by Ben Yallop
Another man staggered to the stained bar and ordered a beer. He was drinking alone. Box had been expecting him to strike up a conversation.
The man let out a long breath after taking a deep swig of his beer. ‘That’s better,’ he said to Box.
Box grunted and kept looking forward. If he made eye contact this man would see it as an invitation to stay and chat. But the grunt was enough, the man pulled up a stool and wobbled on to it, his foot slipping as he climbed up.
‘I hate this song,’ he said conspiratorially, breathing out a cloud of stale booze. ‘Reminds me of my ex-wife.’
Box hadn’t even noticed that music was playing in the bar. He avoided eye contact.
‘Name’s John,’ the man said.
Box sighed. He saw the barman give him a sympathetic look, but he didn’t come any closer or try to divert John’s attention. But Box hated being rude. He was traditional in many ways. Old school, some called it. He turned sideways in his chair. He disliked being impolite, but he wasn’t beyond a bit of sarcasm.
‘I am Soloman.’ He left the briefest of gaps between the ‘solo’ and ‘man’. He liked to use different names. It helped to keep the Riven confused. John didn’t seem to notice, in fact he misheard anyway.
‘Good to meet you Solomonson,’ he slurred. ‘So what brings you to this dive?’
Box saw the barman roll his eyes.
‘I’m waiting,’ he said turning back again. ‘Waiting for my past to catch up a bit.’
John snorted. ‘Solomonson, you gotta look to the future. Don’t get caught up on the past, mate.’
‘Oh, I am very aware of what the future holds friend John,’ said Box. ‘Painfully aware you might say. You have no idea.’
‘So what is this past that you’re waiting for?’ John looked slightly uncomfortable. This conversation wasn’t going quite the way he had expected.
Box stared into the mirror again, studying his reflection. ‘My brother,’ he said ‘There is something wrong with my brother and he wishes to punish me for it.’
John’s face relaxed. ‘Ah, mate, family. Now that I can understand. Let me tell you about my ex-wife.’
Just then the door to the street opened. Box looked over John’s shoulder as a figure in a black cloak stepped in out of the rain, his face hidden under a hood. Box allowed himself a quick wry smile.
‘Time for me to go, John,’ said Box hopping off the stool. ‘Too many people here.’
With that Box slipped quickly over towards the toilets at the back of the bar, away from the front door.
John spun around on his stool. ‘Hey, Solomonson! What’s the rush?’
But Box had already disappeared through the door. John slid off his stool and bumped into the figure in the black cloak who had just come off the street. His hood fell back and John stared into the man’s face in confusion.
‘Solomonson. How did you get over there and get that coat on so quickly?’
The new arrival simply stared at John in anger for a moment, then his eye twitched and he shoved John roughly out of the way before striding towards the toilets.
‘Hey!’
John stumbled from the push but regained his balance and followed the black cloak into the toilets. He walked into the gents expecting to find Solomonson but the room was empty. A shiver ran up his spine and he shuddered. Were there two of them? Must have been his brother. Twins. Pair of them must have climbed out the window he thought, although when he squinted at the frame it seemed painted shut. Mad, the pair of them. More confused than ever John staggered back into the bar and took up a seat in one of the booths. Despite his drunkenness that Solomonson was a man he wouldn’t forget for a while.
Nottingham, England.
Date unknown
Box knew where he was, but not precisely when. The line had taken him to a place he knew well and he ran through the streets above Nottingham, the City of Caves. He always ran. He had been running for a very long time. There was no doubt that his pursuer, his brother of sorts, Qayin, wasn’t far behind him. It seemed as though it had ever been so. He was relentless, implacable, mad and would not stop until Alfred ‘Box’ Boxall was dead, for Qayin was filled with hatred at the world for his very existence.
And now Qayin was becoming very powerful indeed. As he killed so his strength seemed to increase almost as if his presence, his life force, merged and enhanced his power. Perhaps it was just his skill in murder which improved. He had probably got to everyone else now. Box found it hard to keep track of everyone in the group, everyone who he had created, and where they were.
