Time Shards

by Dana Fredsti

  Circling carefully around pools, fallen logs, and tree trunks, Cam lost all sense of direction and time. He might have been wandering for one hour or many, for all he knew. The strange fern-trees loomed over him, casting sinister shadows and blocking the sun more with every step he took into their canopy. The constant drone of chirping insects, the calls of the frogs and of less familiar creatures, and the thick, rich air all wove a spell over him. Increasingly he felt as if he had entered an enchanted labyrinth.

  Gods and spirits lived in all the pools and trees of home, but he did not know the names of the forest gods that dwelt in the sacred places of this realm. He touched the tree trunks with humble reverence and offered their spirits quiet words of honor and supplication. If they accepted his offerings, they gave no sign.

  He forged on.

  Cam recalled the old stories of those who had entered the fey world, and returned to the mortal realm to find that years had passed, though it seemed like days to the traveler. If he came across a damsel or lord of the Sídhe, he would have to remember to be courteous, but to steadfastly decline to eat or drink anything they offered. Otherwise, when he returned, he might find he had been away for a hundred years. Or perhaps he would never be allowed to return at all. The ways of the fair folk were strange and unpredictable.

  A sharp pang struck him as he realized it had been Kentan who had told him so many of those stories. He caught his breath, fighting back tears that threatened to burst out. The sorrow was so strong it made his chest and limbs ache.

  He was utterly alone now.

  A blood-chilling war cry split the air. The Catuvellauni had followed him. Without thought, Cam instantly cut hard to the left, splashing across the shallows of the closest pond. His pursuers yelled and howled like wolves after a wounded stag. He leapt over mossy stones and decaying tree-fern trunks. The warriors kept pace, clearing each hurdle with the same ease. He did not dare look back, but from their howls he knew they were closing in.

  In the gloomy depths of these otherworldly woods, Cam could barely see the obstacles in his path as he plunged ahead in desperation. He slipped around a brace of ferns—and ran into a dead end of deep water.

  “Nev Kawgh!” he hissed in surprise.

  He spun around and looked for a way past his pursuers. There was no escape.

  With a desperate war cry of his own, the unarmed youth charged toward them, but the lead scout hurled his short sword at Cam’s feet. The whirling iron blade struck him heavily in the shins, pommel first. Cam tripped over the blade and tumbled down to the damp earth. He looked up to see the man draw his dagger and raise it high as he made a mighty leap for Cam, howling in triumph.

  His victory cry was cut short as a massive shape thundered out of the dark. Mighty jaws snatched the man out of the air like a lark catching a kicking grasshopper on the fly.

  Cam stared in disbelief. The thing was taller than a grown man by twice over, and its hulking body wider than a war chariot, carried by four legs thick as ancient tree trunks. Hungry eyes like slick wet river stones gleamed in a great green scaly head larger even than a cave bear’s—more like a boulder—with a mouth full of teeth like spearheads. Its backbone was a ridge of pikestaffs connected by a thick web of skin, almost like a sail.

  A dragon! Kych-an-broc!

  The gigantic beast’s growl almost drowned out the screams of the warrior being chewed apart by those horrible jagged teeth. In a few shakes of the beast’s head, what little was left of the man fell to the ground in ragged red chunks.

  The hungry monster turned its head to the other warrior and roared again. Cornered, the Catuvellauni backed up until he was hard against a thick tree trunk, fear-frozen. Again and again he slashed out with his blade, striking against the thing’s thick bony skull as it closed in on him.

  Still sprawled out on the marshy ground, Cam saw his chance to escape while the dragon was fixed on its new prey. He rose to a crouch, preparing to take to his heels and be gone before the monster even realized he was there. Yet he could not move, transfixed as he was by the sight of the other man struggling for his life. In that moment, he knew he could not leave him to fight alone.

  No, he thought. Not even an enemy. Not even my brother’s killer. He would take his vengeance, but the beast would not take it for him. Taking up the sword that downed him, he rose to his feet.

  This is it.

