The Stair Of Time (Book 2)

by William Woodward

  Ol’ Bo, usually calm to a fault, whinnied in surprise, or consternation, or both. Eli didn’t pretend to know the minds of horses—especially ones as stubborn as any ass and as old as the hills.

  Bo tugged against the reins hard enough that Eli had to plant his feet against the buckboard and haul back with all his might. “Whoa!” he shouted.

  Bo tossed his head with manic force, fighting him.

  “Whoa there, Bo!” he shouted again, feeling the enchantment lift. “What’s gotten into you?”

  Bo half whinnied and half screamed, rearing up onto his hind legs.

  “Don’t you do it, damn your mangy hide! I said WHOA!”

  Either responding to the panic in his master’s voice, or to something of a more…bewitching nature, Bo shook himself, snorted, stamped, and finally began to settle.

  Eli wrapped the reins around his gloved right hand and set the brake with his left. “I know, I know. I’m feelin’ a might out of sorts myself, but you’d better get a hold on yourself, boy. Remember, you’re carrying my darling daughter in the back today, and I’ll knock ya in the brainpan with my shovel, love ya as I do, before I let ya harm my Mandie!”

  Without another word, good ol’ Bo, ever the reasonable cuss, lowered his head to chomp on some grass, a patch that looked especially thick and green, savoring each mouthful as if it had been his idea to stop in the first place.

  Now that Eli’s eyes had fully adjusted, he could see that they were indeed on top of the hill, or rather at the edge of its grassy, treeless crown. At the exact top stood a cheery looking cottage, bright, canary yellow planks basking in the sun above a short skirt of cobblestones.

  The forest crowded against the crown on all sides, no doubt halted by another contrivance of Sarilla’s. How powerful must a spell be to impede, much less halt, a forest of such obvious contrariness? Of course, if it was her forest and it did her bidding…well…. Eli shuddered. Some thoughts were better left unfinished.

  As if this weren’t enough, he could now see that the sky had not cleared, after all. A translucent, concave barrier rose from the crown to form a dome a mile across and The Watcher only knew how high, its boundaries partially delineated by the surrounding atmosphere.

  Thick cumulus clouds hung above the forest, heavy with rain, pressing against the walls of the dome, dark and ominous in both affect and action, flashes of lightning branching across the heavens with pyrotechnic splendor, arcing off the sides of the dome as though angry at being held at bay by the likes of a witch woman named Sarilla—greatest soothsayer ever to live or no.

  Surrendering to a feeling of less than wholesome character, Eli turned around, checking to make certain the tunnel—his escape route—was still there. It was there all right, although it comforted him not at all. The thought of re-entering said tunnel, now so like the vile esophagus of some deranged beast, made his gut churn. He shivered and turned back around, praying the witch would show him another way down.

  Assuming, that is, she would even speak to him. She had made it all too clear during her infrequent trips to Fairhaven that she did not look favorably upon uninvited guests. Hopefully, since Mandie was the one in peril, and she and Sarilla had been on amicable terms, she would make an exception. Hopefully.

  Into the Waste

  At nineteen, Kindere Muldune had been the youngest scout in the Rogarian cavalry, a thrice-decorated officer of what had been coined, predictably enough, The Shapeling Wars. Kindere had been a hero of the highest order, respected by men, admired by women—and all before he was old enough to grow a proper beard.

  The trouble was, now that he was twenty, having celebrated his birthday just last week, he was bored to tears. Every day was the same, seeming, after all he’d been through, unbearably bland.

  So, he asked himself, where do I go from here? What do I do?

  Now that the war was over, and the shapeling threat had been eliminated, there was very little, beyond training exercises, for the scouts to do. Before the war, there had at least been the threat of invasion. Nobody had thought it would actually come to that, but in the interest of knowing thine enemy, they had been sent out on deep reconnaissance missions to keep an eye on things, never knowing from one day to the next what they would find.

  What’s my purpose? Kindere asked himself. What’s the point of it all? The way things had been going, he felt like a complete waste of skin. Surely, there was more to life than merely eating, sleeping, breathing, and training exercises.

