“Okay.” Wade did that very thing: He sat on the edge of the wall, rolled over onto his stomach, slowly slid down until he hung by his fingers, and finally let go. He felt the two men grab his legs, then carry him to the ground.
“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” the first man asked once Wade was standing on firm ground between them.
“No, it wasn’t,” Wade said. “Thank you.”
The second man chuckled and said, “You’re welcome, you gullible boy.”
“Gullible?”
The two men grabbed him with heavy hands. One clamped down on his nose and mouth before he could shout. He couldn’t breathe. Then everything went black.
Liven, an elder of the confederacy and the only one who actually lived in Sarum, carefully moved the thick blackout curtain an inch to the side. The curtain was designed to keep the meeting room’s light from shining outside so the enemy airplanes wouldn’t be able to see the building in the dark. In the distance, flares went up and shells exploded like fireworks in the sky. They lit up the skyscrapers and lower rooftops. He wondered what kind of rubble they’d have to sort through in the morning.
“Close the curtain,” Acad, another elder, said in a weary drone from the conference table. “It’s bad enough that I have to argue with you men. I don’t want to die with you.”
Liven pulled the curtain tight and turned to the room. What a sight! he thought. A blanket of smoke from too many cigars and pipes covered the assembled leaders in a haze. The table, around which they’d gathered, was littered with papers, half-empty coffee cups, filled ashtrays, and food wrappers. They’re pigs, Liven thought. He frowned. They had been arguing all day, and it looked as if they were going to argue well into the night—all while his beloved city went up in flames. “Can’t we stop for a while?” he asked. “My brain hurts.”
Dedmon, a heavily bearded man from the Mechlites, wagged a finger at Liven. “I promised my people I would not rest, nor return, without a final agreement,” he said.
“I’m not bound by the promises you make,” Liven said. He was grumpy now. He would just as readily have assassins kill these men as speak to them. But he needed them; they needed one another to keep from being overrun by their enemies.
“Have we made any progress?” Greave of the Kenans asked. He brushed his hand absentmindedly across his bushy gray eyebrows. They stuck out like wild branches from his thin face.
“We’ve agreed that we must combine our resources to ward off our attackers,” sniffed Krupt. He was from the Shonens, a wealthy faction from the south, and spoke with a thick, stuffed-nose accent.
Acad groaned. “We had agreed on that much before we entered the room this morning!” he complained. “The question is, how much are we each willing to commit?”
“I’m overextended,” Dedmon said. “I’ve poured all we have into battling those pesky barbarians from Gotthard. We’re keeping them at bay, but I can’t say how long we’ll last.”
Liven threw his hands up. “Your problem is everyone’s problem, Dedmon!” he exclaimed. “We’re besieged on all sides.”
Dedmon picked his teeth casually. “I’m only saying that if we don’t come to agreement here, I’ll be forced to negotiate my own peace with the Gotthardites.”
“You’ll have no peace with the Gotthardites,” Acad droned. “Only surrender.”
“Which will leave the rest of us vulnerable!” Greave snapped.
Dedmon turned on Acad. “It’s easy enough for you. You have nothing but sea to the east. What battles do you have?”
“Only the Palatians sending boats from the south, plus the Albanites with their big ships from the north,” Acad whined. “They send their marauders in day after day. My coastal towns are panic-stricken.”
“If you think the Palatians are vicious on the water, try engaging them on land,” Krupt said, then yawned. “Gentlemen, I will die of boredom if something doesn’t happen soon. This gathering was tiresome when it began and has not improved since.”
Just then, a knock came at the door. Madalay, Liven’s assistant, opened it and peered in. “Sorry to bother you, sir, but he’s still waiting,” he said.
“Yes, of course he is,” Liven replied.
“Who is?” Greave asked. “This is supposed to be a closed meeting.”
Liven rubbed his eyes. “It’s Tyran.”
“Tyran! What’s he want now?” Dedmon growled.
