by Carl Purcell
When they had finished eating, Thomas walked them to the spare room, built into the attic of the house. The room was wide but the low sloped roof made Roland check his head with every step. One bed sat nestled against the right wall, a low camping bed occupied the same space on the opposite wall. An antique wardrobe stood beside the door and across the room from that, a single window looked over the fields behind the house.
“Beds are already made. Bathroom is downstairs, first door on your left. You need anything, just shout. 'Course, don't shout for real, 'cause Georgia is sleeping but I'll be down on the patio. You boys sleep good.” His piece said, Thomas left them.
“What friendly people!” Griffith said, then slapped a hand over his mouth. “What friendly people,” He repeated, whispering this time.
“Uh-huh,” Roland answered and walked towards the bed, bending under the ceiling. Griffith, almost a foot shorter than Roland, didn't have the same trouble sliding into the futon. He gave a quick nod to Roland and closed his eyes. Roland didn't bother returning the gesture as he dropped onto the mattress and went to sleep.
Griffith didn't know how long he'd been in bed before it happened. He might have been there for five minutes or it might have been five hours for all he knew. He hadn't been asleep, but, lying in the dark, he'd lost track of time. A few metres away he could hear Roland's deep, rhythmic breaths. Sleep hadn't come easy to Griffith for a long time. Still, just like every night, he'd give it his best to get a solid night's sleep.
Suddenly a bright, white light came flooding through the window. From below he heard Thomas shouting:
“Got you, you son of a gun!”
Griffith sat up. “Roland.” Griffith whispered. No response. He stole a glance at the window and then looked back at his companion. “Roland!” He hissed a little louder. Nothing. He opened his mouth to call him again, but gunshot drowned out his voice. Griffith threw himself down and watched Roland. Roland stirred and rolled over, his eyes fluttered. Griffith waited anxiously for his eyes to open. Roland settled again, without waking.
The light disappeared, leaving Griffith in the dark again. He stood up and peeked out the window. He kept his body against the wall, hidden from view. He could feel sweat running down his legs and dripping off the sides of his bare feet. The starlight and the weak glow of the patio light illuminated the closer field enough for Griffith to see that it was packed tight with cows. Thomas stood by the fence staring into the distance. Then a moment later he turned and walked back towards the house. Just when he thought he could relax, Griffith saw something move. Something humanoid, like a humongous silhouette, towering over one of the cows. It stepped over the fence. From so far away he couldn't tell what it was or what it did, but as soon as it was
amongst the cows it seemed to vanish.
Griffith left the window and leapt to Roland's bed.
“Roland.” He tried again a little louder, but Roland was as responsive as a boulder. Griffith tried poking him and when that didn't work, moved up to shaking him, all to no avail.
Griffith sat for a while and waited, listening to the night, waiting for something. A minute, maybe two, passed uninterrupted and Griffith decided to crawl back to his bed and forget about it. Then he heard the sound of knocking on the front door. He crept out of the room, into corridor and peeked over the bannister by the stairs. Georgia, wrapped in her dressing gown and grimacing with frustration, unlocked the door. The door swung out of her hands and slammed against the wall. Griffith saw three men step in, all of them dressed in rags and wearing unkempt, dirt-filled beards. Malice glinted in their eyes. Georgia quivered and backed away. Griffith turned and scurried back to the bedroom.
He rushed to Roland's side and gave the man a desperate slap across the cheek. Roland shot up. He smacked his head on the wall and dropped back onto his pillow.
“Fuck!” Roland cursed.
“Sorry.”
“Ow. Fuck, that hurt. What the hell are you doing?” Roland pulled himself up, slower this time, and glared at Griffith. He looked ready to throttle him if he didn't get a good answer.
Griffith took a step back. He placed a finger over his lips and whispered: “Something is going on.”
“Is the house on fire?”
“No.”
“Then it's not important.”
“Roland, please, I'm serious. We need to go get Thomas.”
“You go. I'm going back to sleep.”
