by Robin Bootle
‘If he is even still alive.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Aris.’
Elizabeth reached out to squeeze Ivandell’s hand. ‘I’m so sorry, Ivandell.’ She didn’t look at him for more than a passing moment but her hand remained hooked around his. Then, she squeezed his fingers.
It was the first time either of them had touched Ivandell in any meaningful way. Edward wanted to study her face but she was looking the other way. Was she just reacting instinctively, or had she begun to care for Ivandell? Judging by how long their hands remained clasped, he presumed the latter.
His head threatened to implode. The implications of such a thing were unfathomable. Walking, talking pieces of code confined to a computer game were no one’s concern. But what if they could feel? What if he could feel for them? How then could one just turn off the game when it was finished? And at once he knew it was a question that had always been there. One he couldn’t ignore any longer.
An outsider would have told him that Ivandell’s emotional responses were predefined by the logic of his programming code. A human was more complex, his emotional responses predefined in part by his genetic code, but also by everything learned and experienced over the course of his life. But Ivandell too could learn. He wasn’t a character from a movie or a book; his situation might have been predetermined, but his emotional response to that situation wasn’t.
So what then was the difference? What made Edward’s own emotions real and Ivandell’s pretend? Hormones, yes, and the act of physically crying, but they were just the symptoms of emotion, and not emotion itself.
Edward thought back to the moment they’d met. Ivandell hadn’t known what to do with him, a strange boy invoking the prophecy. Like Hasgard, he could have remained hidden in Force Crag. But he hadn’t. He’d come with Edward, to help him, because he’d believed there was a chance it would lead to the rescue of his son.
Edward shook his head, stunned at the undeniable truth. In one way or another, Ivandell had made a conscious choice to help them. To follow them into danger. To hold Elizabeth’s hand. The only thing he wasn’t choosing was the tears that now trickled down his cheek.
But just because Ivandell could cry, or choose to see his son, that didn’t mean his heart actually ached, did it? As Elizabeth’s hand slid away from Ivandell’s, Edward found his gaze drawn back to the curled up palm of Ivandell’s hand, and he squirmed.
No, his heart can’t ache, he thought. Because he doesn’t have a heart. Because those tears don’t really exist. It’s all just code.
It has to be.
* * *
Several hours later and they were walking in a land of ash-coloured soil. The few oaks that had survived the inferno stood defiant, flourishing green against the blue sky. The harvest had been looking too good, explained Ivandell, and so Dēofol’s soldiers had come to make sure the local food supply remained limited.
A few miles to their left, the mountains leapt towards the sky. Behind them, the setting sun cast beams of golden fire between the jagged peaks. Edward’s thoughts drifted to what the new day might hold. Was it really possible that James and he might return together to the real world? And even if they did, could they ever rebuild their lives and pretend that nothing had happened? No, that could never be. But they could have new lives, in another town, another country maybe, where nothing but their own nightmares could remind them of the past.
They reached the crest of a small hill. The strands of incinerated crop crunched beneath each step. At the bottom of the valley, rows of houses lay neatly arranged around a central square, calm and peaceful in the twilight of dusk. Hawkshead. He’d expected the village to be somehow recognisable. This was where Dad had taken them fishing, caught something huge and wondered around all day in some stupid green jacket covered in different types of bait, deliberately trying to embarrass them. But other than the river that ran from east to west along the northern end of the village, so far nothing seemed familiar.
He pulled the telescope from his bag and lifted it to his eye. A large barn filled with bales of hay sat in front of the first houses of the village. Then the narrow streets of wooden homes, their curtains drawn and not a soul in sight. At the back of the village was a stone building and at last he recognised something. A grey church with a medieval-looking steeple at the back. It was a replica of the church in the real Hawkshead. Only here some kind of stone bird partially filled the steeple windows. He couldn’t see the detail from where he stood, but he was willing to bet he knew what it was. A skylark, one of the few birds that Dad seemed to know by name, and so one of the few which he had so regularly pointed out on their walks.
Edward swallowed the swelling lump in his throat. There it is, he thought, the unavoidable nostalgia sprinkled around every corner of this godforsaken place. ‘Everything’s quiet.’ He passed the telescope to Ivandell.
Ivandell put the telescope to his eye and searched the town. ‘Too quiet.’
‘They must be hiding somewhere,’ suggested Elizabeth. ‘A trap. Just like Hound predicted.’
‘I have heard of a tactic before. Men dressed as prisoners, inside the cells. Once you are inside, they pounce. The prison is the small building to the right of the water fountain. The front door is the only way in.’ He handed the telescope back to Edward.
Edward found the fountain, shimmering clearly even in the fading light. He swung his scope to the right. A flat-roofed wooden building stood to one side of the square: the prison, its lights out and its blinds drawn. His heart threatened to burst from its cage. James was somewhere inside.
‘So, does anyone have any ideas?’ asked Elizabeth.
He watched her a moment, suddenly anxious. He was again expecting her to head into trouble on his account. And now, as much as he wished it weren’t true, he knew part of him would rather she waited behind and out of harm’s way. But the mere mention of such an idea would leave her fuming. ‘Not really,’ he said at last. ‘What’s the last thing they’d expect us to do?’
