Chapter 10: ECHO: Autumn of the Dragon

*spoiler alert*

Chapter 10 gives quite a bit away!

CHAPTER 10

 

TIME PLAYS TRICKS

 

Knowledge is a powerful tool and also a burden.

~ Scroll of Wisdom ~

 

 

THE NEW DAY brought with it rain, torrents of it, so much that Kelby muttered about volcanoes snuffing forever. The water found every gap, running in rivulets under clothes. Within minutes of its beginning, all were thoroughly drenched and utterly dispirited.

Not bothering with a warm drink or food, they headed for the trees, hoping the canopy would offer some relief. It did, but it also heralded a different kind of tension. The band waiting in the forest was not small, and all were armed. Only Moira smiled something akin to welcome.

“Thought she said no real weapons,” Ilan grumbled from the rear.

Oreun had taken to wing as they vanished into the trees and could not rebut. Echo pressed his lips together and approached the woman. “You expecting us to give you trouble?” he asked, flicking a wrist at the nearest man, this one a dark-skinned muscle statue, hefting a mace able to slay a giant.

“Precaution only,” she said. “We know what you can do.”

“Then you must know even your fastest bowman will be slower than I am.”

“True, but what about your men? Can they defend themselves?”

She had a point, and wasn’t it his wet state causing his bad mood, not the situation under the trees. That, and his simmering anger towards a dragonne keeping secrets. “Lead on.”

Inclining her head, she did just that, heading deeper into the forest. The men and women with her encircled Echo and the seamen. He said not a word, simply picking up the pace to match hers. Walking might at least create warmth. An intriguing mixture of people, he noted, the result of many generations. Light and dark skins, eye colour ranged through the usual spectrum, excluding the yellow of Valleur, hair from fair to black, tall and average height, slim build to that one with his bulging biceps. Once they were Senlu and Airolan, today they were something new, much like humankind elsewhere with their range of features.

Moira soon fell back after indicating to someone to take the lead. She moved into step next to him. “You’re dissecting us.”

“Merely observing.”

“Valleur tend to regard others as lesser because they don’t have race traits.”

He huffed a laugh. “I think that’s your judgement, not mine.”

“But it is true that Valleur are golden haired and eyed.”

“For the most part, yes. Here on Luvanor that has changed somewhat.”

“Only somewhat. Because of the human influx at one stage.”

“Hmm, one could say you have human ancestors in your mix also. Senlu are largely red-haired and blue eyed, and it seems the Airolan were similar, and yet I see far more than that.”

She shrugged. “Might be. Does it matter?”

“Not to me.”

A sigh sounded. “You may be right. The judgement is mine.”

Echo gave her a skew smile. “The Valleur criticize themselves, too.”

The trees, he realised, had become thicker, larger, with more undergrowth prevalent. The evergreens now hosted orange and yellow foliaged boles, proving autumn was indeed the season. Varied birdsong abounded, obvious even over the drumming rain – the latter had mercifully lessened due to the thickened growth. They had clearly entered an older section, and he noticed they followed a narrow path, one well-trodden, forcing them into two abreast. This route was used frequently, probably for the fish in the lake. Also, it grew darker.

“Mountain shadow,” Moira offered.

He bit the inside of his cheek. She read his thoughts, or she was well-versed in body language and facial expressions. He carefully kept his expression neutral … only to hear her chuckle. Stopping, he folded his arms.

“I’m merely putting myself in your shoes,” she chortled, halting as well. “Right now, you’re wondering if I can read your thoughts. I can’t. I simply saw you frown at the trees as if speculating where the light went.”

“You read people well.”

She grimaced. “People watching. There’s not much to do here by way of entertainment. Especially in winter.”

The others stepped around them and went on. Watching that, Echo murmured, “You have status. They say nothing.”

“Seems you read people well, too.”

Shaking his head, he grunted, “Do you think you can give me a straight answer?”

“My parents are Arkwell’s current Pillars, which makes me de facto mouthpiece everywhere else.”

Pillars? Interesting choice. Echo said as much.

“When you see the town, you’ll understand why. Pillars abound,” Moira laughed. “Come. If we keep this pace, we can reach Lillivale by nightfall.” She strode on, throwing over her shoulder, “More ruins to tell more of our story.”

