by Lazlo Ferran
It looked like I was defeated. I wondered if I could force the edge of the broken lock into the thin gap around the edge of the door. Even if I could, I wasn’t sure what good it would do, but it was worth a try.
While I was trying this, and making some noise, I happened to pause for a moment and thought I heard the echo of a footstep somewhere outside. My stomach did a flip and I held my breath. The steps came closer and closer until they passed right outside the door. I had pulled back behind the grill but as the footsteps receded I peered through the grill. What I saw took my breath away. A guard in a chain-mail tunic and iron helmet. It wasn’t so much the armour that astonished me, but the state of it: it was clearly much used and abused, and badly needed polishing. Wisps of unwashed hair lay against the metal rings on his neck too. Clearly this was not somebody who took pride in his appearance. But then would he, if ... The thought insisted on being framed clearly in my mind: perhaps this really was the medieval. Judging by his armour I would have said the 13th Century. But then who was I? I looked again at my underpants: clearly y-fronts and clearly from the 20th Century.
This is confusing.
As the guard’s footsteps faded to silence, a new, but desperate plan, unfolded in my mind.
I looked around the door for a hiding place. The only possibility was a narrow ledge, about four inches wide on top of the door-lintel. There was a gap of about four feet above this to the ceiling, but there would be handholds in the poorly-mortared stone that made up the wall. It would be an easy matter to climb the door, using the grill ledge as a foothold. I hoped the guard passed at constant intervals.
I detached the belt and hauled my sling-assembly up through the grate in the floor. I pulled up the rope too, and quietly closed the grate, placing the damaged lock back in place to make it look as though nothing had moved.
My shoes were something I had thought I would need once I escaped, but now I had a better use for them.
I decided to count until the next time the guard passed. That would mean I wouldn’t have to wait on top of the lintel for a long time when I was ready to try my plan.
Twenty minutes. Plus one kangaroo, two kangaroo...
When I reach thirty-five minutes he passed again.
Not too bad.
Waiting until he had gone, I threw both my shoes through the grill, onto the floor outside.
Then I waited. I had all my various ropes and pieces of make-shift equipment tied around me, more to conceal them than because I thought they would be useful.
I counted and reached almost thirty minutes when I heard those familiar slow, lazy footstep echoes far away. I climbed onto the lintel and waited.
The steps reached almost to the door and then stopped.
Silence.
I heard the guard mumble something. Another long silence. I heard a scuffle and guessed he was picking up the shoes. He dropped them and then there was the sound of metal on metal as he drew his sword. There was another long silence, and then the rattle of a large bunch of keys.
This is it!
The guard put a key in the great lock and struggled to open it. I tensed, on the shelf above. I took a deep breath and held it.
The bolt released and there was a slight pause, before he pushed the dungeon door open. He held back for a moment and then stepped inside. I could see the top of his helmet, with its battle-plume holder empty, right beneath me. The edge of his sword glinted slightly, reflecting the weak light from the corridor. He looked around the room, swung the door right back against the wall, and walked in to its edge. He peered behind the door and then walked over to the grate, the door to my tomb. For a moment he seemed like a statue and then he stooped and moved the displaced lock. He stood bolt upright.
“Le Sorcier! Le Sorcier! Il ‘s’est échappé!” he shouted at the top of his lungs. I tensed, and then I jumped. I was out of the door and had closed it before he could move. The keys were still in the lock.
The fool!
I twisted the large key in the lock, Then I ran down the corridor and took the right turn, towards the light source.
“Aide!” the guard shouted from the dungeon. “Aide!”
I reached an iron grill in the ceiling which admitted light.
I must find stairs and go up. They will not expect that.
I became aware of shouts echoing all around me, from every corridor. I ran on. The corridor was curved.
Probably at the base of a tower. A good sign. There should be stairs here soon... There!
On my right a stair-well appeared, and I lunged up the anti-clockwise stairs. Being almost naked was a great help. I reached the next level and was blinded by the harsh white and blue daylight that assailed my eyes. My eyes started streaming as I desperately tried to see where I was by peering through an arrow- slit. For just an instant I caught sight of tree tops level just above the slit.
I tried to force myself through the slit but it was too narrow. A bell started clanging somewhere above me.
God! I hope there is a moat! Hide somewhere? Wait until things calm down? Ridiculous! Up!
My eyes were quickly adjusting to the daylight and on each level, I peered through an opening to get a picture of where I was. My tower at least did have a moat below it. That was a relief. Not all 13th Century castles did. But I couldn’t find anywhere to jump from. As I rose higher it occurred to me that the moat was probably silted up and might only be three of four feet deep, this close to the walls. I was too high already!
I will kill myself!
I saw several guards along passageways and a serving-woman. The guards both saw me and started in clanging pursuit of me, hollering at the top of their lungs. By now, the sound of shouting, clanging armour, swords on shields, and the bell, was a cacophony.
Suddenly I ran into something hard and painful. I was face to face with an ugly, dirty and astonished face – a face from the 13th Century. He didn’t look clever but he looked like he meant business. I pushed his arms away, trying to go around him. With cat-like reflexes, he brought his axe from its position, the head cradled in his other hand, up towards my head with a great grunt and grimace. I had to jump back to avoid losing my head.