  And then it hit him. No man, woman, or child had crossed The Waste in recorded history, in part because of the shapelings, and in part because of the lore. Some believed The Waste was endless, the boundary between this life and the next, home to naught but deadly foes and lost souls, a sort of purgatory for the damned. Others believed The Waste was literally the physical edge of the known world, much like sailors do with uncharted seas. Supposedly, if one walked far enough into the desert, one would simply fall off the end of the earth and go spinning into space.

  No matter what one’s beliefs regarding the purpose of The Waste, all seemed to agree on one thing: it was teeming with every manner of mythical beast known to man, most of which had little to nothing to do with The Lost One and his shapelings.

  Naturally, there were dragons—burrowing sand serpents that tunneled beneath the desert floor, winged air serpents that breathed fire from the sky, and even wingless behemoths that shook the ground for miles around as they lumbered past. In addition to dragons, there were trolls, goblins, harpies, giants, dark elves, skeletons, lizard-men, bear-men, and snake-men. And that was only scratching the surface. Indeed, it was said that to venture too far into The Waste was to court death like a fair day dandy courts girls.

  Of course, Kindere thought this was utter nonsense, made up by folks with too much time on their hands, folks attempting to liven up their mundane lives with the romantic notion of strange and dangerous creatures lurking just beyond their purview. It was this, coupled with your everyday run-of-the-mill fear of the unknown that had created these myths—the dynamic duo of worry and drudgery that fueled humankind’s unquenchable need to catalogue everything, to attach a name and story to that which they did not understand in order to feel less vulnerable, less adrift in a world subject to seemingly random and, ofttimes cruel, acts of fate. After all, what was more frightening? An enemy you know and understand, as awful as that may or may not be, or an enemy that remains a mystery, and thus can become anything the imagination devises?

  If Kindere had believed in even the most modest part of the most modest legend, he probably wouldn’t be doing what he was doing now. What, in fact, he’d been doing for the past three days—namely, riding boldly due west into the desert, heart and mind alight with sun-drenched dreams of fortune and fame.

  And that’s what it was, damn it. All it was. The Great Waste, the source of countless nightmares for generations of Rogarian children, was nothing more than a big damn desert. “There has to be something on the other side,” Kindere had often argued. “It can’t just go on forever.” And now at long last, he was going to find out what that something was.

  The four kingdoms were surrounded on three sides by what sailors considered uncrossable ocean, and on the fourth by The Waste. It had been theorized for centuries that this finger of land representing the known world might, in actuality, be a peninsula sprouting from a much larger continent. It was an unpopular view, dismissed by the scholarly elite out of hand as preposterous, but had endured for a reason—no one had been able to disprove it.

  It had also been theorized that, instead of enchanted waterfalls cascading over the edge of the world into space, oceans flowed between massive continents, of which the four kingdoms were but a small part, cut-off from the rest of the world by untold leagues of water and sand.

  That was the other roadblock to enlightenment. What would it do to their view of the universe, not to mention their preeminence, if they discovered that they were not only not alone, but not even t
he most formidable kingdom in the land? Much better to remain ignorant, to be a big gem in a small crown—or so most believed.

  There was a whole nother world out there. Kindere knew it. He felt it in his bones. It was just that no one had gone far enough yet. Leastways, no one had gone far enough and returned. Perhaps they had discovered something so miraculous that they didn’t want to return.

  If Kindere had been a sailor, he probably would have set out, sails a-flappin’ in the breeze, to disprove the myths concerning sea monsters, the edge of the world, and the like. But he was not a sailor, he was a desert scout, and as such felt it his duty to humankind to cross The Waste and disprove the myths concerning sand monsters, the edge of the world, and the like. After all, the myths were obviously linked, forged in the same fire, shaped to a keen edge by two of humankind’s most talented smiths. Fear and pride. Disproving one went a long way towards disproving the other.