  

LILLIVALE, when they reached it, possessed another tower, although not as sprawling or tall as Malaya’s Folly. It reminded Echo of a space gantry, one where nature had reclaimed the structure. He pointed that out to Alain now keeping him company.

“This was to keep an eye out for fires,” the man responded. “The launch platform for the ships was to the east where the land is flat. Most of that is gone; an earthquake swallowed the buildings and broke the plateau. Marshland now.”

The edifice had been constructed on high terrain. Below, to the south, glints on water revealed another lake … and … Echo squinted in the growing dark. “Is that a wall?”

Alain nodded. “Water break when there was far more of it in the old days. Boats used to anchor in the calm behind it.” He pointed out various buildings and jetties above the subsided water line. “Folk came here to have fun, sail, you know, drink. We still use Lillivale to break our journey when the fish swim.”

“Yes, Echo, guess what? You’ll be sleeping dry tonight,” Moira said as she approached. “The cottages are in good repair. This remains a site for keeping the fire watch, so there’s always four residents on a rotational basis.”

“Good news,” he murmured.

Rolling her eyes, she told Alain to lead the seamen to a cottage, and then took Echo’s arm. “Come with me.”

Allowing her to tug him in her wake, noting a row of forest hued cottages on his right overlooking the lake, he wondered where Oreun had got to, and sent the thought into the ether. I shall be with you in the morning, was the reply. And no more. She shut him out without even a waft of apology. Why? Had Oreun chosen to allow the humanoids to connect first before becoming involved … or was she about some other secretive thing? His simmering anger became a strengthening glow of fury, but he schooled his face. Had to behave right now.

“Ooo, you’re clamping emotion down,” Moira said upon looking back. She slowed to walk next to him, hooking her arm through his. “What’s got you so mad? Don’t deny it. Your face doesn’t tell the tale, but your body does.” She briefly squeezed his upper arm.

“Oreun,” he said reluctantly.

“Ah. Keeper of Secrets, that one.”

The overgrown tower came into view. At ground level there was a deck serving as a viewing platform, currently unoccupied, and was that a telescope? Echo said not a word, leaving it up to his guide to inform him. She, in fact, led him to the device, gestured. Shrugging, he put his eye to the contraption … and reared back.

“What the hell?” he blurted.

“Technology and magic,” she murmured. “Look again.”

Warily, he did as bid. The land lit for him like to the noonday, to show every curve and dip, all of it in various shades of green and amber. The gadget employed the night vision principle, clearly, but the hues were a spell, had to be. Ingenious. And it meant these people were versed in sorcery. Huffing, he used the opportunity to gaze far, and saw in the distance a large light signature.

“That’s Arkwell.”

Ah. Swinging the device, he noted other tiny points of light. Villages, no doubt. He also saw an ominous shadow … “Mount Vassyn, I assume.”

“Indeed.”

“What is it you wish for me to discover with my own eyes?” he bit out. “A clue will help.”

Laughing under her breath, Moira said, “South and west, ground level.”

At first, he missed it, but on carefully shifting the eyepiece, well, there it was, except … what in all gods’ names was it? A circle of rotating light, sparking akin to electricity … oh. Oh. He reared up. “A portal?”

“Right first time,” Moira whispered. “And now you know why we came to meet you, Echayn Valla.”

“Does Oreun know of this?”

“Of course.”

Bloody hell. Fucking, bloody hell. “Oreun!” he hollered. “Get your arse here right now!”

Mere moments later a rainbow skittered in the air nearby, and then the dragonne landed in a flap of wings below the platform. She snorted a fire stream his way. Watch your manners!

“Fuck manners,” he snarled, vaulting over the railing to stride towards her. “You want my help, you start talking now.”

By the time he stood before the massive creature, all in Lillivale knew something was afoot, for they gathered in a semi-circle, including his men. Moira remained on the platform, leaning on her forearms.

“Where the fuck does that portal lead to?” Echo demanded.

“The Kallanon realm.”

Eyes narrowing, he whispered, “That’s how Neolone came to this universe?”

