Next to him was a picture of a small girl, smiling. A self-portrait of Lena, verified by the carefully drawn pigtails and the name ‘Lena’ scrawled underneath. They were holding hands.
Impossible! The sadistic creature was vaporised—she’d done it with her own hands!
“Mum?” she managed to shout. She willed herself to move and walked in slow motion back to the dining room.
“What is it, darling? You’ve lost all colour in your face. Come over here and sit down.”
Sarina shook her head, which seemed to swing in slow time from side to side while her mother’s voice echoed around inside. She felt her mouth moving as if someone else was in charge. “Is Agent Blanchard still here?”
Her mother shook her head. “He just left. Is something wrong?”
Sarina ignored her mother and tried to run to the door, but someone had made the air thick and it took forever to reach it. She opened the door and ran out into the now-dark evening. Agent Blanchard’s car was still there and the man sat inside, talking into his phone and gesturing.
She stumbled out to the car and slapped Lena’s drawing against the window. “Agent Blanchard! You have to come back in. Please.”
The startled Agent spoke into his phone momentarily, then got out of the car. “Miss Metcalfe. Is there something you need to tell me?”
Sarina stared at him, feeling the colour return to her face. “I’m ... I’m not sure if I’m able to help at all, but I will do what I can from here and ...” She looked at the Agent.
“Let’s go inside,” he said. “I’m all ears.”
Her mother made dinner for them all while they talked.
“I don’t know if this is relevant, but it ...” she searched for an explanation, but found none. “It just feels like it is connected. I don’t know how Lena could know this creature”—she pointed to the drawing of Valkrog—“but there is something weird going on and I’m really worried. Nathan could be right. This could be connected with dreams—and this picture tells me that Lena might be as powerful as they say.”
“Why do you say that?” The Agent looked at her with one eye raised.
“Let’s just say ... it’s on a need-to-know basis.”
The Agent smiled. “Touché, Miss Metcalfe.”
She paused a moment, and felt her heart grow heavy, wary she would be treading a fine line between sanity, stress, and the peace she had come to the cottage for, but knowing she had to help her friends. She took a deep breath.
“Here’s what I think I can try. If Lena is as strong a dreamer as we think she is, perhaps I can reach her from my own dreams. I can try to find out where she is. But, Agent Blanchard?”—she waited until he was looking directly in her eyes—“The thing is, I’ve never done that before. Not by myself anyway.”
The man nodded. “I understand. As I said before, Master Goldberg thought if such a thing was possible, only you would have such an ability. As you know, time is of the essence, so anything you think you can do, it needs to be now.”
He looked at her with an odd expression. “Or never.”
~ 5 ~
Codes
Lena was asleep on an old folded sack at one end of the warehouse.
The Professor had finally succumbed to sleep after Valkrog had pushed the crate up against the wall.
The creature surveyed them both before flying back to its perch. Now they were both asleep, he would seek information that would help him interrogate the girl’s father. He knew just the place to find it. From the girl’s vivid dreams. He closed his eyes.
They floated together above the warehouse roof.
“Are we fun-flying again, Mr Big Bird?” Lena asked.
“No more tonight, Lena. But you can help me with the questions for the guessing game. Let us see if your Daddy can answer all the questions I want to ask him. Are you ready?”
Lena nodded, floating in the night sky opposite him. “I’m ready. But I won’t help you with the questions until you answer my question: Why does Daddy have to stay tied up? It feels mean.” She folded her arms.
He felt his muscles tense in annoyance and restrained himself. “Lena, is your Daddy clever?”
She looked serious and nodded. “He is very clever. He’s a professor.”
“Then you understand why we have to make the escaping game more challenging for him.”
“I suppose ...” The girl looked down at her feet.
He could see he was still having trouble convincing her, despite the minor enchantment he’d managed to cast. It was a poor second choice to the real magic he had at his disposal in his own world, and again he felt the pang of separation. But he needed her cooperation. “When he escapes, you can have him show me how clever he is by tying me up next—and you can help him too.”
She looked back up at him and pulled a face. “As long as he can use any knot he wants!”
He laughed. He would agree to whatever she said. He had no plan to be submitting to anything these humans had in mind for him.
“Yes he can. Now. I’m informed that your Daddy might have a way to communicate with my own world. What do you know about this?”
Lena frowned. “I’m not really supposed to tell”—then her face lit up—“but you are only asking Daddy, so I s’pose you can know too, and then he can tell you not to tell anyone.”
Valkrog’s mouth adopted his beak-like smile.
“He works with the children and their mind-power. Sometimes they dream of other places and can talk to other people in their dreams that Daddy thinks are real.”
“Have you done this too, Lena?”
“Not sure. Daddy says I am strong, but too young yet and he won’t let me try the yellow hats.”
“Yellow hats?”
“The older kids put them on to dream better. They have a special name”—she searched for the word—“Intensifiers. But the really powerful dreamer kids, like the Orange Witch, don’t need them—”
Valkrog had hold of Lena’s shoulders in his talons. “Who doesn’t need them? Please repeat?” The name echoed through his mind. He reached for a faint memory from when he had woken in this strange world. In his delirium and confusion he had once followed two young humans, who had appeared familiar. He could not recall any more of the fragmented memory, his first experiences in this world had been a blur of overwhelm and fear. Was it possible the Orange Witch was from this world? What poetic justice that would be!
