Extropia

by Robin Bootle

  ‘Where did you learn to use your sword like that?’ he asked. ‘You really look like you know what you’re doing.’

  Elizabeth kept her eyes trained on Ivandell. ‘My father was into fencing. I never thought for a second I’d ever use it.’

  ‘And what about you, Edward?’ asked Ivandell. ‘You carry a staff on your back. Do you know how to use it?’

  ‘I’m learning, I guess. Do you know anything about magic?’

  ‘Little, save that it is innate, and that mages are a different race to that of men.’

  ‘Do you know how I control it?’

  Ivandell shrugged. ‘I am not a mage. The one thing I know is that the only way to be sure of stopping a mage is with magic itself, or to disrupt his central column.’ Ivandell ran his fingers from his neck to his waist. ‘Magic is charged near the solar plexus and distributed to the surface. Any disruption to the mage’s energy channel, and he is incapacitated.’

  ‘Dēofol’s a mage, isn’t he? Wouldn’t a bolt from your crossbow be enough?’

  ‘Possibly, but the challenge is to be close enough, and for him not to see it coming. A bolt is easily discarded without Dēofol even moving a muscle. My advice to you, Edward, is to avoid Dēofol at all costs.’

  ‘Then why are you here?’ Elizabeth asked. ‘If you don’t believe that Edward’s coming signals the beginning of what was prophesised, that you can defeat Dēofol, why bother with us?’

  Ivandell sighed. ‘In truth, I no longer know what to believe. But some part of me cannot give up hope that while you are here there remains some chance of rescuing my son.’

  ‘And where is he?’

  ‘Like all the others, he is in the dungeons of Sun City, beneath Dēofol’s throne room. He was taken from my arms, my wife butchered by Dēofol’s men. Her crime? Refusing to surrender our boy. Before I could reach them, I was unconscious. When I woke, my boy was gone. All that was left behind was…’ Ivandell’s head dropped. ‘I’m sorry.’

  Edward squirmed as a jolt of sadness, or maybe guilt ran through him. Why was it making him feel so uncomfortable? Ivandell was just a string of code, electrical signals whizzing around Edward’s mind. Surely he needn’t care about Ivandell’s so-called feelings?

  Twenty minutes in, they reached a clearing. Clumps of grass dotted the centre and all around was a ring of tall pines. One thick trunk lay fallen across the far side. Ivandell led them towards one end and pointed to a small hole underneath.

  ‘I have not even told my closest friends of this place – a fox’s den. If I did, it would be empty by now.’ He pulled a looped wire from his bag and tied it to a branch overhanging the entrance to the den. ‘When the fox exits,’ he explained, ‘the loop will tighten around its throat.’

  ‘So it strangles itself to death?’ asked Elizabeth. ‘Nice.’

  ‘It is not my preferred trap,’ Ivandell conceded. ‘But it is light and easy to carry.’

  Something cracked in the darkness, and all three of their heads spun in the direction they had come. In a flash, Elizabeth lifted her sword to Ivandell’s chest. ‘You’d better not have anyone following us!’

  ‘My lady, I swear,’ he whispered, his hands quickly in the air.

  ‘I think it was further off,’ Edward suggested.

  Ivandell carefully reached a finger to his lips. Together they peered into the darkness, ears tuned to the silence of the forest. After a short while Ivandell whispered, ‘Most likely it is another hunter from the mine, trying to find something for dinner other than fish. It is safer now, hidden by the dark, although prey can be harder to find. In any case, be alert, as one must always be in these sorry times.’

  Elizabeth glared at him a moment longer before lowering her sword. ‘Edward, put out the torches.’

  He obeyed, plunging the torches into the soggy ground. ‘What do we do now?’

  ‘We wait.’ Elizabeth motioned for Ivandell to take the lead. They followed him in the scarce light of the moon, moving slowly to avoid tripping on fallen branches and the uneven turf, until they reached a spot where they could sit and wait for the howl of their fox. Elizabeth remained focused on Ivandell throughout, her sword held loosely in her hand.

  ‘Won’t Lord Hasgard have something to say about you coming after us like this?’ she asked.