  Kindere had personally asked King Laris for permission to go, for the necessary equipment and supplies, as well as the appropriate fanfare due a venture of this magnitude. To his relief, the king had approved the journey, instructing Kindere’s commanding officer to spare no expense. To Kindere’s disappointment, however, he had not officially—in other words, publicly—sanctioned the expedition, believing Rogar’s sense of self was too fragile to weather either success or failure. Hopefully by the time Kindere returned, things would be different.

  Determined not to be discouraged by his anonymity, Kindere pored over what maps he could, calculating the best route to take. There was a lot to consider. Average day and night temperatures, topographical layout, and areas most likely to have water and shade, just to name a few.

  According to the latest map he’d found, there existed a network of underground caverns no more than forty miles west of his current position where there was cold spring water, edible plants, and even fish. He would have to meander his way across The Waste until he left what he’d come to think of as “The Quasi-Known-Zone” and crossed into the vast, unexplored reaches of Kadra-scorched sand, replenishing his food and water stores as he went.

  There was no way to know how far the desert stretched, but his gut told him no more than four hundred miles, and he’d learned to trust his gut. The desert had been partially mapped for about seventy-five miles. If he could set out at that point, at that last way station, with full rations and a rested horse, he just might make it. If, on the other hand, the desert neither came to an end nor provided enough food and water between here and there, then he would not only be unable to return, he would be dead.

  As sobering a thought as this was, he would not be deterred. Nothing risked, nothing gained. As far as Kindere was concerned, if a man dies doing something he believes in, something that truly matters, then it’s all right. He can die in peace. In the end, we all must pay the reaper his due. It’s simply a question of how and when. His uncle taught him that.

  If, on the other hand, he dies while on a pointless training exercise, or with fever in his bed, or after putting the wrong foot forward down a flight of stairs, his heart would weep with regret for the things he never tried, for the squandered opportunity to truly live.

  And so it was, with head raised in defiance against the withering sun and countless leagues of desert, that Kindere rode west atop his trusty mount, Trika. Would they find the end of The Waste, or, like so many before, would The Waste find an end to them, leaving nothing behind but grinning skulls buried in the sand? Only time would tell.

  Whichever way it turned out, Kindere would be at peace, for he would have done as his heart commanded without allowing fear to crush his spirit. On this day, more than any other before, he was a man, and he intended to stay that way, without giving or taking quarter to the bittersweet end.

  Under the Dome

  “Well, Bo, as far as I see it, there’s nothin’ to do but ride up to the door and knock.” The horse acknowledged him out of the corner of his eye—apparently all the attention he could spare while continuing to show the proper reverence to the grass. Eli clicked his tongue and snapped the reins, rudely jarring Bo from his feast, and then directed him gently but firmly the rest of the way up the hill.

  He had to admit, the grass did look good. He shook his head at himself. Now that was a thought he’d never had before. It was like a lush green carpet, so full and rich and vibrant. It made him want to take off his boots and go frolicking barefoot hither and yon, which was also a thought he’d never had before, not that he remembered anyway, certainly not since childhood.

  It’s happening again, he thought.

  Everything about the place seemed ideal. The air was crisp and clean. The temperature was a comfortable seventy-something. The sun was bright, but not too bright. There was a gentle breeze that, to Eli’s great envy, frolicked hither and yon through the grass. It all seemed designed to put one at ease, and designed very well at that.

  The one thing that ruined it for him, that changed the scene from perfect to peculiar, was the conspicuous lack of wildlife. On a day like today, there should be squirrels, dove, deer, maybe even a hawk soaring high on the wind. But there was nothing, no animals or insects of any kind. Anywhere. In fact, beyond Bo’s steady clomping and the rhythmic jangle of the harness, there wasn’t even any sound.

  It’s not real, he thought. That’s the trouble.

  Not to say that it was all illusion. He didn’t think that. It’s just that it wasn’t as nature intended. Despite the beauty of the scene, it was sterile, as still and lifeless as a tomb—nothing more than a mock representation of nature.