“Only to address us for a moment,” Liven said. He gestured to Madalay and instructed, “Bring him in.”
“I don’t trust him,” Krupt said simply.
“You don’t trust anyone,” Greave countered.
Krupt waved a hand to everyone present. “Do you blame me when I have to deal with cutthroats and double-crossers like you?”
The men regarded Krupt and his comment silently. He was right. They were united now only because of their enemies. If they weren’t being attacked from without, they would be attacking each other from within. It was the way of the world, Liven thought. In their own way, they were each playing King of the Hill. A handshake, a stab in the back, and, ultimately, the survival of the fittest: Those were the only rules they lived by these days.
The door opened again, and Tyran strode in.
If nothing else, Liven thought, Tyran knew how to make an entrance. When he walked into a room, he did so with a theatrical flourish and an unmistakable confidence that drew all eyes to him. And yet he was only medium in height and build; his hair was kept unfashionably short; and his skinny mustache—something no one in good society would wear—hung above his thin lips like a black slash on a pasty-white page. His eyes were magnetic, though—black and mesmerizing. His voice was commanding, a deep boom from an otherwise small cannon.
“Gentlemen,” Tyran said, gesturing respectfully. “How go the negotiations?”
“None of your business,” Dedmon said.
“Not well, then,” Tyran said pleasantly.
“You have one minute,” Liven informed his guest.
Tyran stood at the head of the table, leaning on the surface with his knuckles. “I will be succinct then,” he said. “This confederacy, as you call it, is a joke. You meet for hours and days and accomplish nothing.”
The elders reacted with indignation. “Throw him out!” Krupt demanded.
“Throw me out at your own peril,” Tyran said, raising a hand to silence them. “I am here to tell you that the people are fed up with your politics and bureaucracy.”
“People? What people?” Acad demanded to know. “Whose people?”
“People from all your districts, the people in the streets,” Tyran said. “While you debate and argue uselessly, I have been talking to those you claim to represent. Their confidence and patience are gone. They trust me now. I am now the voice you must listen to. I am the one you must respect.”
“Nonsense!” said Krupt.
Tyran leaned forward, staring each man down in turn. “I am here to warn you. The people are weary of your ineffectiveness. They are tired of war. They want someone to take charge, to take action. Divided as you are, you cannot accomplish anything.”
“And what do you propose?” Liven asked as calmly as he could.
“A united nation. No more factions, no more individual tribes—the Mechlites, the Shonens, the Lahamites, the Kenans. We are the people of Marus, and we should be one!”
“You’re living in a dream,” Greave said.
“I am living in the future,” Tyran said. “You may join me or die in the past.”
Acad shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Are you threatening us?” he asked.
“Not a threat but a warning.” Tyran spun on his heel and marched out of the room.
“Nonsense,” Krupt said again.
Deep crevices formed on Greave’s forehead. He stroked his chin. “Is he capable?” he asked. “Does he have the support of the people like he says? My spies haven’t reported anything to me about this.”
“Your spies are probably working for him,” L
iven answered.
Greave looked as if he might disagree, but he thought better of it and kept his mouth closed.
Liven addressed the men: “I believe we should take Tyran very seriously. He wouldn’t be so emphatic unless he had substantial power behind him.”
“It’s a bluff,” Krupt snorted.
“I’ll have some of my men kill him,” Dedmon offered.
“And we’ll have riots all over the land,” warned Liven.
Dedmon was not deterred. “They’ll make it look like an accident,” he said confidently.
“We’ll still have riots,” Liven said. “Please, let’s put aside our barbaric tendencies for just a moment and consider what we can do to save ourselves. Tyran may well know how the people are feeling, and if we don’t take decisive action soon, we may find ourselves on the wrong end of the assassin’s knife.”
The rest of the elders began to argue Liven’s statement. He wearily turned again to the blackout curtain and pushed it aside. To the north, the sky was nothing more than a blood-red stain.