Add in the complication of the Riven seeking him and life was just one long run. The Riven seemed to be fairly straightforward to outsmart and despite the Riven King’s determination to find him Box had managed to stay one step ahead, so long as he was very careful. But Qayin was another matter entirely. It was like he had some sort of sixth sense about where Box would be, a sort of homing device. It was, Box supposed, just a strange quirk of their similarity. They sort of shared a brain after all.
Box jogged along the high street, past shops and shoppers, getting occasional glances from people curious as to why a man in a suit, tie, knitted jumper, hat and overcoat should be running. They must have thought that he looked like he was wearing old-fashioned clothes he mused. From the look of what others were wearing Box guessed he had come to Nottingham sometime around the turn of the second Millennium. Well, what he was wearing would have been quite fashionable and proper fifty years ago. He probably looked like something from a movie. Perhaps he should ditch the hat. He dodged around a group of young men who looked like they were on a stag do. One was dressed as Robin Hood. Box allowed himself a chuckle. They didn’t have the first idea about the true origins of that legend.
He turned out of the High Street and carried on jogging at a steady pace towards the line he knew existed up ahead. Hopefully he could draw Qayin along through a series of lines to somewhere which would give Box an edge. He might even be able to lose him and delay his plan long enough to tell the Secret Keeper, Tarak, what he intended. Given that space time around the lines was a shifting thing it was possible to duck into a line and for a follower, entering only a few minutes later, to arrive hours or days after the first person, or even longer. It was his best way of keeping one step ahead.
He turned onto a street called High Pavement, passed a church, now converted into a trendy public house, and arrived at the old Nottingham court, the Galleries of Justice. Thank goodness the building was now open to tourists. It would save him breaking in.
He took a breath and straightened his tie. After a moment's thought he removed his hat and held it out of sight under his coat before climbing the few steps to the courthouse. At the reception desk he paid the entrance fee, pleased as ever that he kept relevant currency from different eras to hand. This done he entered the old courtroom, casting a glance at the high balcony that ran around the edge. The building was only a museum now. It had been a courthouse, prison and site of executions. Many men and women had been hanged here, some of them as witches by men who had sensed their presence. Nowadays it was thought of as one of the world’s most haunted buildings. It had been the base for many a Sherriff of Nottingham and the courtrooms dated back to the 14th Century although the secret on which the building sat was far older. Maybe the line’s weird aura was what had attracted others here to hand out such barbaric and deadly justice. Box stepped into the dock, the area where the accused would stand flanked by prison guards awaiting the sentence of the judge. Box had a last look around the room, ever cautious, before descending the steps into the underbelly of the building.
The change in temperature was immediate. It was no wonder that people thought this building to be haunted. The cells where the condemned would have been held were dim and cramped. But Box didn't lose time looking around. He wanted the very lowest part of the building and he soon found it. Nottingham, City of Caves, was, he knew, built on a massive expanse of limestone. It had all
owed men over many years to tunnel out large caves and small homes. Whole communities had lived underground with schools, shops and businesses. Caverns were dotted all over the place. It was one such place that he sought now.
As he entered the cave the temperature dropped again. There was almost no light and Box was glad that there were no tourists around to disturb him. This cave would once have held the most miserable of prisoners in complete darkness. It wasn't a large room, roughly spherical, with an uneven floor and roof, chiselled directly out of the limestone and left bare. Box could now clearly feel the line that hummed at the back. It was partly what had made this building so interesting to modern ghost-hunters. Even those without presence could feel it was there, could feel the strange sensations that the line caused, without knowing exactly what it was. Box knew that such people often stayed in the building overnight, hopeful to catch a glimpse of something ethereal. Sometimes he had wanted to come into Nottingham via this line only to find a group of nervous men and women sitting outside near the cave. A couple of stones thrown through the line were usually enough to scare most people off. He came to the line now and opened it using his presence. He stepped through and let the feeling of disembodiment overwhelm him. With a small blue flash Box disappeared.
