Time Shards

by Dana Fredsti

  Soon thereafter the meadowlands ceased to dominate the landscape. Cam passed through other odd patches of terrain, some no bigger than a pace or two across, others stretching as far as the eye could see. Dry dead grass. Forests of birch, pine, hazel, oak, or elm. Unnatural tarns of brackish green water. Orphaned segments of rivers and streams.

  There were signs of men, as well. Tilled soil without fence or a farmer. Strands of cobblestone. He saw blasted, scorched regions of choking ash and tortured blackened stumps. It was as if the spirits of a dozen different seasons had all set down on a different scrap of land and claimed it for their own.

  The sun was nearing dusk when, at the top of a low ridge, a standing structure caught his eye, off in the distance. A post. It looked like a marker. Which meant—

  “People!”

  He ran the entire way to the top of the rise, and found a square sheet of tin mounted on a pole of metal. The workmanship was very fine, the panel’s edges perfectly straight and even. He walked around to the front of the marker. It bore a message, painted in a bright blue, with thick white letters painstakingly and perfectly written in the script of the Romani.

  DUAL CARRIAGEWAY

  2 MILES AHEAD

  Cam spoke and read Latin passably well, but these words puzzled him. He recognized the second-to-last one—a miles was a foot soldier. He knew “duo” meant two, and “ala” meant armpit, but what did “dual” mean? “Carri” was a wagon—was “age” short for agellus, a little plot of land?

  Whoever wrote this is a terrible scribe, he thought, or his Latin is even worse than mine. The rest of it baffled him as well. Some of the marks looked like Greek letters or runes of the Northmen. What about the fourth word, “ahead”? “Ahenea” meant bronze, didn’t it? And “ad” meant “toward.”

  Cam chewed his knuckle and tried to put it all together:

  “Two armpits? Wagon-field—or field-wagon? Wagon-something… Bronze to the foot soldier?”

  If he had to guess, it seemed to be announcing that someone had awarded a foot soldier a double-armpit-wide bronze field-wagon, whatever that was. The more he thought about it, the less sense it made… and what was this bizarre message doing here? He scratched his head and looked around for clues.

  There. A strange road lay below him, on the other side of the little rise. One end stretched away to his left, and the other disappeared around a bend to his right.

  Cam trotted down the rise to investigate more closely. It wasn’t a Roman road, made of stone slabs and cement. This had a smooth black surface, with long white lines painted along either side, and a broken white line going right down the middle. He had never seen anything like it.

  Taking the left-hand route, he followed it straight for a few hundred paces before it ended in yet more grassy meadow, again sliced off with the same eerie precision he’d been seeing all day since emerging from the Otherworld. Crouching down, he could make out the split between the meadow grass and the grass growing alongside the black road.

  Cam rose and turned the other way. Walking back, he saw that the sign had been placed so that it could be read by passers-by traveling in this direction. Maybe that meant he was headed the right way to find some answers.

  His soft deerskin boots barely made a sound as he strode down the strange black road. Rounding the bend, he caught sight of a boxy obstruction up ahead. It looked more than anything like a large armored wagon, halted upon the road and painted as bright yellow as a wagtail’s feathers. He approached it cautiously, noting that the body and roof were made of metal instead of wood.

  All four sides of the strange wagon had square openings, clad with sheets of some material much like polished horn, but perfectly transparent, clear as spring water. The wagon’s wheels were short, fat black things surrounding a core of metal. He didn’t know what they were made from, but it wasn’t any material he recognized.

  Cam looked through the windows and had a shock of surprise. Two figures were inside, their backs to him.

  “Hey!” he called out, raising an arm. “Hello in there!”

  They gave no response.

  Cam called out a few more times, in both Briton and Latin, to no avail. Realizing he had his hand on his sword, he lifted it and kept both hands up as he came closer.

  The wagon was adorned with all kinds of curious little metal trimmings and panels of crimson and amber. He approached the side of the cart, walking slowly and trying to give no show of hostile intent. There were lines of green Roman lettering painted on the side, the largest of them reading TELECOM. Another word that made no sense.

