Protector

by Luke Norris

  Karib almost jumped out of his skin when the familiar voice of the Gotha greeted him. He gave the foreman his usual salute and guided the barge to the unloading dock Gotha pointed to.

  It had been the strangest morning. He feared things would not go well for Deathwish, but he had done his part and tried to dissuade the man. Karib’s conscience was clean. Most importantly, things were back in their routine. There was nothing worse than conventions being upended. Karib was a creature of habit, his comforts were derived from the familiar, hell, he even steered this very barge through habit. Yes, he was glad Deathwish was gone, and things would continue on the way they’d always been.

  *

  Oliver laid the unconscious door guard down carefully. The man’s gun was still attached to his hip, he hadn’t even attempted to draw it. It was such a surprise to the guard that a hostile intruder could be so deep in the grounds, and have walked effectively to the door of Arif’s personal building, that in his confusion he’d put up virtually no resistance to Oliver.

  Oliver inspected the man’s firearm. It was the first time he’d really seen one since he woke. It had a large cartridge in front of the handle. It was difficult to say exactly how it worked, but it was slimline like a pistol. He left it there. It didn’t feel right to take it for some reason. It reminded Oliver of the standard issue blaster the drivers were issued with when deployed into different planet environments.

  Upon entering the imposing doors, he found himself in what felt like… a museum. This was not what he’d expected. The hall was lined with large tapestries, similar to those in the old castle in Shar. Except these had the distinct air of authenticity about them. Clearly, they were old, although Oliver didn’t recall any such art from his time with Verity. They must’ve been from some era in between.

  He ducked into a room which looked to be important. The entrance was framed by two enormous bronze statues depicting lowland warriors. They looked somehow reminiscent of Drake’s shadow warriors that Oliver had defeated on the floodplains half a millennia ago. They bore the full helmets and held the large shields as if warding off intruders from the room.

  The room was dimly light, with brighter lights illuminating glass cases. They were artifacts. This was a private museum. This man, Arif, was an avid collector. The pieces were displayed with descriptions of their origin and where they were discovered.

  Oliver recognized some of the highland farming implements in the glass cases. It was so strange to see things that were a part of his daily life, now antiques on display. The telltale signs of extreme aging were a harsh reminder that all his friends were long gone and deepened his sense of isolation.

  There was art, some weapons, tools. As he walked through the dimly lit hall, he realized that the items near the back were considered the more prized of the collection. Art of a more regal nature, not so faded or blemished like the other pieces. Weapons that were old, but were clearly ceremonial, perhaps even belonging to kings or a royal family. Many items were not recognizable to Oliver. A lot of time had passed since Oliver’s reign, so it was not surprising.

  At the end of the room were the prize pieces of the collection. Two of which Oliver recognized instantly, even they did not yet have their accompanying descriptions.

  The first was a small chest containing the coins that they had recovered in Shar. The second, Posy’s hammer, was displayed beside the chest. It was set on a dark hardwood stand and lit evenly. Next to this, on a similar stand but oddly without a glass casing, was a short fighting spear. It was as long as Oliver was tall, and made of steel, instead of the traditional wooden haft. Oliver recognized it instantly. It was the unity spear. Why was there no case on this? The owner of the collection must like to hold it regularly.

  Oliver had had it forged personally as a gift for the Naharainee king. A symbol of unity between the highlanders and the lowlanders. He reached out and laid a hand on the familiar grip. Despite being thinner and shorter than a standard wooden spear, it was still slightly heavier.

  He’d wanted the weapon not to perish, and chosen metal, so it would be a lasting symbol of peace. The smith had folded the stainless blacksteel countless times before tempering it. He smiled at the memory of the Naharainee king. He had become a good friend of Verity and Oliver.

  He turned to leave the room, and walked all the way to the small door at the back of the room, before stopping himself. He stood there contemplating for a moment. He didn’t know exactly where Shael and Targon were being held. He needed to draw out the prey. Or would he become the prey? No! That’s not the way a driver would think. He allowed himself to relinquish his inhibitions to the driver within. It was all or nothing.

