The Stair Of Time (Book 2) (35 page)

Adrianna!

Nearly three
days later, after having successfully traversed the inner workings of the confounded clockwork stair, Andaris reached the shiny metal door that, according to the note, would lead him to Adrianna.  He climbed the last few steps with a glad heart, not really believing he would make it until he did. 

The door was triangular in shape, silvery surface unmarred by handle or design.  “
It must activate by touch,” he told the rippled, funhouse reflection of himself.  “If not, the note would have said something.  I mean, it hasn’t been wrong yet.”

Feeling a bit winded after his long climb, Andaris took off his pack and had a seat on the landing, making sure his legs were completely clear of the stairs.  After all, in this place one never knew when something that
ought to be permanently affixed would suddenly go spinning off. 

Following a meager meal of cheese curds and pine nuts, he got to his feet, turned around, and laid
his palms against the center of the door, surprised by how cool it felt.  Nothing happened.  Could he be wrong about the note?  Could his future self had left some vital part of the directions out?  What a blow that would be.  To have come all this way just to—and then, from deep within the metal of the door, he felt a low vibration.  The vibration grew in strength, producing a rhythmic hum.  Soon, the hum grew so loud that he had to cover his ears.

Just when he felt sure
that he would have to retreat to a safe distance, i.e. go plunging down the steps as though pursued by a horde of shapelings—the door began to waver.  And then, along with his perplexed reflection, it disappeared entirely.

Beyond the portal stood a lush pine forest, interrupted here and ther
e by aspens in full bloom, star-shaped flowers looking ready to take flight, white and green leaves waving in the breeze.  A rabbit hopped into and out of view.  A robin sang from a high branch.  Shafts of golden light shone through the canopy, adding vibrance to the flora below.

The infernal humming had disappeared
along with the door, so Andaris dropped his hands and stepped through, clenched jaw and straight spine making him appear more intimidating than he would have believed, certainly more intimidating than seemed necessary considering the charming nature of the place.  But then Andaris had learned a great many lessons of late, hadn’t he?  Such as how all too often things were
not
as they seemed.

He turned around
and, as expected, saw that the doorway had vanished.  After checking the note, he cleared his throat, planted his feet, and in a commanding voice said “Tilathia!” doing his best to enunciate like a Lenoy—whatever the heck that meant.  The doorway popped back into existence just as his other self had said it would, showing him a triangular view of the confounded clockwork stair.

Satis
fied, he executed a perfect one-eighty and began to walk.  Soon he would reach Endwood.  He could scarcely wait to see the look on the big man’s face as he came waltzin’ into The Roastin’ Pig like nothin’ had happened.  He grinned, took two more jubilant strides forward, and then came to a stumbling halt, a sick feeling souring his good humor.

He
had forgotten something very important.  Turning around, he retraced his steps best he could and, using the same authoritative tone, said the command word.  This time, nothing happened.

Okay,
don’t panic,
he told himself. 
Could be I’m just not far enough.
  He took a couple of steps forward and said it again.  Still nothing.  Perhaps instead of not far enough, he had gone
too
far.  He took a few steps back.

“Tilathia!” he boomed, putting all his heart into it.  To his immense
relief, the doorway once again popped into existence, showing him a triangular view of the confounded clockwork stair.  Obviously, what he needed now was a marker.

A brief search of the surrounding terrain yielded a wide variety of re
ddish-orange rocks.  When Andaris had an armload, he arranged them into a broad circle, marking the precise spot where he would stand upon his return.  He was glad to see that the doorway did not straddle a path, well-trod or otherwise.  As it was, the likelihood of the stones being disturbed was remote.  Certainly anything was possible, but why borrow trouble when he had so many other things to worry about?

D
uring the trek from the doorway to Endwood, he periodically placed stone arrows on the ground, and chalk lines on the trees. 
Looks like a thoroughfare’s going through,
he thought as he neared the edge of the forest, crossing his arms and admiring his handiwork with a self-satisfied smile. 
Just hope no one else happens along.
 
Don’t borrow trouble!
he reminded himself.

Within the hour
, Andaris crested a grassy knoll, crown ornamented by a silver-barked chestnut tree, trunk rising from a ring of bright yellow flowers.  The contrast was striking, to say the least.  The tree looked a thousand years old.  The flowers born yesterday.

