The Stair Of Time (Book 2)

by William Woodward

  I know what you’re thinking, but don’t worry. You are not king, and Adrianna is not at war. Even so, don’t let Gaven talk you into staying! Provided the timing works as it should, you will find him in a tavern,—big surprise,—called The Roasting Pig. It will be eleven o’clock at night, and Gaven will be deep into his cups,—also a big surprise, eh? This tavern is located on the east side of Endwood, a town two miles southwest of the door.

  The door opens into Eldorana Forest. After you locate Gaven, use the map to find your way back, as the door will become invisible once you go through. The word to make it reappear is “Tilathia.” You must stand directly before the door and say the word loud and clear, enunciating like a Lenoy.

  After you are back to the confounded clockwork stair, the map will lead you topside. Failure is not an option. No matter what it takes, you must exit the way you came in. Good luck! Oh and by the way, the amulet opens the box.

  ***

  Andaris folded the paper, put it reverently into his pack, and whistled. Well, what do ya know about that? he thought.

  I don’t know anything about it! Endollin snapped, startling him. Why should I? If you think I can predict the present, future, and past, merely because I am one of the ancients, then you are sadly mistaken. I am but a whisper of my former self, a shadow without body or light. True, I am still far superior to you. But then that’s not saying much, is it? I have forgotten more than you will ever know, my young friend. Even as I speak I—

  Andaris let go the hilt. He wasn’t in the mood to be patronized by a sword, especially his own. You and Ashel would get along famously, he thought. He had many questions for Endollin, but for the moment was more interested in the map. Hope I’m not supposed to leave the note tacked to the door for the next Andaris. Don’t think I can remember all that, and I don’t have enough parchment to copy it. Strange how much longer it was when I could read it. Before it looked like a single line. Two at the most.

  He sat down with a sigh, wincing at the disgruntled crackling of his joints. From his pack he withdrew first the box and then the amulet, placing them before his bent knees with care.

  It does look like it might fit, he thought, running his forefinger over the silvery perfection of its outer and then inner circles, peering deep into its crimson eye. The ruby was possessed of undeniable beauty, meticulously crafted eons ago by a singularly gifted artisan. It was flawless. Perfect in every way.

  While peering into the inscrutable, multifaceted heart of the thing, Andaris became aware of something, or of someone, peering back. From the other side. It’s like a mirror, he thought, the beginnings of a childlike grin on his face, wonder temporarily softening newly formed lines of hardship. And yet there’s more beyond the surface, much more. It’s like…gazing into eternity.

  At that precise moment, from deep within the heart of the ruby, there came a soft pulse of light. The amulet vibrated gently, almost cooing to him, seeming hungry for his attention. It longs to be held, he realized, the tip of his finger growing pleasantly warm. It pulsed again, this time more brightly, and then again, keeping a regular beat. Andaris felt his heart pulse in time. It calls to me, he thought. Yet it yearns for one thing above all else—to be reunited with the box.

  And so it was with trembling hands that Andaris lifted the amulet and placed it delicately into the waiting lid. There was a bright flash of light, first from the amulet, then from the newly defined seam. Andaris raised his arms and averted his eyes.

  When he looked back, he saw that amulet and box were now one, seeming indelibly affixed, reunited by the ubiquitous hand of fate. The seam between lid and body, the one that had so inconveniently vanished upon entering this place, was once again distinct.

  In a brazen display of uncustomary carelessness, Andaris reached out, took hold of the hasp, and lifted. He was almost disappointed when he found no dog-bird-dragon-monkey thing making ready to burst forth and fly into the air, ridiculous paws dangling in the whirlwind created by the furious flapping of underdeveloped wings. He was heartened, however, to find the pages of the map intact and undamaged—just as he’d left them.

  Adrianna!

  Nearly three days later, after having successfully traversed the inner workings of the confounded clockwork stair, Andaris reached the shiny metal door that, according to the note, would lead him to Adrianna. He climbed the last few steps with a glad heart, not really believing he would make it until he did.

