Third Starlighter

by Bryan Davis

  Forcing a smile, she met each gaze. Maybe a dose of friendliness would give her detractors something to ponder.

  Among the sea of humanity, Father, Dunwoody, and Gregor were nowhere to be found. Unfamiliar faces dotted the masses. Several at the front wore orange-and-black uniforms, similar to Maelstrom’s. His personal soldiers from Tarkton were making their presence known. Orion had to be pretty confident in his position to allow such an obvious show of strength from his potential usurper.

  Ahead, the stake loomed at the center of the stacked wood, like a bare tree trunk protruding from the midst of its fallen branches. A space of about a square foot had been cleared in front of the stake as well as a foot-wide path leading to it from one side.

  Orion stood at the edge of the pyre near the path. Carrying a burning torch, his expression was the only stoic one among the witnesses. Maelstrom stopped at the path, pulled a key from his pocket, and unlocked Marcelle’s manacles. As the chains dropped to the ground, she glared at her captors. While Orion remained expressionless, a smug grin formed on Maelstrom’s face. He untied a rope from around his waist, unwinding multiple loops before letting an arm-length section dangle from his hand. “I have tested this and found the crystals to be fireproof.”

  Turning, Marcelle looked at the gallows. The hangman’s noose was no longer there. She shifted back and studied the rope. Particles embedded within the fibers sparkled in the rising sun.

  She swallowed. The truth-detecting rope. The crystals would cut into her skin and turn black if she uttered a lie. But what did that matter? She planned to tell everyone the truth about everything.

  “Proceed,” Orion said, waving the torch. “Let her speak her mind and then let us be done with her.”

  Captain Reed let go of her chain. Marcelle looked back at him, giving him a questioning stare. Why wasn’t he following? With his hands folded behind his back and his head down, he gave no hint as to what he was thinking.

  Maelstrom guided her along the path, a hand on her shoulder as he prodded her from behind. As they neared the end, the height of the wood rose to chest level. When they reached the cleared space in front of the stake, she stepped up to the prisoner’s block and stood calmly, forcing a stoic expression.

  After circling behind her, Maelstrom looped the rope around the stake, then around her throat and chest. As he fastened it behind her, he growled a whisper into her ear. “You have no gag, witch, but this rope will make you regret every word you speak, and it will reveal any lies you try to utter. I have a suspicion about what you really are, so I will be back to collect the crystals when the embers cool.” With a final tug, he tightened the knot and walked backwards down the path, pulling wood from each side to fill in the gap.

  Orion withdrew a sandglass from an inner pocket and displayed it in his fingers. “My cook uses this for timing eggs. The sand lasts for five minutes, but it will be sufficient for your ten-minute reprieve. I will merely let the sands run through twice.”

  Marcelle glanced at Captain Reed. He made no effort to come closer. She swallowed, but even that motion tightened the rope, causing it to cut into her throat. Although little more than dust, her body again registered pain. “You have been unfaithful, Governor. You promised no gag and time to speak, but you have allowed Counselor Leo to stifle my speech far more effectively than if a gag were in place.”

  Obviously trying to hide a smile, Orion shook his head. “I will move the rope from your throat as soon as you tell me about the girl with the hood.”

  Marcelle frowned. Between the cutting rope and the burning torch, he held all the leverage. Could she reveal more about Cassabrie? What might he do with the information? Maybe telling the most benign facts would be enough. “She is a wandering spirit, a girl who died long ago, and she has the ability to tell amazing tales that mesmerize her hearers. It takes great strength to withstand her prowess, so a wise man takes heed and stays away from her.”

  Orion set the flame closer to the wood. “Do you believe her to be a sorceress?”

  As the torch crackled and popped, Marcelle glanced at Maelstrom. He had backed away at least three steps. “I am not qualified to judge, Governor. Since you believe me to be a sorceress, what validity would my evaluation have?”

  “A fair statement.” Orion nodded at Maelstrom. “I think we will learn nothing more from her. Move the rope from her throat.”

  “Governor,” Maelstrom said, “we have already given this sorceress more liberties than she deserves. You have kept your word, and now she demands—”

  “Allow me!” Captain Reed said, raising a hand. “I will obey your will.”