Far b
elow lay a broad valley bisected by a slow moving river, a blue ribbon shimmering in the failing light, making its lazy way from north to south with the gentlest of curves.  Sprawled along the sandy shores of this river, was a large town with a low stone wall.

“
Endwood,” he whispered, starting down the hill.  He would have liked to have rested for a while, to have tarried beneath the spreading limbs of that old chestnut as the sun set behind yonder mountains.  But Gaven was waitin’, and soon it would be dark, so on he went.

Bristlebeard

Two men wearing ringmail hauberks and grimy leather tunics guarded the main road into town, leaning casually against their spears.  A drawbridge was lowered between them, stout timbers bound by thick iron bands.

T
he bridge traversed neither moat nor earthwork, simply resting flush atop the grass, great chains rising at forty-five degree angles to the stone wall.  As Andaris approached, the guards straightened and crossed their spears, blocking his path.

“Ho there!” the man on the left bellowed,
red beard sprouting in burly tufts from glistening helm.  “What business have you in Endwood…and at this hour?”

Taken somewhat aback, Andaris did his best to look
and sound naive.  “Umm, well, you see,” he fumbled, “my parents have a farm east of here.  It’s been a bad year for growing, so they asked me to come to town to try and find work.  I had a mule and a cart, but we got waylaid by some wolves and…the mule didn’t make it.”

The man stuck out his bristly beard, squinted one eye and said, “Is that so?  Well, sounds like a good
story,
and yet…something smells
sour
to me.  Hmm.”  He looked to the other guard, a heavyset man in his late thirties with a face as smooth as a baby’s bottom.  “What do you think, Jerald?”

As if in practiced imitation of his superior, Jerald grimaced, squinted one eye, and replied, “Yeah, I know what you mean.  Sour….  Maybe it’s that sword on the
farm boy’s
hip.  Seems kinda fancy, don’t it?  More like the sort of thing you’d see on a mercenary?  The other one suits him better.”

The bearded man nodded.  “Yeah. 
And why carry two, anyway?  One’s always been enough for us, and we’re soldiers.” 

“
There’s also something in the set of his shoulders and tilt of his head.  I don’t know….  I don’t like it.  I think maybe we ought to take him to the Captain for questioning.”

Thinking fast, Andaris
bowed to them and held out his hands, palms up.  “Please…I beg of you!  My family is depending on me.  If I don’t bring back enough supplies, we won’t make it through the winter.  My name is Andaris Rocaren.  My father’s name is Edward.  My mother’s name is Abby.  We grow corn and soybeans.  Every year, my father brings what we’re not gonna eat into town to sell.  This year there wasn’t any extra, so I came to look for work instead.  If you follow my backtrail, you’ll find the wagon.  It’s about a day’s ride from here, abandoned by a small stream in Eldorana Forest, painted red with my mule’s blood, as well as one of the wolves.  I nicked it pretty good with this…my father’s sword…before the pack ran off.”

Andaris started to touch the hilt for emphasis, then
, thinking better of it, patted the sheath instead.  “He gave it to me for protection.  I’m not nearly as good with it as he is, but apparently can use it well enough in a pinch, just wish I’d been in time to save poor ol’ Del.”

He sighed.
  “Supposedly it’s been in our family for generations, originally forged by my great-great-grandfather, who was a smith by trade.  My parent’s place is a two-day ride from here.  We live in a three-room cobblestone cottage on top of a hill overlooking a pond stocked with catfish.  I have two brothers—one named Blakeland, one named Jorden.  Blakeland’s the eldest.  I’m the youngest.”  He paused to take a breath.  Adding details to a lie made it more believable, but over-embellishment had the opposite effect.  He prayed he hadn’t gone too far.

“I
’m sure if you check the town records, you’ll find birth announcements for us, as well as a list of merchants who bought corn and beans from my father.  He should be fairly well known. He—”

“All right, all right, we
believe you!” Bristlebeard declared, raising his free hand in an effort to make Andaris stop.  They had intended to have a little fun, but it was turning out to be more trouble than it was worth
.
  Seeming anxious to be rid of him, they uncrossed their spears, and gestured for him to proceed.  “Please, accept our apologies.  And…enjoy your stay in Endwood, the grandest town this side of the Shindellin Mountains.”  Obviously memorized by rote, this last part was recited with little to no feeling—bereft of civic pride.

Not wanting to give them the chance to change their minds, Andaris nodded and started through.