I was no match for a brawny, determined knight, at my age and naked, apart from my y-fronts. I slowly removed my belt from around my shoulder and undid the buckle while he watched me suspiciously.
He was suddenly still, as if expecting a surprise. Then I remembered what they had all been shouting.
“Le Sorcier! Le Sorcier! Il ‘s’est échappé!”
“The Sorcerer! The sorcerer! He’s escaped!”
So he thinks I am a sorcerer.
Holding the other end I aimed the buckle-end of the belt at his head and lashed his helmet. It impacted with a satisfying, ‘dunk’ and left a dent in his shiny helmet. Angry at this insulting weapon, he charged me, forgetting to block the stair-well he had been guarding. I darted past him, getting a nick in my soft arm from his swinging axe for my troubles, and ran on up the stairs.
Shit! That was close.
All the action was behind and below me now, and then I emerged out onto the roof of the turret. Crenelated walls framed the French countryside below me. It was a bright and glorious afternoon and if I hadn’t been in such a tight spot I would have cried out with delight. I ran from wall to wall looking for a way out. Sure enough there was the moat, muddy, far below me. I estimated I was about five floors up – perhaps one hundred feet. Beyond the moat was a bank, then an open space with some woodpiles and a small hut, then a track. Beyond that was a wood. In the distance I could see a river – a ribbon of silver, curving away to the horizon. The country looked very fertile and green; good enough to eat. The sky looked its usual serene, majestic self. And yet there was something different about the air.
I had no time to study it. Peering down through a gap in the crenellation, I saw what I wanted. Two long, stone spouts, emerging from a buttress three floors below me, right over the brown water in the moat. Memorising thei
r position, I ran back down two floors but then was halted by the sound of metallic feet on stone, coming up the stairs. There was much shouting to accompany it, and the sound of steel on steel.
I took a turn to my right, into a long straight stone passageway, lit by the sun in stripes, from arrow-slits.
I must be just below the highest level of the main castle walls.
I tried each door on my left until, thankfully, one opened. I was gasping for air as I heard two metaled feet approaching. Looking around the room, I saw a broken spear shaft and rammed it between the door-latch and the door, bracing the splintered end against the floor.
The latch rocked in its cradle as somebody tried the door. I held my breath. The feet moved on. They seemed to go to the end of the corridor and then the sound petered out. I waited for just a moment and then unlatched the door.
Back at the stairs I descended to the floor below and ran around the circular landing.
There!
I saw the short corridor to the garderobes – medieval toilets. The chutes I had seen below the parapet were their discharge chutes.
The only way out!
I clambered up onto one of the two bowls and pushed myself feet-first down the tube, towards the spout. If there was a grill, which there sometimes was, I was finished. But there was usually only a grill on garderobes at ground level. Suddenly my feet were in empty space. I hesitated.
No, there is nothing else for it!
With one big shove on the sides of the tube I was slipping, and then falling though space.
All my emotions merged into one blinding adrenaline-rush.
I had enough time for one gulp of air, and then I splashed into brown, murky water. My feet touched the silky, silty bottom and I kicked off, towards the surface. Emerging into the cool air I felt the exultation of survival against the odds. I told myself not to drink in the murky water but the impulse was too much and I took several long gulps of it while I swam to the bank.
Hauling myself on to the bank, I was assailed by a welter of arrows from the castle parapet. Villagers, no doubt loyal to the Lord, were pointing at me and the soldiers were shouting.
“Le Sorcier! Le Sorcier! Il ‘s’est échappé!” came from little voices far away.
None of the arrows hit me and I felt invincible. I ran past the woodpiles on wobbly legs, past the hut, over the space and into the trees.
Free! I am free! While there is light I must keep moving!
I romped through the trees, feeling for the first time, the effect of the life-giving water, on my brain. The thick-headed, thumping, fuzzy thoughts, started slowly to fade and the pain receded slightly. I ran and then jogged and then finally, after perhaps an hour, I slowed to a walk.
I was descending a long, wooded slope into a valley, having avoided the track-ways that I had spotted. The leaves on the trees were just turning autumn-russet and the early evening sun stippled a dance between the waving branches.
Just as the sun touched the far horizon, I reached the top of the bank of a stream. Next to my feet, under the roots of a fallen tree, I saw the entrance to a small tunnel.
Probably the old home of a badger or fox.
It was disused and crumbling.
This is an opportunity. Think carefully! You can’t run forever.
I stood stock-still, not knowing quite why. I wanted the cool of the water so badly.
They might have dogs!
The thought filled me with fear. I had to try and put them off the scent. I thought carefully and formed a plan. I walked carefully down to the stream taking equal-length, short steps, and noting their position. At last I lunged into the water. Then I drank deeply, threw some water over my head, and drank again. After a few minutes I had drank all I could. Quickly wading downstream a few yards I climbed out on the bank. I made sure to break a few twigs and disturb the soil enough for any reasonably good hunter to spot. Then I waded back to a point opposite the tunnel. My heart thumped harder with each blare of the horns, coming closer.