“Roland, listen, there's something outside and—”
“What, are you a child?” Roland rubbed his eyes and blinked. He glared hard at Griffith for a moment. Griffith questioned the wisdom in waking Roland up and made a note not to do it in the future, unless he absolutely had to.
“No. It's just—” he said, searching for the answer that wouldn't make Roland angrier.
“Okay.” Roland sighed, his face softened and he started putting on his shoes. When his foot was half-way into his shoe, the bedroom door swung open and Georgia rushed in, closing it gently behind her. She pressed her back against the door, one hand squeezed the door handle, her whole hand trembling. She didn't speak, but stood with her eyes shut tight for a while.
“Georgia, are you—” Griffith began.
Georgia shushed him. She remained silent a few seconds to compose herself, then spoke in a low voice: “I'm sorry.”
“What's going on?”
“There's some men, downstairs. They forced their way in and started taking things and taking food out of the kitchen. They got Thomas and took his gun. They're threatening to shoot us if we do anything.”
“But they let you come up here?” Roland asked. Griffith nodded in agreement and watched Georgia. The woman closed her eyes again, tears pooled beneath them.
“I'm sorry. They asked if there was anyone else in the house and I was so frightened I said yes without thinking.”
“Oh shit.”
“But I told them there was only one. If one of you comes downstairs, the other might be able to go and get help.”
Griffith turned to Roland. “That's not so bad, then. I'll go with her and you can sneak out and get some help.”
“Where will I go?” Roland asked, forgetting for a moment to whisper.
“There must be another farm around here. You can ask to use their phone and call the police.” Griffith suggested and Georgia nodded in agreement, behind him.
“Griffith, have you considered that these people might work for Pentdragon?”
Griffith shook his head. “I saw them when they came in. That's what I was trying to tell you. They don't look like any of his people. They're not clean enough.”
“Even if you're right,” Roland glanced at Georgia. She had stopped listening and was peeking out the door, opening just enough to let her see. “they're probably still out there looking.” He went on in a whisper. “Even if there was another farm I could find in the dark, without getting lost and even if they did let a complete stranger come in and use their phone, then I'd have to do all that while avoiding Pentdragon's search party.”
“Well what else do we do, then? We can't fight them; someone will get hurt or worse. We can't just let them go, either. They have to be stopped.”
“Why? They want to come in, steal some jewellery and raid the fridge – then let them. I'm not about to argue with the man holding a gun.”
“And what if they find out Georgia lied? What if they want something else? What if they plan to kill us no matter what?”
“We don't know if any of that is true.” Roland stood up and moved between Griffith and the door. “We don't want to do anything stupid.”
“Since when do you give up when things are hard?”
“They've got a gun, Griffith. That's not a fight, that's suicide.”
“Then I'll deal with this.”
“You'll get killed.”
“Then you won't get paid.”
Roland sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “You're really going to do this?” Roland asked, clen
ching his fist around a clump of his own hair. Griffith planted his feet and stared at him, giving his best stern look. “You are, aren't you?”
“We've got to do something.”
“Fuck it, okay.” Roland turned to Georgia. “Does Thomas have another gun?” She didn't answer. Roland tapped her on the shoulder. “Georgia.”
She jumped. “What? What is it?”
“You said they have Thomas' rifle. Does he have another one?”
“Yes.” She nodded quickly. “Yes. He's supposed to keep it in the gun safe, but he's always leaving it out the front in the shed.”
“Okay.” Roland turned back to Griffith. “If I'm going to go running around in the dark, at least I'll have some extra protection.”
“He's coming!” Georgia squeaked. “Quickly, hide!” She backed away from the door.
Without thinking, Griffith ducked behind the wardrobe and pressed tight against the wall. Roland watched him jump out of sight and stood rooted to the spot in confusion.
“But aren't you—” The opening door interrupted him.
“There you are.” The man standing at the door stunk like road-kill in a heat wave. He was dressed in tattered cargo pants and a stained jacket, worn open, revealing the endless hedge maze of scars and wounds on his body. “This is your guest, huh?” He looked Roland over, sizing him up head to toe. “You're a mopey looking fucker, aren't you? Thinking of trying something? Want to throw down with me, tough guy?”
