by Bryan Davis
The shrill note grew louder, giving away its direction. Adrian pointed into the darkness. “It’s coming from the collection tank.”
“What does it mean?”
“It’s probably a warning mechanism telling us it’s full of extane. Whoever was supposed to help me deliver the tank should have arrived by now. The storm must have delayed him.”
“Him?” Cassabrie repeated. “Do you know the person’s identity?”
“No. My group didn’t tell me who it would be.”
“Then how do you know your helper is a man?”
Adrian shrugged. “It’s a man’s job. Since we have powerful opponents, the journey is dangerous. And the tank is heavy. I assume it will take two strong men to roll it into place.”
“Assumptions are often wrong.” Shivering once again, Cassabrie smiled. “Remember, you thought I would be a dragon.”
“Your point is as sharp as any sword, but why would you think my helper might not be a man?”
“I have a gift.” Cassabrie gazed upward and spoke in a slow, mysterious cadence. “A woman is out there, suffering in this storm, oppressed, troubled, perhaps in danger.”
Adrian stared into the rain again but to no avail. “How far away is she?”
“Not close enough for me to tell.” She looked up at him, gesturing with her hands as she shifted back to her normal tone. “You see, I am able to tell stories that recount events, some of which I have never seen. I reveal secrets whispered in dark places. I shout hidden thoughts. I resurrect history that myths and legends have corrupted by their skewed retellings.” She laid a hand on her chest. “I am a Starlighter.”
“A Starlighter?” Adrian glanced in the direction of the whistling tank. It likely posed no danger, at least not yet. Who would hear its alarm in this storm? He could risk probing for more information. “Can you show me what you mean?”
“Here?” she asked, touching the floor of the shed. “Now?”
“Why not?”
“I have not tested the full extent of my gifts here, but I can try.” She rose to her feet and extended her hand into the rain. Water quickly filled her palm and spilled over the sides. “I need more room, so I will have to stand out in the storm.”
Adrian rose and gently grasped her arm. “Never mind, then. You shouldn’t—”
“I don’t mind getting wet.” She pulled free and walked into the ankle-deep water. “I want to enjoy this new experience.”
Adrian stepped out and joined her. The lightning had eased, now flashing intermittently far away. It seemed safe enough.
“What story would you like to hear?” she asked as she turned her hips, twirling her water-laden cloak around her legs.
Adrian’s heart raced. For some reason, this girl’s claim seemed truer than the wetness of the rain. “Can you tell me about my brother Frederick? Is he alive? If so, where is he?”
She set a finger against her chin. “I have never met him, so that will be very difficult, especially since I feel weaker here. But I will see what happens as I begin the part of the story I know.”
As lightning provided split-second glimpses of Cassabrie’s slight body, she lifted her hands and spoke with a haunting cadence. “Frederick, beloved brother of Adrian, ventured into another world in search of lost souls. These souls, captured in the prime of life by a sinister dragon, have been enslaved for a hundred years, and good Frederick sacrificed his own comfort and safety in an attempt to bring them home to this land of freedom.”
Her eyes grew wide, unblinking in spite of the wind and rain. An aura took shape around her body, not as expansive as the one that ushered her into this world. It was more like a soft glow covering her hair, skin, and clothing, as if an artist had painted her in muted starlight. Her tone shifted, taking on a resonant, almost echoing nature, though her voice stayed sweet, feminine, and melodic.
“Frederick,” she called into the wind. “I need your help. The dragons have doubled my quota, and I am too ill to carry so many stones.”
A bucket appeared at Cassabrie’s feet, semitransparent in her ghostly glow. As she picked it up, its weight tilted her body to one side. “Will you help me, Frederick?”
A phantomlike man materialized, though not completely. As he knelt in front of her, the glow shone through his body. When his lips moved, Cassabrie gave him voice, changing her tone to a deeper register. “I will help you, little girl, but not to collect stones.” He took her hand in his. “Come, and we will escape this place.”
Cassabrie dropped the bucket, and it crumbled to dust. She trotted in a tight circle, following Frederick. Although every fall of her bare feet raised a splash, her ghostly leader hurried on in silence. When she finally stopped, a stone wall covered with thorny vines appeared next to her, double the height of a grown man, though it, too, allowed Cassabrie’s glow to pass through.
