Otherlander: Through the Storm

by T. Kevin Bryan

  Darcon felt the stare and spun on the old servant, who withered under his master’s gaze like a frail weed in the blazing sun. The tyrant secured his robe and whipped up his hood, obscuring his scarred face.

  “It’s the Otherlander.” He pointed to the body on the floor. “He came to kill me, you fools!”

  The guards stepped quickly to the bedside and rolled the lifeless body over.

  The servant stumbled back in shock. “It’s Wyoma,” he stuttered, “your chambermaid.”

  The tyrant looked and sure enough he recognized the crumpled body of his female servant. Darcon shook as he wiped sweat from his scarred face with a trembling hand. He tore his bloodshot eyes from the young lifeless girl laying at his feet. “No! It was the boy, he is haunting me, he is coming for me.” His voice trailed off to a whisper. Then regaining his composure he grabbed the closest guard. He held up his dagger. “Go bring me news of the assassin. And it better be good.”

  Seventeen

  The hunter lay in the shadow of a jutting slab of granite high among the crags. It peered down upon its prey. Sliding forward for a better view, it winced in pain. Its eyes focused on the adolescent male and female. Their small campfire smoldered, putting out a thin wisp of smoke that drifted on the wind away from his perch high on the cliff. “Good, that.” His scent would not be detectable by the huge reptile.

  “Curse the dragon.” The shadow hunter spat as it remembered being denied its kill and its narrow escape. It had never failed, and it would not fail now. It would wait and be patient. It would wait till the boy was away from the fearsome dragon, when his guard was down and then it would strike. The thought of another kill warmed him, but now it needed to rest and heal. The hunter slid back into the shadow of the overhang and coiled its black body into the crevice like a serpent. It had time. Time was on its side.

  Eighteen

  A mug of ale sloshed onto John’s scarred wooden table. Raucous laughter filled the tavern of the Shield and Scales. It was not a reputable establishment. All those had closed over the last decade of darkness when all that was left of the decent folk fled or were rounded up and executed or worse, sent to the workcamps to support Darcon’s latest expansion of “progress.” The average man called it slavery, but he only called it that under his breath, and never in a shadow warrior’s hearing.

  These dark days it was best to keep your thoughts to yourself, for there were many about who were the eyes and ears of Darcon, spies who were all too eager to turn in a person for “resisting progress” and then receive payment for said services. No, these days it was better just to keep your mouth shut, keep your head down and drink your ale and be on your way.

  And that is what John aimed to do. He sat on a hard wooden bench against the wall in the corner, nursing his mug. He looked like most of the rough-and-tumble clientele of the Shield and Scales. Threadbare cloak muddied from the trail, leather boots that needed resoling and a tunic that his Mrs. had patched more times than he could remember. The one thing that stood out about John was the nasty scar across his left cheek. A memento he received from a shadow warrior while liberating his good friend and leader of the resistance, Deacon Stormcloud. It still pained him when it was cold, and these days it seemed to be cold most of the time.

  After the battle for the Southern Stronghold, the resistance achieved a glorious victory. They defeated the shadow warrior army. Deacon killed their leader the shadow warrior, General Nawg. Even the tyrant, Darcon was blasted through the portal with the help of the young Otherlander, Thomas and his father, Daniel Colson.

  But the sunny days after the victory were short-lived. Darcon was back and with him a whole host of shadow warriors. And to make matters worse many people of the land, tired of resisting or because of fear or greed, had joined forces with Darcon. Better to reign in darkness than serve in the light, thought John, bitterly.

  He took another sip of his ale. A freezing wind blew on his neck. He grumbled, turning his attention to the open door of the tavern. A hooded and cloaked man stood there. He pushed back his hood to reveal a skull-like face with skin stretched too tight over the bone. He shoved his way in through the crowd, bumping a burly customer and sloshing the contents of his mug. The burly man twisted and grabbing the hilt of his sword, pulled it from its scabbard. But before he could behead the offender the newcomer threw open his grimy cloak revealing a tunic embossed with a crimson writhing serpent — the insignia of Darcon.

