There! His opponent lifted his blade at a high angle, ready for another slash—
Jack lunged and thrust his blade towards the man’s neck, stopping with the tip of the scythe-like portion resting on his throat. The sword was not a thrusting weapon, but that tip was still sharp enough to open the man’s neck wide should Jack drive it home.
“You’ve lost,” Jack told him. “Drop your sword.”
The armored man just stared at him, wide-eyed and uncomprehending.
There was silence around them now, and Jack knew that most of the other enemies had fallen. From the corner of his sight, he could see the men in blue ascending the steps, stepping over the bodies of their fallen opponents which were piled there.
Suddenly, a white bolt of unearthly energy pierced the air just over Jack’s head. One of the blue-clad men, most certainly an officer, barked a command. Jack then heard Ralley’s voice behind him, answering in the same strange language.
“Jack,” Ralley said, coming up behind him. “He’s asking us to put down our weapons. I think we should.” He placed his rapier on the ground, and one of the blue-clad soldiers snatched it up.
“What about him?” Jack nodded towards his vanquished foe, his sword still held to the man’s throat.
The defeated man’s eyes scanned from side to side, as if taking in the situation. His sword dropped from his hand, and he whispered: “Ka den, aen Pai Lanaya tu.”
“Jack!” Ralley shouted, “Pull away yo—“
But it was too late. The man jerked forward with a grunt, slicing open his own throat on the razor-sharp end of Jack’s blade. Drops of blood from the resulting spray settled onto Jack’s scarlet jacket, blending with the color of the garment. The man fell limp to the ground, his eyes still wide, seeming to ask an unseen someone for forgiveness.
“What did he say?” Jack asked, his voice hoarse with shock. He had known men to be fearless in battle, to throw themselves into certain death even, but this … This was new, and terrible.
“I die now for the goddess, Lanaya,” Ralley whispered.
Lanaya.
Whomever or whatever she was, the man had feared her—and loved her. Jack had heard both emotions in his final utterance.
Jack dropped his bloodied hook-sword and turned with Ralley to face the blue-clad soldiers, who were now only a few paces away.
Their leader was an exceptionally short man, the top of his head lower than the height of Jack’s shoulders. The kilt and sash he wore left enough of his chest bare to show a body that was slim, yet tightly muscled, with leathery skin of an almost ebony shade. His head was bald, and his sharp nose and tiny dark eyes gave him the look of a predatory bird. His own men were all much taller than he, yet Jack could see that they treated him with deference.
The bald man held one of the white-light hand-guns aimed in their direction, his thumb resting on a nub on the underside that was surely the weapon’s trigger.
Ralley raised his hands up, showing empty palms, and spoke: “Xai Ashaon, ka xatha Damerya de, Phaedia Taxamia ueron. Ka si Ralley Quenn. Ka se da’ta se.”
The bald man just growled, and motioned his men towards where Jack and Ralley stood.
“What did you say?” Jack asked.
“I told him that I am here to find his lady, that this is what Oberkion intended.”
“Oberkion?”
“Jack, it is difficult to explain. But he’s on her side. He should understand.”
One of the men took Jack’s arm in a vise-like grip, while two others grabbed Ralley’s shoulders.
Suddenly, Ralley was trembling, his lips pursed in worry. When he spoke again, the commanding tone was gone, his voice choked; he was a nervous and naïve youth once more.
“Jack, I never planned on this,” he said. “We came all this way, and I never allowed for …”
“For what?” Jack asked.
Ralley sighed, and nodded towards the scowling, bald-headed officer. “I don’t think he believes me. I’m sorry, but … Ahh, I’ve got to think.”
Ralley began humming some dreary melody, bobbing his head to the tune and wriggling his fingers, as if this might speed his thoughts.
Then, the little bald man barked an order, and the soldiers tugged them both forward, leading them up the valley towards an uncertain fate …
-8-
Ed Bocke floated in semi-consciousness for a long while, listening to a tinkling melody that was soothing in its simplicity. His face and chest were lavished with warm caresses, and there seemed to be no reason to stir. He had never felt so much at peace.