She panted, holding a hand against her chest and staring at Frederick as he knelt again in front of her. “We will scale this wall together,” he said through Cassabrie’s altered voice. “And I will take you to the enclave in the wilderness. Do you understand?”
As she nodded, her eyes shot wide open. A shadow penetrated her glow, a black form with sharp claws. Frederick leaped up and drew his sword in one motion. “Back!” he shouted. “Or you will feel my blade in your gullet!”
A roar erupted from Cassabrie’s throat, so deep and rough, it seemed impossible that such a sound could come from her frame. “Foolish human! Your pitiful weapon is no match for me. Surrender yourself, or die!”
Frederick’s face drew taut, but he showed no signs of fear. “I will defend this girl to my death. You have no right to keep these little ones as cattle, forcing them to do your labors. Your laziness and cruelty expose your cowardice, so I have no fear of you.”
A pop sounded. A stream of fire shot into the scene, but it looked real, a blue streak with a long jagged tail. Adrian focused on it. A photo gun?
The streak zipped in front of Cassabrie’s nose and continued into the darkness, sizzling in the rain. Finally, it struck a distant tree and raised a splash of fire.
Frederick and the wall crumbled. Cassabrie’s shroud of light disappeared, leaving her in darkness. Adrian lunged, grasped her arm, and pulled her toward a stand of bushes, navigating the blackness by memory. His legs felt stiff, his brain foggy, as if he had just awakened from a deep sleep.
Now crouching in the brush, he stared into the clearing. Something moved out there, dark and fuzzy. Lightning flickered in the distance but too far away to illuminate anything close by. The whistling to the left continued, marking the collection tank. The shed stood somewhere to the right. His sword still lay inside. Could he leave Cassabrie and grope toward it without being discovered? Would their attacker be able to locate either one of them? Obviously he had a photo gun. The telltale blue fireball gave it away. Might he use a glow stick to light his path? No. That would reveal his own location, a foolish move.
Adrian flexed his fingers. If only the hilt of his sword were already in his grasp. Since the attacker didn’t know that his prey was unarmed, they were at an impasse. With the storm’s noise shield, maybe he could find the shed. Better to prolong the impasse with something more than his opponent’s assumption.
He set his lips against Cassabrie’s ear and whispered as quietly as possible. “Stay hidden. I have to get my sword.”
She pulled his sleeve and drew his head close to her mouth. “The woman is here, but she is not alone. She is angry, very angry.”
“Can you tell how many are out there?”
“Not with certainty. Maybe five others. All are men. I sense hostility toward the woman. Yet, I sense another man not among the others. He is distant, lost and searching, and he seems friendly.”
Adrian stared again into the darkness. If the closer men felt hostility toward the woman, then apparently she wasn’t on their side. Her anger might mean that she was their prisoner. But why? Had the Gateway sent a woman to help deliver the gas tank? If
so, who could possibly be brave or strong enough for the task?
He nodded at his own question. Marcelle, of course. But she didn’t cry out a warning. One of the men likely held a dagger at her throat, or perhaps she was gagged. In any case, if Marcelle was out there, she would be the most uncooperative prisoner possible. She would find a way to help.
After touching Cassabrie’s shoulder, signaling his departure, he tiptoed into the clearing. While the tank continued to whistle, he used its noise as a beacon, keeping it as a landmark in his mental image of the surroundings.
As he padded through the streaming water, anxiety pricked his senses. The attackers wouldn’t be sitting still, doing nothing. They had come to squash this plan, and waiting for their target to escape made no sense.
Something flashed in the corner of his eye. A bright yellow light erupted from a stone between him and the tank. He crouched, but it didn’t help. A gas lamp atop the stone cast a powerful glow all around, exposing him to whatever eyes cared to look his way. He felt naked, unable to see past the covered flame to identify the shadows undulating close behind it.