  John pulled his hood a little lower and peered out.

  The bony agent of Darcon smiled, showing his yellow teeth as the offended man slipped his sword back into its scabbard.

  “That’s what I thought,” snarled the agent pushing the man out of his way. Then he reached into his cloak and withdrew a stack of papers, stepped to the wooden post next to the innkeeper’s counter and drove his knife into the stack, neatly pinning them along with other yellowed and curled notices. He turned with a flourish and then stopped, and snatched the mug from the hand of the burly man. He drained it dry, slammed it onto the counter, wiped his mouth with his soiled sleeve, winked at the man and pushed his way back out of the tavern. Only the fear of Darcon’s reach kept the man’s head attached to his shoulders, thought John.

  One by one, ruffians stepped to the post and ripped a bill down and read or demanded others to read it for them. Some crumpled them and dropped them where they stood. Others stuffed them away for safekeeping. One muddy boot kicked a crumpled bill across the floor. It skidded to rest near John’s foot. He surveyed the room, then reached and picked up the paper and smoothed it out on the table top. It was a wanted poster. A sizable bounty on two outlaws along with a crude drawing and description. John would recognize them anywhere. It was his friend from over a decade ago, young Thomas the Otherlander and Fion, General Deacon Stormcloud’s missing daughter.

  Nineteen

  Daniel stared at the piles of books and research covering every inch of his wooden desk. He had read and reread every article and fragment that he could find on Mairead Fhada. He knew it was a door, and he had walked through that door. But he could only open the door when astronomical events were aligned. When those events were right, one could walk the pattern from stone to stone that was the combination to unlock the door. That’s what he believed before he had travelled to N’albion. But now he knew there was another way to open the door. A key —the strange pendant given to Thomas by Loren, the elder of N’albion. Using the pendant one could pass through the door at any time.

  He looked up from his notes, pulled his glasses off and ran his fingers through his hair. He needed sleep. It didn’t matter he would push through the exhaustion and find a way to open the door into N’albion and find his son. He turned to a fresh piece of paper in his journal and wrote:

  “The door is locked. Two ways to open. The combination or the key.”

  Daniel awoke in the soft light of his desk lamp. How long had he slept? He set up and reached for the coffee cup that balanced precariously on top of his stack of research. He took a sip and grimaced. Cold. The research covering his desk mocked him. Hours and hours of reading and thinking and writing had produced no discernible results. There was no way that he could crack the combination. He could only open the combination according to astronomical events. And according to his research, it was still six months away until he could open the door. But that was no guarantee. He wasn’t even sure the combination was steady? Possibly, it could change.

  He leaned back in his wooden office chair and listened. The house was quiet. Caroline must have gone to sleep hours ago. The thought of his wife made his heart hurt. How could he face her? His relentless pursuit of science and research had gotten them here in the first place. That, along with his pride and anger when Albright, his doctoral assistant, had stolen his research. And now they were here again, with circumstances completely out of his control. He stood stiffly and picked up the cold coffee mug and made his way quietly to the kitchen. He sat the mug on the counter, shut off the light
and begin the long climb up the stairs to their bedroom. With every step it seemed the gravity increased, making it harder and harder to face his wife in their bedroom. He would slip in the bed softly, hoping not to disturb her. He would arise in the morning and began his research again. He would not give up. He could not. If he did, he might lose hope.

  Daniel walked down the darkened hall to their bedroom. A dim light shone from under the door of Thomas’s room. He stopped and listened. He thought he heard quiet singing. Gently he pushed opened the door and stepping through saw Caroline sitting on the side of Thomas’s bed. She was holding one of their son’s old stuffed animals, one that he would never throw away, and humming softly to herself.

  Daniel sat beside her.

