Time Shards

by Dana Fredsti

  He looked up from the map and pressed a hand against his brow.

  “The Royalists still have a good body of horses, and give us no rest. They scour the fields every day, falling on any of our men they find straggling from their posts. Thus we are not able to carry the town by storm. I have sent to London and Suffolk for more forces. While we wait, I’ve posted soldiery on the roads and on patrol to prevent aid or escape.”

  Fairfax paused, and Amber could see that the strain hung heavily on him. The lord-general took a drink from his tankard, moved to the mantel, and leaned on it, staring into the fire.

  “Notwithstanding, ever since that night of the infernal lightning storm, our five thousand has been slashed in twain, or worse,” he said. “Meanwhile Lord Goring and Lord Capel continue to fortify the town and shore up the gaps in their walls. There’s no sign of any of the Parliament ships from Harwich. No new communications arrive from outside, and none of my outgoing messengers have returned. It would seem we are utterly alone.

  “Both we and the rebels seem to be inhabitants of the same ‘island’ now, one scarcely four miles long and three miles wide, and dropped into pandemonium. So who are truly the besieged? Is it they? Or we?”

  He drained his tankard. “I cannot fathom what dread fate has befallen us, or detect any rhyme or reason in it. O’er half my men and horses melted into thin air, damn it! And with them, all the land for leagues around us has faded away, transformed into fallow earth—or worse.” He turned and faced his companion. “You’re the theologian, Stearne. Can you explain it? Can you direct me to the scripture that speaks of such a thing?”

  Stearne, who had remained very still, now spoke carefully.

  “We know that we do but serve God’s will here, my lord,” he said. “Of that, there can be no doubt. The Revelation of St. John does speak of the angel who, once the seventh seal hath been opened, would take a golden censer filled with fire of the heavenly altar, and cast it into the earth, and with this would come voices, and thunderings, and lightnings, and an earthquake.” He drew close to the lord-general, looking as though he wanted to put a comforting hand upon Fairfax’s shoulder, but didn’t quite dare.

  “Surely what we all witnessed on that terrible night is its very fulfillment,” he continued, “and now we await the seven angels which have the seven trumpets prepared to sound their call, that Christ himself may return in glory with all his heavenly host.” The Puritan fished a stack of papers from his pocket.

  “These broadsheets report news of other signs,” Stearne said. “A pool in Lancashire has turned to blood, while elsewhere children have been born with horns, or with two heads. The strange beasts we have seen and the queer outlanders we have captured all bespeak to the truth.” His voice rose as his excitement increased.

  “Our battle with these Royalists here in Colchester, as with Lieutenant-General Cromwell’s battle in Pembroke, are but the outward manifestation of a far larger but invisible struggle between the mystery of iniquity and the divine host—”

  Fairfax turned on the man.

  “Spare me, Stearne,” he growled. Abruptly he pounded a fist against the tabletop. “I would have real intelligence, not sermons and rumormongering! We have a battle to fight, an army to feed, and no sign of aid from any quarter. How long do you think we can hold out?”

  Stearne blanched, taken aback.

  “My lord, I—”

  “Hold your tongue and listen well. I care nothing for your apocalypses and the witch-madness you stir up among the troops and the town. The men we fight here are but Englishmen like ourselves, not some satanic horde. When this damnable conflict is over, the king will return to his throne, the abuses of his reign curtailed, and we shall all drink to his health together, Roundhead and Royalist alike, God willing. No matter what doomsday the likes of you and Commander Cromwell preach.”

  Go, Lord Fairfax, Amber thought.

  Stearne kept silent, lips pressed together in a thin line as if to hold the words trapped inside.

  “Do you know why I have you here, Stearne?”

  The Puritan hesitated. “My lord, the witches here—”

  “I care not three damns who you suppose is a witch,” Fairfax cut in. “What I care about is knowing what these strange prisoners know.”

  Stearne licked his lips, and tried a different tack.