“No, he employed a rift the Q’lin’la created, one subsequently sealed. The portal here came much later, when the Kallanon uncovered the One prophecy and needed insight. They brought Neolone home as you have heard, but he did not know. He wasn’t lying about that. I was tasked with keeping the portal safe …”

“Because they found you when it opened. This is why you yet live.”

“The other reason is true also. I wasn’t lying about that.”

“Why does it remain open?” he demanded.

She inhaled a massive breath to release it as steam. “How do you think Nefilim came to your aid recently? It is the swiftest way to reach …”

“Torrullin.”

“The One, after all, not so? He is important to the Kallanon.”

Scrubbing at his face, Echo muttered, “And so a world sentience creates havoc here for reasons as stated, but also because, by god, one must with all one is fucking keep a portal from common view.”

“Just so.”

“You bloody evicted the Senlu! You did the same to the Airolan. Why, pray tell, have you between the two of you allowed these people to live here? Are they not a danger to your bloody tear in the fucking fabric?”

“Yes.”

He stared at her, and then twisted his head to peer up at Moira, saying, “You will be thrown off Senluar soon.”

“Which is why we need you,” she said quietly.

“Do you trust this dragonne?”

“We do. Oreun told us the day would come. The closer we are to magical transport, the more dangerous we are to this secret.”

Transport ability. Really. He swung back to the dragonne. “You dampen transport. You keep them back …”

“To save them, Echo.”

“Yes, fine, I understand that, but you will lift the veil now. I am going down to that portal forthwith.”

She stared at him.

He glared at her.

“It is lifted,” she eventually said.

Without further ado, Echo vacated the space he occupied. A thought swirled in the either, one he waved aside and then forgot about. Why was it that some of the gathered had looked at him as if he was insane … as if he spoke to himself, not the massive creature answering his questions?

ALONE, he squatted in shale and damp river sand. Water surrounded the portal, evidence of another lake. It meant, given the level had dropped exponentially since ancient time, the portal was once underwater, probably why no one knew of it. Senlu records certainly didn’t mention it. Man, Teighlar would have bent his ear had he known of its existence. Torrullin would have investigated already. His forte, after all.

A means for the Kallanon to enter Reaume. Clever.

A means, thus, for others to enter the Kallanon realm? Could it be done? Echo yanked at his hair in frustration. Only Torrullin could answer that question. Fuck. Fuck, fuck.

Oreun landed lightly nearby. “I have made oaths I cannot simply undo, Echo.”

All his anger bled away. He knew how it was to speak words of forever promise, and how keeping them bowed one. “I understand.”

“Thank you.”

He stood. “But now we need deal with this. It cannot be left unattended. You won’t be watching as closely as you have until now …”

“The Pillars of Arkwell watch also.”

“Glad to hear you have help, but they are not enough. The Kallanon are a force Reaume cannot deal with. Should some idiot decide to dive into that thing and wake them to a potential threat of invasion, they will act.”

“They will go to Lord Elixir first for clarity.”

Throwing his hands up, he growled, “You’re saying he needs to know. Did you not say he is too much for this misadventure?”

“He needs to know, Echo, but he doesn’t need to come here.”

“For Aaru’s sake, the instant I tell him, is also the instant he makes an appearance. This shit is what Torrullin does best. A bloody Walker of Realms, after all.”

“Therefore, the last person who should stand on the edge of this portal. Torrullin will enter, and what will that do to the Kallanon?”

Again, he yanked at his hair, pulling a handful free of the tie in the nape of his neck. “Fine. What do you suggest?”

“Karydor.”

Hmm. Yes, that could work. Tell Karydor, who would then impress on his son to stay put, that he, Echo, had it in hand. But … “I’m not calling Karydor into this mess. I will go to …”

“Leave Senluar now, and Rein will obliterate all sentient life here.”

His anger returned, full-blown. “What the fuck is wrong with everyone? And, damn it, I can’t properly communicate the nuances to Karydor across the spaces. It’ll take days to make him understand.”

Oreun lowered her head. “Write to him. I shall see it delivered.”

Right. Good idea. Logical. He huffed. “Fine.” Waving a hand, he summarily vanished, and did not hear the dragonne’s displeased grunt. Arriving back on the platform where Moira still stood, he said, “I need writing materials. Can you help?”

Reining in her astonishment, she nodded. “At the Watch. They keep records of fire sighting. Come with me.”

