by Luke Norris
She gasped as her eyes landed on the word. There could be no doubt. Shael had an instant flashback to her panicked state on the wasp, when Oliver had tried to distract her from her phobia of flying. The faded image of the cat, and that word, those letters. The very same letters were staring at her from the ancient page right now.
“What? How?” Shael was at a loss. “He never saw this document Targon. But even if he had, the image on his arm was old, many years old.”
“I know,” Targon acknowledged. He hadn’t taken his eyes off Shael.
“Oh don’t give me that I told you so look!” Shael said, hunching over again to double check the word. “But how is it possible? I’ve never heard of this name for King Oliver. Have you?”
“I can assure you, my girl, there is no document on the continent apart from this one, that refers to him by this alias.”
“So how could Oliver have known? And… stop looking at me like that Targon! Oliver was not some king from five hundred years ago!”
“I will tell you Shael, this is not information we are sharing with the zewka! This stays between us.”
The deep voice of Arif Zewka caused Shael to spin around.
“That is indeed interesting.” The zewka head, stood in the doorway with Ander, looking amused. “I just couldn’t listen from my office anymore, this had become too intriguing.”
He strutted slowly towards them, unconsciously adjusting several large, jewel-encrusted, rings on his fingers. “Of course Targon, I didn’t expect you would be forthcoming with your findings here, despite my hospitality, and giving unprecedented access to artifacts, which you would otherwise never have access to.” Arif feigned a wounded look, but his face split into a grin almost instantly. He paused, relishing the moment.
On the surface, Arif flaunted all the luxuries of someone in his position boasting excess, the lavish silk clothes he wore, the numerous opulent rings on his fingers. His draping silk clothes gave the first impression that he was a little portly. But Shael caught glimpses that suggested a different man. Shael could see the man was lithe and muscular under his robes. The telltale shape of a pistol holster revealed itself briefly. Disciplined. Dangerous. It was as if the appearance he was broadcasting was merely a veneer, the expected visage, designed to let his quarry slide into complacency, and expect him to act a certain way. Even as he sauntered up to Targon, in his sluggish fashion, Shael could now see it was pretense, an act. His hard eyes told the truth.
The only reason he doesn’t do his own dirty work was because he can’t be in two places at once, Shael thought to herself. If Arif’s whole empire disappeared overnight, he would be a crime lord inside of a year. As if reading her thoughts he gave her a wink.
“Tell me, Targon, do you really think the gentleman who had the unfortunate accident in the wasp had some knowledge of the language here? And what is this talk of him having this alias tattooed on his person? If he had knowledge pertaining to this document, it would indeed be a great tragedy to have lost him,” he said looking perturbed.
While he talked, Ander strolled, business-like, to the work table. He shooed Targon to the side, to inspect the passage himself. “Where is it old man?” he demanded, looking at the flowing script.
He hasn’t even got an idea what the ancient Hajir says, thought Shael, let alone this foreign script. What good will it do him? He calls himself an expert.
Targon interrupted her thoughts.
“Arif,” Targon addressed him directly. “I will make an exception in this instance and tell you something freely.”
Shael became acutely aware of how frail, and small, the old man looked facing down Arif. Or was it how intimidating Arif looked? Like a curious viper watching a bird peacocking. He inclined his head for Targon to continue.
“The man Shael found at the monastery named Oliver, the man you had murdered… ” Targon began.
Arif didn’t flinch at the word murdered, he simply nodded for Targon to continue.
Oh god! Don’t say it, Shael begged silently. She didn’t want to hear the admission from his lips and have to officially categorize him as slightly senile.
“… Was King Oliver.”
He said it.
Ander chuckled to himself over by the parchment, shaking his head in the way that said, I always knew he was loopy.
Ander could go to hell! He was not a fraction of the scientist the old man was, besides one crazy thought didn’t write the man off. To Shael’s surprise, Arif ignored Ander and stood there searching the old man’s face thoughtfully, assessing Targon.