Wade was half-dragged, half-carried to a waiting car. There the two men bound and gagged him with a heavy-duty tape. They then threw him into the trunk of the car and slammed the lid down. Enveloped in darkness, Wade woke up and listened as the car pulled away.
A moment later, Wade tried kicking at the trunk as hard as he could. It was solidly shut. He lay still for a minute and tried to think. But there was nothing to think about. He was a stranger in this world, and he had no idea who his kidnappers were or where they were going. So he waited, hoping that someone in Arin’s house had heard the noises or the car and was now in pursuit.
From the few seconds he had seen them, Wade knew his captors were dangerous. They had the look of street thugs. What were they doing at the compound? Were they trying to break into the shelter, or had they come for another reason?
The car hummed beneath him. It wasn’t the normal hum his parents’ Ford made, he realized. This was softer. It lacked the noise of a proper engine. Wade sniffed the air. He didn’t detect the telltale smells of gas or exhaust. Was it possible that this car was powered by the sun like so much else in this world?
Nearly 15 minutes later, the car came to a stop. Wade listened as the two men got out and walked to the rear of the car. He considered kicking at them when they lifted the trunk lid, but he realized he wouldn’t accomplish much with his ankles and wrists bound the way they were. He’d probably only make them mad, and then they might hurt him.
The lid popped open, and the two men gazed in at Wade. “Hello, boy,” the first man said. He had a face filled with deep lines and a drooping mustache. His brown hair was cut close and thinning on top.
“You behave yourself,” the second man said with a thin smile on his pudgy face, “and you won’t get hurt.”
They reached in, pulled him out of the trunk, and leaned him against the car. “I’ll hold him while you get him ready,” the pudgy one said.
“Right,” the mustached man responded. He leaned down and removed the tape over Wade’s mouth and, with a quick flick of a knife, from around his ankles, leaving his wrists bound.
“Don’t think about running,” the pudgy one advised. “You won’t get far.”
Wade glanced around. They seemed to be in some kind of alley that stretched for blocks between high-rise buildings. A yellow light shone down on them from a nearby door. It reflected off the black sheen of the car. Wade craned his neck to get a better look. The car was like something out of a science-fiction comic book. Long and sleek, it had a delicately curved body, with a low top and narrow windows. “Wow,” Wade said more loudly than he’d intended.
“You like the car?” the mustached man asked.
The pudgy man laughed and said, “Maybe we’ll give you a proper ride in it sometime.”
Just then, a bomb exploded in the distance. It sounded closer now than when Wade was in Arin’s compound. He was still in Sarum, he knew. But why had they brought him here?
“Let’s get him inside,” the pudgy man said.
They led Wade into the building through a door marked Staff Only. The hall was dark, but a safety light ahead allowed Wade to notice the marble floor and the pillars that reached up on both sides to the arches overhead. The style reminded Wade of movies about ancient Rome. He expected Julius Caesar to appear around a corner.
Once more, the scene didn’t make sense to him. It was as if this world contained a mixture of styles. Arin’s cottage and compound looked as if they had been built in medieval England. His family’s clothes, too, were a reflection of that period and style: tunics and robes and sandals. Wade’s captors, in contrast, dressed as anyone in Wade’s world might have dressed, with worn suitcoats, vests, baggy trousers, and regular-looking black shoes. But against this Roman architecture, they seemed out of place. What kind of world is this? Wade wondered as he had before and would again.
“I’m Movan,” the mustached man said for no obvious reason.
The pudgy man said, “I’m Simpson.”
“You ever need any odd jobs done, you think of us,” Movan said.
“That’s what we do,” added Simpson.
Wade hesitated as a man walked into view ahead of them. He was dressed in a long tunic, just like an ancient Roman senator. Julius Caesar! Wade thought.
Movan prodded him on. “No need to be afraid,” he said. “It’s only Madalay. He’s Liven’s assistant. Do you know who Liven is?”
Wade shook his head no.
“Only the head of the elders,” Movan replied, clearly impressed.