  The door was triangular in shape, silvery surface unmarred by handle or design. “It must activate by touch,” he told the rippled, funhouse reflection of himself. “If not, the note would have said something. I mean, it hasn’t been wrong yet.”

  Feeling a bit winded after his long climb, Andaris took off his pack and had a seat on the landing, making sure his legs were completely clear of the stairs. After all, in this place one never knew when something that ought to be permanently affixed would suddenly go spinning off.

  Following a meager meal of cheese curds and pine nuts, he got to his feet, turned around, and laid his palms against the center of the door, surprised by how cool it felt. Nothing happened. Could he be wrong about the note? Could his future self had left some vital part of the directions out? What a blow that would be. To have come all this way just to—and then, from deep within the metal of the door, he felt a low vibration. The vibration grew in strength, producing a rhythmic hum. Soon, the hum grew so loud that he had to cover his ears.

  Just when he felt sure that he would have to retreat to a safe distance, i.e. go plunging down the steps as though pursued by a horde of shapelings—the door began to waver. And then, along with his perplexed reflection, it disappeared entirely.

  Beyond the portal stood a lush pine forest, interrupted here and there by aspens in full bloom, star-shaped flowers looking ready to take flight, white and green leaves waving in the breeze. A rabbit hopped into and out of view. A robin sang from a high branch. Shafts of golden light shone through the canopy, adding vibrance to the flora below.

  The infernal humming had disappeared along with the door, so Andaris dropped his hands and stepped through, clenched jaw and straight spine making him appear more intimidating than he would have believed, certainly more intimidating than seemed necessary considering the charming nature of the place. But then Andaris had learned a great many lessons of late, hadn’t he? Such as how all too often things were not as they seemed.

  He turned around and, as expected, saw that the doorway had vanished. After checking the note, he cleared his throat, planted his feet, and in a commanding voice said “Tilathia!” doing his best to enunciate like a Lenoy—whatever the heck that meant. The doorway popped back into existence just as his other self had said it would, showing him a triangular view of the confounded clockwork stair.

  Satisfied, he executed a perfect one-eighty and began to walk. Soon he would reach Endwood. He could scarcely wait to see the look on the big man’s face as he came waltzin’ into The Roastin’ Pig like nothin’ had happened. He grinned, took two more jubilant strides forward, and then came to a stumbling halt, a sick feeling souring his good humor.

  He had forgotten something very important. Turning around, he retraced his steps best he could and, using the same authoritative tone, said the command word. This time, nothing happened.

  Okay, don’t panic, he told himself. Could be I’m just not far enough. He took a couple of steps forward and said it again. Still nothing. Perhaps instead of not far enough, he had gone too far. He took a few steps back.

  “Tilathia!” he boomed, putting all his heart into it. To his immense relief, the doorway once again popped into existence, showing him a triangular view of the confounded clockwork stair. Obviously, what he needed now was a marker.

  A brief search of the surrounding terrain yielded a wide variety of reddish-orange rocks. When Andaris had an armload, he arranged them into a broad circle, marking the precise spot where he would stand upon his return. He was glad to see that the doorway did not st
raddle a path, well-trod or otherwise. As it was, the likelihood of the stones being disturbed was remote. Certainly anything was possible, but why borrow trouble when he had so many other things to worry about?

  During the trek from the doorway to Endwood, he periodically placed stone arrows on the ground, and chalk lines on the trees. Looks like a thoroughfare’s going through, he thought as he neared the edge of the forest, crossing his arms and admiring his handiwork with a self-satisfied smile. Just hope no one else happens along. Don’t borrow trouble! he reminded himself.

  Within the hour, Andaris crested a grassy knoll, crown ornamented by a silver-barked chestnut tree, trunk rising from a ring of bright yellow flowers. The contrast was striking, to say the least. The tree looked a thousand years old. The flowers born yesterday.

  Far below lay a broad valley bisected by a slow moving river, a blue ribbon shimmering in the failing light, making its lazy way from north to south with the gentlest of curves. Sprawled along the sandy shores of this river, was a large town with a low stone wall.

  “Endwood,” he whispered, starting down the hill. He would have liked to have rested for a while, to have tarried beneath the spreading limbs of that old chestnut as the sun set behind yonder mountains. But Gaven was waitin’, and soon it would be dark, so on he went.