“You’re telling the truth,” he decided. “At least, you think you are. Interesting. Tell me, Shael,” he said, not pulling his gaze from the old man, “has Targon ever displayed any signs to you that his facilities are deteriorating, or that his mind is faltering?”
“Not until now,” Shael admitted sadly.
Targon ignored her comment and stared up at Arif defiantly.
“You think he somehow has come back after half a millennia?” he said almost to himself. The same mystical notion that had afflicted Targon seemed to be gripping Arif. Shael could see it in his eyes.
Arif began to look genuinely concerned. “This would be a tragedy,” he lamented, shaking his head. “If it really was him… a tragedy.”
“Oh please,” Shael laughed hysterically. “I cannot believe I’m asking this, but are Ander and I the only two sane people in this room? Don’t tell me you believe this too!” What had happened to rational thought in the world? Targon had taught her this ethos.
“I’ve followed Targon’s work as long as you’ve been alive Shael,” Arif said, dismissing her outburst with a wave of his hand. “Have you ever known him to draw conclusions not based on a scientific method? No, the old man has thought about this. He does not simply wish for some fantasy as you suspect.”
“Yes, it’s true,” Targon conceded. “It was the only logical conclusion I could draw from the events that took place, since Shael brought him into our lives, and he walked through my front door,” Targon said wistfully.
His eyes were wet. It was painful to see Targon like this. He’d developed a maternal sort of affection for Oliver, in the same way, he had for Shael. She also felt the pang of loss.
“He’s not someone that you wanted to meet anyway, Arif,” Targon said. “I explained your criminal operations to him. He was bent on putting an end to them. So I guess your murderous act served you in the end.”
“Hence the little stunt on the train I heard about,” Arif recalled. “Well, your claim is unlikely. But nevertheless, I respect your work, and we zewka have always been somewhat theosophists, so I’m open to the possibility. I’ll put it that way.”
What the hell is a theosophist? thought Shael, it certainly doesn’t sound like science, if he’s prepared to go along with the idea of a five-hundred-year-old man.
An overpowering noise broke her train of thought. A siren, starting at a low pitch, and rising to a piercing wail before subsiding, like a mourning woman.
Arif’s body stiffened, and his face flushed red. “That is the museum alarm! My collection. I told those cleaners what would happen if they broke a display case. God help them if they’ve damaged an artifact.” He said through clenched teeth. His jaw muscle bulged. His lip quivered, and he suppressed a snarl, betraying his anger. The jovial facade of Arif Zewka dissipated like a puddle struck by lightning. His posture became tense.
Shael stepped back. The man in front of her transformed into the terrifying zewka baron, for which his reputation preceded him. The anger radiated off him, and she felt dread for the poor cleaner. Arif’s private collection was apparently equivalent to his own child.
“We’ll discuss further. I have to attend this.” He strode out, leaving Ander with the other two.
Ander, the weaselly sycophant. Shael was about to give him a piece of her mind when the sound of gunfire and yelling caused them all to freeze.
Ander looked at her panicked. “Perhaps th
ere has been break-in.”
They all cast their eyes instinctively to the window overlooking the lawns and gardens. In the background fleets of wasps were lined up in front of the hangers. Shael jumped as two zewka guards ran past the window in the direction of the southern wing. Unlike Ander, they had the traditional zewka crew cut with the lines. It suddenly occurred to Shael that Arif himself didn’t even wear his own hair this way, which seemed strange. Four more guards followed a few moments later.
Yelling and more gunshots.
17
RETURN OF THE KING
“It sounds like a war out there!” Shael said. She was standing on her tiptoes, trying to see past the hedges outside the study window. Short bursts of pistol fire were interspersed with a loud cracking sound, like a cannon. They must be up against some rival group—and with heavy firepower by the sounds of it.
“Get down from there Shael!” Targon warned. “It's dangerous. Whatever feud the zewka have, is their business. I certainly don’t want you to be a casualty of their foolishness.”
“Zewka don’t have enemies, old man,” Ander said unconvincingly. He was also craning his head to see out the window.
