Stone Rising

by Gareth K Pengelly

  That scratching again, clawing, insistent, on the very edge of his hearing. Again, as soon as he focused, it was gone. He shook his head. Tiredness, no doubt; the day’s march, lugging that noxious smelling fuel back here, had obviously worn him out more than he’d realised. His limbs felt fine; food was no issue here, entire huge rooms of this building filled with metal tins of preserved meats and legumes. And the work wasn’t usually too hard in itself either, most of the time being cramped up here, safe and locked away from the horrors of the world outside, with only the weekly forays in search of fuel to power the lights and gates of their refuge.

  No, the weariness here was mental, stemmed from their environs; the steel, the concrete, the ruined, twisted vehicles and the roaming hordes of the once-men. For a lowly guardsman of Tulador, used to the bright sunshine and the rolling, green fields, this vast city felt claustrophobic, threatening. The tall buildings that loomed like man-made mountains seemed to pen them in on all sides. The cold, tiled floors and harsh, artificial lights of this complex they’d barricaded themselves within each night. It all felt too alien; bereft of life.

  Bereft of hope.

  Hope. Yes, that was Lord Arbistrath’s favourite word of late. Hold fast to hope, he told them. Keep in mind the promise of our lord. He’ll not forsake us. Hold out here, as long as we can. He will return. Lawrence snorted to himself in quiet derision. Not likely. Not if the months they’d already been here were anything to go by. As far as he could see, the future only held more of the same; more of the misery, more of the mind-numbing boredom. And more of the ever-present fear that never left, that chilled each man, right down to the bone, no matter how warm the strange mechanical heaters of this complex kept the air.

  Lawrence?

  More of the dried, tasteless, tinned food. More of the poisonous, fume ridden air and burnt, orange sky.

  Lawrence?

  He paused his lamentations for a moment as he lay there on the unyielding, dusty padding of the restaurant seat. Did he… did he really hear that? Or were his suspicions right? Were his frayed nerves finally beginning to play tricks on his mind?

  Lawrence, why did you leave us?

  He sat bolt upright, blanket falling to the floor, hand snatching out to stop his cannon from doing the same.

  “T… Tanya?” He whispered the name quietly, lest the other resting warriors heard. No, it couldn’t be. Not possible. Not here, not now, not after everything that had happened. Impossible. Yet there it was again; faint, yet unmistakable. And it sent a shiver down his spine.

  Why did you leave us, Lawrence? Why?

  He stuttered, trying to find the words, but his mind and mouth failing to reach an agreement on how they should proceed.

  It’s cold out here, Lawrence. So cold. Won’t you let us all in?

  “Y… you all?”

  Your father’s here, Lawrence. Your mother, too. We’re all here, but it’s cold. Won’t you let us in?

  His heart hammered in his chest as he whispered quietly through trembling lips.

  “How…?” he demanded as if unto the air itself. “How is this possible?”

  I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you everything. But please, first come and let us in.

  He slid his feet off his makeshift bed, confused, scared, but desperate; desperate for a chance of familiarity, a glimpse of home. A second chance.

  “Where are you?” he breathed.

  Follow my voice, Lawrence, came the whispers in reply. Follow my voice and let us in…

  ***

  Marlyn stumbled, eyes half closed in his tired state, almost splashing his feet as he relived himself in one of the porcelain urinals.

  Should’ve listened to Arbistrath, he thought to himself, ruefully.

  He pulled his trousers back up about his waist, fastening them in place with a thick leather belt, before hefting his ever-present cannon to his shoulder. The mail and plate of his garb resounded loud and harsh in the tiled bathroom as he trudged his way to the door, patting himself down with a frown as though he’d forgotten something, then shaking his head and continuing on. Heavy, cumbersome; Marlyn had voiced his objections at wearing the armour all the time, and his voice had been only one of many. But Arbistrath had been adamant; armour to be worn at all times, save when bathing.