  ‘Hasgard is happy for us to do as we please but he knows that most will never leave the mine. Most of us are wanted men.’

  ‘What did you do?’ asked Edward.

  Ivandell looked at him, his answer delayed as if it should have been obvious. ‘Resistance.’

  ‘What about Lord Hasgard? Why’s he in hiding?’

  ‘All those in the mine have stood against Dēofol, or broken his laws. But Hasgard’s tale is the most tragic. Hasgard blames himself for what has happened to our lands, for the death of the Great Warrior.’

  ‘Why? What happened?’

  ‘General Aidēs and Lord Hasgard were like brothers once, for decades defending the Lands of the Sun against the invading armies of Ejüll. One day, the general heard that Melchram, the king’s closest counsel, had sided with a new power in the east. But the king would not listen. So afraid was the general for the safety of the kingdom that he took matters into his own hands. Hasgard found the general’s assassin, the Witch of the North, with a knife at Melchram’s throat, and bound by his sense of duty, he told the king. The king would have sentenced any normal man to death, but the general and his most faithful warriors were banished into the mountains. Many who were not banished chose still to follow him. None of them were ever seen again.’ His head dipped and he gazed emptily at the forest floor. ‘Melchram, on the other hand, was allowed to continue providing his poisonous counsel. A few weeks later Dēofol invaded. This is what Hasgard carries on his shoulders. His courage is lost. He did enough to keep Edward alive, but that is all we can hope for.’

  It was tragic, thought Edward. But it was also nothing more than further backdrop to the game, along with the prophecy. Whatever had finished off the general, it was just another line of problems in a game whose rules and plotlines were unfinished, this particular one leaving the player’s primary ally already dead. ‘Have you ever seen Dēofol?’ he asked.

  Ivandell’s stare remained vacant. ‘I have. We were on the battlefield, in the last days of the invasion, when the field cleared. I saw him watching me. It sent a coldness through my bones that haunts me even to this day. His skin is a deep red. They say it is the colour of the rage that consumes his blood. He is more foul a being than any that has ever walked. And somehow, since that day, he has become even worse.’

  ‘How? You mean more powerful?’

  ‘Yes, more powerful. But it is as if in the past twelve months not only has his sorcery become more foul, but also his methods, as if his principles have also disappeared.’

  ‘Principles?’ interjected Elizabeth. ‘He doesn’t sound like the kind of man who has principles.’

  ‘Yes, he kills wantonly, he causes suffering for suffering’s sake. But there was always some sense of balance. For there to be suffering, there must be those who can suffer. That is his principle. Our women and children were safe as long as they did not try to resist or try to escape. Now he seems to kill at will, discarding all life like it is human waste.’

  The sound of a fox’s high-pitched howl drew Ivandell’s stare. ‘Come.’ Ivandell feigned a smile. ‘Dinner has arrived, earlier than expected.’

  They headed back to the snare. The fox was wriggling desperately, choking, shrieking that spine-shuddering way that only foxes can. Elizabeth went to it, petting its head, and at once it stilled, its dying eyes somehow finding a sudden calm. ‘Get on with it then,’ she said.

  Ivandell motioned for her to step aside, raised his crossbow, and a moment later the fox was dead.

  They hurried back towards the hut
. The walk back was made near-impossible without the light of their torches and took twice as long. But in the quiet stillness, and with the faint light of the night sky reaching the forest floor, Extropia for a while seemed at peace. So serene, it reminded Edward of the late nights at Windermere, hanging out under the stars with Dad, James and Mum.

  The forest began to brighten ever so slightly, and soon the field came into view. Through the tangled branches, the hut was visible, lit up by the moon. And unlike that first time he’d laid eyes on it, the sight of it made him come to a dead stop.

  The others stopped with him, alarmed.

  ‘Edward, what is it?’ asked Elizabeth.

  ‘I think I might know what that sound was,’ he said, hoping he was wrong. ‘The crack we heard while we were setting the trap. It reminded me of the noise I heard when you arrived.’

  Elizabeth whipped out her sword and immediately Ivandell followed suit. She scanned the field then signalled for the two of them to spread five yards apart as they crept towards the hut. As they drew near she motioned for Ivandell to head around one side as she and Edward scouted the other. Moments later, the three of them met outside the front door.

