Time Shards

by Dana Fredsti

  Hixson gave an inarticulate yell as he tried to steer the vessel to the riverbank, not a hundred yards away. Then the entire ship lurched up with massive force, as if Neptune himself had punched through the heart of the vessel. The center buckled, not quite breaking the boat in half, but causing both bow and stern to bend apart as the whole ferry rose out of the water, then crashed back down.

  Water sloshed over the rails with enough force to wash several men overboard, the decks tilting downward at precariously steep angles. The ferry listed further to one side, sending the cabin underwater.

  Miss Cochrane grabbed her companion by the arm. “Tracey, we have to swim for it.” She turned to Harcourt. “It’s our only chance.” She grabbed one of the life preservers that dangled from the railings. It was chewed up by shrapnel, but still intact.

  Harcourt stared at her as if she were mad. Go into the water with that monstrosity? He’d rather—

  The thing hit the ferry yet again. Hixson lost his grip on the wheel and tumbled into the river, vanishing into the black water.

  “The boat’s done for,” Miss Cochrane snapped. “That thing’s going to keep hitting until it sinks and then it’ll start going after whoever’s left. Our only chance is to get to shore before that happens.”

  Greaves nodded, although clearly terrified.

  She pointed to another life preserver. “Grab that and—”

  The thing struck again and this time the ferry tipped onto its side, sending Harcourt and the two Americans tumbling into the river.

  Harcourt’s scream of terror cut off as frigid salt water filled his open mouth and went up his nostrils. He kept hold of his traveling case, clutching it in one hand so unconsciously that he didn’t notice when the weight started dragging him further into the depths. He flailed his other arm to reach the surface. Something clutched the back of his jacket, hauling his head up above the water.

  Screams immediately assailed his ears.

  “Here! Grab this!”

  He thrashed, sputtering and choking as Miss Cochrane, clinging to the life preserver, guided him to the other side. There was no sign of her companion.

  Harcourt grabbed onto the preserver, looping one arm through, trying to lift his case up to rest on top. Its weight immediately sent the preserver dipping into the water.

  “Let go of it,” Miss Cochrane said urgently. “It’ll swamp us.”

  He shook his head, teeth chattering with cold.

  “Don’t be a fool! We can make it in if we share this, but it won’t—”

  Whatever she was going to say was lost as a wave washed over them both and the huge shape of the monstrous creature passed underneath. In his terror, Harcourt let go of the case, kicking out with both feet as he yanked on the life preserver and made for land.

  * * *

  It wasn’t until he was crawling up onto the muddy ground that he realized he’d left Miss Cochrane behind to fend for herself. He scanned the river for other survivors, but there was no sign of anyone, only the wreckage of the ferry, sinking into the depths.

  Then he spotted a bit of flotsam, bobbing against the riverbank like a little boat. He ran over in disbelief and beheld a minor miracle.

  His hat, only slightly the worse for its soaking.

  27

  “And so, after I did all I could to help the rest, I dove off the sinking ship and swam to shore. Only the legacy of my college athletics saved my life.”

  Harcourt paused and sighed heavily before finishing, “Alas, no one else was up to the challenge. To quote the mariner Ishmael, ‘And I only am escaped alone to tell thee.’ So I set out up the river in search of help. You’re all too aware of the kind of help I encountered.”

  * * *

  Cam paid no attention to Harcourt’s story. Even if he hadn’t been preoccupied with tending the stricken Merlin, and even if he could have understood the other man’s words, he would still have probably ignored him. The man’s type was familiar. There’d been more than one braggart in his village. The Trinovantes had a saying: Empty cauldrons make the most noise.

  He did, however, keep track of the group, and he noticed the way the younger man kept looking at Amber. Cam trusted this shifty-eyed fellow even less than the blowhard.

  He gently daubed at the sticky blood that had pooled on Merlin’s forehead. It was tricky with his wrists in manacles. Keeping the cumbersome chain out the way was a challenge. He took care to hold it in one hand while he ministered with the other, trying hard not to let the cold metal links bump up against the stricken figure. It made for slow work, but there was nothing else he could do, so he kept at it.