‘March right up to the prison and tell them you’re here,’ she suggested jokingly. She shrugged. ‘There’s only three of us. If we’re going to engage them, we need them in a crossfire, in one of these narrow streets. But how do we lure them out?’
Smoke them out? he thought. Too dangerous, James could get hurt. Create a diversion in the street perhaps, a scuffle? But the soldiers had orders, presumably the bulk of them wouldn’t come out for anyone but him.
His skin prickled at the realisation of what he had to do. Elizabeth had already answered her own question. ‘I’m going to march right up to them,’ he said, ‘and tell them I’m here.’
* * *
He walked down the narrow road towards the prison, his breath refusing to leave his lungs and pressing sharply against his chest. Night had fallen, and he could scarcely see anything or anyone. Yet he could feel a thousand eyes watching him, making every step more self-conscious than the last.
The buildings on either side of the narrow street passed beyond his peripheral vision as he entered the square, and he felt even more exposed. The only thing disturbing the silence was the fountain, splashing relentlessly into the stone bowl at its base. He walked a few paces to his right to get a clear view of the prison.
He tried to call out, to beckon the soldiers to come get him, but his words choked at the back of his throat. He took one last glance behind. The faint sight of Elizabeth on the roof silhouetted against the starlit sky gave him some encouragement. He thought he saw her give him a nod, and he spun without thinking to face the prison.
‘The boy is here!’ His quaking voice shattered the silence. ‘This is Edward! The boy from the prophecy! I’m here to surrender in exchange for my brother!’ His words tailed off, his body half-turned and his legs ready to run.
The fountain continued to fill the air with its indiffe
rent sloshing. The prison door remained closed. Its blinds remained unmoved. Were they waiting for him to get closer? He turned back to Elizabeth, hoping to see some kind of signal as to how to proceed.
He caught sight of her pointing to the far side of the square. ‘The houses!’ she whispered. ‘They’re in the houses!’
His heart thumped in his chest. He peered towards the houses on the far side of the square but could scarcely make out the windows, let alone anyone inside.
A door creaked behind him.
He spun as fear shot down his spine. A face was poking through the gap in the doorway, just ten yards away. The soldier more closely resembled some kind of animal than a man. His skin was grey, crumpled and thick. His nose was crooked. His eyes were dark black for all he could tell, with no whites.
The soldier edged through the doorway into the street, revealing the sword and the axe in his hands, his torso protected by metal plate armour. Every cell in Edward’s body turned to focus on one thing only.
Escape.
He bolted, legs moving like never before. Back down the narrow road.
A howl like a wolf pierced the night.
To his left a door burst open, then another to his right. Two more soldiers, faces grey and twisted, bundled into the street, growling as they came for him. One looked down in shock as an arrow thumped into his chest. The other was flung back against the wall opposite by the force of a crossbow bolt.
He wished Elizabeth or Ivandell would shout down some guidance but he knew they couldn’t reveal themselves. Amid the wheezing of his breathless lungs came the clattering of armour and what seemed like a hundred footsteps entering the narrow street behind him.
A burst of warmth hit his back as the street lit up orange. Back down the street, in a space of about twenty yards, tens of grey-skinned soldiers were trapped between two loads of hay that had been dropped from the roofs above and set alight with blazing arrows.
They had their brief head start. Soon the soldiers would hack their way through, or find a way through the houses. He darted left down a side alley and then left again onto the next narrow road, his windpipe tearing at the sheer effort of trying to draw in enough oxygen.
He reappeared in the square and drew his dagger. Ivandell was already there, finishing off the last of the soldiers not caught in the trap. Elizabeth remained above, arrow after arrow whizzing effortlessly towards those trying to work their way through the first set of hay bales. Each arrow seemed to hit its target only a second before the next.
‘Edward, slow down!’ cried Ivandell. ‘There may be more inside!’
But he couldn’t. There wasn’t time. ‘James!’ he called as he raced towards the prison.
The prison door opened. A grey-skinned soldier stumbled out and the sight sent Edward skidding onto his back. The soldier lurched forward, only to clutch his stomach and drop face first to the dirt.
When the door creaked open again, the blood drained from Edward’s head. Dazzling lights flittered across his vision. In the doorway, blood dripping from the dagger in his right hand, was Hound. His right leg appeared to be bearing most of his weight. His axe was still stowed on his back. Even in the moonlight Edward could see his face, riddled with remorse. ‘I’m sorry, Edward,’ he whispered. ‘You’re too late.’
‘Too late?’ Edward forced himself to his feet. ‘What for? What have you done?’ His eyes fell to the blood on Hound’s dagger. Each drip from its silver tip was like a knife into Edward’s heart. ‘What have you done?’
Hound’s eyes flicked calmly to Ivandell as Ivandell charged towards him, screaming as if it was his own brother who had been murdered. Before Ivandell could reach him, the black armour around Hound’s stomach began to distort, blurring at the centre of his torso. The blur spread into a black, eight-foot circle, and in a matter of seconds, it had left him warped just like Edward had been inside the Great Black. Then a bang, a crack like a whip, and the circle imploded, taking Hound with it.