  ‘Check inside,’ Ivandell whispered. ‘I will wait here and keep watch over the field.’

  Elizabeth peeked her head inside, and then motioned for Edward to follow her in. He glanced over the room. The drawer where Cat’s cake had been was still open, the table, the shelves; everything was as it should be.

  ‘Maybe you misheard,’ she suggested. ‘It doesn’t look like anyone’s been here.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said, now doubting his ears. He climbed the ladder, checking under the beds as his eyes reached over the mezzanine. No one there, so he continued up. The four beds sat undisturbed, covered in a thick layer of dust. The chest was still and closed.

  His sense of unease remained. Something seemed different, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. He studied the thatched ceiling and the walls, slowly realising what it might be. He hurried to the chest and gripped the brass rim of the lid. And as its cold touch seeped through into his skin, he knew what was wrong.

  Neither he nor Elizabeth had closed the lid.

  He hauled it open. The orange glow sneaked up his robe, his neck and his face. The light pierced his retinas, sending a shiver down his spine.

  Save for one bow and one axe, the chest was empty.

  12

  The Red Mist

  Edward rolled once more onto his side. The sweat-drenched sheet was trapped under his shoulder and he groaned at the tedious task of tugging it free. Another wave of frustrated heat flushed through his body. His mind had been filled with repetitive, unsettling thoughts since his head had hit the pillow. Through the chaotic half-sleep of ideas and recent memories, one question kept coming back to the fore: who had found a way into the hut, and how?

  Only Oriel knew the password, so it could only have been him or another NCCU agent, come to help. But then where had that agent gone in the middle of the night? Surely he would have known from the screens on Edward and Elizabeth’s ports that they had been close by in the woods. Had Hasgard and his band of outlaws already captured them and taken them to the hollow? If so, all they could hope was that Hasgard would release them and send them to Hawkshead; for Edward and Elizabeth to return to the hollow on a whim was simply too dangerous.

  He begged himself once more to let it go. He needed more sleep if he was to be any use tomorrow. He focused on his breathing. In, out. In, out. The breath dragged slowly through his airways.

  Something rattled downstairs.

  Was someone inside the hut? Or was it the wind? Ivandell wasn’t able to get in. Or so he had said. But what if he was lying, waiting for them to sleep so he could creep up and kill them?

  Why on earth would Ivandell want to do that, came the obvious question.

  Something moved in the shadows near the chest.

  Edward sat upright and looked at Elizabeth, asleep on the far side of the mezzanine. He tried to call her name but no sound would come out. He tried to reach down beside the bed to grab his dagger, but his arms wouldn’t respond.

  A huge figure crawled out of the chest, spider-like in its movement, and then crept on all fours towards him. Between its teeth, the figure clenched Edward’s dagger, lit up with orange worms. Closer and closer the figure came, until it was right beside the bed and towering over him, blond locks casting a shadow across its face and tickling the side of its grim smile. It pulled the dagger from its lips.

  Ivandell, no! Again, the words failed to materialise. Edward was paralysed, as if something was crushing his chest. He turned again to Elizabeth, only then seeing that she was drenched in her own blood, horror captured forever on her face.

  He bolted upright, riddled with sweat and gasping for breath.

  Elizabeth was still asleep, her face in a grimace and her red hair clasped together in sweaty waves. Her night seemed to have fared no better than his.

  A little light filtered through the hole in the roof. He slipped his robe over his undergarments and went downstairs, then stepped into the crisp morning air. Purple fingers reached across the sky as the sun clawed its way towards the horizon. The air was dotted with light whisks of moisture swirling in the breeze and stained red by the rising sun. They needed to get going. Anyone waiting in the woods would easily spot them in the daylight.

  Ivandell lay slumped high in the tree, his loaded crossbow poking over the outside of his left thigh. He seemed somehow different, as if tainted with the shadow of doubt cast from Edward’s nightmare. He jerked to life, grabbing at his crossbow, only to recognise Edward below. ‘Morning,’ he said grumpily, before relaxing back onto his branch.

