by Rob Scott
‘I can do that with this?’ She picked up the shovel.
‘Sure. That will do fine, just wrinkle the thing, and it shuts right down – but then you need to get away from here.’
‘Where? How far away?’
‘Not far necessarily, but someplace I don’t know about, someplace Hannah would never have talked about, someplace I would never have mentioned to-’ Steven hesitated, remembering the security guard’s body on the floor of the bank. ‘Someplace not even my bank colleagues would know.’
‘I’m sorry, I’m being such a pest, Steven, but why? If he wants you, and you’re gone, why would he come after me?’
‘For the same reason I think he took one of my friends today. He wants what you know.’ Jennifer blanched as he went on, ‘He can take from your mind anything you know about me, about my intentions when I get back to Eldarn, or about the portal, anything.’
‘But you haven’t told me what you plan to do.’ Her lower lip was trembling.
‘He doesn’t care.’
Jennifer straightened her spine. ‘All right, I’ll go to-’
‘Please don’t say it. I can’t know. If I know, you’ll be in danger. Just go someplace that I have never heard of, somewhere that wouldn’t be swimming around in-’ He stopped for a moment and swallowed hard. ‘Well, someplace that Myrna Kessler wouldn’t know about.’
‘Myrna?’
‘A friend of mine. I never told her this address, but she knew about your antiques store.’
‘So if Nerak was already on his way to my father’s store, then he might detect this rug-’
‘Portal, yes,’
‘Sorry, portal, and come over here now?’
‘That’s right.’ Steven began organising his pack. His head ached fiercely and he sat down with a groan on Jennifer’s couch. ‘Do you have any aspirin?’
She laughed and looked fifteen years younger. ‘I think we could both use some. I’ll get the bottle.’ She hurried to the kitchen while Steven pulled himself back into Howard’s winter coat.
Four aspirin and a glass of water later, Steven handed the bottle back to Jennifer, who shook her head. ‘Do they have aspirin there? You keep them.’
‘You’re right, thanks,’ he tossed the container into his backpack. ‘Now, I know this will be difficult, but I need you to open the portal again.’
‘Fine. When?’
Steven did a quick mental calculation. ‘Start in two months, that ought be enough time to find her. I want her back here with you as soon as possible, but it might take me that long to get there.’ He paused a moment. ‘What day is it?’
‘The twelfth. Friday.’
‘Okay. So, in two months, February twelfth, start opening the portal every day at five o’clock a.m. and five o’clock p.m. – for fifteen minutes only – you must be sure to close it at five fifteen without fail. Time is a bit different over there. I thought it was moving more quickly, but perhaps it isn’t. Either way, I’ll have this-’ he held up Howard’s watch. ‘It’ll keep the time here perfectly, even while I’m over there.’
‘Five o’clock in the morning? Every morning?’
He laughed. ‘Sorry, that is unreasonable, isn’t it? How about seven o’clock – would that work? Seven in the evening and seven in the morning… but just fifteen minutes, absolutely no more. I’ll have to make sure the others know…’
Jennifer still looked worried. ‘What if the watch doesn’t keep perfect time?’
‘If it doesn’t, then my already miserable day is about to deteriorate further. Mark and Garec are using my old watch to time my return right now, so I’ll be testing my theory in seventeen minutes.’
He checked her wristwatch. ‘Close enough. Now, promise me you will close the portal each time. You don’t want Nerak coming through to find you, or if by naked, pastry-chef luck he gets stuck on this side, tracking you down. So you must swear you’ll shut it down.’ Steven didn’t mean to scare her, but she had to understand how vital this was. ‘One of those days, Hannah will appear. You cannot lose hope, Ms Sorenson, and you cannot miss a day, not ever.’
She looked determined. ‘Absolutely. Seven o’clock, a.m. and p.m., every day, starting on February twelfth.’
‘Thank you,’ Steven smiled. ‘She’ll be back. I promise.’
Fifteen minutes later, as Steven checked Lessek’s key was firmly secured in the front pocket of Howard’s backpack, his hand closed around the second roast beef sandwich he’d stuffed in. He pulled it out and laughed. ‘Mark will love this,’ he said.