  Oliver turned, strode back to the spear, reached out and lifted it from its stand.

  He waited for it. Sure enough, a slow siren began to wail. A low frequency at first, and then rose to an ear-piercing pitch.

  He looked around, he was sure he had seen them. Yes there. A tall glass case containing a life-size manikin in the full regalia of a heavy infantryman. It actually looked to Oliver as if it might be one of the ancient shadow soldiers that Drake had trained himself. The other driver had been responsible for the armor’s design, which was why it was so deadly effective.

  It was all also wrought from the hardened blackstone steel. The black helmet gave full face coverage, bar the eye slits which ran down beside the nose guard to leave the mouth and chin area open.

  Even behind the glass, the manikin looked intimidating. It was holding the round shield in a defensive position in front of itself, and a short sword in the other hand.

  When looking directly at the artificial soldier, all an opponent saw was steel shin-plates, an impenetrable-looking shield, and two eyes staring through a wrought iron helm. It was basically a wall of black-steel.

  No wonder these soldiers, under the command of Drake, tore through armies that outnumbered them, he thought grimly.

  Voices of men yelling at each other in the hallway outside snapped Oliver’s attention back to the present. He stood back and thrust the spear through the glass case.

  *

  Four guards came running through the door. They had their pistols drawn. Two were sweating, having sprinted from elsewhere on the compound. They charged into the room, and quickly gauged the scene trying to ascertain if it was just a false alarm. Or, if there really was a thief mad enough to be in Arif’s personal collection room.

  As soon as the first guard saw the man standing in the center of the room, he slid to a stop, almost losing control. He stood staring, dumbfounded. The second soldier crashed into his back, and began to curse, but stopped as he took stock of the scene. One by one they took in the absurd view before them. They were all utterly dumbstruck.

  One of them even lowered his pistol and shook his head, as he tried to reconcile the image. A fully armored, medieval soldier, standing boldly in the middle of the room. The tall man’s feet were in a confident, wide stance, one might even say expert if there was such a thing. He held a shield up to protect his torso. Was that thing even gun-proof?

  He raised his spear and pointed it directly at the guards. “You men there!” he commanded, in a powerful voice. “Drop your weapons!”

  One of the soldiers acquiesced, cautiously placing his pistol on one of the cabinets, then raised his hands submissively. His commanding officer hit him on the back of the head, and he quickly picked his weapon back up and pointed it unconvincingly at the warrior, along with the others.

  The black-steel-clad warrior nodded, as if in respect for their choice. Then lowered himself into a combative crouch, letting the spear point sit on the lip of the shield. He lowered his head behind the shield until only his fierce dark eyes were visible behind black iron.

  Sweet verity! “Fire! Fire on this mad-man!”

  16

  THE TRANSCRIPT

  “See, this letter is in keeping with these others here,” Targon angled the magnifying glass closer, “but I don’t recognize any of them
.”

  “Do you remember the keystone I brought back from the monastery?” Shael reminded him. “And what about the writing on Ponsy’s hammer? They are the same, sure as the mountain’s shadow. Oliver mentioned something about this being a lost language. Perhaps it was only spoken by the monks there.”

  The mention of Oliver caused them to look up at each other. It was painful to recall the events of the last week. Now that Oliver was gone, Shael realized how much he had become a part of their lives. He’d had so much presence, that there was a space left behind.

  She especially noticed the change in Targon. Oliver had awakened a vitality, and juvenile curiosity in him–now he seemed older. It was almost as if Targon wanted to believe Oliver’s story. He was in the twilight years of his life and had latched onto this fiction. He hadn’t said as much, but Shael could see it in the way his eyes sparkled when Oliver told him stories of the Highlanders.

  Even Targon, the best scientist she knew, was susceptible to being swept away with fantasy. It was an observation on human nature. But now watching Targon, she was reminded of why truth was important. In the short term, stories might help you escape, but you paid a high price when you finally decided to come back to reality.