  “Can you hear me in there?” Cam kept his tone gentle while he rounded what had to be the front of the cart. “I’m no bandit. I’m only a traveler like…”

  His words trailed off mid-sentence as he came face to face with the corpses of two men. Both stared at him unseeing, faces frozen in wide-eyed rictuses of horror.

  Something massive had smashed head-on into the wagon. The impact had shattered the clear substance in the front window, and crumpled the metal body so badly that there was no sign left of the shaft or the harness for the horses.

  Both men wore odd tunics of a style Cam didn’t recognize. One had a tight curly mane and skin as dark as Cam’s own hair. When he was in Gaul, he had heard stories of Nubians and their faraway country, but never thought he would ever see one in the flesh. The other was red-haired and pale, either a Celt or a Northman from Skandia, beyond the Dead Sea. Whatever impact destroyed the wagon had also left the men with horrendous chest wounds, as though each had been impaled by a stake carved from a good-sized tree.

  “Kych-an-broc,” he murmured softly, both awestruck and horrified by the wreckage and human remains. The thought of the strength and size needed to cause such destruction made the hairs rise on the nape of his neck. Vivid memories sprang to mind—the terrible thrashing tail, the chomping mouth full of dagger-teeth, and the blood-roar of the dragon…

  Suddenly he wished he was anywhere but this place.

  I should try to find the horses that pulled this wagon, he thought. If he could coax one into letting him ride, he’d make better time cross-country. He turned and raised a hand to his brow to scan the landscape.

  Up ahead the strange road continued straight into a stray bank of mist, and Cam spied shapes moving around in the gray gloom. But they were too large to be horses. Oxen, perhaps. One of the big draft animals wandered a few steps closer out of the fog and looked over at him.

  Not an ox.

  Not oxen at all.

  These were much larger animals. If an ox could stand on another’s shoulders, they would still not be as tall, nor would two oxen standing side by side be as wide as one of these beasts, these cattle for the giants.

  More appeared out of the fog, at least a dozen or so, and each one’s skull sported a massive bony frill with two long fearsome horns, protruding from the forehead. The horns were as long as two-handed great-swords, and a thick, shorter one jutted out just above the birdlike, beaked mouth. Their rust-colored skin was thick and pebbly, their huge limbs and flanks like boulders come to life.

  The closest turned to face Cam, staring at him intently. The great beast snorted, and stamped its foot, shaking its head at him.

  The horns were stained a dark brown.

  Cam’s legs, until now frozen in place, took a step back without his permission, smacking into the hard embrace of the wagon’s crushed remains. More of the gigantic beasts emerged, until all of them faced him, the bigger ones forming a wall around a smaller one. The bull raised up and bellowed a warning challenge.

  Then it charged.

  “Kawgh!” he cried.

  The horned monster rushed forward with unexpected speed, pounding down the road straight toward Cam. His legs failed—fear rooted him in place. He reached out his arms and realized he was hemmed in on either side, caught in the depression of mashed metal.

  The ground shook like an earthquake as the creature barreled directly at him. Cam half-t
wisted at the last moment and tried to scale the front of the armored wagon, but only caught shards of the clear stuff. It came loose and he crashed down hard onto the black road—

  just as the roaring beast slammed the wagon.

  The battered metal screeched and the whole wheeled contraption buckled from the impact of the creature’s stony skull. Cam squirmed beneath the thing’s enormous chin as it shook its horns loose from the impaled wreckage, sending bits of debris raining down on him. As it pulled free, he scrambled on his belly deeper beneath the security of the wagon.

  The undercarriage stunk of something like naphtha oil or pitch.

  The beast twisted its neck, fishing around for him with one long horn, so close Cam could feel its enraged snorts of breath. He kept scuttling backward in the cramped space to keep his head away from the sharp point as it jagged back and forth in front of his eyes, scraping metal and carving grooves when it caught on the road.

