Timewalker

by Luke Norris

  “Aargh! Damn it! I forgot to wear the leather wrist guard.”

  “Ha! Not bad!” Yarn regarded. “You learned to do that in a few weeks?”

  “Three! I didn't pick it up until the second week we were in the village.” He was rubbing his tender wrist where a trickle of blood could be seen. He walked over to retrieve the precious arrow and worked it loose from the bark. “I'll take a look when we stop this evening and see what I can find.”

  True to his word Riff walked back into the camp that evening before dusk carrying a sizable colorful bird by the feet in one hand and a brown hare in the hanging limp in the other. They built a small fire in a glade by the road and it wasn't long before the scent of roasting meat filled the air.

  “Well, I’ll be!” Yarn said. “Riff our little first-stager,” he laughed a deep laugh.

  Riff attempted a look of scorn over the greasy leg he had sunk his teeth into, but it quickly turned into a grin.

  Verity felt the rise in morale. The flesh of the bird Riff had shot was tender and juicy. She relished each bite. It was the most delicious meat she had ever eaten. “You have outdone yourself, Riff! This is exquisite!” she conceded.

  The next morning they found themselves winding through large tracts of forest. It was kind of a no-mans land between the clan territories and the realms of kings. There had been no sign of people inhabiting this part of the land all morning. The high forest canopy offered gentle shade, the morning was pleasant as they walked along the narrow dirt road. Verity was humming a song, and nobody objected to her sweet soft tone.

  Abruptly Riff held up his hand and signaled for the four to stop and Verity to be quiet.

  “Did you hear that?” he asked, “it sounded like…”

  The unmistakable sound of deep laughter could be heard down the road and then the clopping of hooves.

  “Throw your hood over Drake!” Yarn ordered. “Better to be safe and try to blend in somewhat if possible.” He turned to Verity. “You'll have to do the talking, we can only understand a few words.” If any, depending on how different this dialect is.

  Soon horses could be seen rounding the bend at a leisurely walk. Their riders were jovially throwing remarks among each other, and they hadn't noticed the four travelers standing on the side of the road.

  The riders wore various pieces of armor, one had a helmet which had an open face but scales running down to cover his neck. Two others had chest plates that looked poorly maintained, chinked and rusted. Swords bounced in leather scabbards at the side of each rider. The clothes under the patchwork collection of armor were of woven material, and not the simple treated leather of the hill people.

  Eventually, five riders on horseback came fully into view. The man at the head of the troop was bald with back wispy hair still clinging to the sides, he had a very short unkempt beard, and his gaunt face had the pocked scar remnants of achene. He was eating an apple and laughing at a comment from another rider. At thirty meters away he saw the four travelers standing there watching him approach.

  “Woah!” He called the group to a halt. “Hello, hello, what have we got ourselves here lads? Looks like four yellow eyes have gotten themselves lost.”

  A chuckle could be heard from the others. The man dismounted and stretched his back out giving a satisfied sigh and then drew his sword. The other four sat mounted, leaning relaxed on their horses with expressions of patience, and mild amusement for some morning entertainment.

  The man approached in a slow saunter, savoring each step. “Now what are four yellow eyes doing in my forest?” He poked his sword in their direction patronizingly.

  Verity found with an effort she could understand what he was saying. Although it was the same base language, it was spoken further forward in the mouth, and some sounds were less guttural. To Riff, Yarn, and Drake it sounded like a different language.

  Verity stepped forward and addressed the man. “We have come to see your king!” she said.

  The man stopped, taken back by her confidence. Clearly not the typical submissive temperament he was used to encountering. He stood dumbstruck for a moment then doubled over in laughter. He turned to his mounted companions. “The boy wants to see the king.” The others laughed, this was proving to be amusing after all.

  They see me as a boy! she thought. Her hand went unconsciously to her short cropped hair.

  “What you don't understand, you yellow-eyed turd, is that in this forest I am the king.”