  Bristlebeard

  Two men wearing ringmail hauberks and grimy leather tunics guarded the main road into town, leaning casually against their spears. A drawbridge was lowered between them, stout timbers bound by thick iron bands.

  The bridge traversed neither moat nor earthwork, simply resting flush atop the grass, great chains rising at forty-five degree angles to the stone wall. As Andaris approached, the guards straightened and crossed their spears, blocking his path.

  “Ho there!” the man on the left bellowed, red beard sprouting in burly tufts from glistening helm. “What business have you in Endwood…and at this hour?”

  Taken somewhat aback, Andaris did his best to look and sound naive. “Umm, well, you see,” he fumbled, “my parents have a farm east of here. It’s been a bad year for growing, so they asked me to come to town to try and find work. I had a mule and a cart, but we got waylaid by some wolves and…the mule didn’t make it.”

  The man stuck out his bristly beard, squinted one eye and said, “Is that so? Well, sounds like a good story, and yet…something smells sour to me. Hmm.” He looked to the other guard, a heavyset man in his late thirties with a face as smooth as a baby’s bottom. “What do you think, Jerald?”

  As if in practiced imitation of his superior, Jerald grimaced, squinted one eye, and replied, “Yeah, I know what you mean. Sour…. Maybe it’s that sword on the farm boy’s hip. Seems kinda fancy, don’t it? More like the sort of thing you’d see on a mercenary? The other one suits him better.”

  The bearded man nodded. “Yeah. And why carry two, anyway? One’s always been enough for us, and we’re soldiers.”

  “There’s also something in the set of his shoulders and tilt of his head. I don’t know…. I don’t like it. I think maybe we ought to take him to the Captain for questioning.”

  Thinking fast, Andaris bowed to them and held out his hands, palms up. “Please…I beg of you! My family is depending on me. If I don’t bring back enough supplies, we won’t make it through the winter. My name is Andaris Rocaren. My father’s name is Edward. My mother’s name is Abby. We grow corn and soybeans. Every year, my father brings what we’re not gonna eat into town to sell. This year there wasn’t any extra, so I came to look for work instead. If you follow my backtrail, you’ll find the wagon. It’s about a day’s ride from here, abandoned by a small stream in Eldorana Forest, painted red with my mule’s blood, as well as one of the wolves. I nicked it pretty good with this…my father’s sword…before the pack ran off.”

  Andaris started to touch the hilt for emphasis, then, thinking better of it, patted the sheath instead. “He gave it to me for protection. I’m not nearly as good with it as he is, but apparently can use it well enough in a pinch, just wish I’d been in time to save poor ol’ Del.”

  He sighed. “Supposedly it’s been in our family for generations, originally forged by my great-great-grandfather, who was a smith by trade. My parent’s place is a two-day ride from here. We live in a three-room cobblestone cottage on top of a hill overlooking a pond stocked with catfish. I have two brothers—one named Blakeland, one named Jorden. Blakeland’s the eldest. I’m the youngest.” He paused to take a breath. Adding details to a lie made it more believable, but over-embellishment had the opposite effect. He prayed he hadn’t gone too far.

  “I’m sure if you check the town records, you’ll find birth announcements for us, as well as a list of merchants who bought corn and beans from my father. He should be fairly well known. He—”

  “All right, all right, we believe you!” Bristlebeard declared, raising his free hand in an effort to make Andaris stop. They had intended to have a little fun, but it was turning out to be more trouble than it was worth. Seeming anxious to be rid of him, they uncrossed their spears, and gestured for him to proceed. “Please, accept our apologies. And…enjoy your stay in Endwood, the grandest town this side of the Shindellin Mountains.” Obviously memorized by rote, this last part was recited with little to no feeling—bereft of civic pride.

  Not wanting to give them the chance to change their minds, Andaris nodded and started through.

  Bristlebeard held up his arm. “There are, of course, no weapons allowed in Endwood. You should know that.”