  The witch had taken the parts of her environment she liked and, with a surgeon’s precision, removed the rest. It was like an ensorcelled version of Mr. Hanaby’s place. Each year, the old man entered Fairhaven’s “Spring in Your Step” landscaping competition, and each year, to the eternal vexation of the women’s tea and gossip circle, won the coveted first prize: “The Golden Rake.”

  Eli scowled as he brought Bo to a halt before the cottage’s front door, shrugging off the imposed good cheer with surprising ease, his burdens returning one by one to take their rightful places upon his broad shoulders—where they belonged! It was a relief to feel like himself again. He’d take quiet stoicism over imposed good cheer any day.

  Sarilla just lost about five hundred points in his book. Why, she was as silly as the rest of ‘em, all those folks livin’ in town with their brightly painted houses and manicured shrubberies. As far as he was concerned, it was all a heapin’ pile of nonsense.

  His scowl deepened as he set the brake and climbed out of the driver’s seat, as his flared nostrils caught a whiff of something. “Perfume,” he grumbled, turning the word into an insult, shaking his head at Sarilla’s foolishness. “Lilac.” The air being sterile and free of insects wasn’t enough. Oh no, it had to be deodorized as well!

  After wrapping the reins around one of the porch’s support posts, he kissed Mandie on the cheek, patted Bo on the nose, and walked to the door. The floorboards of the porch creaked just so as he went, a caricature of creaking. Another ten points, he thought. When he reached the door, he paused to gather his nerve, taking a deep, steadying breath.

  The door was rectangular with a half circle top. It looked to be made of one solid piece of wood, cherrywood if he wasn’t mistaken. Carved into the top, was a closed eye. Twining vines blossomed from the corners of the doorframe, set in delicate and lovely relief. Carved into the lower half of the door was a panel of squares. Each square was engraved with a different picture, each picture painted a different color. There were all manner of things represented: a frog, a ring, a flower, a rainbow, a star, a tower, a castle, a sword, a knight, a faerie, and so on. Unlike the vines, these carvings were simple—even crude. When viewed as a whole, however, the panel became a work of art.

  Eli looked around for a bell. There was none, so he raised his meaty fist and knocked. Nothing happened. Knuckles on wood, even knuckles as mighty as his, failed to produce any sou
nd. He frowned and tried again, this time putting all his weight into it. And again—nothing. The door didn’t so much as quiver in its frame. He could feel it beneath his fist. There was no doubt it was there, and yet….

  He took a step back, considering his options. He stood there for quite some time, crossed arms above a tapping right foot, trying to make sense of it all. Question is, how is one supposed to make sense of something so nonsensical? Then, as if compelled by the will of another, his eyes were drawn irresistibly down.

  “Now, what do we have here?” he asked.

  There was something about the panel that had previously escaped his notice. Namely, the bottom right square had been left blank. How he had not seen it before was beyond him. He bent to one knee, examining the indentation more closely.

  They slide, he realized. It’s one big puzzle! Well, if that don’t beat all. First she subjects her visitors to her twisted version of reality, then she makes ‘em solve a puzzle before they can even knock on the infernal door. It’s probably a weedin’ out process. Anyone not smart enough to solve the puzzle, idn’t smart enough to talk to the Almighty Sarilla, the self-proclaimed greatest soothsayer to ever live.

  Well, under ordinary circumstances, Eli would have squared his shoulders, puffed out his chest, and stormed off, goodbye and good riddance to Sarilla and her ilk. But these were not ordinary circumstances, were they? No. Far from it. One way or another, his Mandie’s life hung in the balance, so he would just have to swallow his pride and play her stupid game. He only wished it had been something else, a feat of strength, an endurance of pain, a test of character—anything but a puzzle.

  Eli wasn’t dumb, yet neither was he book smart. He’d never had much use for books, nor a particular talent for absorbing their teachings, unless it be the farmer’s almanac, or the seed and earth bible. And since he’d always known he’d be a farmer like his father, and his father’s father, what was the point in going against the grain?