‘How is it possible?’ Ivandell stood nervously watching the space outside the prison as though Hound might reappear at any moment.
Edward hurtled past him, his head spinning. He stepped over the dead soldier in the prison doorway. Inside, another soldier lay lifeless. A small wooden bowl lay upturned in front of the centre cell. And beyond was a sight that left him gasping.
A cell with hay strewn across the floor, just like the one he’d seen on the screen on James’s port. Only James wasn’t there.
His sight blurred in a rush of light-headedness. He stumbled, catching his heel against the dead soldier, and he toppled back through the doorway. His head smacked into the hard dirt. The dark of night seemed to close in on all sides and with it, all the fight he once had seeped pitifully into the dirt street beneath.
17
Westmacott
Above, the night sky was a blur of trailing stars. He wanted to scream, but the air had been stolen from his lungs. To have been so close, and yet nowhere near at all.
He could hear Dēofol’s soldiers trampling towards him but he couldn’t bring himself to get up. He was too dazed. His head was pounding from the fall. He imagined the soldiers capturing him and taking him to Dēofol and Vanderboom. All he would need was a split second’s lack of concentration, and he would leap on Vanderboom with a grip so tight that no one could peel him away. Not until Vanderboom was dead.
Above, a wide face and flowing locks blotted out the moon. Ivandell’s bulky arms reached down and hauled him up. ‘Quickly, Edward! We must run!’
Beyond Ivandell, the first of the soldiers was already at the fountain. Edward followed Ivandell up the road that led east out of town. Twenty yards along they slid into a side alley no more than fifteen inches wide, a passage so narrow the soldiers would only be able to enter one at a time.
Ivandell swerved left up some creaking wooden stairs to the rooftops. Elizabeth was waiting with her bow trained on the alley below. She took out the first, second and third of the soldiers to enter the alley, their bodies an obstacle to further delay the rest of the pack.
The three of them hurried south across the rooftops. In the distance, open fields led to the trees of the Weary Woods. They skipped over a narrow gap between two houses, once, twice, and a third time. Then Ivandell led them down more steps onto the main road out of town.
They watched, hidden by the shadows of a house, as troops of soldiers clunked towards the south, following the last direction in which they had seen the boy and his companions heading. But the plan had always been to double back on themselves and head north. That was where Dēofol and the Tartarus Stone were. That was where they were meant to go to escape with James in their care.
But where would they go now? He realised that for the first time since arriving in Extropia there was no destination. The destination had been James but now James was gone.
Someone tugged at his robe, pulling him back against the side of a house as four more soldiers crossed the road nearby. The outline of Elizabeth’s hair was all he could make out. He crept after her, glancing over his shoulder to where the soldiers had been, and caught sight of someone else sneaking across the road towards them. The silhouette of a man and his shadow cast by the moon.
‘Someone’s coming!’ he whispered, turning to face the others. But they were no longer there.
‘Edward!’ Elizabeth whispered.
‘Where are you?’
He continued on down the road, keeping close to the side but feeling suddenly isolated. Five yards ahead he could see a gap in the houses, another alley.
‘Over here!’ she called.
Before he could take another step, a rough-skinned hand covered his mouth and pulled him back into the shadows.
* * *
He went to draw his dagger but the man’s other hand met his with an iron grip and spun him forcefully around
. The stranger whispered, ‘I am a friend.’ The man was a little taller than Edward, his grey hair picked out in the light of the moon. The skin on his face was white, not grey, and Edward lessened his resistance.
‘Captain Westmacott!’ It was Ivandell’s voice, and again Edward strained to see his friends in the darkness.
‘This way!’ The captain released Edward, and the others appeared out of the shadows further up the road.
Relieved to lay eyes on Elizabeth again, Edward stayed close to her as they followed the man down the road. They darted left into another alley, and just a few yards down the captain burst through a wooden side door, holding it open until they were all inside.
The room was dark. Edward could just make out a small table, two wooden chairs and a fireplace. The captain lifted a rug near the entrance. Below, a small hole had been cut into the floor. From a side shelf, he picked up a small hook and passed it through the hole. He pulled on the hook, lifting an eighteen inch square section of the floor. Where the floor had been, wooden steps disappeared into pitch black.
Edward bundled down the stairs after the others. The captain came down last, painstakingly prodding the rug back into place with a fire poker as he lowered the trap door.
A hand reached for Edward’s. He could tell by the size and softness that it was Elizabeth’s. He held it tight, comforted to know she seemed to be just as afraid as he was. Something rattled on the far side of the room. Then there was the spark of a match and a candle was lit.
The captain stood near the far wall, a bag in one hand and a walking stick in the other. Behind him, a narrow window at ground level was covered by a blind. The wall was stacked with chests and wooden boxes. An assortment of swords, axes and shields hung neatly on the walls on either side. On the back of the door was a painting of the captain in uniform, standing proudly beside another soldier.