Roland clenched his jaw and stared the man down.
“Yeah, I thought so.” The man grabbed Georgia by the arm and yanked her close to him. “Listen up, we're running this show. You're dirt and so is she. If you want to stay living dirt, you'll do as you're told.” He gave Georgia a shove through the door and she started straight down the stairs. “Let's go, tough guy. On your bike.”
Roland pushed passed him, stopping only a second, toe to toe with the scarred man to look down at him and make sure the man knew exactly how much bigger Roland was. Neither man wavered. Having made his point, Roland moved on, silently, down the stairs and the scarred man followed behind.
Griffith waited until he couldn't hear their footfalls on the stairs and crept out of his hiding place. He sneaked to the banister and peered down to the lower floor, again. He could hear voices in the living room and chatting in the kitchen. The front door hung open and the cold night breeze swept up the dust in the hallway. Moving slowly, so not to make any sound, he backed into the bedroom to consider his situation.
The plan was shot. He'd been an idiot. He'd been stupid and acted on impulse. Roland should have gotten out of sight – he had tried to tell Griffith as much. Now, instead, they'd captured Roland and he was twiddling his thumbs in the bedroom, trying to come up with a plan. Roland would break, that was almost inevitable. How much taunting would it take? He didn't know, but Griffith knew if he didn't act fast then they'd all probably be dead before sunrise.
He couldn't go for help. He didn't know where to go and he wouldn't have any hope of escaping a Pentdragon search party. Then there was the thing he’d seen moving outside. He'd neglected to tell Roland – Roland could handle himself, especially if he was armed. And Griffith didn't even know, for sure, if something was out there. All he'd seen was movement and shadows. Sure, it was probably an illusion – some kind of trick of the light. Sure.
Griffith moved to the window and scanned the fields. Nothing stirred. If there was something out there, surely the cows would be nervous, making a commotion. Right? Griffith realised he knew nothing about cows.
There really was only one option. They'd have to drive the invaders away. How? The gun. That was a good start.
Griffith made his way back to the stairs and listened to the movement in the house. More voices emanated from living room, the kitchen was quiet, a voice echoed against bathroom tiles. Step by step, Griffith descended the stairs. He stopped at the bottom and looked to both ends of the hallway. His heart beat high in his chest, drowning out the sounds of voices. Setting his sights on the front door, he readied himself to run. He let go of the railing by the stairs. One. He lowered his body, sinking into the shadows on the wall. Two. Griffith leaned forward. He closed his eyes. Three. He sprinted forward, not stopping until he felt the air turn cold and the—
The ground had disappeared. Griffith's feet slipped through the air. He hit the dirt face first and hugged the ground, waiting.
“Did you hear that?” The voice came from the door.
“What?” Another voice, further away. This one sounded like the man who had taken Georgia. Griffith thought dirt and grass thoughts. If he just became one with the ground, they wouldn't see him. As long as they didn't step onto the porch, he could stay in its shadow, out of sight.
“I thought I heard something.”
“Like what?”
“Like … something. What do I have to do, spell it for you?”
“It's probably just Lance. He's still out there.”
“It didn't look like Lance.”
“Oh, so now you saw something?”
“I think so.”
“You think so? What the fuck is that, you think so? Stop wasting time and get back in here.”
Footsteps from the door faded back into the house. Griffith waited until everything was silent before lifting his head and scanning the front yard. The corrugated iron shed stood beside Thomas' truck, almost invisible in the darkness. Griffith didn't dare run again, in case they spotted him from the window or the door. Instead, he pushed himself up onto his hands and knees and crawled over the driveway to the shed door. The door opened with a quiet clunk that gave Griffith pause. He listened for voices from the house. None came and he continued with a little more daring.