  As Cam cleared away the clotted mess surrounding the wound, the slightest trace of something silvery began to emerge. Peering closely, he could make out a cluster of tiny shapes, like a honeycomb crafted from lines of the very finest wire, thin as strands of hair. The precise little shapes seemed to follow the lines of the wound, and before his eyes, they seemed to grow, slowly sending out more lines, to form additional honeycomb shapes.

  “Nev Kawgh,” the Celt murmured, and he pulled away in surprise.

  It wasn’t just happening on the forehead. All of Merlin’s cuts and burns were growing the same tiny metal shapes. Some druid’s art was at work here, stitching the man’s wounds together with marvelous bands of silver.

  “Amber,” he called, wanting to share this miracle with her. She looked up and started to walk over.

  “Against the wall!” the jailer shouted from outside.

  Amber let out an involuntary squeak of alarm as the door slammed open. She turned as their guard came up the stairs, sword out, with two other men following behind. Cam tensed but the woman, Alex, put a warning hand on his arm.

  They all stared at the newcomers. One man was tall and swarthy, sporting long curls of black hair, a trim mustache, and a small pointed beard. He wore gleaming blue-black armor over a rich red velvet doublet and breeches, an ornately engraved breastplate and shoulder guards fit for a warrior, with a white lace collar over a metal neck guard.

  Beside him stood an older man, a brooding figure in an inky black wool cape whose flat eyes chilled Cam’s blood. His gaze gave the impression of a praying mantis tracking a smaller insect.

  “This is His Grace the Lord-General Fairfax,” the jailer growled, “and Master Stearne. Mind that you lot show some respect, ye dirty bastards.” Cam didn’t understand the words, but he understood the tone perfectly well.

  The general—Lord Fairfax he was called—came forward. He had a slight limp, yet his tread was heavy and imposing. He took his time, going from prisoner to prisoner, inspecting each of them carefully as if silently weighing their worth.

  Finally his attention fell upon Cam.

  “Where are you from?” he asked.

  Cam only returned his gaze defiantly.

  * * *

  “He doesn’t speak any English,” Amber tried to explain.

  “What does he speak?” the man snapped. “Is he some manner of Scot? And address me properly when you answer, girl.” His voice was sleek as steel and hard as iron, a voice accustomed to instant obedience.

  “I… I’m sorry. I’m sorry, your—your…”

  “Your Grace,” the jailer said icily.

  “Your Grace,” she said. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what language he speaks, sir. Your Grace, sir.”

  He frowned at her, as if she had just posed a riddle for him to solve.

  “You are not English.”

  She gulped, and balled her fists tight to keep them from trembling.

  “Mean you ever to tell me where you hail from?”

  Amber’s mind raced and her mouth quivered as she fought to follow the question, let alone provide a suitable answer that wouldn’t get her killed.

  “I… I’m American, Your Grace,” she finally blurted out.

  Lord Fairfax cocked his head almost imperceptibly, and then burst out with a loud laugh that made her jump. His laughter provoked the jailer to risk joining
in. Only the caped man in the tall pilgrim hat—Master Stearne—kept his stone face. The lord-general let his laughter run its course, and then his expression became impassive again.

  Amber felt as though she was in some sort of bizarre play where she didn’t know the script.

  “Sergeant, go stand behind this line of prisoners.”

  Their jailer obeyed.

  “All of you heed my words most carefully,” Lord Fairfax continued. “For as long as I decide, none of you shall speak. None of you shall move or signal to your neighbor in the least. On pain of death. For all of you, this very moment.” He let that sink in for a moment before turning to the jailer. “Sergeant, is your sword at the ready?”

  “Aye, my lord.”

  “Sergeant, mark our savage warrior. I shall proceed to count to three. Reveal no sign of your intention, but at the very stroke of three, unless our wild friend bids you stop, you shall at once swiftly cut the throat of this American girl without fail. Do you understand?”

  “Completely, my lord-general.”

  Amber thought she was going to faint.

  Oh god. Oh god. Oh god.

