The Stair Of Time (Book 2)

by William Woodward

  Remarkable, Andaris thought again.

  Here was harmony and balance and peace. Here was life as Rodan intended—in all its pristine glory, uncorrupted by the nefarious workings of man. And it wasn’t just what he was able to experience with his five senses, either. Just beyond his purview, there resonated an intangible…something. It permeated all that he saw, heard, and touched. And yet, like the lake, remained wholly inscrutable.

  Some would call it magic, he supposed, but Andaris didn’t think that was quite right. Sure it was a kind of magic, but it wasn’t just magic. It was also something else, something more: a distant vibration traveling to them on the wind, a sort of spiritual hum striking chords deep within, resonating through all of creation, a unifying force that went far beyond nature into the realm of the fantastic.

  “I don’t like the thought of campin’ out here in the open where we’re so…visible,” said Gramps, interrupting his reverie. “There’re eyes everywhere, and not just the ones we can see, neither. You feel it? I say after the horses have their fill, we head for yonder tree line, and make camp just inside. At least that way we’ll have some cover in case there’s somethin’ of a nocturnal nature that ain’t as friendly as its daytime counterparts. Tonight we can consult the pages and hopefully find a way into,” and here Gramps lowered his voice, looking around with apprehension, “The Lost City.”

  Andaris and Gaven nodded, expressing their consent as discretely as possible, the feeling that they were being scrutinized growing with each passing moment, their worth being weighed and found wanting, the eyes that they could not see seeming to peer at them from behind every bush and boulder and blade of grass.

  The shadowy entrance to a small cave lay no more than fifty yards away, mystery and menace lurking within, beckoning Andaris to come and explore its labyrinthine depths. Indeed, it seemed to call to him like a siren from a rocky shore, so sweetly that he felt his will to resist weakening. He was actually on the verge of suggesting that they make camp inside the cave before he got a hold of himself, shook his head and, with a considerable effort, looked away, feeling like he had with the lake, like he’d made eye contact with something—a being as patient as time, as constant as death, and, at least in part, asleep.

  He shivered. Best keep this to myself, too, he thought. Can always go have a look after we get back from The Lost City.

  In due course, they made their way to the edge of the forest, traveling at a leisurely pace, marveling at all that they saw along the way. At one point, Andaris nearly wheeled Del about and went galloping after a herd of hornless gazelle, each made beautiful by a luxurious coat of multicolored fur, scaled heads flashing in the sunlight as they wove between stands of fruit bearing willow trees. There were hundreds of them, leaping through the air with joyful exuberance, their movements appearing to have been expertly choreographed into a kind of flowing dance, every strike of hoof and swell of body perfectly in sync.

  Gramps dismounted before reaching the tree line, deciding to walk his horse the last few yards. Gaven and Andaris followed suit. As they drew near, they stopped and stared, standing as still as statues, holding their stirrups with expressions that were somehow blank and inquisitive at the same time, each imagining something different about what might lay inside, the hair on the napes of their necks standing, as well.

  Gramps was thinking about that majestic steed he’d seen all those years ago, wondering if it would let him pet it on the nose and feed it an apple.

  Gaven was envisioning a great golden city with emerald roads and ruby towers, its gates standing wide, its riches begging to be plundered.

  Andaris saw an eye, his eye, yet not his eye, peering at him from the gloom with malicious intent.

  They all smelled the sharp tang of ozone, the air very nearly crackling with electricity. Something’s about to happen, Andaris thought. It feels like it does before a storm.

  What they had beheld from a distance paled when compared to what they saw now. Andaris sensed the same depth of awareness emanating from the trees that he’d sensed from the water and cave. The pines stood in rigid formation, seeming to close ranks as the three drew near, an army of towering sentinels protecting the palace of their king, wooden expressions above hard, motionless limbs.

  Into the forest they had decided to go, but now that they were here, they found themselves beset by sudden doubt, for the interior of the wood remained hidden, cloaked in shadowy ambiguity, emitting a distinctly inhospitable aura.