ECHO

Chapters 10 List (Shorts & Standalone)

 

ANCIENT ILLUMINATION

ETHEREAL MUSICIAN

GABRIEL

LATTICEWORK

THE ORPHAN

THE POTTER

ILFIN OF ARC

TINSAL

Chapter 10: T I N S A L

 

Fantasy with a twist; akin to an alternate Assassin’s Creed, where tarot cards are the weapons.

Bronwyn, a woman scorned, loses her honour, status, and her leg, and now the time has come to exact retribution.

Zanderin, a sorcerer bound to her, waves his magic over the attention seeking cards, each with a name attached, and every card becomes a symbol of doom. This is a cosmic deck, dealing in fate. Via his swift carriage, hooded and cloaked, he is the harbinger and assassin.

Terra meets her betrothed, Rhodry, when Zanderin gifts his first card. Rhodry and Zanderin are connected, and everyone linked to them is on Bronwyn’s list of names.

TINSAL is about bloodlines, secrets, and a controlled society. As the cards are dealt, death follows, until the endgame moves to Castle Tinsal itself.

Chapter 10

 HILL DWELLER

  

The simple pleasures are the greatest treasures.

~ The Sine Handbook

 

 

IN THE HILL COUNTRY, far beyond the Merripen’s and their landscaped garden, up in the slopes where mist hung, the kind that Terra favoured for romance and inspiration, there was a stone hut hidden amongst other stones, shaded by trees great and leafy all year.

Unless one knew of it, one would not find it.

Nearby, a waterfall tumbled into the wide river below, its thunderous cacophony serving to conceal the inadvertent noises which accompanied habitation.

An ancient axe hung above the skewed lintel, but its edge, upon close inspection, was revealed as sharp. Clearly someone did not trust to isolation alone.

Amaris knew this about the man who chose solitude in the back of this beyond. He trusted few. He chose this life rather than remain in the proximity of city hypocrites and rural socialites. Many would hang him in an instant; others believed him a legend. No one knew where he hid - for hiding it was; had she not told him thus many times?

She knew him, the real man behind the beard and cloud of unkempt hair, and she knew this place. A long time ago she brought him here for healing, a clandestine region known only to her family. She was the last who knew of it now; the family secret would die with her, and he would never reveal it either.

Breathless when she finally attained the plateau, she took a moment to confirm she had not been followed, setting the unwieldy basket down. A loud meow announced the cats survived the jostling.

“I’ll let you out now, darlings,” she whispered, trying to still her uneven breathing. She was unfit, not that fitness mattered at this point. She would be dead within the hour.

He was a shadow under the trees above the precipice. She caught movement, a shadow darker than others weaving through the trees, and knew he had marked her arrival. He would come when he was ready to face her.

Shaking her head over his stubborn waywardness, she knelt to undo the basket’s clasp. Moments later four felines stood with tails quivering upright, eyes darting. One was a slim black, another as white as the snows of winter, another was a striped ginger, the loudmouth of the quartet, and the last one was shiny grey, with the bluest cats’ eyes ever. He was the youngest, but also the boldest, and was already leader. He was her favourite, although she would never admit to playing favourites. He cared for his little family very well. The black was his brother, the white his mother, and the ginger was a stray who wandered into their country cottage one day and never left.

Much like the man in this rocky hideaway.

“Mist, go,” she coaxed.

The grey cocked a blue eye at her, his tail whisking from side to side, and then he stepped into the undergrowth. He did not look back, and her heart was heavy. The others followed, and they did look back. She barely swallowed a sob.

And then she sensed him behind her.

Slowly she turned.

Bright green eyes stare into hers. Green into green.

“Kell,” she sobbed, “I have come here to die.”

  

ZANDERIN HELD TWO CARDS up to the light.

Both were already bound to names upon Bronwyn’s whim. There would be consequences if he did not deliver as she expected. But here, now, there was an alteration in nuance she could not be aware of. Change he, too, was surprised by.

A choice lay before him. Did he modify nuance, and therefore the fates of all involved in this cosmic tarot Bronwyn of Tinsal had set her hard heart to? Or did he turn around and walk away, to pretend even to himself that he had not witnessed a dead man walking along a precipice?