  “Aye, my lord. If they prove to be spies for the rebels, then—”

  “Spies?” Fairfax gave a snort of derision. “Those poor, terrified wretches? I have no idea where they are from, or their business here. I wager a hundred sovereigns the savage is the only one who has ere even picked up a blade, and he is here for the girl, a love-stricken whelp.

  “But spies?” Fairfax shook his head. “I know spies, Stearne. I employ many. A spy blends in, says little but sees much. He is a bold and cunning rascal, a consummate actor, a man who can insinuate himself into a table of off-duty guardsmen or a military headquarters.”

  Fairfax paused, cocking his head to one side.

  “Someone like you, Stearne. I daresay you would make a most excellent spy.”

  Master Stearne said nothing to this, but Amber could see his hand held tightly at his side, twisted into a quaking fist.

  “Think, man!” Fairfax urged. “What manner of infiltrator dresses in outlandish garb, his speech passing strange, as he wanders the countryside without course like a stray lamb? I know not why they are here. In truth, I doubt they know themselves, but they came from somewhere, and I would have you discover where that is. How they came to be here, and all things they know concerning our circumstance. Think you that you are up to such a task?”

  Stearne gave a curt bow of his head.

  “I shall not fail you, my lord.”

  “Good as the best.” Lord Fairfax pulled his gloves from his belt and drew them on. “See to it.” He strode over to the outer door with a stiff, heavy gait, but paused at the threshold. “Tell me… how many witches have you killed, Stearne?”

  “When I served as witch-pricker under Matthew Hopkins—the witchfinder general, God rest his soul— we brought some three hundred of the malefactors to justice, my lord.”

  “Indeed.” Fairfax’s tone was dry. “And is it true your mentor was himself finally subjected to his own tests, and so condemned to death as a warlock?”

  “Oh no, my lord.” Stearne shook his head. “That is naught but a scurrilous lie.”

  Amber couldn’t see Fairfax’s expression, only that he silently nodded and walked out the cottage. Stearne turned toward her door, the look in his eyes grim. He’d been schooled by Fairfax in front of common soldiers, and he was ready to take out his anger on someone else.

  On her.

  29

  Amber scrambled to pull herself away from the keyhole and get across the room. She quickly took a seat at the far end of the worktable, just as Stearne swung the door open wide. She did her best to look innocent.

  The witch hunter stood there regarding her for a long, uncomfortable moment. Without removing his gaze from Amber, he spoke to the soldiers.

  “Leave us. Stand guard in front of the cottage, and see that I am undisturbed.”

  They saluted and took their leave. The witchfinder closed the door and walked over to the long ironbound chest that lay against the wall. Amber realized with a sickening shock that it was large enough to serve as a coffin.

  “I trust you overheard our little exchange, did you not?”

  Amber said nothing, her mind racing between possible options. None seemed promising. Stearne reached down and unlocked the oblong chest, then pulled something out from inside. He let the lid close again.

  “You’ll quickly find that truth is the only acceptable response. Speaking falsely is no better than refusing to speak at all. So I ask you again. Did you hear us?”

  She hung her head and nodded. He rose and walked behind her, deliberately concealing the object he carried.

  “You will answer all my questions truly and clearly, aloud
and without delay. Anything less justifies punishment. Do you understand?”

  She nodded, and quickly added, “Yes.”

  He smiled. It didn’t suit his face.

  “See? Excellent. Now we can proceed.”

  Amber risked a sidelong glance. The witch hunter stood at the far wall and, for the first time, she noticed an iron hook mounted there. He continued to hide whatever was in his hand under cover of his heavy dark cloak. With the other hand he gestured to her.

  “Come over to stand beside me, girl.”

  A pit opened up in her stomach. She began to shake helplessly and all the strength in her limbs melted away like spent candle wax. When she tried to protest, the words leaked from her mouth in pitiful fragments, the same words over and over again.

  “Please don’t… please… you don’t have to… please, please, don’t…”

  “You will come stand at the wall beside me now.” His voice dropped to a low growl, his eyes flinty.