Jennifer gaped and, as if remembering her manners for the first time all day, burst forth, ‘Oh my goodness, I’m a miserable hostess. I’m so embarrassed. Steven, what do they eat there? Do you want something before you go?’
‘I only have two minutes, so no thanks, don’t worry-’
‘Wait. I have plenty of food. What can I-?’ Her voice trailed off in embarrassment.
‘Don’t worry about it, we’ve managed just fine,’ Steven said, patting her on the arm. ‘More importantly, you remember what you have to do?’
‘No problem. Seven o’clock, every twelve hours. I will be dead before I miss a turn – and I will not lose hope again, Steven.’ She started to cry, reaching for him. ‘Bring her back home, Steven.’
‘I will,’ he promised, and reached for the fire-shovel. His heart raced as he unfolded the far portal and the Larion magic swirled about the room. ‘Don’t forget: fold this up as soon as I’m gone, then take it and get out of here, as quickly as you possibly can.’
Her face still damp with tears, Hannah’s mother repeated her promise. ‘I will.’
Steven took hold of the backpack straps, checked Howard’s watch, which read 5.04 p.m. and stepped onto the Larion far portal and out of Jennifer Sorenson’s living room.
Jennifer crouched, watching tiny flecks of coloured light shimmer in the air above the tapestry like a cloud of Technicolor fireflies. Her tears had turned to stunned amazement; Steven Taylor had disappeared before her eyes. He had said he would, and the book had vanished, but until it actually happened, she had not realised how scary it would be. He had been telling the truth, the whole truth: Hannah was out there – Jennifer looked down at the ornate, if filthy, rug lying askew across her floor – in there somewhere. ‘Bring her back, Steven,’ she begged again, though she had no idea if he could still hear her. She was distracted by the sound of an accident outside – there were pile-ups on Lincoln or Broadway periodically, and Hannah invariably dashed the two blocks west so see if she could help until an ambulance arrived. But this was more than just the regular slam and shatter of a rush-hour crash: this was awesome, the musical tinkling of broken glass followed by the groan of tired steel and the whump, whump, kablam! of an exploding gas tank.
The sound slapped her back to reality; she heard Steven’s voice again. Nerak is the most powerful and destructive force any world has ever seen, and he is on his way to this spot right now – because we opened the portal.
‘Oh shit, Steven, oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, oh shit!’ She stared at the portal, then whispered, ‘Close the goddamned thing. Move!’ She used the fire-shovel Steven had taken from the fireplace to fold one corner over and as she did so, the waves of energy in the room subsided. Jennifer guessed that with the disappearance of the mystical fireflies, it was safe for her to move the tapestry by hand, then escape to wherever it was she was going. She reached out her fingers, then stopped and retreated to the relative safety of the couch. She didn’t consider herself a brave woman – her behaviour earlier in the day had truly shocked and appalled her – and she was glad no one was there now to watch as she scurried back and forth across her living room like a frightened rabbit.
‘Enough,’ she finally told herself, and steeled herself to touch the tapestry. Once she’d started it was easier than she’d expected, and she folded it into a surprisingly small lump, which she stuffed into a canvas bag. Then she rushed about her house, not really certain what essentials she wou
ld require. She grabbed her wallet and collected together a pile of clean underwear and socks and her favourite sweater. She unearthed the small fireproof strongbox she kept hidden in the space above the electric fuse panel. Now she could smell the pungent aroma of burning oil and melting plastic; people were crying for help and someone – or two, she couldn’t tell – was screaming in agony.
He was here; he – it – whatever, Nerak was out there, less than two blocks away.
Jennifer rushed through the foyer, slipped one set of keys into her pocket, then without even a final look around her house stepped outside, locked the door behind her and hustled down the steps towards her car.
Nerak drove like a madman, with the window rolled down so he could drink in the bellow of the Mustang’s racing engine. These automobiles are fascinating, he thought, picturing himself careening through the streets of Pellia – or, even better, Orindale or Estrad – maybe even in one of the colourful giants, one of those trucks, Myrna’s memory supplied. Moving a plug of Confederate Son from one side of Myrna’s mouth to the other, Nerak tried to spit brown juice out the window, but his current mouth was not yet trained and instead it dribbled down the inside of the door.