  “Humph!” exclaimed Gramps. “I’ve had about all of this nonsense I’m gonna take!” He rubbed the back of his neck, glaring at the trees with growing contempt. “We came all this way, didn’ we? So, are we just gonna stand here until you boys are as old as I am, gawkin’ like a trio of dimwitted sheep, or are we gonna go in?”

  Thank Rodan for him, Andaris thought. Now he knew where Gaven got it. His simple, straightforward manner seemed to defy all things supernatural, keeping it at bay with a no-nonsense, hands-on-hips attitude. It wasn’t that he was any less afraid than they were. His voice even quavered a couple of times there. It was just that he was too bullheaded to give in to that fear.

  And so it was, with eyes peeled and ears perked, that they stepped into the trees, the forest closing about them, its primordial breath whispering forgotten tales of bark and earth and root and vine, alive with a rich, spicy aroma that prickled their nostrils and set their mouths to watering.

  Come, the trees seemed to say. Come sleep beneath our sheltering boughs so that we might press your bones to dust, drawing the breath from your lungs and blood from your veins. Come!

  Wayward Verse

  The lonely call of a trumpet’s dawn,

  Gray skies cry as first blood’s drawn,

  Amid splintered shields and broken spears,

  The armies clash to defend their fears.

  Bestial roars from the bowels of hell,

  Shadowed souls o’er cliff and dell,

  Mindless slaughter as the fields run red,

  Fetid flesh in the halls of the dead.

  A tomb stands atop a lonely hill,

  The cries of the damned forever still,

  Echoing chambers through the night,

  Pits of darkness devouring sight.

  Crumbling ramparts cannot hold,

  Ancient voices tales untold,

  Restless bones begin to stir,

  Sightless eyes the wise inter.

  Ground to dust by time and need,

  Our loins do lust and grope and feed,

  All we are is but a grain of sand,

  A pointless struggle for coin and land.

  Our fathers cry for comrades lost,

  Our mothers weep for winter’s frost,

  Our corpses drown in restless graves,

  Our fury swells in roiling waves.

  Thoughts trapped in lifeless skull,

  Vengeance grieves in battle’s lull,

  Tears flow free from river’s mouth,

  Seas of blood from north to south.

  All is lost in final clash,

  All grows still in final crash,

  Thankless hearts cease to beat,

  To the end we run on graceless feet.

  Emptiness fills our mortal minds,

  The clocks stand still as time unwinds,

  All grows dark and cold and weak,

  We dine on death in droves so bleak.

  “Matter doth matter!” we cry in vain,

  Doomed we are and deemed insane,

  Cling to meaning if you must,

  And deny the lie beneath the trust.

  Blind and deaf we search for truth,

  Squandered earth and squandered youth,

  Fall we must on swords of night,

  To the end we go without a fight.

  These words were running through Andaris’ head when he awoke, had been running through his head, he realized, for most of the night. He had never been much for poetry, and yet supposed he must have picked it up somewhe
re.

  And then just forgotten it? As unlikely as this seemed, especially given the dramatic nature of the poem, what other explanation could there be? It was either that or his own subconscious was to blame, which he considered even less likely. I mean, he had never been creative before….

  Perhaps, rather than sudden and unexpected artistic inspiration, it was the magic inherent in the land giving him lyrical dreams, or—and this thought made him shiver—it was a message from the Lenoy.

  If it was a message from the ancients, then what were they trying to tell him? Could be it wasn’t him specifically. Could be something broadcast into the brain of any unsuspecting passerby, a recording activated by their presence.

  Whatever the case, the words now seemed to be permanent fixtures, emblazoned upon his mind as deeply as his ABCs. Maybe there was some buried significance. But what? He didn’t even understand the first line: the lonely call of a trumpet’s dawn. What did that even mean?