“The other kids—the powerful ones. One of them, Sarina, we call the Orange Witch. She actually went to the other world and beat a nasty man. That’s why they called her the Orange Witch.”
“What does this ‘Sarina’ do in this world?”
Lean looked confused. “She goes to school of course.”
An image of the school came to life in his mind. The girl was projecting it! He would have his revenge after all. He would force the Witch to show him how to return him to his own world—and the thought propelled his mind further.
“The yellow hats. Did you say your Daddy invented them? Did he also help the Orang—Sarina get to the other world?”
“Oh no. Sarina is much too powerful. She doesn’t need the yellow hats Daddy invented. Or the machine.” She clapped her hand over her mouth and her eyes widened. “Daddy told me not to tell anyone!”
“About the machine?”
The girl nodded.
“It’s alright, Lena. I already know about the machine.”
“You do?” She looked relieved.
Valkrog smiled to himself. These humans were so gullible. “Yes. But not much. What does it do again?”
“Nobody knows, but it’s supposed to be dangerous. Daddy keeps it in a room with special numbers on the door. I think it’s a machine that can do a lot more than the yellow hats.” Lena’s face brightened and she clapped her hands. “I bet Daddy’s machine can get you back to your world! Shall we ask him?”
The bird-man shook his head. “No, Lena. Let us keep that question secret for now, in case he gets
all the others right.”
In one night he had gone from desperation and despair, not daring to believe he would return to the valley, to this. Both the Orange Witch and a device that may give him transportation. And then an afterthought ... perhaps the machine would restore the power the Orange Witch had taken from him and Makthryg? His Master would be pleased. But he was torn between capturing the Witch and torturing her, or locating the machine.
He flexed his talons, thinking. Why not have both?
“Lena, how big is this machine?”
The girl held out her hands about the width of her shoulders and looked between them. “This big.”
Valkrog nodded. “And Daddy keeps it in a room”—he frowned—“with special numbers.”
“Yes. The room keeps the machine safe, and the numbers stop anyone opening the door.” Lena leaned in towards him, looked around quickly, then held her finger to her lips. “But don’t tell anyone. I know the special numbers too.”
~ 6 ~
Harrowbrush
He moved and the net tightened back around him again. Curse the Orange Witch and that boy!
But this time when he moved, Makthryg sensed the net’s power had once again diminished. Not by much, but he felt a possibility of movement now that did not exist before. He lay still on his back on the rocky ground. He had suffered some weeks of discomfort in a long and barely-conscious state, trapped by the magic-powered net the Witch and her friends had used to banish him and destroy Valkrog.
He gritted his teeth. He would escape, no matter what the cost, and he would track the invaders down and gain their power. How dare they thwart him, just children, not knowing how his plans would change the world. For the better. A nagging memory, too faint to pursue, drifted around his mind and he brushed it away impatiently.
He looked up at the sky through the net’s webbing, then put his focus back to the ropes. The Witch had encircled the net’s rope material with a red-glowing-power. But he could see through the gaps in the net.
Which meant one thing.
The Witch had omitted to seal the power cocoon completely. It was only linked to the net’s ropes. Therefore he could use the gaps.
But for what?
He cursed himself for not seeing this before. The days and weeks slipping in and out of consciousness had robbed him of his reasoning. If he had been in the fortress, a simple herbal remedy from the healers would have had his strength restored.
He cursed himself again. Had the Witch rotted his brain too? The rocky ground the Witch and her accomplices had banished him to would also be a perfect spot to pick harrowbrush. If he could find the dangerous herb, then it would be worth the risk to consume some. Usually the healers distilled the essence of the herb leaf, as it was considered too dangerous to consume the entire plant.
But what other choice did he have?
He craned around and looked at the rocky terrain. He was on a slight slope, mostly barren, but further down the hill was a rocky outcrop and some sparse vegetation. If he could get himself there ...
He braced himself for the pain. But what was worse? The pain of the red-net-magic as he rolled down the slope? Or the pain of slowly dying in the barren landscape?
The decision was easy. He started to roll from side to side, grimacing at the lancing pain every time he moved against the net. In theory his rocking motion would build enough momentum, until one last push would turn him over, and carry enough energy to roll himself down to the rocky outcrop. To and fro he rolled, each time feeling the almost unbearable brunt of pain increasing, when at last, he tipped all the way over and started rolling down the hill, gathering speed as he did so.
His thinking was dulled by the intense pain spearing through him with each turn, but with difficulty he managed to train his gaze on the outcrop with each rotation, and directed the out-of-control net towards it.
An agonising thought rose up through the cloud of pain. He would have to steer himself into the rocks and use them to stop. He braced himself for the inevitable suffering it would bring.
Each time he rolled, he lost sight of the approaching rocks he hoped to use as a brake, and through his increasingly dizzy vision, he only managed to spot the projecting boulder at the last minute. His head was flying straight for it, and he had no time to take evasive action. The rock smashed into his skull.