  “Honey, it’s really late.”

  Caroline ignored the comment and continued gazing at the stuffed animal.

  “You remember when we got this for Thomas?”

  It was a plush green dragon. Well-loved with much of its fur now gone, and it was missing an eye.

  “Yes, it was when he was in the hospital and we had that little scare,” Daniel said.

  “He named him Dragon.”

  “Yes.”

  “Caroline, I will open the door. If I can’t figure out the combination or have the key, I’ll get a crowbar. I did it before. I will do it again. I can…”

  Caroline placed her hand on her husband’s cutting him off.

  “Daniel, ‘Not by might nor by power but by my Spirit says the Lord.’”

  His shoulders slumped. She was right. She was always right. It was his hubris that got them in trouble before. His pride could not help them now.

  “Daniel?” A tear glistened in Caroline’s eye, then spilled down her cheek. “Would you pray for Thomas, would you pray for our boy, please?”

  Daniel nodded silently, then began. “Lord, protect our son. I don’t know how to help him. I am not smart enough or strong enough. Help. Help, please…”

  They sat in silence for a moment, then Caroline stood.

  “Let’s go to bed,” she said with a quiet smile.

  Daniel agreed and reached to turn off the desk lamp. Caroline had propped it on some books because of its broken base. It tipped and tumbled to the floor, spilling light under the desk.

  Daniel stooped to retrieve it.

  “Daniel, stop!” Caroline grabbed Daniel’s shoulder. “Look!” She pointed under the edge of the desk. There, glinting in the lamplight, something reflected gold.

  Caroline knelt and slowly reached; afraid she might scare the gold spark away. If she moved too fast, it might vanish. She withdrew her clutched hand from under the desk and turning to her husband opened it. There, in her palm, lay the pendant, gleaming gold with the red ruby of the dragon’s eye burning brightly in the night.

  Twenty

  Thomas and Fion flew south many miles in and out of the clouds. Thorn’s keen eyes searched the skies for any sign of Shadow Warrior scouts and searched the ground for humans on horseback, anyone who might be in the service of Darcon. Thomas could feel the sun on his right shoulder and he was thankful for the warmth. They had decided it would be best to give Darcon’s army a wide berth. So, before they made their turn to go around the mountain and into the Shadowlands, they would first put many miles between them and known danger. Fion also knew of a small village that had a tavern where they could resupply for their long flight to the Resistance’s Northern Mountain Stronghold.

  Thomas’s side still hurt. He suffered silently when Thorn made any sharp turns, but he was feeling stronger. He was thankful to have eaten a substantial breakfast of mystery meat that Fion had brought down with her bow before they packed up their saddlebags and left that morning. He had slept fitfully, in and out of dreams. Once in the middle of the night he had awakened with that strange sensation that someone was watching them. And for a moment he could have sworn that he saw the glint of two red eyes peering down upon them from the cliffs above. He kept staring at the spot but could never find them again. His eyes finally blurred from exhaustion and he drifted back to sleep.

  “How much longer?” Thomas asked Fion. He was riding behind her in the saddle. He had insisted that he could fly Thorn because he had done it before, but she would not easily give up the reins of the great dragon.

  Fion leaned over and pointed with her gloved finger. “There. On the horizon.”

  Thomas squinted. Yes, there was something man-made there, tiny little structures, up against a forest that from this distance looked like grass. From the dragon’s back in the sky, it reminded him of the little towns that went with a train set, the kind he got for Christmas when he was four. No, he was five that year.

  What a joy that had been. Coming down the stairs early Christmas morning and seeing the little puffing engine pulling cars around the track encircling the tree. He smiled despite his circumstances. It was short-lived as he wondered how his parents were doing. They must have finished putting up the lights by now. Or maybe everything had halted because he was away. He hoped to God his mom was okay, and he whispered a prayer for his new baby brother.