Another blue fireball shot from one of the shadows. Adrian dove toward the shed. As he slid through the water, pain ripped through his leg, a burning torture that ate into his skin. He rolled, dousing the burn, then leaped back to his feet and stumbled as he groped for the shed. His injured leg gave way, forcing him to crawl. He had to get to his sword. It was his only hope of protecting Cassabrie. Surely they would find her now.
With each splash, he cringed, waiting for the next fireball. Photo guns took some time to reenergize, but not that long. Maybe the rain had choked its mechanism.
He rolled into the shed and grabbed his sword. Now shielded by a wall, yet partially exposed by the doorway, he looked toward Cassabrie. Although she crouched low behind a bush, the white lining in her cloak could still be seen by someone looking in that direction. Since the attackers had no idea she was there, maybe they wouldn’t notice.
“Adrian Masters,” a man called. “Surrender. You are no match for our numbers and our weapons.”
Adrian peeked around the door frame. A man strode in front of the lamp, but with the light at his back, his face stayed in shadow.
“You are the most despicable of traitors,” the man continued. “His Excellency trusts you enough to keep his back turned to you as you wield a sword to protect him, yet you plot against his rule in secret. Your father would be proud. You are truly a son of the Ram.”
The Ram? Adrian studied the voice. Very familiar. Everyone knew about his bodyguard position, but only retired soldiers knew his father’s battle nickname. And who among them would think of Edison Masters as a traitor but the man who accused him of treachery long ago?
Drawing his head behind the wall again, Adrian shouted, “A plot against the governor’s rule? What are you talking about? I am here at the behest of one of his own.”
“Oh, really? Who gave such an order?”
“Since you don’t know, I must assume that you’re an enemy.” Adrian peeked out again. “I will give you no more information until you identify yourself.”
The man picked up the lantern by a handle on top. As it swung, the light passed back and forth across his face.
Adrian squinted. He had seen this soldier a number of times, one of Prescott’s highly ranked officers.
“I am Darien, head of the governor’s military council.” A cocky smile bent his lips. “Any further questions?”
With the light now shining into his sanctuary, Adrian searched for another weapon, a rope, a net, anything that might help him in battle. A broken shovel leaned against one corner, and the old hatchet and its leather sheath still lay in another. Adrian grabbed the sheath and tried to open it, but the metal fasteners had rusted. Would he be able to pry them loose in time?
He quickly unbuckled his belt and attached the sheath. While yanking on the fasteners, he kept glancing outside. Since Darien and his company hadn’t already attacked, they might believe he had dangerous weapons in the shed, maybe a photo gun he was keeping dry. It wouldn’t hurt to enhance their fears.
“I have other weapons in here,” he shouted. “Since you have a photo gun, you know its power. I suggest you leave and allow me to complete my mission.”
Darien stared into the shed, his brow low. “You hide the truth. I can tell when a deceiver is playing games with his words.”
Adrian rebuckled his belt. The hatchet’s fasteners stayed locked in place. “If you’re so confident, then come a few steps closer, and you’ll find out.”
Darien advanced a foot but drew it back. He set the lantern down and stalked toward the shadows. “I have another way of forcing your surrender.”
A few seconds later, he returned with two men and a woman. The men held the woman in place between them, her hands apparently bound behind her. A gag covered her mouth, but her identity was unmistakable.
“Marcelle,” Adrian whispered.
One of the soldiers shouted. “I see someone in the bushes!”
In a flash of white, Cassabrie dashed deeper into the forest.
Darien waved two fingers. “Go check it out.”
Sloshing footfalls headed toward the woods.
Adrian clenched his sword. He had to help Cassabrie, but how? They already had a head start, so chasing them in this storm would be impossible. And if he left, who would help Marcelle?
Darien withdrew a dagger and sliced away Marcelle’s gag and bonds. “If you try to help her,” he said, “I will cut her throat. But if you surrender, I will allow you both to stand a fair trial in Prescott’s court.”
“Idiot!” Marcelle barked. “I have nothing to do with this nutty conspiracy. Why would this peasant give up anything for the likes of me?”
Adrian gritted his teeth. Marcelle’s courageous denial gave him an opening he might be able to use. “Is that Marcelle?” he called out. “I hardly recognized her without the trappings of her fancy nobility or the swagger the sword adds to her hips.”