  Once upon a time, people might have disobeyed that order, coming from him, especially here and now, far from the prying eyes of other Lords or the threat of punishment. But the Arbistrath of today was a different man from the proud, naïve young Lord of Tulador they once knew. The Demon of the Bridge had shocked into life a courage within the man, a courage that had perhaps always been there, though dormant, buried beneath layers of fear and responsibility. Then the death of Hofsted had tempered that bravery, adding to it a keen edge of hatred that lent purpose to the young Lord’s every command.

  Yes, the Arbistrath of today was a different man entirely. And so it was that when he spoke, men obeyed without question.

  Marlyn reached the end of the corridor that led to the toilets, running left to head back towards the restaurant and his slumbering comrades. He advanced a pace, then stopped, letting out a quiet sigh of exasperation. The manual to the toaster; that’s what he’d forgotten, having put it to one side as he’d taken a piss. He turned, slowly, achingly, back the way he came, then paused.

  Was that a shadow he saw, vanishing down the corridor across the promenade, the corridor that led to the security office? He frowned, unsure whether it was his mind playing tricks on him, but then the tiles echoed back to him the gentle creak of the security office door.

  Someone was there. But who? No-one had any business there but him…

  Curious, he strode across the promenade, past the upturned wooden-effect cart that once sold bottled fragrances and beads, craning his neck as he came to the corridor, eyes straining down the dim hallway. There, the shadow, flickering and cast into ghostly hue by the blue light of the monitors. He walked down, ten, twenty paces, reaching the half-closed door. He made to speak, to call out and see who was there, then thought better of it; everyone was jumpy. And everyone had their cannons hanging from their shoulders…

  He reached out, gently rapping on the wood of the door, leaping back, startled, as the door flew open and a face greeted him in the half-light.

  “…Lawrence?”

  The other guard stared at him, as though he hadn’t heard him.

  “No,” said Lawrence, cocking his head as though listening intently to something that Marlyn couldn’t hear. “He’s a good lad, I won’t do that.”

  A ripple of confusion passed over Marlyn’s face, quickly turning to alarm as the other guard raised his cannon.

  “Lawrence… what?”

  Eyes fixed Marlyn, eyes glimmering with a curious and terrifying mixture of hope and fear.

  “I’m… sorry.”

  The eruption of golden power never appeared, instead, Lawrence’s hands gripping the barrel of his cannon and swinging it like a club towards Marlyn’s unprotected head. The youth fell to the floor in a clang of metal, his skull a ringing mass of pain.

  Through the encroaching blur of unconsciousness, Marlyn could just make out the form of Lawrence as he scuttled away; hunched, low and fast, as though on a mission of utmost secrecy and import. Marlyn’s head dropped back to the cold tiles, eyes closing as oblivion reached up to claim him, dragging him down into the dark.

  ***

  Some small part of him cried out at what he had done, in anguish at this betrayal of his friend and comrade. But what must be done, must be done.

  The souls of his family and loved ones were at stake.

  Yes, came the whispers once more. Just a little bit further. Down, down the stairs.

  He flew down the corridor and into a stairwell, boots squeaking loud on the white, tiled floor. Down the staircase he strode, lungs burning in his chest as he fought for breath. So near, so close. To see them again. To hold them, to smell them. Familiarity, comfort.

  Through t
he door, Lawrence, through the door and across the car park.

  He hit the release bar and burst through the door, out into a dimly lit, underground expanse of concrete that seemed to stretch off in all directions. Scattered throughout the space, like mechanical cows, sleeping for the night, the wheeled steel boxes found throughout the city.

  Cars, Marlyn had once told him.

  The other side of the car park. Please Lawrence. It’s cold out here.

  A surge of fresh strength flooded his weary limbs at the nearness of his goal. He powered on, discarding his cannon to tumble to the ground, dead weight, useless to him now. There, across the space; the yellow-painted barrier of steel that he’d seen on the screen in the office. Behind it, the shuttered gates that barred the entrance to the car park from the outside world, the same gates which he had powered up with a turn of a switch from the office. Powered up, but couldn’t open; Marlyn had locked them with a code and not even Tanya could tell him what it was.