Bristlebeard held
up his arm.  “There are, of course, no weapons allowed in Endwood.  You should
know
that.”

Andaris’ heart sank.  As rude as the sword had been to him, he was loath to
relinquish it.  They might as well have decreed that no flesh and blood arms were allowed, for all the reluctance he felt.  In the dream, he had sensed a sort of symbiotic connection with the blade.  Could it be the link between man and steel had already begun?  The thought made him shiver.

Apparently
, his reticence showed, for Bristlebeard frowned and, with a low, warning tone said, “Now, we’re not going to have a problem here, are we?  I don’t see why we should.  Unless, that is, you’re hiding something.”

Andaris had to resist the
insane urge to draw his newly acquired blade and slay the guards where they stood—something which, given the high profile location, would no doubt prove suicidal.  I mean, the unmitigated gall to ask him to be separated, even for a moment, from his….  Almost without realizing it, his palm caressed the hilt. 

Hello Master,
Endollin said into his mind. 
How may I be of assistance?  Are these fools bothering you?  Do you wish me to relieve them of their innards?  I would be more than hap—

Andaris
jerked his hand away, hoping the guards mistook his sudden flush and subsequent perspiration for simple nerves.  “Uh, no, it’s fine,” he assured them with a strained grin, unbuckling the belt and surrendering the sword.  “I’m just protective of it, that’s all.  My father would be crushed if anything…happened to it.”

“Don’t you worry,” assured Bristlebeard, his voice now sweet as syrup, “we
’ll take
good
care of it for you until you return.  You have my word.”

Andaris flinched when he saw the man touch the silver hilt.  But apparently
Endollin wasn’t talking, else the man would have recoiled.

In addition to the Lenoy
sword, Andaris handed over his dagger, crossbow, hunting knife, and mundane sword.  All the while, the guards nodded and smiled as though to some private joke.

“Now you stay out of trouble while you’re in town,” Bristlebeard bellowed to his retreating back.  “There’s still something that’s not quite right here.  It’s nothing I can hold you for, but the city guard will have its eye on you.  You can
count it!”

Andaris nodded and waved, walking as fast as he could without seeming to flee.  The sooner he was out of sight, the sooner he co
uld stop and get directions to The Roasting Pig.

Gaven the Magnanimous

An old
wooden sign bearing a rudimentary carving of a pig on a spit hung above a tavern door.  A grinning fat man sat beside the spit, gleefully turning the crank, merry eyes ogling all who passed beneath.

As Andaris drew near, the eyes seemed to follow him
, giving him the creeps. 
Must be the place,
he thought, trying to ignore the unease that had crept into his heart.

S
tepping from the cool night into the sultry embrace of the Roasting Pig, he was greeted by a variety of familiar sights, sounds, and smells, the sort which apparently held sway in every tavern in every world—a thought which he found both comforting and depressing.  His nostrils filled with the mouth-watering aroma of cooking meat, beneath which lurked the pungent combination of stale beer, sweat, and cheap perfume.

As
though transported from the sign to here, a jovial fat man sat in the center of the tavern, turning a skewered hog over a bed of bright red coals, working a bellows with his right foot to keep the fire hot and the patrons hungry. 

The proprietor of the establishment, perhaps the fat man himself,
apparently knew that drunkenness not only made for loose tongues, but also loose purse strings. The place thrummed with activity—coarse laughter occasionally punctuating a discordant chorus of inebriated voices, the general clamor enough to drive out even the most stubborn of thoughts.

Serving wenches wearing s
hort skirts and low-cut bodices navigated the throng with practiced ease, enduring the lustful leers, crude propositions, and even pinches on their backsides with the sort of subconscious grit that’s usually reserved for battle-hardened veterans—which, in a sense, is exactly what they were.

Andaris was not
accustomed to city life, much less to its seedy underbelly, and thus had to resist the urge to spin about and plunge headlong back into the street, seeking the solace of darkness and solitude.  It always called to him, but rarely so fervently…and never by name.

Just
then, rising from the sea of discordia, he heard a familiar, booming laugh.  He scanned that corner of the tavern with hopeful eyes. 
Where is he,
he thought, eager grin turning tentative. 
I mean, he’s not exactly inconspicuous.  He shouldn’t be difficult to spot.
 
Hmm.  Maybe it’s someone else.  No,
he decided,
there’s no mistaking “that” laugh.  He must be here.