“I recognized you,” Marcelle shouted through the storm’s continuing patter, “even without seeing your face. You’re hiding, as usual, afraid to fight like a man.”
Darien swung his head back and forth as they argued, his eyes narrowing.
Adrian threw back a verbal volley. “If I fight you, I can’t win. If I draw blood, I’m the beast who skewered the little princess. If you draw blood, then I’m the princess. If I can’t beat a little girl, then I might as well wear a dress and tiara.”
“Oh, now I see how it really is. Some people tried to tell me you were too chivalrous to fight me, that Adrian is too much of a gentleman to cross swords with a lady. But, oh no, he fears for his own reputation.”
“My reputation? Do you think forfeiting every time I had to face you helped my reputation? Listen, Miss Too-manly-to-wear-a-dress. Bowing out caused me more shame than winning or losing to you.”
“Well, I hope when you bowed, your tiara didn’t fall off, you—”
“Silence!” Darien shouted. “You sound like urchins from the schoolyard!”
Marcelle pressed her lips together and kept her icy glare on the shed. Adrian blew out a breath. Either she meant every word, or she was the best actress in the land. Did she have a plan in mind? If not, he would have to make a run for it, somehow try to save her and Cassabrie. But how?
Darien looked Marcelle in the eye. “We shall soon see whose side you’re really on.” He pressed the photo gun into her hand, jerked a crossbow and arrow from the harness, and set the loaded arrow against her neck. “Shoot into the shed. It will either kill him or flush him out.”
“If you had half a brain,” Marcelle growled, “you’d be dangerous. He would have attacked us by now if he possessed the means.”
“He is wounded. If he has photo guns, his only chance is to stay where he is. And, as I said, this will reveal your allegiance.” He prodded her with the arrow. “Shoot! Now!”
Marcelle pulled the trigger
. With a telltale pop, a flash of blue rocketed out and blasted through the shed’s open doorway, missing Adrian and splashing across the rear wall. Flames erupted and spread throughout the interior.
His sword in hand, Adrian leaped out and rolled through the water. Crawling on hands and knees, he scrambled toward the spot Cassabrie had last crouched. Maybe he could get away and find her somehow.
“Take him!” Darien yelled.
As Adrian tried to climb to his feet, slipping and sliding, he tightened his muscles, expecting an arrow in his ribs at any second. If Marcelle had a plan, she had better hatch it now.
Another pop sounded, and a flash of blue lit up the area. A man screamed. Adrian flipped over to his back and looked. How could Marcelle have recharged the gun so quickly?
One of Darien’s soldiers, now ablaze, dove to the water and slid close to Adrian’s side. A second soldier slipped and fell. Marcelle ducked under Darien’s arrow, thrust a knee into his groin, and, with a backhanded slap, knocked the crossbow from his grip. As he staggered backwards, Darien reached for his scabbard.
Adrian leaped to his feet and shouted, “Marcelle!” He slung his sword, forcing it to slowly rotate as it flew. Surely she had practiced this maneuver, but the heavy rain, along with skewed lighting from a lantern and a burning shed, made the sword seem nearly invisible as it whipped toward her.
With a quick flick of her hand, she snatched the hilt from the air and slashed at Darien. Like black lightning Darien’s dark blade whipped out and parried her attack. Adrian grabbed the burning soldier’s sword and hobbled toward them, but the other soldier swung out his leg, tripping him. Adrian fell headlong and slid face-first through the mire.
While Marcelle and Darien fought, swords clashing in the clamor of beating rain and the gas tank’s continued whistling, Adrian jumped up and faced the soldier, who had risen, wet and muddy, but ready with a sword. With every limb trembling, the soldier seemed hesitant, scared, giving Adrian a chance to watch the other battle for a moment and glance around for any sign of Cassabrie.
Marcelle dodged Darien’s thrust and glided by him. When she tried to slice his torso as she passed, in what seemed like an impossibly agile move, he blocked her blade again and shoved her away. She backpedaled, splashing and sliding, but managed to stay upright. As they faced each other once more, Marcelle’s jaw tightened. She seemed surprised at Darien’s skill, yet determined.