  Andaris’ heart sank. As rude as the sword had been to him, he was loath to relinquish it. They might as well have decreed that no flesh and blood arms were allowed, for all the reluctance he felt. In the dream, he had sensed a sort of symbiotic connection with the blade. Could it be the link between man and steel had already begun? The thought made him shiver.

  Apparently, his reticence showed, for Bristlebeard frowned and, with a low, warning tone said, “Now, we’re not going to have a problem here, are we? I don’t see why we should. Unless, that is, you’re hiding something.”

  Andaris had to resist the insane urge to draw his newly acquired blade and slay the guards where they stood—something which, given the high profile location, would no doubt prove suicidal. I mean, the unmitigated gall to ask him to be separated, even for a moment, from his…. Almost without realizing it, his palm caressed the hilt.

  Hello Master, Endollin said into his mind. How may I be of assistance? Are these fools bothering you? Do you wish me to relieve them of their innards? I would be more than hap—

  Andaris jerked his hand away, hoping the guards mistook his sudden flush and subsequent perspiration for simple nerves. “Uh, no, it’s fine,” he assured them with a strained grin, unbuckling the belt and surrendering the sword. “I’m just protective of it, that’s all. My father would be crushed if anything…happened to it.”

  “Don’t you worry,” assured Bristlebeard, his voice now sweet as syrup, “we’ll take good care of it for you until you return. You have my word.”

  Andaris flinched when he saw the man touch the silver hilt. But apparently Endollin wasn’t talking, else the man would have recoiled.

  In addition to the Lenoy sword, Andaris handed over his dagger, crossbow, hunting knife, and mundane sword. All the while, the guards nodded and smiled as though to some private joke.

  “Now you stay out of trouble while you’re in town,” Bristlebeard bellowed to his retreating back. “There’s still something that’s not quite right here. It’s nothing I can hold you for, but the city guard will have its eye on you. You can count it!”

  Andaris nodded and waved, walking as fast as he could without seeming to flee. The sooner he was out of sight, the sooner he could stop and get directions to The Roasting Pig.

  Gaven the Magnanimous

  An old wooden sign bearing a rudimentary carving of a pig on a spit hung above a tavern door. A grinning fat man sat beside the spit, gleefully turning the crank, mer
ry eyes ogling all who passed beneath.

  As Andaris drew near, the eyes seemed to follow him, giving him the creeps. Must be the place, he thought, trying to ignore the unease that had crept into his heart.

  Stepping from the cool night into the sultry embrace of the Roasting Pig, he was greeted by a variety of familiar sights, sounds, and smells, the sort which apparently held sway in every tavern in every world—a thought which he found both comforting and depressing. His nostrils filled with the mouth-watering aroma of cooking meat, beneath which lurked the pungent combination of stale beer, sweat, and cheap perfume.

  As though transported from the sign to here, a jovial fat man sat in the center of the tavern, turning a skewered hog over a bed of bright red coals, working a bellows with his right foot to keep the fire hot and the patrons hungry.

  The proprietor of the establishment, perhaps the fat man himself, apparently knew that drunkenness not only made for loose tongues, but also loose purse strings. The place thrummed with activity—coarse laughter occasionally punctuating a discordant chorus of inebriated voices, the general clamor enough to drive out even the most stubborn of thoughts.

  Serving wenches wearing short skirts and low-cut bodices navigated the throng with practiced ease, enduring the lustful leers, crude propositions, and even pinches on their backsides with the sort of subconscious grit that’s usually reserved for battle-hardened veterans—which, in a sense, is exactly what they were.

  Andaris was not accustomed to city life, much less to its seedy underbelly, and thus had to resist the urge to spin about and plunge headlong back into the street, seeking the solace of darkness and solitude. It always called to him, but rarely so fervently…and never by name.

  Just then, rising from the sea of discordia, he heard a familiar, booming laugh. He scanned that corner of the tavern with hopeful eyes. Where is he, he thought, eager grin turning tentative. I mean, he’s not exactly inconspicuous. He shouldn’t be difficult to spot. Hmm. Maybe it’s someone else. No, he decided, there’s no mistaking “that” laugh. He must be here.