It was not until the pain came again, spiking through his head like a cold iron needle, that he was finally forced to open his eyes.
A little girl looked down at him, her big brown eyes wide with curiosity. Her hair hung around her face like a golden veil, and her mouth was half-open as if she was about to speak, the parted pink lips revealing tiny, delicate teeth.
“Little girl,” Ed said. “Who else … uhh … your parents, where am I …”
“I’m not a little girl,” she said in a squeaky voice, and closed her eyes, as if embarrassed. “I’m sixteen years of age.”
“Okay.” Ed breathed in deeply, tried to focus. The hurt in his head throbbed hard, threatening to scramble his thoughts. “Who are … parents? I’m Constable Bocke, I need to tell …”
“I’m Julea Crandolph,” the girl said. “My father is Guardian Crandolph.” She said this last bit without a hint of pride in her voice, as if she had simply announced that her father was the village butcher.
“Guardian?” Ed tried to pick his head up from the pillow, but a wave of dizziness hit him. He sucked in a breath and tried again.
This time, he was able to look up and around the room. It was definitely the domain of a wealthy female. There was lace everywhere, bottles and boxes of every color, a painting of trumpeting girl-angels dancing on a cloud in their gilded frame.
The music came from a music box set on top of a chest of drawers, two figures twirling upon it in a mechanical dance. Next to the chest of drawers was a case lined with books—though Ed’s vision was blurred and he could not make out the titles on the volumes. The single small window above the book-case had iron bars set on the other side of the glass.
“I told him I’d watch over you,” she said. “He wanted Reverend Mott to do it, but I asked him to let me. It’s a lady’s work, tending a wounded hero.”
“Hero?” Ed asked groggily.
“Well … " she looked down for a moment, embarrassed. Patches of red bloomed on her pale cheeks. “I didn’t use that exact word with father, but … You went into the cave, right? You saw the column of light, and you knew you had to investigate. You would not let yourself be … umm … discouraged.”
“Yeah, I guess I did.” He didn’t bother to tell her that he had only entered the cave because a screeching thing with a skull’s grin had been chasing him at the time.
“What is your first name, Constable Bocke?” she asked, blinking rapidly, those sad brown eyes holding some expectation that he didn’t understand.
“Edwyn,” he said.
“Edwyn,” she repeated slowly, as if savoring the sound of it, “you have a very dark and stormy countenance.”
“What?”
She fumbled for something on a table beside the bed. He tried to sit up to see what she was doing, and this time he succeeded without too much dizziness. The covers fell down as he rose, and he realized that his chest was bare.
Julea lifted an opened book from the table. Next to it was a small bowl filled with water, with a wet cloth soaking in it. To his embarrassment, Ed realized that the warm sensation he’d felt earlier had been Julea bathing him.
She flipped through the book to a certain page, then placed it in Ed’s blanketed lap to show him. There was a picture in the book there, a woodcut illustration showing a man in plate armor like that worn many centuries past. The visor of his helm was raised, and he wore a stern expression that
was almost a scowl, his dark hair billowing out from the helmet around his face. He stood in the cobwebbed corridor of some ancient castle, where a hooded spectre was prepared to spring at him from behind a pillar. At the bottom of the picture was the caption: “He had a dark and stormy countenance.”
“It’s called ‘The Exiled Knight and the Damsel,’” she explained, pointing at the book. “It’s a romance. I’ve always adored romances. The knight is trapped in the castle, but his hard heart is melted by the love of the young maiden, and he rescues her from her evil uncle, who is a necromancer.” She shuddered as she said this, as if the fiction held some special truth for her.
“The Stefanites banned these books,” she continued, and sighed. “Father doesn’t like them, but he lets me keep them because they were my mother’s.”
“Do you think I look like the knight?” Ed asked, trying to understand what she was getting at. He could see only the slightest resemblance himself … perhaps the dark hair was similar?