How well the man managed to disappear. How enlightening.

His previous self, it appeared, had much in common with this particular man. Both of them managed to utterly vanish.

Kell Sindaland’s card went to his niece, Terra. She inherited the Arbiter because justice had to be served, but her card was also about virtue, for virtue was inherent in seeking the truth for justice to reign supreme. Never mind her skills of negotiation, though; had her virtue been compromised already? Society would say it was so, purely because she clambered without sanction into a stranger’s carriage, and no matter if that stranger was also her betrothed. In which scenario she deserved her card. On the other hand, a priest entered at the opportune moment. Perhaps her virtue could be argued for.

As once Bronwyn argued for hers.

And yet, whatever the dispute, Terra and the Arbiter were now bound and it could not be altered. Binding of such a nature should only be changed once. Or it was moot. Card. Name. Fate. Nuance.

Arbiter for Kell, first binding. Undone.

Now Arbiter for Terra, second binding. Entrenched. It was too late now to alter her fate.

That change of binding set a precedent, however, one even Bronwyn would hark to. A precedent Zanderin could now employ to save one man’s life … and thereby return the fate of death to one previously marked for it.

His choice now whether to allocate one of these two cards within his clasp to Kell Sindaland instead, thereby saving the life of the one it was originally marked for.

  

Earlier

THE WITCH AMARIS DID not see him.

He desired to witness how she would achieve her promised demise, and thus followed when she left her cottage lugging a basket filled with meowing cats. Their unhappy sounds masked his tread at first, as the trees hid him from her sharp gaze. She looked back repeatedly. Later he fell right back and employed his abilities to track her scent.

The climb nearly undid him. Too long now had he bent over scrolls and accruements. Little did he exercise his body the way he did his mind. Every gasping breath had been worth the result before him.

The cats had vanished.

And Amaris and Kell stared at each other as if they were of stone not flesh.

Were they lovers still?

  

Now

“ARE YOU ILL?” Kell asked in his gravelly tones.

He remained expressionless, although that could have something to do with her inability to read him, what with all that hair around.

Amaris inhaled breath for serenity. “No, I am not ill, but there is something very wrong in the ether of life at present. Bronwyn of Tinsal is on the warpath.”

He finally moved … to spread his hands wide. A gesture to say he could not care less. That was a war he had already fought.

She bit back an oath, knowing it would not aid her now. “I told you years ago that Zanderin intensifies his study of sorcery, and I also told you the day would come when she will use his new knowledge. Kell, that day has come. You know what happened the first time he unleashed it as an untried boy; imagine what he is capable of now.”

His palms, made rough in living off the land, lifted to tame his hair. From somewhere a leather thong appeared, and he tied the black cloud away from his face. Immediately his noble features leapt out. Kell Sindaland might be country born, but someone in his line of descent was pure royalty.

She caught her breath. He could still affect her.

Amaris had not met Lily Merripen, Kell’s older sister, but had no doubt that particular lady possessed patrician features also. She made a good marriage, after all, for a country born, and did it without a betrothal waiting in the wings.

“What is Zanderin up to?” Kell asked as he proceeded to tamp his long beard with firm strokes. “And why does that send you here to die?”

In answer she delved into her skirt’s pocket and came forth with her tarot card. She held it up. “I am marked. Rather than have Zanderin lay his hand or his weapon into me to kill me, I prefer to die in my way. Here, where there are no witnesses.”

He took the Visionary card from her, and stared at it. “I am here. A witness.”

“You must leave this place within the hour.”

Kell lifted his head. “No.”

“Yes. Your niece Terra, remember her? Beautiful, betrothed, with a bright future awaiting her? We spoke of her just last month. She is given a card in your stead. She stands in your place now as marked. If you have anything left there in that cold heart of yours, you will put an end to it.”

“Cosmic Tarot? Truly? This is an Al Kari myth and has no place in this narrow-minded society,” he rebutted.

“Not for Bronwyn. Not when Zanderin waves his crystals over them. And this may be an actual Al Kari deck and you must confirm that before confronting her.”

He gazed up into the sombre heaven. “I have no fucking intention of confronting that crazy bitch again.”

“Kell, I don’t think you have a choice but to do so.” Her tone was sad.

“Which card is for Terra?”

