Ronan life.’
‘That’s not what I meant,’ Steven interrupted.
‘What did you mean?’ Mark’s analysis was sidetracked momentarily.
‘There’s no coffee here. How in all hells are we going to get by without coffee?’ He laughed. ‘Give this up, Mark. You aren’t going to figure it out trapped in this palace room. We’ll need to get out of here to get home. Hopefully, the answer lies out there somewhere.’
‘I guess you’re right,’ Mark agreed, ‘but there has to be some reason why William Higgins locked that thing in your safe. He must have known about its power, and maybe how to harness it.’
‘We’ll figure it out,’ his friend assured him, then changed the subject. ‘Anyway, we can’t stay here too long. Imagine a world without coffee; you’ll perish. The staff at the cafe has our morning order memorised: one cappuccino and one just-fill-the-damned-cup-right-now-i f-you-want-to-survive-another-minute. If we’re here too long, you’re a goner.’
‘You’re right, and we’ll both be goners if we don’t get out of this ramshackle pile of rocks and find some food. I haven’t eaten since o
ur last pizza.’
‘I haven’t either. Although this whole captive routine is an excellent excuse to avoid steamed vegetables and roasted fish.’ Steven grimaced as he remembered their pledge to eat more nutritiously.
Mark stood up to take another look out the window. He peered towards the sun, checked his watch, shook it several times and held it to his ear. ‘Let’s get out of here, I haven’t heard a sound from the palace in four hours.’
‘You’re right. Unless Sallax is waiting just outside that door, we ought to be able to get away.’ Steven moved across the floor towards Brynne. Switching back to Ronan, he nudged her gently and called, ‘Brynne, wake up. It’s time to go.’
The curtains in the upper room of Mika Farrel’s home remained closed as Gilmour Stow and the five partisans hurriedly planned their next course of action.
‘We can’t go back to the tavern,’ Jerond offered. ‘They’ll have the place surrounded or burned to the ground by now.’
‘Yes,’ Sallax agreed, ‘we have to assume they know who we are, so none of our homes are safe. Mika, Jerond, your parents should lay low for a while as well.’ Brynne and Sallax’s parents had died many Twinmoons earlier; Garec’s family owned a farm half a day’s ride from Estrad Village. Versen had moved to the southern forests from his family’s home in the Blackstone Mountains: although he would try to get word to them, he was not worried about their immediate welfare.
‘With the level of hatred for Malagon growing in Rona, they wouldn’t dare murder four elderly people,’ Sallax continued, ‘but you ought to have them disappear for the time being just to be safe.’
Jerond and Mika nodded in agreement and Jerond rose to leave. ‘I’ll meet you in the orchard at dawn,’ he told them. ‘I can get some silver, and my father has a few weapons hidden in the house.’ Jerond was the youngest of the partisans. He hesitated, obviously nervous. ‘What are we going to do, Sallax?’
‘We’re going on a journey, north,’ Gilmour interrupted. ‘Bring some warm clothing, my boy, and don’t worry. Things are moving along as they should, but let your family know they may not see you for the next few Twinmoons.’
Garec shot the older man a worried look, then turned back to Jerond and reminded him, ‘The orchard at dawn tomorrow, all right?’
He nodded agreement, then crawled through a window at the back of the building, leaped to the ground below and disappeared along a side street into the village. Mika had been listening from the doorway. He quickly descended the stairs to share Gilmour’s news with his parents.
‘I worry about Jerond,’ Garec told the older man. ‘Now, what do you mean by several Twinmoons?’
‘I mean exactly that.’ Gilmour took a long draw on his pipe. ‘We’ll most likely be gone through next summer’s Twinmoon. We have far to go, and not much time to get organised. Now, how many horses can we get before dawn tomorrow?’
‘Plenty,’ Garec answered. ‘Renna is tethered out behind Madur’s farm. He’d sell us a dozen if we can pay.’ As if on cue, Gilmour reached into the folds of his riding cloak and withdrew a small leather pouch.
He tossed it to Garec. ‘That should be enough. See to the horses, fill your quivers and meet us in the orchard tomorrow. We can’t be seen together tonight. It would arouse too much suspicion.’ Garec stood, gathered up his longbow and started towards the window as Gilmour added, ‘Make sure you get three extra mounts.’
‘Why? Madur’s horses are strong enough to carry our gear and bedrolls as well as us,’ Versen said.
‘Brynne and the two foreigners will be joining us for this trip,’ Gilmour answered, as if the reason were obvious. Garec snorted in disbelief, then crawled through the window himself.
‘I’ll need to get back to my cabin and gather a few things,’ Versen said as he clapped a huge hand on Gilmour’s shoulder. ‘See you at dawn.’
Sallax gave the big man a quick wave and watched Versen disappear into the alley.
‘What are we to do?’ Sallax asked Gilmour uncertainly.
‘ We are going to give Namont his rites and then meet your sister,’ Gilmour answered, rising from his chair. ‘But I am not climbing out of that wretched window.’