Griffith opened the door just enough to squeeze into the shed. Unidentifiable black shapes dotted the floor and lined the walls. Griffith groped at something rifle-like and pulled it to his face, only to find himself in kissing distance of an old shovel. He put it down gently and stepped further into the shed. Surrounded by tools and machinery hidden in long, deep shadows, Griffith searched mostly by hand for the gun. He pulled a crow bar, a mallet and spirit level to his eyes in slow succession but still no sign of the weapon.
Desperate, Griffith knelt down and scooped up a handful of loose dirt. He held it tight and focused on it, calming his mind and body and channelling his will, through his hand and into the dirt. In one sweeping gesture, Griffith scattered the dirt around the shed. The tiny grains of earth lit up in a soft blue glow, lighting the shed like a Christmas tree. With the contents of the shed visible, Griffith picked over everything with his eyes. His gaze fell, almost immediately, on Thomas' spare rifle. The gun leaned against the wall in the corner of the shed; a box of bullets sat on the shelf above it.
Griffith scooped up the rifle and looked it over. He had no clue how it worked, but, as he stared at the weapon, the pieces of his hastily put together plan fell into place.
Clunk. The sound of something heavy pressing on the iron doors tore Griffith from his thoughts. Gathering his focus as quick as he could, he shot his will at the shining dust. The lights died all at once. Griffith slunk back towards the corner of the shed. Something black, the size of watermelon but the shape of a hand pulled at the shed door. Griffith watched it, fighting to stay silent as his fear mounted as a whimper in his throat. The metal groaned, the door swung away. All Griffith saw was its silhouette, outlined by the warm, golden glow of light from the front windows of the house. The thing hunched forward to peer into the shed. One limb still held the door and the other steadied its massive form on the door frame. Griffith pressed further back into the corner. If he could have, he would have pushed himself straight through to the other side and started running. Whatever it was, it couldn't get through the door but one of its massive arms could probably still reach him from outside. Griffith watched it, searching the black mass for eyes or a face. He stifled each breath, exhaling and inhaling slow and quiet. The creature lingered at th
e door. Was it staring at him? Griffith couldn't tell.
Whatever it was grunted and shifted, standing up straight. Standing upright, the creature completely blocked the door. It lingered for a few seconds, then turned, and stomped away. Griffith crept to the door, holding the rifle tight to his chest. He poked his head out and scanned the yard. Empty. He couldn't hear anything but the movement and voices in the house. Keeping to the soft grass, Griffith crept to the side of the house and peered down the side. He caught another glimpse of the enormous creature as it stepped over the paddock fence and waded through the cattle. A little quick thinking and a lot of luck had saved Griffith, but he didn't know for sure if, or when, it would come back. And the problem of Thomas and Georgia's home invaders hadn't gone anywhere, either.
Feeling slightly more confident, Griffith returned to the front yard and stood on the driveway. He gave the rifle another once over and gripped it like he'd seen in the movies. Right or wrong, it didn't matter; the gun was empty. Maybe. Probably. Griffith hoped it was empty. He shoved the stock against his shoulder and aimed at the living room window, sighting along the barrel. Now all he needed was the right spell. That required more effort.
Griffith needed a distraction. He needed to get the attention on him long enough to give Roland an opportunity to put the invaders on the defensive. If he could convince them they were under fire, that would do it. Griffith thought back to his basics. If he tried, he could hear his master's voice, as clear as it had been years ago. Magic is no more than your will forced on the world. Thought becomes desire, desire becomes need, need becomes command and the magical energy inside and all around us carries your will. The hard part is channelling both the energy and the thought. Emotion or even faith can fuel the energy but only focus can fuel the thought. No focus, no magic. Do you understand?
Griffith focused. He slipped into his thoughts like a hand into a glove, blocking out the world. Focusing was the easy part. The spell was there, in his mind, ready to go.
Find your Focus, Griffith. Sorcerers have tools to work their magic. The Focus is different for every sorcerer, sometimes for every spell. Power fuelled by rage might be focused through the sorcerer's clenched fists; many sorcerers wrap words in magic and speak their Focus.