Next time he heard it, he realized it was coming from behind a group of men standing in a tight circle just on the other side of the
cooking fire.  He made his way there as quickly as possible, eagerly pushing through the throng.

Upon reaching the wall of bodies, he stopped and pee
red over a cleft betwixt conjoined shoulders.  Below lay a ten-foot deep wrestling pit, rusted blades and animal tusks protruding from the stone walls.  On either end, iron gates blocked twin passageways, gates that could be raised or lowered using a ponderous system of pulleys and chains.

Gold
traded hands with great alacrity.  The flushed faces and feral eyes of the men doing the gambling gave Andaris the same sort of uncomfortable feeling he’d had while staring at the sign.  Their eager perspiration, which best he could tell was three parts beer, two parts swine, and one part mania, formed a heady musk thick enough to make his head swim. 

And then at last he saw him.  Gaven.  Good ol’ Gaven, thrown hard against the far wall of the pit, neck nicked by a barbed sword. 

The man who’d done the throwin’ now advanced on
his opponent with hard-learned caution.  A hairy behemoth of a barbarian he was, wearing naught but a cloth diaper, glistening fat and muscle jiggling with grotesque abandon in the flickering light.

Gaven was sweating and puffing, but his smile remained broad.

He’s toying with him,
Andaris realized, somehow managing to be taken aback even after all he and the big man had been through together.  He shook his head. 
Crazy as ever.  Toying with this behemoth as if he were nothing more than a minor irritation, as if…this was nothing more than a friendly game.

In fact, he was
enjoying
himself—and for that the crowd loved him.  So much so, that they began to chant his name.  “Ga-ven!  Ga-ven!  Ga-ven!”

The big man got into a defensive crouch, wink
ed to the crowd, and gestured to his opponent with a flick of his wrist.  “Come get some,” that wave invited.

Enraged, the diapered barbarian hurled himself forward, obviously intending to crush
Gaven into an unrecognizable pulp against the stone wall.

The big man
feinted left, then went right instead, lightning fast reflexes saving him yet again.

So great was the behemoth’s momentum that the floor shook when he collided with the wall.

Releasing a delighted hoot, Gaven yanked the barbarian’s diaper down, smacked him on the rump, and danced nimbly away, graceful as a man half his size.

Not bothering to correct this final indignity, the behemoth spun about, heaving with rage, arteries on his neck standing out like
thick cables. 

The big man’s
smile broadened as he made the same infuriatingly taunting, “Come get some,” gesture.

The barbarian released a bellow that made the hair on Andaris’ arms
stand straight.  Indeed, so fierce was it in tone and quality that it stopped the chanting cold.

Gaven’s smile never faltered.  He merely waved encouragement to his fans,
seeming intent on getting the chanting, on which he so obviously thrived, back to its previous earsplitting volume.

During the second or two when
the big man’s attention was diverted, the behemoth broke a deer antler off the wall and, with another enraged bellow, charged.

“Gaven!” Andaris cried.  “Look out!” 
Instantly realizing his mistake, he cupped his hand over his mouth.  The bellow had been warning enough.  All this had done was distract him.

Gaven’s face went slack as
they made eye contact.  He just stood there, seeming unable to move, the barbarian quickly closing the gap.

Too late the
big man came to, whirling to his left as the antler pierced his side.  He grabbed his opponent by the shoulders, spun him about, and gave him a mighty shove towards one of the barbed swords.  The behemoth’s momentum did the rest, sword passing through the center of his neck, crimson blade protruding from the other side.

Instead of
crumpling against the cobblestones as most men would have done, the man braced his palms against the wall and pushed himself free, steel suckling of his flesh to its very tip.  Even as the raging torrent of his life gushed forth, he took a lurching step forward, putting all his will into it, his hatred somehow keeping him erect.  And then another.  And another.

Gaven stared on in wonder, left hand resting casually
against the antler protruding from his side.

The barbarian
raised his right arm, struggling to say something that was obviously quite important to him—a final challenge perhaps, a farewell to a friend, a parting bit of profundity….

I
nstead of words, however, what came out was a sickening gurgle.  Now frustrated as well as furious, the behemoth took one more exceedingly laborious step and collapsed into a pool of his own blood.

Gaven stared
down at him for a moment, then to the cheering of the crowd and opening of the tunnels, peered up at Andaris, face pale and expressionless, a question mark without a question.