Traffic had been light, and the raging forest fire still flickering at the edges of the highway had discouraged all but the most intrepid of travellers from risking the journey east, but Nerak was becoming angry. The girl’s memories told him that progress would be slower, but he had no idea how congested the road would be. There were hundreds – thousands – of clumsy, colourful roaring monsters lining the road, an endless caravan. Where were all these people going? He growled.
Home. Myrna’s mind answered him. They are going home.
‘Well, they are in the way,’ Nerak said, and considered his options. He had used most of the bullets on his trip across the country – and a few more in Idaho Springs, just when people had tried to keep him from climbing the concrete ramp to the highway. But it hadn’t taken many bullets to clear that path; Nerak had become quite a skilled marksman. He leaned out the window and spat another mouthful of tobacco juice onto the highway. This was too much; the gun was just a toy, anyway, nothing powerful enough to move all these people. He needed something more, another fire perhaps, or maybe a sand storm – just killing them all as he had in Port Denis wouldn’t get their cars out of his way.
He searched Myrna’s memories; all her thoughts, interactions, ideas and fears were neatly organised and it took only a moment for Nerak to find what he needed. ‘Just to get through this traffic,’ he said, Myrna’s lips splitting to reveal teeth coated in brown fluid, bits of tobacco leaf stuck between her molars. He wiped the sticky open sore on the back of her wrist against one thigh, leaving a trail of blood and rotting flesh on her skirt. His eyes fluttered as he whispered a spell.
With Mantegna’s new siren wailing and red lights flashing, Nerak drove with abandon, dodging parked cars and ignoring pedestrians scattering before him as he careened between cars and over sidewalks. Soon he spotted the row of antiques shops that ran along South Broadway Avenue. Meyers Antiques: Steven might be inside right now – perhaps that was where he planned to open the portal and take Lessek’s key back to Fantus and the rest of the Ronan partisans.
‘Not today, Steven,’ Nerak growled, and pushed the accelerator to the floor. ‘I might keep you alive just long enough for you to watch me eat your heart. That will make for a fitting end to an otherwise thrilling day.’
Perhaps he would crash through the front windows of the store: draw a crowd to witness Steven’s pain. He was in a fine mood, for though he had temporarily lost Lessek’s key, he was confident he would soon have it back – nearly a thousand Twinmoons later, he would reclaim what was rightly his. Lessek’s key? Lessek had not suffered and struggled to earn that key – he may have chipped it from the granite slab that had eventually become the Larion spell table, but Nerak was the one who had earned its knowledge, its power. If it had not been for Pikan and that milksop, Kantu- He paused. He could barely control his rage: how close had he been that night?
Nerak felt a strange but familiar sensation; a tickle in his throat, along the left side of his face, but intent on Meyers Antiques, now only two blocks away, he ignored it – until, suddenly, its significance sank in.
‘The portal!’ he shouted, the power of his voice throwing a young man riding a bicycle into the wrought-iron gate of an upscale cafe. The portal was open, right now – and it wasn’t inside Meyers Antiques. Steven Taylor was nearby; Nerak could smell him, could taste his foul foreign blood, but he wasn’t inside the antiques store; Myrna had been wrong.
He searched her memories again: Hannah Sorenson. Meyers Antiques. South Broadway Avenue, Denver, Colorado. Interstate 70 east to 1-25 south to Broadway.
‘Where is he?’ Nerak cried, shattering the car’s windshield.
Hannah’s home. Her parents. Her apartment.
Nerak cursed his own poor judgment, then shook his head. ‘No matter. The portal will guide me now.’ He honed in on the Larion magic, as loud now and resonant in this curious world as a thunderclap, gripped the wheel and turned left across the busy lanes of South Broadway Avenue.
He didn’t make it. A large yellow moving van clipped the tail end of the Mustang, sending it into a spin. Nerak struggled for control, eventually giving up on the steering wheel and taking over with his mind, but it was too late and he slammed headlong through the wide plate-glass windows of a rare books store. The ensuing explosion as the gas tank erupted beneath him cast the Eldarni dictator out of Myrna Kessler’s burning body.