  As he advanced, he noticed the eyes of the travelers were in fact not yellow at all. This gave him pause again. Then he shrugged off this anomaly, they spoke and dressed like the hill-people that was enough for him. “You may have grand plans to visit the king,” he turned to his friends with a cocked eyebrow, and they laughed again, “but I've got some grand plans of my own, and it involves taking that pony for starters.” He had come to a standstill five meters in front of them. “Bring it out here!” He made a nonchalant gesture with his sword indicating for them to hand it over. He bit into his apple.

  Yarn could read the eyes of this man, they said just hand it over, and this whole unpleasant business can be over quickly. He turned to Verity questioningly to confirm what he had just deduced.

  “I think they intend to rob us,” Verity said.

  “I thought so,” Yarn grinned.

  This seemed to infuriate the robber. His expression went from disinterested to surly. “Hey, you yellow-eyed scum I'm not going to stand here all morning! Now bring that pony here!” He tapped his sword on the ground in front of himself.

  Yarn turned to Drake. “You know what to do! But don't kill the horses we could use them!”

  Drake stepped forward to stand in front of their hijacker. His big hood hung low over his face, and in the shadow of the forest, his face was completely hidden in the dark. He stood there silently. Drake stood a head taller than the man forcing him to look up at the driver

  The bold relaxed demeanor of the big driver, and clear challenge by stepping forward visibly rattled the man’s nerves. Suddenly his posture was uncertain, but this quickly turned to disbelief and anger.

  “You arrogant fool! You want to die for a pony? Well, I've killed for less.” The man was squinting trying to make out the features under the hood while he was talking.

  Two riders had trotted up behind their companion hearing his distress. One of them spoke. “Make an example of him! They are just yellow eyes, nobody will miss em.”

  Drake had still not spoken a word nor moved. His large hooded frame was bowed, slightly taught, but stood there patiently.

  “Once in awhile, there's always a wannabe hero.” The bandit said. “Here's what we do to heroes in my forest…” The last word was strained as it coincided with a diagonal swing meant to cleave Drake’s neck.

  Surprisingly, the blade struck only air catching the man off balance. Drake had anticipated the swing, stepping easily to the side. Now he stood there calmly once more. The bandit regained his composure then sprang forward taking three more cleaving swings, each anticipated by Drake and expertly avoided. The sword hummed as it broke the air.

  “That yellow eye got the better of you Hakthar?” One of the men on horseback jibed.

  “Wait!” Verity called. “Nobody has to die here! Just give us your horses, and you can go.”

  The bandits looked at her in disbelief, and then at the rest of the unarmed troop before them, and started laughing.

  “Enough!” Ordered Yarn. “Finish it Drake! We need to keep moving.”

  Verity made some noises of protest, but it was too late. The big driver stepped forward. The bandit Hakthar thrust at Drake’s torso in response, but again it missed, the sword tip poking a small hole through Drake’s leather cape. In one smooth motion, Drake pulled in close beside the bandit, past the sword hilt, so their faces almost touched. He loosed the Bandit's own dagger from its sheath and rammed the blade through the skin under his jaw hard up to the hilt, so it was driven deep into the man's skull. The las
t thing Hakthar saw was the face, centimeters from his own under the hood, with eyes of ivory and skin of black igneous. His eyes widened in wonderment before rolling into his skull.

  As the dead man collapsed Drake drew the dagger out of his head tossed the blade in the air catching it by the bloodied tip, then flung it into the face of the mounted man wearing the open faced helmet. It embedded itself deep in the eye socket. The man slumped forward in his saddle then slid off to one side. Verity screamed at the sight.

  The next mounted man took a few seconds to absorb what he had just seen. Aghast, the bandit drew his sword and released a battle cry, then swung the weapon low from his horse, making a short charge. He expected to connect with the driver’s midsection, but cut only thin air. Drake was too quick, he had already grabbed the sword from his first victim and, in a display of acrobatic prowess, somersaulted over the deadly swing from the rider. Drake’s sword smashed into the armored breastplate of the man and then sliced through his unprotected arm, only the bone stopped the weakened blow from completely severing the limb.