  ‘Well done for noticing,’ replied Edward. He didn’t know why he’d said it. It was the sort of obnoxious thing he would have said when he was ten. He must have slept even less than he’d realised. He nodded towards the northern border of the forest. ‘It’s time to go. Are you ready?’

  ‘I’m tired.’ Ivandell closed his eyes again and crossed his arms. ‘Go back to bed.’

  ‘Excuse me?’ How could this man go from being so eager to help to now lazing in the tree like nothing mattered? ‘If you want me to help you find your son, you’ll get up now.’ His hand shot to cover his mouth. He couldn’t believe such a horrible thing had come from his own lips. But he knew that, for a moment, he’d meant it.

  Ivandell dropped down from the tree and stomped towards him. ‘How dare you?’ Midway between Edward and the tree, he stopped and gasped. ‘By the Skylar!’ His eyes darted this way and that through the field. ‘Quickly! Come here!’ He dropped his bag to the ground and began frantically rummaging around.

  ‘What? Why?’ Edward asked, but Ivandell was no longer paying him any attention. His head was buried in his bag. Edward called out towards the top level of the hut. ‘Elizabeth. Time to leave!’ Somewhere to the east a horn sounded, like it had on the first night. He looked across the field but could see nothing but trees and mist. Perhaps it had come from Dēofol’s camp, the one the people from Force Crag had seen. Dēofol’s men were sure to be nearby. ‘Elizabeth!’ he growled. ‘Come on!’

  A firm hand on his shoulder yanked him around. Ivandell was holding a torch in the other hand. ‘Edward, listen to me! The mist – it is the work of Dēofol! He works to destroy our minds!’

  Edward glanced about, only then noticing the red tone of the mist couldn’t possibly be coming from the sun. It was red everywhere, even near the forest where the sun couldn’t reach.

  And worse, in every direction the border of the forest was deep crimson, mist slowly wafting back and forth, as if it were the breath of the forest itself. Only towards the east did the forest seem relatively unscathed – in the direction of Dēofol’s camp. ‘I don’t understand… But I felt it, I think. My head was all cau
ght up in a rage over nothing.’

  ‘Exactly! It is some new concoction of Dēofol’s. I have heard of it only in the past year, through the stories of its survivors. We must be thankful it is still so weak here in the field. It can turn a son against his father. A mist that dense could kill us all!’

  ‘What’s with all the noise?’ Elizabeth was standing with one hand on the doorframe, scowling.

  Edward grabbed Ivandell’s torch and ran to her. As the torch came within a few feet of her, her scowl morphed into a look of shock. ‘The mist, it’s some kind of poison,’ explained Edward, ‘but the flames seem to burn it away.’

  ‘My God! I felt so angry.’ She glanced about the field and gasped in alarm. ‘Jesus! We’re trapped!’

  ‘We must head east,’ asserted Ivandell, ‘where the mist is less dense.’

  ‘Isn’t that the way to Dēofol’s camp?’

  ‘We have no choice! To go any other way through the mist is the work of a fool!’

  ‘Surely Dēofol’s trying to force us that way,’ said Edward. ‘Our torches alone would give us away. And for all we know, his men are waiting just inside the trees on the eastern side.’

  ‘Edward, listen to me, if we go north we do not stand a chance. We will stumble. We will turn on each other!’

  ‘Maybe we should listen to him,’ said Elizabeth. ‘Ivandell knows this place better than either of us.’

  ‘How far is it, if we head east?’ Edward asked. ‘How long is the diversion?’

  ‘One day east,’ replied Ivandell. ‘And one day back.’

  ‘James won’t last that long.’ Edward looked to Elizabeth, desperate.

  Reluctantly, she nodded.

  He turned to Ivandell. ‘How much fuel do you have?’

  * * *

  They lit the two other torches that still lay resting against the hut and filled the three flasks Edward had found using water from the well. Then they set off towards the north side of the field, rushing a breakfast of leftover fox as they went. Ahead, the long grass gave way to the tall pines of the forest. Hanging in the trees was a wall of red mist, swirling and sweeping, everything about it telling Edward he should go the other way. But there could be no doubt; that was exactly what Dēofol wanted. He stopped and took a deep breath, trying to build his courage.