Gilmour rolled over with a groan. The sun had not yet climbed high enough to bring any light to the fjord, but above he could see the earliest hues of dawn heralding another day. ‘What time is it?’ he asked in a hoarse whisper. Garec, sleeping soundly beside the remains of their campfire, didn’t stir.
Pain flared in his chest and, wincing, Gilmour pulled his legs up tightly against his stomach. There were broken ribs, at least three, and maybe a bit of internal bleeding. With his fingertips, he felt the swelling beneath his armpits and grimaced. Was there any greater pain in life than broken ribs? And not just one, but three, great rutting lords. The damp mud of the shoreline provided a comfortable, if chilly bed, and Gilmour felt his head settle back into the concave dent where it had spent much of the previous night.
‘What time is it?’ he asked again, but Garec didn’t move.
Lessek’s spell book had lashed out at him; he hadn’t been ready. Gilmour stared up at the sky. If Nerak had mastered the spells in that book, Gilmour would be destroyed. It was that simple. He had made a huge mistake by being too terrified to go back to the scroll library. ‘The ash dream,’ he whispered. The first folio was as far as he had got.
He forced himself to relax: one job at a time. He used magic to heal his fractured ribs, then sat up, groaning – this time in frustration – and shouted, ‘Garec, what time is it?’
‘What-?’ Rudely awakened, Garec yawned widely, then sat up with a start, his eyes wide in sudden realisation. ‘Did you sleep? Demonpiss, Gilmour, I hadn’t expected you to sleep. Are we too late? Did we miss it?’
‘Don’t worry. I think there’s still time.’
Garec studied Steven’s watch with a furrowed brow. ‘We have – ten moments before five clocks.’
‘Minutes.’
‘Yes, right, whatever. Ten. Tecan.’ He walked stiffly to the boat and began rummaging in one of the canvas sacks.
‘Yes, I’ll have some tecan,’ Gilmour said. ‘Make a big pot this morning. I’ll deal with the fire.’ With a wave of his hand he moved several logs from a nearby stack into the fire-pit Garec had dug the previous night and set it alight with a gesture. The flames warmed and woodsmoke curled up and around his face in a gentle caress. For once, he really didn’t know what to do – and he realised how much he missed Steven. ‘How many minutes now?’ he asked Garec.
‘Four mimits, momets, whatever you called them.’ Garec ap
proached from across the campsite, a silent Mark Jenkins in tow. ‘Ah, great fire, Gilmour. I wish you would teach me that one.’
He had no idea how much that stung. Gilmour turned towards the fjord, ostensibly to peer across the water, to keep the others from reading the insecurity in his face. ‘Perhaps I will one day, Garec, but for now, I think I’ll get the far portal ready,’ he said.
Garec filled the tecan pot with water from a wineskin. ‘I’ll let you know when to open it.’ He turned his attention to Mark. ‘How are you this morning?’
‘Can we do it today?’ Mark didn’t look up from the fire.
Garec shrugged despondently. ‘I suppose today is as good a day as any.’
‘Good.’ Mark reached both palms towards the flames. ‘What kind of wood do I need to find?’
‘Several types will work just fine. I use rosewood. The grain is tight, very strong. But mahogany and walnut are excellent as well.’ Garec stirred the tecan with a twig. ‘The trick is not so much in selecting the right wood but rather in shaping the bow. You need a relatively thin length of wood from a thick green branch.’
‘You shave away the outer layers?’ Mark made eye contact with him for the first time in days.
‘Lots of them. The best bows take a great deal of time to shape, because the most resilient, flexible wood is the core. The thicker and greener the branch, the more pliable and strong its core will be.’ He gestured towards the twin hills in the east. ‘When we get up in those woods later today, I’ll show you what I mean.’
‘I think I understand.’ Mark reached over and took the twig from Garec. He stirred the tecan as Garec had done, then looked at Gilmour. ‘You ought to check the time.’
Garec grinned. It warmed his heart to see Mark taking back control: the foreigner was a self-proclaimed expert on frenchroastcoffee and regularly criticised the others’ tecan-making attempts. Although Garec had no idea what frenchroastcoffee was, he assumed being an expert had given Mark some deep insight into how to prepare the perfect pot of tecan. Either way, he was excited to see Mark moving back into one of his old roles. Taking over the morning tecan duties was a small step, but in the right direction.