  Orion scowled at Maelstrom. “Very well. A condemned prisoner is allowed such a simple request, and a captain in the army who is loyal will soon find new decorations on his chest.”

  His fists clenched, Maelstrom bowed and backed away several more steps. Then, standing at attention again, he fixed his stare on Orion. “The Governor is wise to reward his most loyal supporters. He knows that some powerful men in his service might be able to usurp him at any moment, in spite of his ever-present bodyguards, so giving honor is judicious.”

  Marcelle scanned the onlookers standing near Orion. Two muscular young men dressed in Mesolantrum attire clutched the hilts of their swords and stepped to the front of the crowd, apparently Orion’s bodyguards.

  Captain Reed climbed the pile of wood, dropped to ground level, and stood behind her. “Speak quickly,” he whispered as he loosened the rope around her throat. “I cannot dawdle here for very long.”

  Trying not to move her lips, she whispered in reply. “Help me muster an army. Our first task will be to rescue your daughter and any others who have been kidnapped. Then we will march on Dracon.”

  He shifted the loop down to her waist. “Dracon is a myth.”

  “No. I have been there myself. I will prove it in a moment.”

  “How will you keep the children from harm?”

  “By capturing Orion.”

  He retied the knot. “Are you serious?”

  “Look at the rope. Are the crystals glowing?”

  “They are.”

  “That means I’m telling the truth. I’ll prove that as well. When I get the men fired up, we will be able to build the army secretly. In the meantime, I’ll work on a plan to capture Orion before we go to Dracon.”

  “But how will you escape the fire?”

  “A plan is in the works, but if I fail—”

  “Marcelle!” Orion waved the torch. “If you have something to say, kindly share it with the others, as you promised. With everyone waiting to hear from you, it is impolite to carry on a private conversation with Captain Reed.”

  “I was simply explaining to him how I was planning to escape this execution.” She looked down at the rope around her waist. The crystals within turned dark.

  “I believe you,” Captain Reed whispered. “But I can do nothing to help you until my daughter is freed.” He jumped up to the pile, walked carefully down to the edge, and stood at the side, his arms crossed over his chest.

  “The black crystals in the rope prove your lie.” Orion laughed. “I hope you don’t plan to waste your ten minutes by speaking falsehoods.”

  She fixed her stare on him. “I plan to reveal to these people the truths that have been hidden for one hundred years.”

  “Very well.” Orion turned to the crowd. “But let it be known that the rope detects only what she believes to be a lie. It is possible for her to utter an untruth, believing it to be true. In such a case, the rope’s crystals will not turn black. As a sorceress who has sold her soul to evil, she likely has been deceived about many things. We will have to take great care in discerning fact from fiction.”

  Marcelle pushed against the encircling ropes, trying to catch a deep breath. “You are one to talk. Letting Counselor Leo come here proves that you have the discernment of a tumbleweed in a tornado.”

  “Is that so?” Orion turned the sandglass over and set it on th
e ground. “And is my discernment any worse than yours? I promised you ten minutes to speak before your execution.” He pushed the torch under the edge of the wood. “That’s about how long it will take for the fire to reach you.”

  “What?” Marcelle fought the ropes again, but the shards cut through her clothes, pricking her skin. “You tricked me!”

  “I did no such thing. I am merely keeping my promise exactly according to my words.” He nudged the sandglass with his shoe. “I suggest that you begin.”

  Turning her head back and forth, Marcelle scanned the crowd again. Where were Dunwoody and Gregor? As the flames crawled slowly toward her, she looked down into the wood. No sign of the sword. Maybe Orion’s eagle eyes kept them from depositing it there.

  “Has the loquacious lady suddenly become speechless?” Grinning, Orion spread out an arm. “Come now! We are all waiting for the promised oratory. Surely you won’t waste your final request to die without a gag.”

  She tried to spit at him, but nothing came out. “Someday you’ll choke on your own tongue, you vile serpent!”

  “Marcelle!” someone called from the crowd. “Speak! You’re running out of time!”