“Well,” she said, “you might not directly resemble him, but in spirit … “
She went silent when she heard a man clearing in his voice in the hallway outside. The door to the room swung inward, and a man in the black robes of a Stefanite appeared, an awkward smile on his chiseled face.
Guardian Crandolph.
His eyes were a deep red color, far beyond bloodshot.
Almost … demonic.
Ed shuddered. But there had to be some explanation? He’d heard that the Guardian had not been feeling well as of late.
Ed nodded to the Guardian, suddenly remembering that he had wanted to speak to the man about what he had witnessed outside. He sucked in a deep breath and fought against his nerves. He had to report what he had seen. Unless the Guardian already knew?
“I am glad that you are well, Constable,” the Guardian said. “You seem to have taken a bit of a spill.”
“Yes, Sir,” Ed said. “I am honored to finally meet you, Sir. I need to explain how—“
“Indeed! I would like to talk to you about that—in good time, of course. When you feel a bit better. For now, just know that you have done well in your investigations and should be proud.”
Proud? The Guardian held his odd smile, and Ed wondered if he were patronizing him.
“Thank you … sir,” Ed choked out, embarrassed by his own nervousness. He tried not to stare at the Guardian’s eyes, but he couldn’t help it.
“Why are you—? Oh, my eyes.” The Guardian chuckled. “I was using a harsh solution to clean some old family silver. Too delicate a matter to leave to the servants, you see. But I splashed some of the acid in my eyes. Have to sleep with a plaster across my face, but they should heal up soon.”
“Father,” Julea said, “can we get Constable Bocke something to eat?”
“Of course, dear child. In fact, Constable—why don’t you join us for a late dinner? Reverend Mott will lead you down in a moment. Julea, come with me now, please.”
“But father,” she protested, “I need to help him. Please?”
The Guardian shook his head. “It wouldn’t be proper, child. I am sure that the Constable can get dressed on his own.”
She nodded meekly, but her desperate eyes never left Ed as her father escorted her out the door.
Ed found his shirt and jacket on a nearby chair, and tugged them on. He used his fingers to straighten his hair, watching himself in the mirror which hung opposite the door to the hall. Suddenly, the door creaked open. In the mirror he could see that someone in black robes stood there, waiting half inside the room.
“Err … Reverend Mott?” Ed asked.
The newcomer stepped into the room, and raised an arm to point at Ed.
His hand was skeletal, with pink strands of muscle barely covered by shreds of grey flesh. His hood slipped back, and Ed could see the too-wide grin of his corpse-like face.
Ed’s chest clenched up, his legs quivered, and he gasped feebly, paralyzed by fear.
Ed watched in the mirror as the deathly finger curled up, beckoning to him, and the thing hissed:
“The t-t-table of God is ssset for thee, and thou art late to come into Hisss presenshh. Do not mock Hisss grayshhh!”
“Rutting hell,” Ed whispered.
-9-
Jack and Ralley walked down the length of the narrow valley in silence, blue-clad soldiers flanking them. Jack peered back over his shoulder. There was a larger group of soldiers behind them, holding their guns up threateningly. Jack imagined that he could feel the silver needles of the strange weapons poking at his back.
They were both disarmed, and at the mercy of these foreign warriors. However, Ralley seemed to think they were allies … Jack could only trust in his friend’s judgment.
As they marched along, Jack took the opportunity to survey their surroundings. On either side of the valley, man-made arches of limestone were set at varying heights into the sides of the sloping cliffs. Under the arches were heavy stone doors, decorated with exotic symbols and silhouettes of men and animals.
“Are they tombs?” Jack asked, nodding to a nearby arch and the door beneath.
“Yes,” Ralley said. “Those glyphs represent different families.”
Despite the desert heat, Jack shivered. “I never did like graveyards. A bit too superstitious for an old soldier, eh?”
Ralley did not smile at the comment. He was lost in some sad contemplation, his head bent and eyes cast down.