I walked carefully, backwards, from the bank to the tunnel, placing each foot in my previous footsteps. I crawled into the tunnel backwards, using a branch to spread any signs of my entrance. Of course the dogs would want to explore the hole but the soldiers would think the dogs were just distracted by the smell of a fox.
I pushed and scrambled, forcing myself deeper into the dark, earthy tunnel, and then started to bring down the tunnel roof ahead, between myself and the entrance. When it was done, I finally laid down to rest in complete darkness.
It would be a long sleep in my new tomb. What will be, will be!
I heard the barking of dogs though the musty sweetness of the soil in front of my face and then there was silence. A moment later I must have fallen into dreams, of freedom and happiness.
I awoke, cold and clammy; sealed up in earth. For a moment I thought I was dead, and buried. Then I remembered the dogs. I started digging with my bare hands, and soon I was looking up into a clear, black night-sky. Everything around me was grey shadow. I crossed the stream and started walking, heading south, slowly and painfully. I reached the top of the hills on the other side of the valley before dawn and stopped for a moment.
Funny. Of all the things I have seen, only the stars seem to be as I remembered them.
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Also by Lazlo Ferran:
Too Bright the Sun
Lazlo Ferran
Copyright © 2011 by Lazlo Ferran
All Rights Reserved
Prologue
It’s been over ten years since Gary Enquine sent my friend Przeltski to a certain death. Not one day has gone by without the memories of that battle prowling my mind like a waking nightmare. Many times I have woken in a cold-sweat thinking about it. I will not rest - cannot rest until Gary Enquine has been brought to justice and been forced to pay for his cowardice. Ten years; it’s a long time but I can be patient. Personal journal-entry of Jake Nanden for 2101, Feb 3. 1.
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Chapter One
The little voice asked, after peering out of another portal at an earlier moment in his life, “Is it possible to time travel for I perceive that I can?”
“Only after you leave this life,” said a voice, high and mighty.
Then the little voice changed its tone for it was angry. “But that’s not fair! For, the one thing I wish I can’t have.”
“Until you leave this life,” said the high voice.
“Yes.”
“Then now you can see advantages to moving beyond this life you have.”
And the little voice perceived that all his previous angers – about matters of the flesh and daily living were not proper angers. A proper anger is the anger that desirable things lay beyond the portal of death. And so from that moment on his struggles to survive, to fight against the current, seemed improper to him, and yet he could not help himself.
Two of the Ionian Militia sat on top of Przeltski, ripping his helmet off, while another aimed his laser at his eyes. In the vacuum of Io’s atmosphere, Przeltski was mouthing the words, ‘save me’ but it was too late. I knew I couldn’t and had to try and save myself. I was turning to get away, but I could still see his eyes half closing, then looking up, and his mouth rapidly shaping the words of the ‘Hail Mary’. The IM would turn their lasers down to the lowest setting and first shoot out the eyes, then take off the arms and if he was lucky then they would aim for his heart. If he was not lucky, the dismemberment could go on and on for as long as they wanted. I wanted to look away but I couldn’t. I struggled and struggled, and then I was awake and knew it was the nightmare.
An eye opened. It was mine. The blurry horizon crystallised into the edge of the pillow as I realised where I was: Io. Being a commander has its perks, one being your own private cabin, but it was small and cramped. I closed my eye, reached up for the ledge of the sill above me and hauled myself out of
bed. Feeling for the sanicube-handle opposite the bed, I released the cube from its folded position against the wall, selected ‘L’ and stepped in, but then had to open my eyes to use it without spilling. A tube dispensed a sterilising solution onto my hands and the stream of water became hot air to dry them. Yawning enough for tears to clear my eyes, I took one step over to the n-gen, on the white work surface above the bed. I selected ‘Fried’ plus ‘Coffee, black’, and clicked on, the comms centre. I had disabled the voice but I could see the display said, “2101, Feb 4. 2 – 06.30 I. 2 messages. Download?”
I waited for the ding that would tell me my breakfast was ready. I knew I had just had another weird dream but I couldn’t quite remember it now. I tried. The n-gen dinged and I opened the white door to reveal the plate of hot, fried food and a mug of black coffee. I looked at the food dubiously and lifted the dark blue mug to my lips. The caffeine rush to my head felt good. Putting my left hand on my hip, I arched my back and then looked down at the pallid skin stretched over my late-twenties belly. ‘Bigger’, I thought. ‘But only slightly’. I picked up the plate of fried – bacon, eggs, potatoes, beans, fried-bread and mushrooms – all preselected as my personal preferences, and lifted some mushrooms and potatoes to my mouth with the forkette. My buds tested the taste; it had that slight hint of mint or something metallic about it. “Damn,” I said out loud. For a few days now breakfast had tasted like this, and I wasn’t sure if it was a fault with the n-gen or this batch of plasma. My n-gen was civvy and another one of the perks allowed to commanders; I’d had it for nearly five years and it had been everywhere with me. Normally they didn’t last longer than three years.