  They had not been treated hostile here and were even given luxurious quarters. Ander, the snake, had greeted them and introduced them to Arif himself. It surprised Shael that the head of the zewka truly did respect Targon. Arif was almost like a fanboy around the old archaeologist, talking with enthusiasm about some of Targon’s much older works. It came from a genuine place, and he obviously had a real passion for history. It now made sense to Shael why they had received sponsoring for their dig.

  Arif had used flowery tones to acknowledge his regret about the accident in the wasp. But there was a sinister undertone, which made it abundantly clear that fanboy or not, the same fate could just as easily befall them.

  As Shael followed Ander down the lavishly adorned halls of the zewka mansion, he pointed out pieces of art with enthusiasm and pride. He was as slimy as a Tashka eel, and he’d greeted her as though nothing was out of the ordinary. Many of the pieces he showed to Targon, and her were from the Kahlro invasion, marking the end of the second epoch. The zewka were, of course, the only remaining family of the three foreign monarchies. Arif claimed to be of pure lineage, but he could just as easily be descended from some clever thug who used the zewka name to bolster his birthright. Something probably nobody would ever know for sure.

  “Ponsy’s hammer, Targon.” Shael whispered as Ander pointed to one of the zewka barons from half a century ago, “but you’d think that the zewka had won the Kahlro wars a century ago, and they’re now the ruling class in Naharain.”

  It quickly became clear that this was the reality preached here. They’re all indoctrinated with this alternate history.

  Arif had personally given the ancient parchment from the monastery to Targon, noting the incompetence of his own team’s language experts. Targon spoke not a word during the exchange and made no promises. This went seemingly unnoticed by Arif, who kept up the charade of an exuberant host like a professional theatre lead.

  Now Shael sat together with Targon under lamplight at a well-appointed desk, while he examined the scroll. She transliterated the phonetics in the Naharainee alphabet and had a separate page where she made exact copies of the letters, filling in parts that had worn away.

  “He could’ve read these characters,” Targon said, straining in consternation at the flowing script. “I’m sure of it.”

  “Let’s focus on the ancient Hajir Targon! At least that will give us a reference point. It’s likely that they simply wrote the same thing in both languages. We can use the Hajir as a key.”

  “Yes, yes,” Targon grumbled, “but you have to concede that it’s fascinating. Fascinating, I say. A forgotten, unknown tongue… ”

  He slid the scroll down, to where the more familiar Hajir text began.

  Shael pointed to the small image with the crossed terrace reeds. “Here’s the Hajir coat of arms I told you about. I can tell you, Targon, those clowns on the monastery dig had no idea what the were reading. They could’ve been holding it upside down, and it would’ve made not a thread of difference,” she laughed.

  Targon was lost in his reading, and just gave grunts of acknowledgment, as he ran his finger along the line of text. He relished his work, and it gave Shael a small amount of solace to see him like this, after the strain of recent events.

  “It is a kind of mission statement or credo for the monks who lived there.” He looked up at Shael under thick grey brow. “Here, see! It talks about how all generations are to learn this code by rote. The children are to memorize these words, and one day pass them to the next generation, who should, in turn, do the same, as decreed by…” They both hunched over the word then looked at each other and spoke in unison. “Ponsy!” The two stared at each other with the same mystical wonder for some seconds, before hunching over excitedly to see the next section.

  Of the hundreds of scrolls and documents Shael had translated with Targon together, they both felt this was different. There was a gravity to the words, Shael had the distinct impression that, if she were to read further, it would grant some sort of epiphany there would be no going back from. She felt the moment in the air as if fate were a physical being watching her, waiting for her to read further. She shook off the superstitious paranoia, it was hard when dealing with subjects of legend, and Ponsy himself had been responsible for the manufacture of this document.

  They read on. Shael tapped Targon. “Say the words aloud!” she reminded him. She couldn’t understand a quarter of it.