“He’s not the head,” Simpson corrected him. “Only the host. He’s like a . . . a . . . mediator for them. Does that make sense to you, boy?”
Wade nodded.
Madalay was directly in front of them now. “You have him,” he said.
“We sure do,” Simpson said. “Just like we promised.”
“He came to us, actually,” Movan said.
“Shut up,” Simpson snapped as he poked Movan in the ribs with his elbow. “Your messenger created a nice diversion while we sneaked in,” he lied to Madalay.
“Good,” Madalay said. “Liven is eager to meet him.” Madalay took a step back to get a better look at Wade in the light. “His hair. It’s astounding. Straight out of a storybook.”
“Never seen anything like it,” Simpson agreed.
“Liven hopes his appearance will have an impact on the elders. Follow me.” Madalay started walking back the way he had come.
“We’re going to the elders themselves?” Movan said. “How’re my clothes? Not too dirty, I hope.”
“Suitably shabby, as usual,” Simpson said.
The hallway deposited them into a large reception area. Here the pillars reached way up to ornate balconies far above. At the top was an enormous stained-glass dome covered with pictures of angels and celestial beings dancing in a blue sky. Wade stumbled as he craned his neck to see it all, though it was darkened and the detail was hard to make out.
Simpson tugged at his sleeve. “This way,” he ordered.
They walked past large wooden doors embellished with patterns of oak leaves and vines. Wade’s mind went to a field trip he’d taken with his class to the Connellsville courthouse. It had looked something like this, but on a more modest scale. They soon reached a smaller but equally ornate door. A hand-painted sign said Chambers.
“Wait here,” Madalay ordered, and he slipped into the room.
In the moment the door was open, Wade could hear men arguing inside. Madalay’s appearance sparked complaints about another interruption. Finally, one man silenced them and instructed Madalay to bring in their guests.
Madalay opened the door wide.
Movan and Simpson stepped forward, blocking Wade from being seen. They smiled proudly to the men in the room.
“Well?” one man droned. “We know these two men. We’ve all employed their services at one time or another.”
Movan and Simpson then move
d aside. They obviously wanted Wade to make a dramatic entrance. The group of men—the elders—gasped as if the devil himself had walked into the room.
“He has golden hair!” a man exclaimed as he backed away to the far wall.
Wade felt his face turn red.
“Unbind him,” the man in charge instructed Wade’s captors.
“Are you sure?” the droning man asked.
Another man wrung his hands and inquired, “Does he have powers?”
“I heard he caused quite a commotion today,” one said. “Hundreds of people ran in fear just from the sight of him.”
The man in charge said impatiently, “They fled because they are superstitious fools.” He spoke to Movan. “Did he offer any resistance? Did he strike you blind or give you boils?”
Movan grinned. “Yes, sir, all of the above,” he said sarcastically. “But we recovered.”
“Unbind him, then,” the man in charge snapped.
Movan quickly undid the tape around Wade’s wrists. He was free. But the two men stayed close in case he tried to make a run for it.
“Do you know who we are?” the man in charge asked.
“No, sir.”
“We’re the elders of Sarum,” he said. “I am Liven. That’s Greave of the Kenans, Dedmon of the Mechlites, Krupt of the Shonens, and Acad of the Lahamites.”
Wade wasn’t impressed. “Arin’s going to be really mad about this,” he replied with as much menace as he could muster.
Liven showed mock concern. “Do you think so?” he said. “Will he call down fire from the Unseen One to rescue you? Maybe the holocaust he has been predicting for the past 60 years will finally come true. Sit down, boy.”
Wade sat on a chair next to the wall. All eyes were on him. He didn’t like it.
“Where are you from?” Krupt asked.
“America.”
“Where, exactly, is that?” inquired Dedmon.
“The planet Earth.”
The men laughed.
“As you are a guest, I won’t strike you for your impertinence,” Liven said. “Next time, I’ll forget you’re a guest. Now kindly tell us how it is that you’re with Arin.”
The Marus Manuscripts Page 20