“I also grow weary of marching,” Jack said, really only talking to himself now. “Too accustomed to riding. I miss my dear Ermaline already.”
He hoped that the horse would be safe. He had left her in the small stable in the rear of Ralley’s cottage; undoubtedly, someone would be searching for them and would soon discover her there. Even the Grenadiers, brutes though they were, knew the value of champion steed, so he doubted they would harm her. The thought that one of them might try to ride her, however, filled him with rage. He tried to put the thought aside for now.
Nothing I can do about it here and now, not while I am a prisoner in this strange desert.
Soon, the valley widened, the floor sloped up, and they found themselves climbing to another plateau. Here, several of the flying machines—or flyers, as Jack had begun to think of them—sat waiting for flight, resting on slender landing-legs.
There were three of them in all. The two flanking craft were of the half-circle shape that Jack had seen before. The hulls were of white-painted wood, with iron fastenings and gold trim. Real gold, Jack was sure. Each had an oval crest inlaid its side, showing a falcon with a bee in its beak and a reed in its claws.
The flyer in the middle was larger than the others—a long wedge shape—and it lacked the silver needle of a gun on the front. A canopy made from many small panes of glass welded onto an iron frame which protected the seats inside. One of the blue-clad soldiers came forward and raised the hinged canopy so that it tilted back, while another man motioned for them to climb up into the craft.
There were iron rungs set into the side of the hull, and they used these as a ladder to climb aboard. They sat down on a narrow leather couch in the back of the craft, alongside one of the guards. In front, one soldier took a seat behind a series of bronze levers—the pilot, Jack guessed. Beside him, the little bald officer slid into place, still scowling.
“Is he a high-ranking officer?” Jack asked, nodding towards the bald one.
“He’s the Xai Ashaon,” Ralley explained. “Head of the royal guard, protector of the monarch’s family and city. He is my beloved’s guardian. This is why it is tragic that he will not listen to me.”
“No sign of Aubren?” Jack asked. “They didn’t mention him?”
Ralley shook his head. “I told the Xai Ashaon that we’d had another man with us, but he says they haven’t seen any other light-skinned strangers.”
Jack sighed. “When I saw Aubren running towards those black flyers, I had a feeling he was done for. Ah well.”
Ral
ley looked up in surprise. “You actually sound sorry to lose him?”
Jack shrugged. “Strange, I know, but I always thought …” It was painful to explain, and he felt childish, but he wanted to be honest. “Well, I had a feeling that, one day, it would come down to a fight between he and I. A certainty—or so I thought.”
“I was also certain about things, Jack,” Ralley sighed. “Certain that if I got here, to her world, I would able to reach my love, save her. But now, if these soldiers intend to keep us under guard—what can we do? I don’t know how much time we have, Jack. How much time she has left.”
Jack leaned close and placed a hand on Ralley’s shoulder. “Ralley, we will find a way to convince them. There’s a unique situation here. Your bond with your lady is almost … palpable. It drives you, yes? That’s how you can speak their language, how you had the strength and speed to fight off all those attackers on the steps?”
Ralley nodded. “There was a fire inside me. But it fails me now. She is weak and I cannot see the way forward.” he sighed. “Perhaps something in me is lacking after all.”
There was a sudden sensation of rising. The pilot pulled down the canopy over them with one hand, and turned up latches locking it into place. His other hand slid a slender bronze shaft slowly down into a socket. The further he pressed it down, the higher the craft rose.
Jack forgot everything else, savoring the sensation of flight. He gasped as the cliffs fell away beneath them. Before long they were high enough that he could see down to a bend in the great river miles away.
Yet his observant nature did not fail him, and in a moment his gaze returned to the pilot’s hands on the controls. The man adjusted a tapered bronze lever, and now another … As he did so, Jack heard a faint whistling noise. There was a flicker of white light on one side of the craft, then on the other, and then a persistent blaze of brilliance behind them and the flyer surged forward, pressing Jack back into his seat.
Battle Across Worlds Page 5