  “Yes, Yes,” but he mumbled on quietly, the words incoherent to Shael. Then suddenly slowed and read the next passage louder as if convincing himself of its contents. “…with the sacred duty of watching the sleepers, King Oliver, and Queen Verity.”

  Shael felt dizzy. She immediately had flashbacks of the guard tower and tomb she’d found. Had she really found their final resting place? This document could be proof of that.

  “It’s strange,” Targon continued, “that they refer to them as sleepers. Look here, it says ‘the sleepers, King Oliver and Queen Verity, until they wake.’ Now isn’t that something,” he pondered. “I think that this monastery is the key to unlocking an entire era of history, Shael. It looks to me as though this might really have been where they were laid to rest. I’m reasonably certain that’s what you found.”

  “Yes, but what happened to the body of King Oliver?” Shael said. “Verity’s sarcophagus contained a mummy, which was in remarkable condition if it really was her, you should’ve seen it Targon. But Oliver’s was bare. I could swear I was the first person to enter that tomb since it had been sealed. It was undisturbed, and the coffins hadn’t been opened. Although, the room was void of anything of value. But then if graverobbers had been there, why would they seal it back up?” she reasoned. “It’s such an enigma, Targon.”

  “Quite, my dear! Here, let us read further.” He mumbled along to the next line of text. Occasionally Targon would reach for a large notebook, and flick through it for reference. It was one of the resources that Arif had supplied them with. It didn’t have all the annotations that Targons personal collection contained, from years of scholarly work, but was still detailed. “This date is somewhere shortly before the first epoch and seems the monks were instructed to enter the chamber and open the caskets. It's mentioned two times. There can be no doubt, it’s mentioned very precisely here, and here.”

  Targon allowed Shael to slid the scroll over as she examined the line he indicated to.

  “Well, they were monks,” Shael added. “It is still not clear what religion they practiced. There was no sign of any of the pagan highland gods anywhere in the monastery.”

  She slid the page back to him and stood up. “I’m going to make tea!” she announced. “That sounds like a good idea right about now.”

  Targon seemed not to he
ar as he adjusted the lamp and went back to his scrutiny of the ancient Hajir. He read further. “Ponsy talks of King Oliver affectionately,” he called to her in the kitchen. “You can tell that he saw him as a friend. And…” Targon broke off, standing abruptly. “Shael, my girl! You are going to want to see this.”

  Shael carried the two steaming cups through to the study. When she rounded the corner, Targon stood there watching her with a sparkle in his eyes. He was excited, too excited. He took hold of her arms completely oblivious to the hot mugs.

  “Hey, careful! What’s got you so fidgety?” She managed to put down the cups as he dragged her over his findings.

  “Read this line, starting here!” Targon told her, then proceeded to read the line aloud himself, despite his request. “And the sleepers should be woken with care, for their slumber was long. You will know King Oliver by the markings on his shoulder, for he is also the driver… ” Targon slid it in Shael’s direction. “Here read this next word! It's phonetic.”

  Shael was not as apt as Targon at reading the Hajir aloud with the correct sounds, but she continued from where he indicated. “For he is also the driver… coogaar,” she exaggerated the vowels.

  Shael had no idea what the term ‘driver’ meant, or the next word she’d sounded out. However, the second word was startlingly familiar. She knew that word ‘Cougar’, she’d heard it recently. Yes, Oliver had shown her a tattoo, an image of a black cat with a word underneath, which he claimed said ‘Cougar’ in a different language. She looked up at Targon who was watching her. That superstitious sparkle in his eyes affected her.

  Shael was sure Targon had the same thought. “Sweet Verity,” she whispered, “You don’t think the second language on this document the same as the one on Oliver’s arm?”

  They both looked at the lower part of the scroll. The mysterious characters were similarly structured to the Hajir, and Shael was certain it was a direct translation. It shouldn't be too hard to find the word, it was right at the end of the third Hajir paragraph. She found the corresponding paragraph. Her and Targons heads were almost pressed against the paper as they followed the flowing script.