“Arbiter.”

He looked at her again, frowning. “Arbiter? A speaker, a negotiator … ah. Justice.” Silence ensued for a time as he mulled that over. “The fucking bitch. Amaris, how do you know any of this is fact?”

She snatched her card from him and slapped it against his chest. “This is a fact. Zanderin came to me earlier - fact. And as for the rest … well, he didn’t gift me the Visionary card for no reason, now did he? Whatever you choose to believe about the realms of sorcery, know now for a fact that I am a witch. I do see … I have seen.”

Kell took the card and tore it into pieces, and then he cursed, the kind of vitriolic expletives one usually associated with drunkards … and soldiers.

  

TWO CARDS. AND GIVEN where Sindaland was and how he was an unknown entity, only one could be named for him and thus become his.

Zanderin nodded, returning a card to his pocket, holding the chosen one up. Very well, it was time to employ precedent.

He placed the tarot selection at eye level against the trunk of a tree Kell Sindaland had to pass by if he was to descend his hill enclave for the flatness of society’s lands, and proceeded to hammer a nail into it.

Both nail and hammer were of sorcery.

As was the fresh binding.

Somewhere a man went on with his life, and would never know how close he came to time shortened. He would never now play Cosmic Tarot. Zanderin hoped the man did something with his second chance. He might check in on him a few years from now…

He tapped the card as he left, offering a smile to the peaks yonder. No need to stay, to witness. Amaris would keep her word. And Kell would leave here.

The Outsider suited him.

The Outsider was a card of contemplation, a man who desired peace and solitude. A lonely wanderer from places far away in abode and thought; clearly what Kell Sindaland sought to achieve when vanishing from society. He was not in this present seeking action or decision. There might be feelings of frustration and discontent in his withdrawal, but he no doubt hoped for illumination and clarity. He was an outsider.

The Outsider could also be a wise and inspirational person, someone to shine a light on matters cryptic and confusing; someone who saw issues in a manner that altered nuance. Kell Sindaland was a dangerous man.

Indeed, a fitting card.

T I N S A L

Chapter 10: Ilfin of Arc

 

Come, reader, join the great march today …

 According to legend, a paradise awaits across the plains, a sanctuary that has survived every impact and every battle. Known as Arc, it is a place of isolation, a place to restart civilisation.

 A fireball grows ever larger in the skies and ancient enemies wing through the spaces; the world Massin is the gathering place for every omen of disaster. Every resident soul faces a choice. Time now to march south to the sanctuary, from the eastern highlands and the western seas, there to escape apocalypse, and the renewal of the war between the Ilfin and Glonu, or stay behind, hoping for a miracle.

 An Elemental will find the sanctuary – Lyra is gifted – a Warrior will defend the dispossessed – the boy Horin will grow up fast – and a Marsh Devil will lead them – Damin spends years preparing for this epic event – but it is also true that a sanctuary is not always a haven. Has the legend lied? Will Arc protect them?

Prepare for an adventure that will journey from ancient ways of living into high-tech environments. Ilfin of Arc is a dystopian Fantasy tale that flies into star filled spaces – strap in!

10

  

Trolls live in the mind

Glonu Saying

 

 

IN THE GLOOM of a rainy day, in a city about to be abandoned, with life changing around them by the minute, Damin turned to Lyra and broke her heart.

“Alyssa is a good person, Lyra, and I did sleep with her, if that is what you want to know.”

She did not want to know. She swallowed convulsively as words of accusation clogged her throat. Of course, five years had passed and she did not expect Damin to remain celibate, and yet she had hoped he would. As she had been, not that suitors knocked at her door.

The naïve country girl had just been disillusioned.

Shrugging, shoving horrible words down, she jerked around and strode along the wet streets. Damin followed, wisely saying no more.

She did not watch where she went. It was mere mindless wander to still her thoughts. By some fate, when she needed it most, the close buildings abruptly surrendered to open space. Lyra was initially taken aback by the green park spread before them. There was a pretty pond, a stone bridge, tall and stout trees, as well as welcoming benches. Silence and serenity weaved through the space. She required clarity … and space appeared. Was this inner instinct?

“Lyra.”