  The other horn snagged on the undercarriage, hindering the monster’s efforts to kill him. It roared its frustration, the sound deafening at such close quarters. Then the three-horned beast jerked its head up, lifting the front of the wagon and dropping it just as suddenly. Cam ducked his head, and only the thick wheels kept him from being crushed. He lay as flat as he could with his eyes shut, cheek pressed to the road, flinching and gritting his teeth with each bone-rattling impact as the beast slammed the wagon again, and then once more.

  He braced himself for a fourth, perhaps final crash, but none came.

  After a few moments there was silence, and he dared open his eyes. Abruptly the road beneath him rumbled as the beast came rushing up from another angle. It struck the corner of the wagon this time. The black wheel burst apart with a loud noise, leaving strange, almost ropey chunks and the smaller metal wheel at its core. The front end of the wagon collapsed, nearly pinning Cam’s head under it. He tried to push his body backward, but the increasingly narrow space made it hard to move, and he only managed to wedge himself in.

  Between the rough road and the sooty metal, his palms and knuckles were being scraped raw.

  The beast stomped off again, and Cam realized he needed to go forward in order to go backward. He pulled himself up with his elbows and shifted toward the other front corner in an effort to better center himself. His head nearly touched the remaining front wheel when the bull-beast smashed into that corner of the wagon, striking so hard that the wheel bent in at an angle.

  Cam twisted away and wormed his way straight back. The beast slammed the same corner again, and this time the wheel burst, bringing the entire front end of the wagon crashing down where Cam had been just a few heartbeats earlier.

  Continuing to inch back, he finally slipped out from under the wagon, clambering to his feet. There was a ladder of silver metal fastened to the back of the strange yellow conveyance. He quickly swung himself up it and took to the roof.

  Flattening himself there, he tried to keep out of sight of his rampaging attacker, which suspiciously sniffed the air. After a minute or so, the hulking creature seemed satisfied that it had crushed him. It turned and ambled back to its herd. They spread out in the grass and surrounded Cam on all sides, grazing on the lush meadow greenery.

  Exhausted, he rolled himself in the wool cloak and waited for them to get their fill and move on.

  9

  The exploratory snuffling and scratching became an insistent scrabbling, with claws that sounded as if they were made of steel. Amber shoved her hands to her mouth, trying to keep her presence undetected. With a sickening realization, however, she knew the smell of her blood was enough to set them on her trail—whatever these things were.

  How long would it take them to get through the door? The suitcases she’d piled up seemed as flimsy as cardboard in the face of an animal that was even now penetrating the heavy wood.

  Pleasepleasepleaseplease.

  The silent mantra ran through her head.

  Please let those creatures lose interest and go away. Please let some miracle occur to get her out of this alive. Please let her wake up and find herself back home in San Diego.

  If this was a dream, and she died while dreaming, would she die in real life? Would the shock be enough to stop her heart?

  She thought it might.

  The snuffling turned into a deep liquid growl. The sound dripped with saliva and hunger.

  Amber burrowed deeper into the coats. She wanted to close her eyes, to pretend this wasn’t happening, but they remained stubbornly open, fixed on the door. It splintered about two feet from the floor, and two claws appeared. Claws that looked as sharp and sturdy as steel nails, tipped with blood.

  Her heart pounded so hard she thought it would burst out of her chest before whatever was out there ripped it open. The rapid drumming filled her ears, almost drowning out the sound of the razor-sharp talons breaking through the barrier.

  An oversized muzzle pushed its way through the small gap. Gore-stained teeth chewed at the splintered wood around the edges. The hole widened, allowing Amber to see even more of the head. It looked like some sort of wolf, but huge. Twice, maybe three times the size of anything she had ever seen at the zoo.

  It stared at her with eyes golden and malicious. Amber locked gazes with the creature, and in those eyes she saw her death.

  A cracking sound cut through the sound of her heartbeat.

  A gunshot?