Five minutes later another man entered the cave and stepped over to the line. If anyone had been watching they would have felt a strange sense of déjà vu for the man looked very similar to Box. Very similar.
Qayin stretched out a hand towards the line and held it there for a few moments, as though warming it before a fire. Then suddenly a convulsion hit him and he shook briefly, his whole body trembling. The episode stopped as quickly as it had started and he recovered quickly, muttering something under his breath as he drew his dark cloak back onto his shoulders. A dark aura seemed to mist around him. Black he stood as night, fierce as ten furies, terrible as hell. He pulled open the line and stepped through, vanishing where Box had only a few minutes before.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Romania
Date Unknown
Hob and Hödekin knew their journey was to be a difficult one. Because of the position of the lines they faced a long walk through the Romanian forests, rumoured to be inhabited by the moss people, wychkin and darker things besides. After a long hike, lasting several days they would arrive at the small forest of Hoia Baciu. At the centre they would find the bare circle where nothing grew and there they would find the line that would take them to Kalapa, and the ancestral home of Old Hob, King of the Boggarts.
The journey would then have to be made in reverse. Hob just hoped that there would be someone there to bring back with him, that his journey to the ancient seat of all that was good would be symbolic enough to bring people together.
Hob and Hödekin appeared from a line in a small clearing inside a dense wood. They found themselves standing inside a ring of pale mushrooms, their domed heads poking through the leaf litter like the top of skulls. A patch of watery sunlight fell on the kobolds from directly above but looking into the wood they could see that everywhere else under the trees was dark and murky. Little grew in the shade and the ground was a carpet of brown leaves and pine needles on top of twisted roots and fallen branches. The trees were mainly beech and oak with the occasional spruce. A faint path started at the clearing, not much more than a rabbit trail. Hiking their packs higher on their shoulders they gave each other a nod and set off under the dark green shade of the Transylvanian forests.
As they walked they occasionally saw places where great trees had fallen but nothing else had yet taken their place. These spots were islands of slightly brighter daylight in the murk, often with fountains of bright green bushes making the most of the light. Otherwise, all seemed dead and quiet, the colours muted and sickly.
Eventually, the path came up against a small stream and followed it. The trickle of the clear water was a welcome noise in the otherwise silent wood and the water was clean enough to drink. Hob and Hödekin said little to each other as they walked. The woods felt oddly oppressive and both felt as though they were being watched or studied by someone or something. Once the path crossed close by one of the islands of light and Hödekin walked over to it to inspect the ferns growing there. As he approached the leafy fronds of the bush gave a sudden shiver. A strange cry split the air, a sound neither of them had ever heard before, and a shape darted out and away amongst the trees, waist high to the kobolds, it bounded and leapt and was so quick as it moved away on two legs that neither Hob nor Hödekin had the time to identify it. It surprised Hödekin so much that he gave a cry and stumbled backwards falling onto his bottom. In two seconds it was gone, it's strange wail swallowed by the forest.
Hödekin hurried back to the path, his heart beating quickly. He and Hob walked a little quicker for the next while and did not stray from the path towards the light again that day.
Night came early under the trees. They made their camp under a large tree with huge buttressed roots which started well above their heads and came out like creased curtains of wood, folding around so that they were able to put one to their backs and one side. They were out of sight of the path and felt much safer for that. Although the path did not seem well used they could not tell who might come along it at night and the oppressive watchful nature of the forest was enough to put them both on edge. The stream had, for the moment, turned away from the path and the woods were silent and still.
Hob cleared away the leaf litter until he had a patch of clear earth. He sent Hödekin out to collect firewood with a stern warning only to collect wood that was old and certainly dead. He had a feeling that the moss people, the wild woodwose, were watching them, hidden from sight but quick to anger if their living trees were harmed. Hob had seen the strange moss people only once before, peering out from behind the trunks of the trees as he led a desperate band of kobolds through these woods as they made their escape from the Riven who had come to destroy Kalapa. The moss men had been true to their name, green and furred with moss and lichens, stick-like with skeletal fingers and round scared eyes, curious at the kobolds crashing through their forest.