Shaking her head, Lyra made her way onto the bridge to stare into the water. Raindrops formed circles and spirals. It calmed her. When Damin was beside her, she looked up. “Did you love her?”

He was as honest as ever. “For a time, yes. I questioned everything I was, and she made me forget. I could not hear her the way I hear you and it was a comfort for a while.”

“Why did it end?”

He stared into the water as she had. “I heard you one night as if you were beside me, as you are now. You were sobbing, so hurt, agony in your soul. Your face …” He took her face into his hands and shifted aside hair covering her left temple to touch a scar there. “They stoned you, two-eyes. I wanted to kill someone. I knew then I loved you more than life. I ended it that same night.”

She closed her eyes, remembering that day. There were strangers on the common, come to trade, but asking strange questions. Blinking, she forced her thoughts away. They would undo her as those two men intended to achieve that day.

A gargling scream removed their attention from personal issues, from debilitating memories. Damin and Lyra leaned convulsively over the bridge wall, for the sound seemed to come from under them. There was nothing untoward to see, but the otherworldly shriek continued unabated.

“Go that way.” Damin pointed to the opposite side, and then ran back the way they came.

Lyra raced across the bridge to the other bank. From opposite ends, they descended to the water’s edge. The sound was human, if desperate, but what was below did not appear as human at all. As she crouched to stare into the gloom under the arch, her instincts warned her. Something was not right.

Damin was about to enter the shallow pond on the other side, and she hurtled to her feet and gestured wildly at him, shaking her head with intent. He saw her, thank the stars, and halted.

The screaming transformed into laughter; the manic kind able to raise even the dead into flight. A glint told her Damin had his dagger to hand. Looking down, she discovered she had hers as well. She did not remember reaching for it.

Together they then slowly paced away from the water and Damin gestured for her to wait. Swiftly he sprinted across the bridge to her side. As he crossed the span, again the gargling scream erupted.

It was akin to tales they grew up with, the monsters under the bridge stories, but this was beyond frightening. What was it? Slime and mud oozed over something misshapen, and it seemed to cling to the underside of the arch as if afraid of drowning in the shallows below.

Lyra frowned.

As if afraid.

She grabbed Damin’s hand and they ran. “Something bad is about to happen,” she panted at him.

It did.

With a sound similar to burbling thunder, the pond exploded in a rain of sludge.

They ran to put distance between them and the deluge, and Damin then started yelling, “Get out! Leave Normur now!”

People were soon in the streets despite the weather, too many of them. They impeded progress and swiftly drowned out Damin’s continuous warning shouts.

Finally, Lyra pulled him to a halt in a recessed doorway. “What?” she demanded of him.

Heaving,, he said, “Underground water is pushing up and it will explode from every hole it can find to do so.” He inhaled repeated breaths. “It must have poured down in the countryside and all that water is now coming this way, underground. Last time this happened, centuries ago, a large part of the plateau collapsed.”

Dread overcame Lyra. The entire city could tumble into the marshes. “And that creature under the bridge?”

“What creature?”

Damin had not seen it. He merely followed her instincts, for it was her instinct that regarded the danger as something manifest. She was not certain whether to be relieved or horrified. Her mind had conjured a horror as warning. Never did she desire to see such a creature again.

“Never mind,” she muttered. “We need a high place, somewhere to issue warning from.”

Damin nodded jerkily. “I know where. Come.”

He had her hand and pulled her along in his wake, shouldering people out the way. As they went, they gave warning, but it was doubtful many heard it.

The clock tower came into view. Damin kicked the door in and they hurtled up countless stone stairs.

“There is a gong for alarm,” Damin gasped.

“Go!” Lyra heaved. The stairs were her nemesis right now. “I will follow. Go!”

He released her hand and sprinted up. Desperation created adrenaline, but she could not keep pace with him. Her chest was on fire and her legs shuddering under her.

Moments later a mighty clashing sound reverberated into the city.

Lyra covered her ears.

 

 

PEOPLE TRAMPLED EACH other in their rush to leave the city. Tears fell as Lyra watched the desperation from the clock tower with Damin at her side. He no longer beat the alarm. Mud and water rose in the streets now; everyone knew there was cause for panic.

She gulped when she saw a child vanish beneath uncaring boots. A moment later she thought of Attis. They needed to get to the boy! Frantically she clutched at Damin, screaming at him.