  Fion thought it best not to announce their arrival by flying over the town, and Thomas agreed. Thorn came in low, using the tall trees to block the view of any prying eyes, and landed in a clearing in the forest outside the town. They would leave Thorn in the forest and walk into town, find the tavern, get resupplied and out quickly so they could be back on their way before night fell.

  Fion patted Thorn on the head. “You stay here, keep your eyes sharp. We will be back soon.”

  Thorn growled and shuffled forward.

  “No!” Fion commanded. “You stay here!” Fion pointed at the ground.

  Thorn growled louder and continued shuffling forward.

  Thomas put down his bag and turned to Fion with a wink. “Here, I’ll handle this.”

  “Thorn.” Thomas leveled his gaze on the dragon. “Sit!”

  The giant dragon plopped on his haunches like a big dog.

  “Stay.”

  Thomas marched off through the trees and called back over his shoulder to Fion. “Are You coming or not?”

  Fion watched Thomas disappear into the trees, then glared at Thorn. “Traitor.”

  Twenty-One

  A cold wind blew up the street causing a dust devil to scoot along. Thomas shielded his eyes from the blowing dust but it still stung. Not much to the town but a few gray houses that looked like they were ready to fall down. Something howled in the distance. Thomas and Fion approached the door of the tavern. Thomas scooted forward to open the door for Fion and instead bumped her shoulder. Thomas stepped back, a little embarrassed by his failed attempt at chivalry.

  “Please, after you,” he motioned.

  Fion glared as she stepped past him and through the door.

  Clearly, she could take care of herself.

  Thomas surveyed the interior of the tavern and immediately felt uncomfortable. Now he knew what the term “unsavory characters” meant — a room full of people with rotten teeth and horrible scars. Fion sauntered up to the counter like she owned the place. The tavern keeper leered at Fion up and down. Thomas didn’t like it.

  “Can I help you, lassie?” he purred.

  Fion dropped a few coins on the counter. “Yes, we are hungry. What do you have that passes for food in your fine establishment?”

  “We have stew.”

  What else?

  “Stew.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s all the Mrs. knows how to make.”

  “Then two bowls of stew.”

  The tavern master scraped the coins off the counter into his hand. “Stew!” He bellowed over his shoulder.

  Thomas turned and saw a wooden post at the end of the counter covered with yellowed parchment flyers of all sorts. Medieval social media, he thought.

  Two crocks dropped onto the counter and Fion grabbed them and they headed to a corner table.

  Fion pushed one crock across the roug
h table to Thomas. He looked around for some silverware, saw nothing, then started to sip his stew when he caught Fion’s eye.

  “Oh,” Thomas said. “Sorry.”

  Fion held her bowl, closed her eyes and whispered. “To the Creator we are grateful.”

  She opened her eyes and Thomas saw something he had not seen before in this young warrior girl, peace.

  Fion caught him staring. “What?”

  Thomas averted his gaze.

  “Uh, your eyes are green. I hadn’t noticed before.”

  She looked away, a little embarrassed.

  “My mom’s eyes are green.” He said staring into his stew. “I think her eyes are beautiful.”

  Fion looked up and frowned.

  He never knew what to say around girls. He only had his mother, and she wasn’t a girl. She was his mom. “I shouldn’t have said that, huh?”

  Fion focused on something over his shoulder behind him.

  Now she was just changing the subject Thomas thought.

  “Don’t look,” Fion said.

  Thomas peeked behind him despite her command. He couldn’t help it.

  “I said don’t look!” She hissed.

  Thomas locked his eyes back on Fion.

  “Finish your stew.”

  Thomas concentrated on his stew, trying not to look over his shoulder.

  “Now!” Fion demanded and turned her bowl up and drained it. Thomas copied her and then they both sat their bowls down softly on the table.

  A rough-looking crowd gathered at the counter around the post. They kept looking at the parchment bills tacked there and shooting glances toward Fion and Thomas.