  Lord Fairfax cleared his throat. Stearne, the witch hunter, watched the drama as intently as a cat tracking a mouse.

  “One.”

  Cam remained in stony silence. None of the other prisoners dared breathe.

  “Two.”

  Amber’s thoughts raged. He can’t say anything! He doesn’t understand anything you’ve said! Oh god, I’m going to die. She closed her eyes tight. Her heart beat so hard it hurt her chest. She could feel the sergeant’s breath on the back of her neck, hear his inhalation as he steadied himself for what was coming.

  Oh god.

  “Stand down, Sergeant.”

  “Aye, my lord.”

  Amber exhaled suddenly, with an audible sob. Fairfax paid it no mind.

  “I’ve seen what I need.”

  The relief of the prisoners was palpable—except for Cam, who remained defiant. He was entirely unaware how close Amber had just come to death. The relief, however, was short-lived. The lord-general had another order.

  “Sergeant,” he snapped, “before we go, face the wildling to the wall and compel him to kneel.”

  The jailer grasped Cam’s irons and yanked him into place with some kicks and shoves. He pressed Cam’s face into the bricks of the wall, and then lifted his sword overhead, awaiting his commander’s order. Amber wanted to scream, to beg for Cam’s life, but she didn’t dare make a sound or even move.

  Fairfax turned away from the proceedings and looked to the witch hunter.

  “Master Stearne? What say you?”

  The Puritan leaned in and whispered to the general. Fairfax listened, then gave a curt nod.

  “I suspected as much.”

  He turned back to the prisoners.

  “No need for that, Sergeant. Leave him.” Before Amber could begin to process her relief, however, Fairfax added, “Bring the girl with us. She has an appointment with Master Stearne.”

  If their jailer was disappointed at not being allowed to execute Cam, he didn’t show it. He merely let his prisoner go, sheathed his cutlass, and took Amber by one arm. Cam lifted his face away from the rough brick wall and pulled himself up from the kneeling position. He had kept his temper in check throughout the ordeal, but now he saw their captors taking Amber away.

  He roared the only word he knew in her language.

  “Amber!”

  Then he charged the sergeant. The startled soldier released Amber’s arm and drew his sword, fast as a serpent’s strike. But the Celt flung up his manacles and caught the falling blade in the chain, barely inches away from his forehead.

  “No!”

  With a shout Amber wheeled and threw herself between them, grabbing the jailer’s sword arm with one hand and pressing against Cam with the other. She looked up at the sergeant, eyes wide and stinging with tears.

  “Please,” she begged. “You don’t have to do this. I’ll go, and he won’t give you any more trouble. He just wanted to protect me. Please.”

  The soldier gritted his teeth, ready to press the attack, but his resolve softened in the face of Amber’s unexpected plea. He turned to Fairfax, confused. The lord-general raised a conciliatory hand.

  “It’s alright, Sergeant. Our colonial girl must be the genuine article—that valiant gesture was worthy of the Indian princess Pocahontas. She just saved her young bravo’s life by it. Let us hope he does not cast her gift aside lightly.”

  Amber caught her breath, still shaking, and nodded to Fairfax.

  “Thank you, Your Grace.”

  Amber released her grip on the jailer’s arm and he stepped back a pace, lowering his sword but not sheathing it yet. She helped Cam to his feet, holding his uneasy face with both hands.

  “It’s okay, Cam,” she said, with a lousy attempt at a reassuring smile. “I’ll be okay, I promise.” She pointed to the man lying on the floor. “Him. Merlin. Take care of Merlin, understand? Expecto patronum Merlin.”

  Cam looked at the unconscious man, then back at Amber, and nodded.

  “Ego sum… Ego sum patronus.”

  She smiled for real this time, and softly kissed him on his cheek. Then, before she could change her mind, she turned and went with the men out the door.

  Downstairs, the sergeant passed her off to two more soldiers. Now that she was out of the bell tower, Amber could hear the desperate, quavering hymns being sung by sobbing parishioners in the adjoining church. Villagers hurrying on their way into its sanctuary shot her venomous sidelong looks, but didn’t dare speak to her.