  Andaris sat up, surprised to be the first awake. Sunlight slanted through the branches of the trees, lighting the forest floor in motley hues. Considering how long he had slept, he did not feel as rested as he should. His muscles were stiff and sore, as if he’d spent the night engaged in combat with a very worthy opponent.

  Must have been tense because of this place. And the poem….

  Emptiness fills our mortal minds, the clocks stand still as time unwinds.

  Stop it! he thought, shaking his head, trying to rid it of the overly somber verse. He was already growing to hate it. It was so depressing and…self-conscious, as though every word had been carefully selected to elicit a specific emotional response.

  As far as he was concerned, that was cheating; emotional warfare waged against the untrained mind, every line a dagger or rose against the heart. He hoped he wasn’t the poem’s author. He would hate to think that his subconscious could be so pretentious.

  By the time the sun had climbed halfway from the horizon to the roof of the sky, they were once again on their way, walking their horses due east through the trees, every step an intrusion. Naturally, the deeper they went, the darker and more foreboding it became. All the usual stuff—moss hanging from skeletal limbs, tendrils of mist snaking across the ground, an arresting stillness permeating the air.

  Andaris was surprised how unafraid he felt. Despite its sinister appearance, the place seemed somehow familiar, and even sort of…homey. It’s like the poem, he realized, guarding his mind against another wayward verse. The parts of the forest that made it foreboding were far too self-conscious, too forced, like cardboard cutouts of the real thing, each strategically placed to scare off unwelcome guests.

  What’s more, it should have been muggy, but wasn’t in the least. In fact, now that he thought about it, it wasn’t even approaching unpleasant, the light breeze and warm sun eliciting fond recollections of languid afternoons spent with his back against a tree and his nose in a book. And where were the gnats and flies? You couldn’t have a proper sinister forest without humidity, gnats, or flies. Somebody needed to have a serious sit-down talk with these Lenoy folk and set them straight.

  If indeed the Lenoy are to blame, a different part of his mind pointed out. Could be, speaking of cardboard cutouts, that it’s the Almighty Ashel who’s behind all this, watching us toil away with a glint in his egg-white eyes from the comfort of one of his accursed “special” windows, waiting to see what we do next, hoping we’ll trip up.

  No, Andaris decided. That’s too much. Even for him.

  Are you sure of that? the other part argued. Look at all he’s done. Who knows what he might be capable of?

  But no matter who was to blame for what, at least now Andaris understood why he wasn’t afraid. Anyone willing to go to this much trouble to fool people into staying away, isn’t likely to be all that dangerous in the first place.

  According to the map, one of the aboveground entrances to The Lost City, represented by three tiers of stacked stones, was not too far east of here. The map hadn’t shown the entrance last they looked, which seemed to substantiate their supposition regarding the pages changing along with their location, showing more detail as they neared their destination.

  By the time they stopped to eat lunch, Andaris’ stomach was grumbling noisily. After spreading a faded orange blanket atop the sodden earth, they sat cross-legged beneath the solemn branches, the food laid out between them like a sacrament.

  Andaris smirked at his surroundings as he took another bite of a bright red apple. Their lively conversation and plentiful provisions flew in the face of everything the forest was attempting to accomplish. Gaven and Gramps must, at least on some level, sense the same, for they behaved as if they sat atop a green hill beneath cheerful blue sky, wildflowers as far as the eye could see. The dread he’d felt upon entering this place was now gone. He only wished he could say the same for its pervasive, somehow ambiguous sentience. It was still here, decidedly different from before, but here. Less watchful, perhaps. Less threatening, but here.

  Andaris had the urge to stand up and shout, “Come, let’s end this charade, while you still have your dignity!” This is not, however, what he did. No sense in needlessly provoking forces he had yet to understand. That could prove…unhealthy, to say the least.