  Slowly she rose, making a soft involuntary keening noise in her throat as she forced herself to walk toward him like a disjointed marionette. When she was near enough, he shot out his hand like a mantis and seized her wrist, causing her to shriek in fear. He smiled and produced an iron bar from behind his back. It had a manacle at either end, and in the middle, a ring suitable for hanging.

  With a practiced hand, Stearne shackled first one wrist, then the other—despite Amber’s struggles to resist. Then he pulled her arms high and hung up the bar on the iron hook. The constraint was a little too high for her, forcing Amber to stand on the balls of her feet to prevent the bar from pulling painfully on her wrists. The position hiked her already short skirt up even further.

  Stearne left her dangling there and nonchalantly strolled back to again open the lid of the strongbox. He pulled out a bound leather parcel, untied its cord, and rolled it out on the table, making sure Amber had a clear view. It contained a variety of pouches holding small knives and metal instruments. She flashed on thoughts of the Spanish Inquisition, of Salem, of Edgar Allan Poe stories.

  He smiled again. “Lord Fairfax is a courageous man and a good soldier, but he knows little of the spiritual battle. That is my expertise. Where he has doubts and misgivings, I have unshakable certainty and perfect knowledge.”

  Stearne pulled out a small brass brazier, and filled it with a measure of charcoal taken from a sooty hide bag.

  “The lord-general would learn from whence you came, but I know well where you are from, and who it is that hath sent you.”

  Next he pulled out a twist of cotton from a little tinderbox and busied himself with flint and steel until he produced enough sparks to fan them into a flame and light the brazier. She watched the procedure in horrified fascination, unable to turn away. A terrified whimper escaped her, but he ignored it.

  “The End is drawing nigh fast,” he said almost casually. “What then shall we discuss?”

  Amber’s fear was so great she could barely think, let alone make her mouth work to form words in coherent sentences. In an isolated part of her mind, she knew her only chance was to say the right thing—but what could she possibly say that Stearne would understand, or even believe? Could she reason with him? She doubted it. Though he was a religious man, there was no appealing to his mercy or kindness—one look at him told her he didn’t have any.

  His faith was the kind that fostered darker qualities.

  “Please believe me,” she said finally, with as much sincerity as she could muster. “I’m not your enemy. I’m not a witch either. I’m just… I’m just a normal person, and I would never hurt anyone. I’m lost and I just want to get back home.”

  He looked at her with an unreadable expression, then turned back to the coffer. Pulling out a heavy sack, he unceremoniously dumped the contents on the table. An odd assortment of items spilled out, including a policeman’s billy club, a leather handbag, a flashlight, a gold watch on a chain, handcuffs, a switchblade… and her backpack.

  Lastly he reached down, and lifted up a long bundle wrapped in sheepskin. He unwrapped it, revealing her ridiculous Codex scepter.

  With all the artifacts spread out in front of him like a vendor displaying his wares at a market, Stearne took a seat at the table and steepled his fingers. His poker face was unreadable. Was the look in his eyes meant to further intimidate her, or dangle some glimmer of hope? He let her stew a while, letting the ache grow in her arms and feet as the heat built in the softly smoking brazier.

  Finally he spoke.

  “The Lord hath delivered thee into my hands, thou and all thy works of heathen idolatry,” he said. “Come then, and let us discuss these tools of magic.” He rose and let his hand wander above the table before settling on the scepter.

  “This, for instance. Am I to believe this is but the workaday staff of a normal girl from, where did you say? Somewhere in the Americas?”

  “San Diego, California,” she replied automatically.

  Why did I say that?

  For once, Stearne actually laughed out loud.

  “The island of California?” he sneered. “At the farthest end of the world? Did Sir Francis Drake maroon your grandfather there, and did he take an Indian maiden to wife? Has it taken all these many years for your ancestors to trek across the continent and sail back to England, my red-haired, red-skinned mulatto?”

  He roared at his own wit, and Amber’s heart sank.

  Now he thinks I’m either crazy or lying.