As Shael watched, yet another detachment of guards ran past. These ones looked more like trained soldiers. They wore the zewka whites and carried heavier firepower.
What is going on out there? Even as she had this thought, a soldier was thrown back into her view, propelled by some great force. He flew through the air, landed in a crumpled heap, and didn’t rise. A moment later a second man landed and managed to crawl away holding his bleeding shoulder.
Soon, soldiers and guards were retreating back up the way they’d come. Some yelling erratic orders, and firing at some foe Shael couldn’t see. One of the stragglers in the retreating group stopped in front of the window where Shael was watching, and screamed firing his automatic weapon maniacally at the unseen enemy. “Die you, devil!”
His scream was cut short when a fletched arrow thudded into his chest. Shael saw the steel delta shaped tip emerge half a meter through the soldiers back. He fell to his knees, staring in disbelief from the direction the arrow had come. He coughed copious amounts of blood as his eyes glazed over and toppled slowly forward like a felled tree.
“Ponsy’s hammer!” Ander yelped. He went to his knees and crawled frantically around searching for cover. He pushed Targon aside and went under the work desk.
Wait! An arrow? thought Shael. Yep, a genuine—what looks like a five-hundred-year-old—highland arrow had just taken out that zewka soldier. What in the hell!
There was momentary respite outside. Silence. Apart from two dead soldiers lying on the perfectly groomed lawns, it was still. It felt temporary and foreboding, like the lull after first eclipse light.
Shael leaned up closer to the window. She had to get a glimpse of the invading army.
Ander pulled at her trousers. “Don’t Shael! You’ll draw attention to us. That man was shot with an arrow for god’s sake!”
“Get off me!” she kicked his hand free.
“Foolish girl!” he chided, nursing his hand, but didn’t try again. Instead, he reached up and pulled the scroll off the table, protectively rolling it up.
“An arrow, Shael?” Targon’s curiosity overrode his self-preservation instincts, he clambered onto one of the darkwood stools and raised his short figure up to the level of the window above the work desk.
There was nobody there. Shael leaned right up to the glass. A thud on the roof above them caused her and Targon to raise their heads toward the ominous sound.
A dark figure, trailing billowing black, sailed down from above, and landed in a crouch on the lawn, not two meters away from the window. It was so sudden that Shael nearly fell backward off her seat. She sent papers fluttering off the desk.
Shael and Targon both couldn’t believe their eyes and instinctively pressed their faces back against the glass together. The man’s back was to them, and he was scanning from side to side.
Shael shook her head, to be sure her eyes weren’t playing tricks on her. She was looking at an assiduously armor-clad shadow warrior, from ancient times. A grim figure, tall and fearsome. He wore a charcoal wrought iron helmet and carried a quarter-inch-steel shield. He even wore the greaves to protect his shins. Front on, this man was basically a quarter inch steel wall with eye-slits. A human fortress. Just looking at him, made Shael want to cower away under the desk with Ander. But her curiosity stopped her, some morbid fascination kept her eyes frozen on the terrifying—wonderful— sight.
As the warrior turned, and the front of the blackstone helmet came into view. His cheek guards were two oversized black mandibles extending past the chin to two sharp talon-like points, leaving his grim-set mouth and chin bare. In his left hand, he held the massive iron shield, pockmarked with a hundred bullet indentations. On the grass lay a discarded longbow, the quiver to which was strapped diagonally across his back. Shael noticed the man was bleeding from several small wounds on his midriff, but he paid them no mind. In his right hand, a spear…was that…
“The unity spear,” Shael and Targon whispered in unison.
At that very moment, the man turned completely around, to face the window. His fierce brown eyes were arresting and familiar. He raised his spear and leveled it directly at the both of them. Suddenly the thin layer of glass felt about as safe as a leash on a razor hound.
“Stay inside, you two!” he commanded. His voice sounded muffled through his helmet, and the window glass between them. That scar was familiar..those eyes. Where had she seen that? Shael had a flashback to Shar, backstage in the theatre when Oliver had donned the costume. No, it can’t be…
“Oliver, my boy!” Targon finished her thought, whooping with joy.