  Just ‘cause a mess of hornets leaves ya be as you’re walkin’ past, don’t mean they won’t sting ya dead if ya knock down their nest! Andaris couldn’t remember where he’d heard that, probably from his grandfather, who, like Gramps, seemed to have an endless supply of colloquial sayings, at least a dozen or so for every occasion.

  I’ll probably end up just like them, he thought, especially if I don’t start being more selective about the company I keep.

  If I make it to be an old man, that other, less optimistic part of his mind muttered.

  We dine on death in droves so bleak….

  I said stop it! And for the present, to his great surprise and relief, he actually listened to himself.

  Saying that very little changed over the next couple of hours is like saying that Gaven fancies ale. It would so easy to get lost in here. For instance, if someone told Andaris to find his way back to the lake, beyond turning around and following the trail they’d left, he wouldn’t be able to. One spot looked more or less like another. So much so that at times he thought sure they were passing the same tree, or clearing, or pile of pine needles that they’d passed before.

  He knew they weren’t going in circles, so he assumed it must have something to do with the Lenoy, the supposed architects of this forest. If they had designed said forest, as well as everything in it, then it wasn’t inconceivable that there could be multiple copies of the same thing. That being the case, then it also wouldn’t be inconceivable for an exceedingly astute observer, namely himself, to pick them out.

  It was odd, though, especially considering the exquisite detail of everything else, repetitive yet exquisite, that they had yet to come across any forest animals, mundane or otherwise. It was as if the Lenoy had stopped before they’d finished. Question is, what possible purpose was served by a forest being left half finished?

  Andaris couldn’t help from feeling a bit let down. Too be sure, the plateau and its exotic inhabitants had been a glorious pageant of colossal proportions, easily one of the most astonishing things he’d ever seen. But even so…. That was the past. Now, in the present, he was getting bored. He had really wanted to catch a glimpse of that creature Gramps had so thoroughly described, and at the rate they were going, it didn’t look like he was going to get the chance. Quite disappointing, actually.

  Can’t have everything, he thought, scolding himself for being so lugubrious. I may not be behaving like a child, but I’m certainly “thinking” like one. And since no one else was going to chastise him for his emotional weakness, he would just have to—

  “What’s that over there?” asked Gaven, reining in his horse. “There, through the trees…to the right? Does that look like stone to you?”

&
nbsp; Andaris squinted his eyes, feeling the sluggish weight of that most humdrum of couples—Everyday and Ordinary—lift from his shoulders. His heart danced a little jig in his breast, letting him know that, despite prior evidence to the contrary, he was in fact alive. It was stone all right. No doubt about it. A stone wall ten feet tall with ivy-wrapped pillars on either side.

  “Come on!” said Gramps. “Let’s go!”

  Chessboard Courtyard

  As Andaris, Gaven, and Gramps neared the structure, they drew their swords—just in case. After all, one never knows what might be lurking about the entrance to a lost city in the center of a magical forest. They didn’t want to give the wrong impression if they were greeted by beings of a friendly sort, but they also didn’t want to end up dead due to a lack of prudence.

  The wall was made from large, limestone blocks that remained conspicuously free of the vines that so choked the pillars. What the pillars were made of was anyone’s guess—vines, for all they could tell. As they scurried, hunkering like apes around the right edge of the wall, they were surprised to discover that the other three sides of the building were open, the low, copper roof supported by more pillars, one every five feet or so, bringing the total to sixteen.

  The floor of the structure, like the wall, was made of limestone, one solid piece grooved to resemble a chessboard. Andaris did a quick count and was intrigued and somewhat unnerved to discover that it had the correct number of squares. Coincidence? Perhaps, but he didn’t think so. Half the squares, every other square, that is, even boasted a slightly darker hue.

  The entire inside surface of the wall was covered by a mural. Now, they had all seen murals before, even ones as large as this. The thing that made them stop and stare, however, is how and what this one depicted. It had been cleverly painted to make the interior of the building look as though it continued beyond the wall, as though the part in which they now stood only accounted for half.