He came to a halt and lost consciousness from the searing agony coursing through his body and the stabbing thunder in his head.
He didn’t know how long he had been unconscious for, but the heat from the sun had diminished to what he assumed was the late afternoon. He moved to look around and the thunder in his head exploded again. He lay down. Perhaps it would be better to rest out the night.
He awoke with the heat of the morning sun and opened his eyes, quickly closing them again against the burning light. He turned slightly and cursed the throbbing headache that afflicted him from each small movement. He opened his eyes again and tried to rise up against the pain of the net. Luck, Makthryg thought, was not something he placed strong faith in. Sheer power always defeated luck, he mused, but this time he was grateful it was luck and not power that had landed at his feet.
Growing from a small depression in the rocky outcrop, adjacent to his resting place, was a small bush of harrowbrush gorse.
He lay back down exhausted, and gathered his thoughts. What did the healers say about harrowbrush? Those who ate the whole plant would gain more strength than those who merely imbibed the distillation, but they would take that strength at the expense of strength later in life. In simple terms, he would steal strength and power from his future self; a trade he would gladly make.
But only if he could reach the powerful plant and eat a sufficient amount. Would it give him the strength to break the net’s power? He realised the answer mattered not. He had no remaining choices.
He tried to move himself up, but his battered head and bruised body, along with the net’s magic, made it impossible. He would have to rest more and gather enough strength to ignore the pain and reach the gorse.
He waited and slept again.
When he awoke, he saw some hours had passed, as the sun was now on the horizon in the western sky. Still, that would make his work a little easier, not having the bright light aggravating his head injury.
He prepared himself to move by taking several deep breaths. He used an inner curse to place his physical sensations into a part of his mind he could ignore. Temporarily. He had to rise above the limitations of pain and injury for a period of time if he was to reach the harrowbrush. He had no idea how long he could sustain this deliberate numbing, only that it needed to be long enough.
He muttered a low curse of physical soothing, then tensed his body one last time.
He stretched his arms up and took hold of the top of the rock he had landed against. He pulled himself up, placed the burning pain from the net to one side, and slumped over the top of the rock briefly while he gathered energy. The harrowbrush was still another full body-length away.
He tucked his legs underneath him close to the rock he was slumped across, and braced himself to push hard at the same time as he used his hands to drag himself further along the outcrop.
He tensed again, and shoved himself up awkwardly with both hands and legs. The black pain darkened his head and he lost consciousness, but only momentarily, and when he was able to focus again, the harrowbrush was within reach.
One more crawl across the jagged rocks and he would be there. He blocked the now constant physical torture from the net’s restrictive magic, and used the last of his strength to part-drag, part-crawl to the plant, and collapsed, lapsing into unconsciousness.
Moments passed.
He blinked and focused. He had made it to the plant. Now for the tricky part.
The Witch’s error in only linking her magic to the ropes meant the gaps in the net were accessible. With care, he would be able to manoeuvre himself in such a way to allow the plant’s stalky leaves to intermingl
e with the net, where he would chew them, like an animal would graze in the plains.
He shuffled around, the pain now dismissed in favour of a goal almost attained, and coaxed one of the longer stalks from the gorse through a gap in the net.
And then the goal was achieved and he sank down with relief.
The leaves dangled through, not far from his face. He leaned forward and chewed, greedily.
The healers had not prepared him for the bitter poison-like taste, and he wondered fleetingly if he had made a fatal mistake—until he felt the energy beginning to surge through his body. Oh how glorious it was, the return of power! His wracking pains and his throbbing head were already easing, and he chewed more, not caring how bitter the taste, nor how rough the masticated leaves were as they scraped his throat with each swallow.
His body felt lithe and powerful. His hands buzzed with energy he usually only felt with his most powerful curses. However many years of strength and energy he had stolen from his future self were irrelevant now, and he bathed in the glow of the power inside of him.
He was sure now he had the power to defeat the net. But how?
He surveyed the ropes and the pulsing red lines wrapped around each. How to annul a sealed curse such as this? He thought for a moment, studying the enclosure. What was the magic’s weak point? What would terminate it?
Cold clarity flooded through his mind—maybe the harrowbrush had more power than he had understood—and he realised terminating the red-power was a stupid thought.
He only needed to escape. All he had to do was concentrate all his power onto one localised area, and he could dull the red-magic in one part of the mesh, sufficient to cut the rope and break open the net. He would only need to use an expansion curse to make the hole big enough to climb through.
He paused. Cutting the rope was another obstacle. He would have no option but to chafe the rope against the same sharp rocks that had caused him so much pain. He chewed more harrowbrush. He would need its rejuvenating energy—borrowed from his own future strength—to maintain enough curse power to keep the net’s magic annulled in one small area while he rubbed through the ropes.
The Dreamer Chronicles Trilogy Boxed Set Vol I - III: A Sci-Fi Parallel Universe Adventure (The Dreamer Chronicles - Science Fiction For Kids And Adults) Page 35