He grabbed her hands to still her. “Calm, Lyra. Please. If we leave here, we run the risk of being trampled. Attis is a bright boy and will know to stay put.”

Yes, true. Attis was a survivor. She breathed in deeply to still her heartbeat to an even rhythm. “What of your Alyssa?” she whispered.

Damin released her hands. Grimacing, he stared into the roiling streets. “She will be with others of her kind. The rich always have an escape plan.”

That was no doubt true as well. She said no more.

“The creature you saw, what was it?” Damin asked. He sought to distract her. Mostly he desired to distract himself.

“I saw something covered with slime and mud, hanging from under the bridge. I think now it may be akin to what happens to you. You see emotions as images. What I see may be warnings.”

“Thank the stars for that or we would not be above it now.”

“What are you seeing?” she asked him.

“Coils and scales. Snakes of terror, in shifting colours.” Damin closed his eyes. “I do not know how to shut it off. There is too much.”

The eerie warmth erupted into her chest. Her hands glowed.

“Look at me.” She placed her hands on Damin’s cheeks. “Just keep looking at me … until they go away.”

ILFIN OF ARC

Chapter 10: The Potter (new cover!)

 

What does the god of fire demand of Brendan?

 The problem isn’t his pottery skills. No, the problem lies with his backyard kiln. Every vessel Brendan fires in it ends up shattered. His fault? Oh no!

A commanding voice tells him every attempt he makes will fail … unless he does as it asks. Brendan ropes in his mate Johnny, if only to tell him he’s completely bonkers. They end up in a place they thought never to visit again, a place of nightmares from their childhood.

 Ha, maybe there is a fire god. How does one deal with that?

CHAPTER 10

ENTRANCE

  

MORNING. Gear puddles around us. Rucksacks with food, water, and medical stuff. Rope. Torches. Spare batteries. Phones are charged. Ha, looks to me as if we intend doing more than scouting around the entrance, but I say not a word, allowing Johnny to gather what he regards as essentials. He sent a message to his Janet, telling her he’s helping a mate out today, and is now all business. Most unlike Johnny.

While he mutters away, I go into my studio. Staring at my failures, I know this needs doing. I need to get back to normal. I need to feel supple clay under my questing fingers. I am a potter, not a penitent to some god with delusions. Right? Too right.

Feeling better, decision made, I rejoin Johnny. We’ll drive out to where the road peters out, and hike the rest of the way, a matter of half an hour at most. No long walk into twilight this time.

We’re on our way within minutes, neither offering conversation. Soon enough, we abandon the car, load up and start walking. The morning is fresh, still damp after the rain two nights ago, and birdsong accompanies us. Weaving through the trees on a track only animals now use, we come to the jumble of rocks, and there we stand, mouths agape.

Whatever barrier the local authority put up twenty years ago is no longer in place. The chains that, by all accounts, fenced the area, lie forgotten in the mud, rusting away, barely discernible. One sign remains on a listing and rotting wooden post, but the words are indecipherable. In fact, other than for that sign, the place looks exactly like it did on the day Harriet went in, never to come out with eyes able to see.

“No one remembers,” Johnny grunts.

Harriet’s parents do, I want to say, but don’t. “We’ll make a stink about this when we go back,” I promise instead.

Nodding, Johnny moves forward. We then commence a dedicated search of the area. Other than deer tracks, we find little. No one has been here in a long time.

Around ten, sitting on a boulder with thermos coffee to hand, I look at my mate. “We’re going in, aren’t we?”

He shrugs, sips his brew.

Yes, we are. We don’t wish to come here a second time. Do it now and be done with it. On the flipside, that means, if successful, I’ll have time enough to fashion a host of planters in the interim. Won’t make my deadline, but I’ll only be a week or so late. The tester will go in the oven when ready and if unbroken after, the large firing can commence. Shaking my head at my mercenary thoughts – gotta eat, dude, relax – I again give attention to Johnny.

His eyes have narrowed. “Look there. There, to the left. Do those rocks look pulverised to you?”

They do. It looks as if a giant trod there as he entered. Fanciful? Maybe, but my heart suddenly thumps against my ribs.

THE POTTER

* new cover not yet live online