  Drake landed easily into a crouch by the rear of the horse, the sword point quivering in the soft earth and his hands on the hilt. The dark hood amazingly still covered Drake’s face. The man on the horse released a stream of curses and agonized cries, his sword arm hung useless at his side, and his sword had fallen to the ground.

  Yarn who had been watching from a few meters away picked up the rider’s sword and examined it curiously. “Can you believe these are the kinds of weapons they use?” He handed it to Riff who also seemed amused.

  Drake reached up to the rider took hold of his ruined arm and pulled him down from the beast. He screamed in pain and went with a motion to try and favor his arm. He collapsed in a miserable whimpering heap in front of Verity, Riff, and Yarn.

  The last two riders were still thirty meters down the trail and were having trouble processing what they had just seen. An unarmed man had just killed two of their troop and seriously wounded the third. Now, this hooded demon had pulled the dagger from the face of one of the men he had slain and was walking slowly and confidently towards them. They looked at each other in confusion and disbelief, then nodded hardening their resolve.

  Just leave. Please just ride away, thought Verity desperately.

  "Heyaa!" They spurred the horses into a gallop and began to bear down quickly on the large driver. Drake stopped and waited impassively, his expression hidden under the shadow of the hood’s brim. He was standing in the middle of rutted dirt road, it was wide enough to accommodate the wagon convoys which made trips to the Lowlands at the end of harvest. The riders positioned themselves to attack from either side.

  Drake assessed the attack in the few seconds, he saw the large rider on the left was forced to use his left hand to hold the weapon, clearly not his sword-arm. They were less than ten meters away. He flung the dagger at the small man on his right, who instinctively raised his arms in a cross configuration to block the blade, flinching his head to the side. The butt of the dagger handle bounced harmlessly off his shoulder, but it had distracted him, foiling the charge and causing him to drop his sword.

  In the same motion, Drake had slid forward on his knees and arched his back, so his head almost touched the ground behind him. The sword blade of the big rider whizzed over his face. At the same moment, Drake's sword bit deeply into the mare's left front leg. It hit with such force that it knocked the sword from Drake's hand but shattered the metacarpus of the animal. The horse's leg gave out, and the beast crumpled over and rolled with its momentum, whinnying terribly. The big rider was thrown clear and hit the ground hard. He rolled several times but avoided being crushed by the lame beast thrashing on the ground in agony behind him.

  The frustrated voice of Yarn could be heard over the din, “I said not the horses!”

  The small man was still mounted but unarmed. He was preparing to flee when he saw his comrade on the ground stir, apparently uninjured, as he stood and collected himself. He was a big man, not as tall as Drake but at least as heavy. Unlike Drake, the bandit carried most of his body weight around his midsection, and his pale stomach attempted to bulge through his vest. He had a nose which had been broken on more than one occasion and was complemented with deep acne scars on his cheek above the stubble on his jaw. He snarled a toothy grin at the approaching driver to reveal a missing incisor. He adopted the confident stance of an experienced thug and raised his fists ready.

  Drake did not even check his stride, he deflected the punch of the big man without thought, taking the hand in a pressure point hold, then turning the big man's arm forcing him to his knees in submission.

  “Mercy! Aaagh! Mercy.”

  “Release him, or I will cut you down devil!” said a quavering voice from behind Drake.

  Still manipulating the hand of the big man painfully he turned to see the other rider had dismounted and was shaking the sword point at his face.

  Suddenly there was a sickly thud, and all three drew their attention to the arrow which was embedded in the shoulder of the last attacker. He stared at it for several seconds before he cried out in recognition, and anticipation of the pain that would soon follow. His sword clattered to the ground.

  “Thank you very much ladies and gentlemen.” Riff gave a low flourishing bow to Yarn and Verity. Holding the spent bow in his hand.

  Drake took advantage immediately, taking hold of the arrow shaft and pulling the small man with him. The barbed arrowhead caught behind the man’s collarbone pulling him along as effectively as a collar on a dog. The man's eyes rolled back in his head at the torture. Drake released the two men beside the other wounded bandit. Three whimpering men.