  His pace slowed as he neared the gate, his run turning into a staggered walk as he passed the barrier and made his way to the control switch. For a moment, doubts began to assail him, but before they could even form coherent thoughts in his mind, Tanya spoke to him once more, coaxing, beckoning.

  Turn the switch, Lawrence, my love. Turn it and we can all be together again.

  My love?

  A noise that sounded almost like a giggle and the whispers continued.

  Yes, my love. Do you not think I noticed how you used to look at me across the bar? I’ve always felt the same way, Lawrence, but was always too shy. Open the gate and we will be together. We can run away from all of this and be together forever.

  Doubt, fear, all slipped away in the face of these fresh promises. With no hesitation, he reached forth, grasping the round red switch that sat in a yellow box, twisting it till it clicked. A high pitched whirr, then the jerking rattle of metal as the gate began to rise, slowly, laboriously.

  Inevitably.

  As the metal shuttering rose higher, Marlyn walked out into the middle of the road, gazing out into the outside world, shielding his weary eyes from the bright orange glow of the lamps outside. As his eyes adjusted to the brightness, shapes swam blurrily into view, coming into sharper focus with every passing second.

  His blood froze.

  The once-man nearest him, at the head of the huge horde, cocked its head to one side as it regarded him, its mouth ripped open by some horrific previous battle to expose a rictus grin that would never fade, teeth and gum showing through where once there should have been flesh.

  Together, Lawrence, it spoke as the horde rushed forth into the car park with reaching arms. Together forever.

  Chapter Four:

  It was dusk. Fatigue clawed at their eyelids, but the rumble of the cart as it made its way down the roughly paved road denied any hope of snatched slumber as they travelled.

  The Boy gazed about the dim interior of the rickety wagon at his fellow travellers. Will, to his right, eyes closed, hands hidden beneath his cloak; fingers no doubt resting on the hilts of his twin daggers. Next to Will, sat close to the entrance of the covered wagon, an old lady, face wrinkled by the lines of age; at her feet a pig, pink, freshly washed, ready for market. Opposite her, a couple, girl and boy; young, nervous-looking; eyes darting about, hands clasped tightly to each other’s. On the run, no doubt, fleeing a disapproving family, hoping to make a new life for themselves in the hustle and bustle of the town.

  Then finally, opposite the Boy himself, the big man. Stinking, unwashed, the man loomed tall, his shoulders broad, putting him in mind of John. But where John, despite his stature, had a countenance of ease and good humour, this hulk had sat and stared at the Boy for the entire time since the man had got on the cart at the last village and squeezed his bulk on board; his eyes bloodshot and sat in a scarred face, challenging, daring him to make comment.

  The Boy was not one to back down from a challenge.

  “Can I help you, friend?”

  The menacing figure snorted and spat a wad of thick, yellowy phlegm to the floor of the cart.

  “Just as I thought,” he grumbled, voice like a bag of rocks. “A toff.”

  “Excuse me?” The Boy was suddenly very aware of how thin and reedy his voice sounded in the air of the cart.

  The big man grinned, lips drawing back to reveal teeth black, broken or otherwise missing.

  “A toff. A nob. I can tell, y’see. I’ve worked for a few in my time.” He leant close, shadows casting a nefarious aspect to his scarred and worn face. Rancid breath washed over the Boy and stung at his eyes as the man gestured with his meaty hand. “That nose; smooth and straight, perfect for looking down on people. That forehead; uncreased with lines of worry.” He sat back, smiling to himself as the Boy retorted.

  “You know nothing of me…”

  The big man bellowed with laughter, then fixed him with an evil eye.

  “And that voice… so cocksure, arrogant, used to obedience. I’ve known nobles like you, my lad; thinking it a thrill to go out, mingle with the masses. Play dress up in rags and dirt. Fun, isn’t it? To play at being a commoner. Well, until it bites you in the arse...”