  “I didn’t mean it,” she said, with a weak attempt to smile. Stearne’s short-lived amusement evaporated as quickly as it had sprung up. He fished an iron poker out from its pouch in the leather parcel, holding it up for her to see before he stirred it into the hot coals.

  “That small jest has earned you one taste of hot iron.” He lifted the scepter. “Now, shall we try again? Tell me what powers it possesses, and how one employs it, with what words or gestures. Tell me everything, and tell me now.”

  Amber stared at him in shocked disbelief. Here was a grown man who seriously believed that her cheap plastic costume prop could have sorcerous powers. How ridiculous, how insane, that he was willing to torture and kill her, just to get them.

  Unless…

  She steeled herself, took a deep breath and let out a loud laugh. The unexpected sound rattled him. She glared at him with her best mad gaze, speaking as deeply as she could manage.

  “Foolish man! You dare lay your bare hand upon the scepter of, of Feliciaday without saying the magic words?” She struggled to keep her voice from cracking. “Now its curse is on you!”

  For the first time, she had wiped the certainty off his grim face, she realized with a hint of triumph. He dropped the scepter to the ground as if it was on fire, real fear in his eyes.

  And then anger.

  She had overplayed her hand.

  “You Jezebel!” he hissed. “Deceitful harpy. Would you put my immortal soul in peril?” He seized the red-hot poker from the brazier, sending a shower of sparks into the air, and plunged it at her face. She screamed and tried to turn her head away, but he seized her roughly by the neck and held the sizzling iron an inch from her eye. The heat from it threatened to singe her cheek and eyebrow.

  “Tell me,” he spat. “If you do not this very instant reveal how I might break this curse, and give me the power over this scepter, I promise you I shall plunge this iron as deep into your eye as my strength allows.”

  Amber screwed her eyes shut, and hoped desperately that she still might have a shot. When she spoke, her voice remained defiant.

  “Kill me and you’ll never know,” she said. “You’ll be damned to hell, forever and ever.” The words sounded desperate and childish to her, a stupid and hollow threat, but it was all she had.

  She tensed herself for the agony that would come, the sound of her own heart hammering in her head.

  Stearne released her throat.

  She risked opening her eyes.

  He slowly pulled back the poker, jus
t a few inches. The heat receded, and she faced him again. Stearne’s eyes were uncertain, uneasy. He carefully slipped the poker back into the hot coals. Then he turned to study her again, his new expression causing Amber almost as much dread as the poker. He eyed her body, her short skirt, her exposed legs. His fingertips rubbed against each other in an odd gesture, as if he was gearing up to touch her, but didn’t yet dare.

  “You assume a most pleasing form.” He leaned in close, so close she could smell the ale on his breath. “But think not it will dissuade me. I know well that is naught but your disguise. It will peel away to reveal your true nature, soon enough. But first…”

  She remained silent, although inwardly she was horrified.

  “The scriptures say, when we go forth to war against our enemies, and the Lord God hath delivered them into our hands, if we see among the captives a beautiful woman, and hath a desire for her, and wouldst have her, then thou shalt go in unto her, and humble her, and take thy delight in her.” He stroked her face with one finger. “So you are rightfully my handmaiden.”

  She shuddered, cringing as he brought his arms over her head and lifted her off the wall. He kept a grip on her manacles as he pulled her close.

  “You shall tell me, one way or the other. My methods can be harsh or gentle, that choice is yours. But either way, you shall now undress and lie on the table.”

  Behind them, the door suddenly opened.

  “I ordered no interruptions!” Stearne barked furiously.

  But it wasn’t his guards.

  Nell stood in the doorway, a basket on one arm and a pistol in her other hand, pointed straight at him. He shot her a look of outrage combined with pure hate.

  “What is this, woman?”

  “Why, nothing, Master Witch Hunter,” Nell replied. “Or should I say Witch Pricker? I’ve just been out and about, blending in, you know. Saying little but seeing much. Insinuating myself at the tables of off-duty guardsmen and the military headquarters, much like a consummate actress, if I say so myself. Rather bold and cunning of me, wouldn’t you say?”