  Yarn and Riff were joking about Riff's new found talent with the bow. Verity was ashen and pale. After a few minutes, Yarn turned from his jovial banter with Riff to Drake who stood above the three prostate men babbling and pleading on their knees. Hearing the strange tongue of their captors they turned their pleas to Verity since she had addressed them in the clan dialect.

  Yarn looked at Drake, “I said don't hurt the horses! You are lucky there are still four, or you would be walking!”

  The hooded driver bowed his head in apology to Yarn. Verity realized that Drake was completely under the command of the captain. Although the mind control drugs had worn off, the man that Drake once was gone, and a subservient driver was in his place. The command language Yarn used was the only thing now familiar to Drake’s ruined mind and demanded immediate obedience from him.

  “Ok let's get back on the road!” Yarn walked to one of the horses grazing on some moss at the forest edge.

  “What should I do with these serfs?” Drake asked.

  “Probably best to kill them, and keep our arrival under-wraps.” Yarn replied. He was distracted with one of the horses.

  “Wait! They are harmless.” Verity cried. “This one has a family...two small girls!”

  “Um no, I think it's better and cleaner this way,” Yarn decided. He nodded to Drake giving the order then turned to the engineer. “Have you ridden a horse before Riff?” He laughed as he tried to struggle up onto the saddle, acting like a child discovering a new toy.

  “Yarn!” Verity's voice was beseeching, but he wasn't listening. She turned to the driver, “Drake wait…”

  Her pleas were background noise in Drake’s ears. He had his orders. He was a driver. Hundreds of battles on different planets had made killing serfs like these as easy as breathing. He stood in front of the three men, and they looked up at him as he slowly raised his hands and slid the leather hood back off his dark head. The ivory whites of his eyes gleamed in his impassive face. The three men stared in disbelief and then terror. It was the last face they ever saw.

  24. Friendship

  “Oliver, you take the south end of the field with Ponsy!” Tahat lowered his voice conspiratorially. “This is the last harvest before the winter, the grain only just survives this colder weather, and the husks are only half the size.
Look!” He plucked a stem to show the end where the kernels were attached about as long as his forefinger. “Normally twice as big! Basically, this is the runt of the crop! This crop goes to our Lowland friends.” His arresting hazel eyes squinted in amusement.

  Oliver wasn't able to follow everything Tahat was saying, he had been with the Hajir people nearly two months, but the language was coming slowly for him. Ponsy, who had acquired somewhat of a private tutor, was helping Oliver learn to speak the guttural tongue.

  Ayla seemed to be concerned with every aspect of Ponsy's wellbeing, not just language tutoring. That very morning she had brought full water skins up to them a few hours into the day, although theirs were still full, shaking her finger in reprimand at the big driver until he had satisfactorily hydrated himself.

  “From one slave master to another, eh, Ponsy?” Oliver had taunted him, and he was sure he had seen Ponsy's chestnut face go another shade of red.

  Ponsy replied in the clan language so Oliver couldn't understand, but he was sure he understood the word ‘jealous’ in the retort.

  During the weeks of recovery, Oliver had often accompanied Ponsy to the fields. Their relationship became closer. As he answered the questions for the big driver more of the story was unlocked. He had begun to explain the truth to Ponsy, how they arrived there, who they were, he was able to fill in the blanks, explain the confusing memories that haunted Ponsy’s dreams.

  “They can never know, but I woke,” Oliver told him, “we are slaves being transported on a spaceship, that in all likelihood is still orbiting this planet.” He told how he had been woken from deep stasis sleep in the cold morgue-like environment, and thought he was dead until he began communicating with the Toro and Lego.

  “Me and you, we are nothing to those pirates Ponsy! They go from planet to planet raping and pillaging, and some unfortunate souls get selected to become drivers...us! We were taken, programmed and drugged to be generals for the next planet raid. We have been lying up there for decades, maybe centuries, I don't know. We were only meant to be woken when they need us for the fighting.” Oliver explained how they had drugged Earth’s inhabitants through the water and how he had been captured and made a driver.