  Probably afraid I’ll give them the evil eye, she thought, wishing she had that kind of power so she could get out of this mess.

  As the soldiers marched her down the lane, hands resolutely locked on her arms, Amber risked one last backward glance up at her fellow prisoners. Cam and the others watched her go in silence. Alex gave her a little wave for good luck.

  Amber turned in numb dread as they passed soldiers who were busy heaping bushels of dry kindling atop stacks of firewood. These surrounded the rugged wooden posts that lined the main drag, and they were already erecting two more. Now there would be six— enough for all of them.

  * * *

  Cam watched as the soldiers came out of the bell tower with Amber in their grip. Just for a moment, she turned her head to give them one last look before the captors marched her away, passing the line of tall wooden stakes being loaded with bundles of kindling and firewood. He knew what those were for.

  He watched the men take Amber down the lane and off onto a side road leading into the countryside to the north. He waited until she was well out of sight before finally turning away. The female prisoner laid a comforting hand on his shoulder, sympathy clear in her warm brown eyes. He gave a small nod of acknowledgment and then, true to his word, went over to the unconscious man Amber had called Merlin, resuming his place by the man’s head.

  The other three found places to sit as well, trying to stay out of the cold and damp as best they could.

  28

  Just past the cluster of cottages, shops, and the one inn at the center of town, a side road headed off north toward the river. Amber kept an eye out as her escort turned up the road, using the sun to mark their direction, trying to memorize the landmarks of the surrounding area.

  They passed orchards and hedgerows enclosing fields of sheep or black cattle, a pair of mills at the river, and crossed a little stone bridge. From there the road rose up into low hills. The sounds of cannon and musket fire coming from the east grew clearer the further they walked uphill.

  A fine manor house appeared ahead, looking out from the crest of the hill, half a mile or so up. However, her entourage stopped at a more modest, solitary structure. Its once white-washed walls were covered with moss, the exterior unkempt. Fairfax and Stearne entered first, closely followed by Amber and the soldiers. The Puritan filled two pewter tankards from a cask, while Fairfa
x took station at a long dining table.

  Amber’s armed escort quickly hustled her through the front room into a smaller room beyond, where they locked her inside without a word.

  Her new prison at least had windows, but they were small and barred, making for a gloomy interior. It had been cleared of all furnishings except for a few empty shelves, a long iron-bound chest against one wall, and a stout wooden worktable. Its surface showed marks from years of busy service. That had to be the home of a local craftsman, she surmised.

  Or someone who beats up their furniture on a regular basis.

  She wasted no time kneeling down at the door and peeking through the keyhole. An ominous dark lump loomed beside the doorknob. She frowned, then realized it was just the back of one of the soldiers standing guard.

  At the dining table, Fairfax was busy spreading out a map and placing several small wooden figurines on top of it, as if he was setting up a game of chess or Risk. Holding her breath, Amber eavesdropped as Fairfax pointed to various pieces while explaining their battle plans to Stearne.

  “Our palisade—Fort Essex, here on the Great Broom Heath—covers us against the sorties from the town, but the fort is under fire most oppressive from two of Lord Goring’s regiments posted outside the head gate, here… and here. The worst of it comes from the battery of cannons in St. Mary’s churchyard at the walls… here. The rebels have had the audacity to make it their fort.”

  “They shall surely be damned,” Stearne murmured.

  “They have a one-eyed gunner in position in the church tower,” Fairfax added, “and the villain’s marksmanship is devilishly keen. He’s sent a great number of ours to their eternal reward, so accordingly we must bring up more artillery to pound upon that profaned tower until it and the accursed gunner are both fallen down to Hades.

  “Our first line of foot was three regiments, about seventeen hundred men in all,” he continued. “A good part of them fought their way through the head gate— only to be driven back into High Street and cut to pieces. We attempted to storm the south gate again three times after that, and each time were beaten back in great havoc, with their cannons raining fire upon us all the while. So we retreated, having lost several worthy officers, along with near a thousand men, and the wounded besides.”