It was Oliver. A very much alive version of him. But how? Shael saw him fall to his death from the wasp with her own eyes, hadn’t she? And, if he were somehow miraculously still alive, it wouldn’t be for long. A jumble of contradictory emotions made it impossible to think. She was overwhelmed with elation and joy to see him alive but mixed with the surety that in a few moments she was about to watch him die a different sort of way. What was he doing out there, in medieval armor, with a bow and arrow against a whole army of zewka soldiers?
“Oliver!” Shael screamed through the glass. “Get in here! You’re going to get yourself killed.” He already did that… “For a second time,” she added. That man was insatiable. And, now he is turning away and ignoring me. Yes, that was definitely him. Was he not thinking about Targon? The old man couldn’t handle losing Oliver a second time. It would be too much. Too much damn it.
A loud burst of fire drowned out her voice.
Oliver sprung into action, kneeling behind his shield, that was being spattered with shrapnel. The caustic sounds of ricocheting bullets didn’t appear to have the slightest effect on him. Okay, it was official, the man was bonkers! Loopy.
He collected his bow from the ground, and Shael saw a small red spurt erupt from his shoulder as a bullet grazed him.
“Oliver!” she screamed instinctively.
Oliver was nonplussed, like he was just going about business, or tying his shoe. He collected the wooden longbow from the ground, and loosed three arrows from the quiver on his back in such quick succession, that Shael caught nothing more than a blur of motion. The only evidence that arrows had been fired was a mortal scream from some unfortunate guard.
Like a graceful dancer Oliver swept up his spear, that was jutting from the ground. He swung it expertly around, faster than Shael’s eyes could follow. His movements were precise. Perfect. Each motion was in tune with the science of his body. The spear spun faster in his hands until it became invisible. The whirring hum became louder, vibrating the window. It can’t be, she thought to herself, watching the man generate a tornado around himself. It can’t be him. Sweet Verity, he can’t have returned.
As if in answer, a booming thunderclap resounded from Oliver, as the spinning spea
rtip exceeded the sound barrier. The glass window in front of Shael and Targon exploded and shattered into thousand pieces. The wind blew through the study, sending hundreds of papers into the air, blown by the tempest.
Shael watched Oliver swat away the gunfire like sand flies, with the black iron shield. He took several impossibly fast steps toward his enemy, then leaped—launching himself high into the air. Spear pointed downwards at the soldiers in rebuke. Shield on his left arm. It was an inhuman feat, further than any natural person could jump. Bullets sought him, trying to tag him in the air, some caught his shield. But the lack of fire told Shael that most of the remaining zewka soldiers were just as awestruck by the spectacle.
Oliver landed in the midst of the soldiers, and pandemonium broke loose. There was screaming and yelling from the soldiers. In a single moment, Shael’s concern for Oliver evaporated and shifted to the soldiers facing him. They didn’t have a chance against the inhuman tornado of steel she had just seen.
Shael’s foundations of sanity were crumbling under her. Fiction was becoming fact, fantasy becoming reality, up was down. Sweet Verity! Targon was the crazy one a moment ago, now she was the one not aligned with reality. What had she just witnessed? Shael desperately searched her brain for rationale, but it eluded her now.
“It’s him isn’t it, Targon?” she whispered. All along he’d been telling the truth, and she’d been the fool. “I woke him, didn’t I?”
The puzzle pieces fell into place in an instant. The man she’d found in the guard tower, emaciated and on the verge of death, had not been some foolhardy explorer that had stumbled in from the jungle. No, it was, impossibly, a man who had been in a sarcophagus for half a millennia. Fluent in Hajir, even more, adept than a seventy-year-old scholar. Knowledge of the ancient kingdoms that they’d been able to corroborate in hindsight. The more Shael thought about it, the more she had to concede that, actually, all the evidence did point straight to the inevitable conclusion that he… was King Oliver.