Once Hödekin had returned with enough firewood they lit a small fire, warmed some water they had carried from the stream and made a porridge with some of the oats they had packed, mixing in handfuls of dried fruit. They spoke softly as the night deepened around them. As welcome as the small flames were eventually they agreed that the fire felt like something of a beacon and limited their ability to see out into the forest. The light made their surroundings that much darker. Hob quietly stamped it out as they got blankets ready before pouring water on it to dampen down the smell of wood smoke which drifted out into the dark trees. As soon as the light was gone the darkness of the forest became as black as the grave. Both kobolds had reasonable night vision, with Hob, the mine kobold, being slightly better than his house kobold cousin. Even so they could see almost nothing in the forest around them and every tiny rustle in the otherwise silent woods sounded like a huge animal. These woods had wolves and both kobolds were deeply conscious of their vulnerability.
They decided to take turns to sleep. Hob took the first watch but it was whilst Hödekin was struggling to keep his eyes open in the pitch black of night that they first heard the sound. A pair of feet could be heard on the path coming towards them at speed. Hödekin gently shook Hob awake. As they listened, each holding their breath, they heard someone come running along the path. Whoever it was carried no light and seemed not to need it. Hödekin imagined it was something like whatever had startled him in the bushes earlier that day but it was difficult to say as the sounds were so much louder in the night and when fuelled by an active imagination. As the quick footsteps neared their tree they slowed and stopped. Hob and Hödekin held their breath and both readied their presence. A long but quiet sniff came from the other side of the tree as though whoever, or whatever, it was was smelling them. Then the footsteps started up again and in a moment they had disappeared leaving the kob
olds in silence again. Neither Hob nor Hödekin slept again that night.
Later, as the first hint of dawn started to turn the sky from black to dark grey, they heard another sound. This one was above them. A shape seemed to be moving just above the trees so that a rustle moved in from one side, moving in arcs. No other trees moved and it seemed to be more than just a breeze. There was a shadow up there, swirling, moving the top most branches as it flew. After a few minutes it moved away and the forest returned to silence as the light began to increase.
Somewhere in the depths of a remote forest, North America.
Date unknown
Perhaps he could lose Qayin in this crowd, thought Box. He had arrived at the Twilight Market, perhaps the strangest place he had ever found in the course of his wanderings. Hidden deep in a wooded valley somewhere in America it was a place where the far future of Mu and the distant past melted together. Men and women of many eras walked alongside kobolds. Bunyips, yeren, giants and stranger creatures moved from stall to stall in the dim light shopping for some of the weirdest things on offer from this world and the next. Box even saw what looked like a Sasquatch hunched down behind a stall on which stood a number of strange artefacts and relics. The Twilight Market only appeared once in a blue moon and Box had only been here once before. He had not been able to fathom how or where it appeared from, how the line delivered him here or how the strange mixture of shoppers knew when and where to come. It was probably the largest gathering of people with presence this side of the Rivenrok Complex.
He ducked into a shadowy corner for a moment to get his bearings and so he could keep an eye on the spot where he had arrived. I am, thought Box as he eyed the spot in the forest where the line hummed, my own worst enemy. Qayin would surely follow him, even to this strange and elusive place. Box wished bitterly that he had never found that original line, the one that had caused him so many problems. The Blood Line was, so far as he knew, the only one of its kind. He had used it many times in an attempt to create a group of people he could trust to help fight the Riven. As it had turned out it had just caused more trouble rather than make the situation better. Box shuddered when he thought of what might happen if the Riven King ever managed to use it on his own terms. He would create multiple versions of himself. He would be unstoppable. It was no wonder the Riven chased Box, and the other versions of him, as hard as they did. They had not been able to find the location themselves but he had no doubt that they would torture him to make him reveal his secret. Indeed, he knew of more than one clone who had taken the secret to his grave under enormous pressure. It was only Qayin who might willingly give up the location. But all he wanted to do was kill. He hated the line, the very reason for his own tormented existence. The secret was safe for now.