  She looked for the source. A gray-haired man ducked out of sight. Could he have been Dunwoody?

  Turning her head to avoid the smoke, she took in a deep breath. Although she didn’t need to breathe, she had to inhale in order to speak. Would the manna’s sedative affect her? Only time would tell.

  She focused on Orion again and called out, “Governor Orion, you asked me to reveal the truth about the female your guard witnessed outside my cell, but since you are so ignorant, you need to know a bit more history. She comes from a planet called Starlight, the same planet we call Dracon, and she has traveled here through a portal between our worlds.”

  As a wave of murmurs raced across the crowd and the flames marched closer, Marcelle continued. “Now I know this sounds strange to all of you, and since you can see glowing crystals in the rope, you likely already think me mad. Yet, even a madwoman is unable to display what she has never seen. If I were to show you a leaf, you would know that I have been near a tree. If I were to show you a feather, you would know that I have been in contact with a bird. But if I were to show you a scale, would you believe that it came from a dragon?” She shook her head. “Not likely, for scales cover a number of animals. What about a claw? No. An eagle has similar claws. A long, sharp tooth? No again. The mountain bears have teeth every bit as long and sharp as those from a dragon. But if I were to show you an entire dragon, would you believe?”

  A slight wave of dizziness made her head swim. She had to fight the sedative! Closing her eyes, she spread out her arms, her palms pointing skyward. “I stood in the midst of deprivation. Children marched in a staggered line. Bleeding from whip marks on their backs, they dragged pails laden with stones. For some, dirt and bloodstains served as their only clothing, while others covered their loins with filthy rags. With ribs protruding from emaciated bodies, they scratched and clawed for bread crumbs thrown from the sky.

  “After the bigger children scooped up the lion’s share, trampling the little ones in the process, the bony hands and sunken eyes of the defeated waifs scoured the barren ground for the tiniest morsels, hoping to silence the growling in their stomachs, praying that the gut-gnawing beast within would cease its savagery and allow them a few hours of sleep within their dirt hovels, just enough to give their aching muscles time to rest and recover from their backbreaking labor, just enough peaceful slumber to prepare them for yet another day of blood loss, stinging sweat, and tearless weeping.”

  Marcelle folded in her arms and peered through a slit in her eyelids. A parade of cattle children walked between her and the crowd, exactly as she had described. Although their bodies and pails were semitransparent, all the gory details were easy to see—the slashes on their backs, the dirty bare skin, and the protruding ribs. A stream flowed at the feet of the onlookers, so real and sparkling, some backed away to avoid the water.

  Leaving her eyes partially open, she took in as little breath as possible and continued. “And all the while, these pitiful creatures labored and suffered under the watchful eye of …” After a dramatic pause, she flung out her arms. “A dragon!”

  A drone flashed into the scene, its whip cracking over the children’s backs. Gasps erupted from the crowd. A few ran, while most shuffled a few more steps away.

  Marcelle snatched a quick glance at Maelstrom, Orion, and Captain Reed. With wide eyes and slack jaws, all three appeared to be mesmerized. If only Captain Reed had kept his wits about him, he might have been able to help with the escape.

  Scanning the crowd once again, she searched for anyone who might have resisted the hypnosis. At the left side, a gray-haired man appeared again, skulking low in the midst of the swaying heads and pushing toward the front. Near the center, a dark-haired man did the same, and to the right, a third man with only a few wisps of gray approached.

  The man in the center popped out of the crowd. Marcelle recognized him immediately. Gregor!

  With a sword in hand, he rushed toward her, his back bent low. “Keep talking!” he hissed. “They might wake up!”

  “Don’t breathe the smoke,” Marcelle said. “It’s already affecting me.”

  Gregor pointed at his ear. “I can’t hear you. Just keep talking.” As he circled to the rear of the pyre, avoiding the now-towering flames that drew near from the front, Marcelle winced at the growing heat but managed to shout over the crackling fire. “This dragon you see is merely a drone. Though evil and cruel, he is but a shadow of the greater dragons, yet his whip still slices the backs of these poor children, drawing blood they can ill afford to lose.”