  With a harsh battle cry, he charged the dragon. The monster made no indication that it heard him, but remained fixated on its prey, like a cat with a cornered mouse. The Catuvellauni was still desperately on the attack, but the creature kept snapping at him hungrily.

  Running up to the great beast, Cam reversed the grip on the weapon and took it in both hands. Raising it overhead, he plunged it down with all his strength into a spot on the beast’s skull. The sword bit deep, and he put his back into forcing the iron blade down even further, hoping for a death blow.

  No such luck.

  The monster roared in pain and reared up, twisting its massive head. Still grasping the hilt with both hands, Cam was first lifted and then shaken off, thrown far through the air to crash with a painful thud that pounded the breath out of him. The dragon continued to stamp and twist, with every step hammering the ground like a mountain giant’s fist. One gargantuan taloned foot came down on the Catuvellauni, crushing the man’s leg with a sickening crunch and pinning him to the ground. Noticing its prey again, the dragon ceased its thrashings and proceeded to eat the screaming man in huge, leisurely bites.

  Cam caught his wind once more, but tiny bright blue fairies swam before his eyes and played dreadful piping music in his ears. He staggered to his feet, but no sooner had he regained his footing than the dragon’s tail swept the ground and slapped him like a fly.

  Merciful blackness took him before he hit the ground.

  * * *

  What was left of Gavin reminded Amber of the colored cross-sections in her anatomy textbook. Organs, muscles, bones, sinews all in place and oddly bloodless, as if he’d been cut by a giant razor blade that had cauterized everything as it sliced through his body.

  The smell of charred flesh wafted up, reminding her perversely of summer picnics and barbecued steak.

  “Oh god.”

  Before she could stop it, her breakfast came back up in a violent surge. She managed to grab the side of the punt, hanging over the rim just in time to prevent her vomit from splashing onto Gavin’s remains. Even after there was nothing left inside to throw up, Amber dry-heaved for several minutes, then let her body slowly slide back into the boat. She rested her forehead against the wooden seat, waiting for the dizziness and nausea to subside.

  She had no idea how long she remained in that position. Maybe if she stayed there long enough, she thought, she’d wake up and the smell of charred meat would be gone.

  Because this has to be a nightmare, right?

  It had to be. There was no other explanation.

  She waited for the odor of human barbecue to go away and for the hard wood under her forehead to morph into soft pillows. Neither of these things occurred, however, and Amber became gradually aware that the former heat of the day had been replaced by noticeably cooler weather. A chill breeze raised goose bumps on her bare arms and legs and she shivered.

  I should get inside, get more clothes on.

  That thought, combined with an even colder gust of air upgraded from breeze to wind, finally convinced Amber to take stock of her surroundings. Her next thought was to call someone for help.

  Reaching out one arm, she pulled her backpack toward her and fumbled in one of the outer pockets for her iPhone. With shaking fingers she hit the home button, punching in her passcode. The screen lit up and she used the touchscreen to pull up the phone app.

  Do they use 9-1-1 in the UK? She stared at the screen for a minute, then remembered, No. They use 9-9-9.

  She hit the numbers and held the phone up to one ear.

  Nothing.

  No ring tone, no mechanical
voice telling her there was no signal. Just silence. She looked at the screen. Her battery charge was at ninety-seven percent. The words No Signal sat in the upper left-hand corner where bars should be.

  Still, there should at least be a ring tone, right?

  She set the phone on low power mode before putting it away, and pushed herself up to a sitting position, taking care to move slowly just in case the dizziness hit her again. She tried not to look at Gavin’s remains or to breathe too deeply, instead focusing on her immediate surroundings, trying to center herself.

  Her heart clenched, her stomach tightened, and she nearly curled up into a fetal ball.

  Gone was the peaceful Thomas Gainsborough landscape of willow and oak trees, the gentle river with sloping banks, and the songbirds. In its place were what seemed like endless miles of stark grasslands, the pale yellow grass tipped with frost. Overhead the atmosphere roiled and twisted in a meteorological dogfight. The blue sky was swiftly changing now to a slate gray, clouds heavy with the threat of rainfall. The only sound was that of the wind rustling through the tall vegetation.