  The beast at the door yelped in pain, suddenly sounding like a dog. Deceptively normal. Another sharp report, followed by two more. The blood-stained muzzle retreated, and something big collapsed against the wood with a meaty thud, the impact sending splinters showering down into the closet. Then…

  Silence.

  Amber stared at the door, hands still pressed against her mouth. She heard the sound of something being dragged away, along with an expulsive grunting, like someone lifting heavy weights. Then she heard footsteps.

  “Hello? Is anyone in there?”

  A male voice, deep and definitely British. What her aunt would call a BBC accent. He rapped decisively on the door. Three in a row.

  Was he friendly? Would it be safe? Or had she traded one danger for another?

  Amber didn’t know. Some of her friends insisted that every man was a potential rapist and given the chance any one of them would take advantage of a woman. For all of her shyness, however, Amber had never been one to live her life afraid of the opposite sex. Her dad was too good a role model for that.

  This was different. She was alone in a world gone mad, and this guy had a gun. In her family, that by itself was a big fat no-no. But without it, he wouldn’t have been able to kill the monster trying to eat her.

  “Hello,” he said again. “Look, I’m not going to hurt you. I’m here to help.”

  She’d have to risk it.

  “I’m—” Amber’s voice cracked. “I’m here.”

  The man turned the knob and pushed, but damaged as it was, the door stopped against her suitcase barricade.

  “Hang on,” she said, and she began pulling the boxes and suitcases out of the way. The top ones tumbled to the floor, blocking the path even as she tried to clear it. Like digging a hole in the sand and having it fill back in before any headway could be made.

  Finally she succeeded in clearing the way. She reached for the knob just as the man on the other side turned it and pushed the door open.

  He was older, in his late thirties or early forties. Tall, dark hair cut short under a dark green beret, the wool pilling in places. Strong features set in harsh lines. He wore olive drab trousers tucked into khaki gaiters, combat boots, and a long-sleeved cable-knit sweater in the same olive as the trousers. The sweater was liberally splattered in dirt and what had to be blood. There was a splotch of dark red in the shape of Florida on the front of his sweater.

  It’s a red state, she thought, and the idea made her giggle. The sound morphed into a gasping sob before she realized it was going to happen. She jammed her fists back up to her mouth, t
rying to hold onto some control.

  The man’s grim expression softened.

  “I’m Blake,” he said, holding out a hand. For one crazy minute Amber was sure he was going to say, “Come with me if you want to live.”

  He didn’t.

  “Are you hurt?”

  Amber stared at him. Was she hurt? A better question would be “Are you crazy?”

  “Are you hurt?” he asked again, impatience edging his tone.

  “N… no. Not really,” she managed, looking down. “Just blisters.”

  “We have to move. Can you walk?”

  Amber nodded. She’d already made her choice. Man with a gun, or big scary animals? It wasn’t really a choice at all.

  Taking his hand, she let him help her to her feet. He was tall—her head only came to his shoulders. She took a step and nearly collapsed as pins and needles shot through her legs and feet. The man—Blake—steadied her with a strong arm around her waist, glancing down at the blood pooling in her sandals.

  “We’ll have to take care of that,” he said. “No time now, though.” More howls sounded in the distance. His face tightened. “We need to leave.”

  Somehow Amber managed to stay on her feet as he propelled her through the lobby-turned-charnel house, pausing briefly to snatch up her staff before they exited into the cold unforgiving landscape where the back of the hotel used to be. The howls grew closer. Amber’s new companion glanced sharply around as if gauging the distance. He led her out toward the car park.

  “We need to find a place to hide, where they won’t see or smell us. Once they pick up the smell of prey, it’s hard to shake them off. But if we can throw them off the scent… they may go away.”

  They both looked at the bloody footprints Amber was leaving behind with each step.

  “Quick, take that off.” He nodded at her backpack.

  “I’m not leaving it behind,” she said.

  “I’m not asking you to leave it,” he replied impatiently, “but I can’t carry you with that rucksack on your back.”