Brexan watched the attractive merchant exit through the front door of the small house and move along the street as if he had lived there his entire life. She knew the man was a spy, but she didn’t know why he had killed Lieutenant Bronfio. He had arranged for Bronfio’s platoon to enter the dilapidated keep through the western portcullis, and he’d been waiting in the shadows for an opportunity to murder the young officer. But why?
Did he not serve Prince Malagon? Bronfio had been a by-the-book officer, Prince Malagon’s man to the core. She was quite sure he had awakened every morning asking himself how he could best serve the occupation, and how to be the leader his prince expected him to be.
Bronfio often lectured his platoon on the importance of bringing a forceful but familiar occupation to the Ronan people. ‘These citizens need predictability,’ he had said again and again. ‘That’s our job, to be a powerful but steady and predictable occupation army. With that accomplished, we will need to put down fewer insurrections, mark me.’
Killing Bronfio did not make sense. It was essentially an act of war against the occupation forces in Rona. Brexan was determined to discover this traitor’s nefarious purpose and bring him to justice – but her goal was easier said than done. If she went back and forth through Estrad Village too frequently, someone would mark her uniform and ask why she was away from her unit. Disguise was the answer – or at least some form of misdirection. While she waited, she stripped off her Malakasian tabards and markings. The result was not perfect: a black vest over a black tunic, each with regularly-shaped patches of a different colour where the badges had been, but it would give her time to find a change of clothes without interference from her colleagues.
Looking down at the array of torn patches and epaulettes on the ground at her feet, Brexan felt a wave of nausea pass through her, the unsettling feeling of uncertainty that comes in the wake of any drastic measure. ‘Am I insane to do this?’ Brexan asked herself. She would be hanged without trial simply for stripping her uniform, never mind deserting her unit to pursue an alleged traitor.
Some time after the spy entered the building, Brexan watched a young Ronan man, perhaps one hundred and forty Twinmoons old, go in the same door. She didn’t expect to see him alive again.
When the spy exited a few moments later, she knew the Ronan and whomever he had been visiting were dead, victims of the handsome merchant. No one else had gone in or come out. Brexan checked that her sword was loose in its scabbard as she prepared to investigate. She forced herself to count slowly to two hundred before she left the alley, all the while watching the street to ensure the spy had not returned, and that he hadn’t left others behind to note any activity around the house.
Then Brexan walked across the street and entered the home, trying to act as if she were a regular visitor. The sight that met her eyes made her shudder, not because of any outward signs of brutality, but because of the cold efficiency of the murders. The merchant had killed Lieutenant Bronfio earlier with a dagger between the ribs. His tactics here were equally simple. An elderly couple – maybe the parents? – sat bound and gagged in two chairs near a fireplace where a stewpot still simmered.
Both had been run through the heart; the Malakasian solider cringed when she thought of one being forced to watch, helpless, as the other was murdered. There were no signs of a struggle, but the old man’s fingers appeared to have been broken, Brexan guessed during an impromptu interrogation – maybe about his son’s possible espionage activities? There were no bruises betraying harsh beatings and no other broken or severed limbs. The small puncture wounds – made by a rapier, she thought – and unchecked trickles of blood were the only evidence of death. She almost expected them to call out suddenly and beg her to untie their bonds.
Seeing them sitting so quietly together, in what had prob
ably been their favourite chairs, Brexan imagined the old couple spending thousands of avens chatting together in front of the fireplace, planning their lives, teaching their children, entertaining dear friends. All that was over – and for what?
Then she noticed the young man who had come in while she was watching the doorway. He had obviously been killed without fanfare as well: his short sword was still sheathed. There had been no combat, no questions, no broken fingers and no negotiations for life. The spy had waited for the young man to return home and slashed his throat while the boy gaped at his parents’ bodies trussed up like pigs awaiting a butcher. Brexan knew this victim had been taken by surprise, unceremoniously and without a struggle.
She seethed with anger. This was not how an occupation force was supposed to behave, and if this was the method Prince Malagon’s spies employed to gather information, she did not want any part of their cause. Her stomach roiling with revulsion, she climbed a short flight of stairs, located the young man’s bedroom and stole a change of clothes. She was no longer a member of Prince Malagon’s occupation army. Lieutenant Bronfio had believed in their work here in Rona and he was dead, murdered by his own prince’s spy.
Brexan had enlisted in the army to bring order to the nations of Eldarn. Periodically, that meant dealing with a handful of insurrectionists. This elderly couple, tied up and cold-bloodedly murdered in their home, did not represent a threat to Prince Malagon’s throne, and if for some inexplicable reason they had, the spy who uncovered their plot should have brought them to trial.
Her illusions fading like the twilight, Brexan changed into her new clothes, took what food she could find in the pantry and promised the silent corpses that justice would be done.
She would find this spy, track him and observe his behaviour. If he proved loyal to the crown, she would find some way to report his brutality to the prince’s generals in Orindale. If he were not loyal, she would kill him herself.