  At those last words, Will, who had until now been sitting quietly, observing through half opened eyes, drew back his cloak, revealing the suede handles of two daggers, sharp and ready. The big man smiled once more, seemingly unalarmed by the sight, yet he raised his hands palm-forward as though to placate the pair.

  “No threat intended, my boy. No, none. Just simple observation from a fellow, weary traveller.”

  The Boy narrowed his eyes, but it was Will that spoke, his tone low, measured.

  “Your observations are both incorrect and uncalled for, friend.”

  A mere nod from the brute, his face merely amused at the words.

  Calls from the men mounted on the outside of the covered cart, then a cessation of movement, the occupants rocked as the wagon jolted to a halt. A face appeared at the back of the vehicle, lined and tired, hair matted down in the drizzle.

  “Ladies and gents, pray make yourselves scarce as its time we rested these poor steeds for the night.”

  The travellers made their way out, the big man holding back, bowing and sweeping his arm with a grin of mirth to allow the pair out before him. The Boy leapt out, his scuffed leather boots landing with a squelch in the mud, pulling his cloak about him against the wind. Will spoke to him as the passengers dispersed, said something, but the Boy didn’t hear, his attention dragged by his eyes upwards, up, up, to the top of the mount, to the castle that sat, wind-swept and rain-lashed, like some ever-watchful taskmaster at the centre of the town.

  The driver followed the Boy’s gaze, smiling as he regarded the savage fortifications.

  “First time, in the town, lad?” He grinned, teeth stained brown from the tobacco he chewed. “Welcome to Nottingham.”

  ***

  The door slammed shut behind them, more from the force of wind than by choice, the thick wood deadening the noise of the incessant gale and the patter of heavy rain on cobbled road. The Boy’s senses took in the interior; the sweet, sickly tang of spilled ale and the minerally scent of ancient stone; the flickering orange of torchlight from sconces on the hewn walls; the air, thick with the smoke of a dozen lit clay pipes; the cloying, heady bitterness of cheap tobacco that caught the back of his throat and threatened to make him cough.

  A tavern. How long had it been? That begged another question; how long had he been with the Outlaws in the forest? Two years? Three? He smiled as he followed Will down into the bar area, the rough-hewn tables with barrels about them that served as seats, filled with drinkers, all hunched low, heads down, minding their own business and paying no attention to the newcomers. Felt like longer, he thought. He’d had a name back then.

  The Boy. That was his only name now.

  The landlord turned to them as they rested against the bar, polishing a pewter mug against his greasy apron, eyes f
urrowed in a perpetual frown.

  “What’ll it be, gents? Ale?”

  Will sniffed, his nose running now he’d come into the warm, trying his best to angle himself towards the hearth whilst still facing the barkeep.

  “Something that’ll warm us up.”

  A nod and a grunt.

  “Ale it be, then.”

  He grabbed two mugs that were hanging above the bar, filling them from a tapped barrel behind him as the Boy leant over to speak.

  “Interesting name this place has…”

  “Ye Olde Trip to Jerusalem?” The barkeep gave a quick grin as he placed the foaming mugs back on the counter, but the mirth didn’t reach his eyes. “This is the last stop for many young men such as yourselves, before shipping out to the holy lands.”

  The Boy raised an eyebrow in puzzlement as he handed over some copper coins, but it was a voice from behind that answered his unasked question.

  “The Shiriff’s coin is what awaits most lads in here, my young friends.” The man sat, hunched by the fire, atop the one, shorter stool that allowed for his meagre frame. He was old, his hair white, skin parchment-dry and riven with advancing years. “Only by luck have you missed them tonight. Or it’d be service for you two as well…”

  The pair of outlaws looked at each other, then made their way over to the man’s table, relishing the warmth of the hearth as they sat on the barrels. The barman went back to his business as the three began to talk.