  The other two men emerged from the crowd, Professor Dunwoody to the left and Father to the right. Carrying a black burlap bag, Dunwoody sneaked up to Maelstrom from behind. Father rolled a barrel toward the wood, a dagger in hand.

  “A more ferocious dragon stalked the skies,” she continued, “ready to plunge to the ground and scorch anyone who offered resistance, whether one of the children or an adult rescuer.”

  Gregor began slicing the rope with the sword, grunting. “The crystals are making it hard to cut.”

  Marcelle studied the faces in the crowd. On many of the men, the vacant expressions had altered to scowls of anger, while tears flowed from the eyes of men and women alike. They were almost ready. Maybe it was time for a final entreaty before Gregor finished breaking her bonds. Then Captain Reed could muster the army while she fled with her rescuers. And maybe telling Orion more about Cassabrie would be the best way to punch through to the people’s hearts.

  As flames crawled within a foot or so, her dizziness heightened. Heat blistered her skin. If Gregor and Father didn’t hurry, the end would come soon.

  She took in another breath and shouted, “And among the slaves, there were many potential rescuers. One was Cassabrie, a young woman with a special gift, the ability to tell tales from the past and conjure lifelike phantoms who acted out those tales. She has visited this world, hoping to gain favor and help in her efforts to set her people free. While here, she appeared as a pale, corpselike girl who can crumble into dust and then rematerialize from the same dust, but during her life on Dracon, she was a vibrant, healthy teenager who dared to try to rescue the unfortunate children.”

  Dunwoody crept closer to Maelstrom’s back, the bag uplifted. Father plunged the dagger into the barrel. Water poured out over the wood at the right side of the pyre, but it didn’t appear to be nearly enough to douse the inferno.

  “Only a couple of threads to go,” Gregor said, his voice labored. “Keep talking.”

  The flames marched to within inches of her waist, their tongues beginning to lick at her belt. She drew her stomach in, but how long could she stay out of its reach? “The dragons captured Cassabrie and tied her to a stake much like this one, but the heat to cook her body came from a crystalline ball mounted behind her.” Cassabrie ap
peared between Marcelle and the crowd, replacing the dragon and children. Bound by chains, she writhed in the Reflections Crystal’s radiance. “She suffered for thirteen days, no saliva to moisten her tongue, no sweat to cool her roasting skin, no tears to signal her despair as her spirit departed from her body. Then, as now, she longed for another chance to liberate her fellow slaves, but the rulers of that land maintained their power because they had grown addicted to the benefits of slave labor, so they chose to execute the one who yearned to set the children free.”

  Dunwoody threw the bag over Maelstrom’s head and jerked him to the ground.

  “No!” Gregor hissed. “She’s not loose!”

  While Dunwoody wrestled with Maelstrom, Marcelle glanced all around. Fire and smoke veiled her view, and heat pummeled her face and hands, making her skin feel as if it were melting. Cassabrie faded away. The onlookers blinked rapidly, their hypnosis fading. Orion shook his head as if casting off a fog. Father slung water over the flames with a dipper, but he looked like a boy trying to empty the sea with a spoon.

  Marcelle craned her neck again. What was Gregor doing back there? Was he succumbing to the sedative? To the smoke? Soon the flames would engulf him as well. As heat blasted her face, she called, “Gregor! Save yourself!”

  “I got it!” After a final slice, he slung the rope into the flames and grabbed Marcelle around the waist. “We’ll have to leap through. Brace yourself.”

  Maelstrom threw Dunwoody off, ripped the bag from his head, and thrust out a hand at Gregor. “You will stay where you are!”

  Gregor froze in place, Marcelle locked in his arm. She wriggled, but he was too strong. She couldn’t pry herself loose. Father scrambled up the wet side, a dripping piece of wood in his hand. He beat it against the flames as he advanced.

  Heat from the fire ripped into Marcelle. Something trickled down her cheek. Was it sweat? How could that be? She brushed a finger across her skin to mop the moisture, but the tip dug into her cheek, pulling away a chunk of damp, pale dust. The particles drizzled to her feet along with the fingertip. Her other fingers crumbled, then her hand. Wet dust rained in front of her eyes.