  For the first time, she noticed that the punt had also been sliced in two, the edges shaved off with a supernatural perfection. The other half of the little boat was just… gone.

  Amber shook her head. Maybe if she shook it hard enough, things would snap back to reality as she knew it. All the motion did, however, was make her want to throw up again. She sat still, her brain constantly trying to make sense of what she saw.

  The only trace of her former surroundings lay directly next to and behind her. Remnants of the riverbank bracketed what was left of the punt. Several willows still stood, though one was only half a tree, bisected directly through its trunk from top to bottom in a perfect split. The other half had just vanished, much like Gavin and the punt. The banks ran about twenty feet behind her, then ended sharply, as if the river had been punched out with a Godzilla-sized cookie cutter. Muddy ground and a few puddles were all that remained of the river itself.

  In front of her, it was as if the river had never existed.

  A mournful howl off in the distance broke the silence. Amber sat bolt upright.

  Wolves? Are there wolves in England?

  The howl was answered by another sound, deep and guttural. More like a roar.

  Primordial, maybe. Amber didn’t know where that thought came from, and she didn’t want to think about it. She needed to find her way back to Romford and normality.

  Another gust of wind blew across the grass, the cold cutting through the thin fabric of her dress. She looked around and spied the picnic hamper next to her feet. Maybe there was a blanket inside, something she could drape around her shoulders until she reached the hotel and the convention. Sure enough, a cheerful blue and white checked flannel cloth was tucked into one side, cushioning two cut-crystal champagne flutes, a bottle of Prosecco, and a bottle of sparkling apple juice, as well. Gavin had covered all the bases.

  As she reached for the cloth, she noticed Gavin’s Han Solo jacket on the floor where it had fallen off the picnic hamper. The sight of it hit her like an electric shock, and she stood there momentarily paralyzed, unable to move or look away as the reality of his death hit her. She caught her breath with a ragged gasp, sorrow and fear bubbling up inside her, eyes welling with unshed tears.

  With grim determination, she forced both her tears and emotions back down, then slowly, deliberately, she stooped to pick up the jacket, donning it over her bare arms and shoulders. The little epaulets of her costume made the jacket stick up a bit at the shoulders, but now wasn’t the time to worry about how she looked.

  I should take the food with me. The thought came out of nowhere. Her more conscious reaction was, That’s just silly. I’ll be back at the hotel soon. Why would I need it?

  Then she looked in the direction of where she thought Romford should be, back the way she and Gavin had traveled on the river, at the expanse of grass and nothing else. Without questioning her reasons, she rummaged in the hamper and pulled out everything edible, including two carefully wrapped sandwiches, cheese, apples, packets of chips—

  They call them crisps here, she thought vaguely.

  —and two eight-ounce plastic bottles of water. There was even a large Cadbury Fruit and Nut bar. All of this went into her backpack, along with the Prosecco, a couple of forks, a sharp knife, and another linen napkin.

  Again a howl rose above the wind, this time joined by several others in a lusty chorus that sent chills up Amber’s spine. She knew wolves got a bad rap, and didn’t usually eat people… but what if they were hungry? Also, she didn’t think wolves were the only wildlife lurking out there.

  She hurriedly zipped shut the main compartment of her backpack, then opened it again, grabbing the knife. Just in case. Then she looked at her Codex staff where she’d leaned it against the seat. The body of the staff was painted wood—not the sturdiest weapon she could ask for—but it was four feet long and the axe-shaped blades around the orb were aluminum. Four feet between her and whatever might be out there seemed like better odds than a close encounter with only a cheese knife for protection.

  The knife went back in the backpack, which she zipped shut and slid onto her shoulders. She picked up the picnic blanket, thinking to wrap it around her for extra protection against the cold. She held it against her cheek. It felt very warm and comforting.

  She turned to look at Gavin. His face was still frozen in that look of surprise, his hands open and empty. It hurt her heart to look at him, so she quickly and gently draped the blanket over his partial corpse. It was the least she could do.

  Then she stood, swaying unsteadily for a minute as she steeled herself to leave the scant shelter of the punt and step out into a landscape that shouldn’t be there.

  You can do this, she told herself. You have to do this.

  Amber decided to climb over the side of the punt, unable to bring herself to step over Gavin’s remains even though it would have been an easier exit. She scraped a knee on the wooden rim as she clambered over, but managed to keep her balance as she dropped the few feet to the ground.

  Her low-heeled sandals immediately sunk into mud, the ground squelching beneath her feet as water seeped up between her toes. Thankfully she’d missed stepping on one of the boiled fish littering the riverbed, but still…

  Ugh.

  She carefully picked her way out of the mud and climbed onto the firmer ground of the grasslands that started where the punt had been halved. If she stared hard enough in that direction, she thought she could see splashes of green and brown on the horizon, maybe trees and buildings.

  The chorus of howls started up again, followed by another one of those deep guttural roars.

  Definitely closer than before.

  Amber started walking toward the green and brown shapes in the distance. Maybe when she reached them, things would be back to normal.

  6

  Cam groaned. His eyelids fluttered, once, twice, and cracked open. There was nothing to see but green-tinged haze.

  How long have I been here?

  He thought about wiggling his fingers, then realized one arm was stretched out and the other twisted at an awkward angle beneath him. He untangled himself and tried to rise up on his elbows.

  That was a mistake. The dragon’s foot had come down and crushed Cam’s skull like an eggshell, smearing its contents in a messy streak along the ground. Surely that was the only explanation he could conceive for the pain he now felt.

  Kych-an-broc…

  He clutched his head and groaned again. To his surprise, his skull was perfectly intact, yet somehow unseen chariot wheels were rolling back and forth over it, and he could see the fairies again. Jangled memories flittered off like moon-moths, and he couldn’t think straight. He had to stack his thoughts one painful word at a time, like piling stones on a cairn.

  Where am I?

  What happened?

  The woods…

  He had been in the woods—a
strange sort of woods— and someone had been chasing him… Slowly his vision cleared, and he saw he was splayed out in a patch of fern. Huge fern. But why? A loud bellowing echoed from nearby, and the sound quickly shepherded back all his meandering thoughts in vivid flashes of memory.

  The Leagean.

  Kentan.

  The Catuvellauni.

  The dragon!

  The punch-drunk spell instantly sobered, and he swiftly ducked his head back down into the undergrowth, then peered out to spy where the beast was now. He rose to a crouch and cautiously parted the ferns to take a look. Nothing was moving but the scurrying lizards and flying insects. The dragon’s thrashing had stamped out a new clearing at the water’s edge. The rich red ground was pockmarked with its clawed footprints, all filled with dark pools of the scouts’ blood. Tattered bits of their gory remains lay scattered about.

  Cam stood, silent and watching, poised to sprint or fight. The tracks led off into the deep pool that had blocked his escape. It still rippled from the beast’s passage. He remained still, listening carefully as, somewhere in the distance, a bellowing roar sounded the dragon’s departure.

  Only then did he move on.

  * * *

  Directions were capricious and treacherous things here in this strange and murky realm of the Sídhe folk. Cam swatted away another unduly large insect that buzzed around his head as he slogged further through the swampy Otherworld.

  He had been sure he would have come upon some fabulous palace or ring-fortress before now. His plan was simple. He would stand before the fey lords and ladies, behaving most courteously, and get their help. He bit his lip in determination, trying to think of the right words to say.

  “My lords and ladies of the fair folk,” he practiced aloud, “I beg your forgiveness and grace, and do come before you in all humility and in great and desperate need. I… I would not dare…”

  What was it the nobles would say? The words came to him.

  “I would not dare trespass against your custom or your realm, nor intrude upon the peace of your court. Yet so urgent is my mission and dire our circumstance, I but ask your aid to bring me swiftly back home.” He paused and mulled over his words, then continued. “Even now, our enemies, the Catuvellauni, have broken the peace and cross the Bright River to make war upon us. I must warn my people, my lords and ladies. Will you help me?”