Crashing Time Trunks

by Amber Savage

  Three of the five lookouts had died upon being shot or upon hitting the ground. The other two, still alive after the arrow had pierced their throat and their body crushed by the earth below, were treated to the third attempt - an acquaintance to Bronia’s dagger.

  They approached the camp to find a sea of tents that populated the shores. There had to be five thousand tents, meaning there were no less than ten thousand French troops. It would take them less than a day to march to Anderhal Bay. They were obviously not going to Glasgow or Dunfermline. The firth beyond the shore held only a dozen ships. The rest had undoubtedly sailed back to the coast of France, perhaps to bring more troops.

  It was time to return and report to Lord Magnahul. Bronia had to think. What would her father do, or what would her father have her do?

  The hinge on which the door of fate swung was the Vicomte de Meaux. She ordered one knife fighter and one archer to remain with an extra horse and told the rest, with Hagan riding rear once more, to return to Anderhal Bay.

  She had one more piece of business to attend to.

  “Tell Lord Magnahul all we have seen today and that I will be no more than half a night behind you. I will bring more news.” With this command to the men, they returned to where they tied their horses and parted company.

  The assassin, the archer and the soldier, accompanied by a spare horse, rode back to town, entering the marketplace as the sun plunged beneath the western horizon.

  The market that was bustling with activity just a few hours ago, had started to thin out and would be desolate soon. Most of the traders would either be home or at the inn.

  The solder stood by with the horses as Bronia and the archer walked into the crowded inn. They scanned the hall and in the distance, by the rear wall, sat the Vicomte with five men, just as Argyle had said. She needed an opportunity to execute her plan. None presented itself thus far and she wasn’t sure that any would. What she did know was that she wanted to get the Vicomte alone.

  Two tables across she saw the boy who cleared the tables. She whispered instructions to the archer and left. The archer walked over to the boy, gave him five shillings and instructed him to tell the Vicomte that Flyster Kendric would like to speak to him by the alley outside - alone and in private.

  The archer then vacated the premises and walked over to the soldier and the horses. Moments later the Vicomte appeared, and did as he was told – he walked to the alley at the side of the inn. This proved that the Vicomte knew Kendric - it was one and the same plan. Bronia swiftly overpowered the small-statured man with a headlock that prevented the rise of blood to his head. He passed out within a short time but did not die. She whistled to her men, who arrived with the horses.

  Once they loaded the bound and gagged Vicomte on the spare horse, they began their journey home. The information they needed was at hand.

  The first three riders and Hagan arrived earlier and went straight to Lord Magnahul’s tent. He invited the four men in and treated all of them equally, including the stranger.

  They told their lord all that had happened that day. Lord Magnahul dismissed the soldiers and invited Hagan to remain. They sat at the meal table. There was bread and stew. Hagan was invited to join and he accepted. Lord Magnahul had decided to listen to the stranger without interruption. He sat with the fire behind him and Hagan in front. The light from the fire left no room to misinterpret the face of this man.

  “It is time you tell me why and how you have come about to be here,” Magnahul whispered in a voice that would shrivel a man’s heart.

  Hagan decided that it was time he told Magnahul the truth no matter how crazy it sounded. He had seen Magnahul’s wisdom and the way his daughter had behaved. He had had the time to listen to the men and see the effects of Magnahul’s grand plan. This was a man who could be trusted.

  Hagan began to explain and did so with no reservations. He clearly understood that his inquisitor was reading his body language as much as he was listening to his words. Magnahul listened to things that were preposterous to fourteenth-century ears.

  When Hagan was done, the giant of Anderhal Bay leaped from his chair which fell back and crashed on the ground. It made a thundering noise. The fire behind, which had been roaring provided the backdrop of this suddenly enraged man who leaped and unsheathed his sword virtually simultaneously.

  Within a blink of an eye, he had used his knee to knock Hagan of his chair and fall backward. One hand held his chest to the floor while the other was stretched back to the hilt of the sword whose tip had rested on Hagan’s throat.

  “You lie,” scowled Lord Magnahul.

  Chapter 6

  The Emissary

  “Please tell King Afolabi that Lord Magnahul has an urgent missive for His Highness, and I am to deliver it personally.”

  “Wait here,” said the guard at the outer walls of the Moroccan Palace.

  The shadow of the noon desert sun where the emissary stood grew an arm’s length before the guard returned and welcomed the seafarer.

  “His Highness will see you now.”

  The two men walked, escorted by a dozen imperial guards in front and another dozen in the rear. The tunnel was lit by wells of black gold, set aflame on either side of the passage. “More heat,” thought the emissary who was accustomed to the cooler climates of the northern latitudes.

  After what felt like three furlongs, the guard and the escorts handed the emissary to another set of guards, dressed in red and gold. This time there were just four.

  They boxed the emissary and accompanied him the rest of the way until they reached the middle chamber of the palace. The interior was ornately decorated. This was the Scot’s first visit to the south. His predecessor had been here on numerous occasions.

  The manner of the relationship between Magnahul and King Afolabi was ancient history. The once would-be king had just overthrown the previous ruler and Lord Magnahul had provided the troops to make it happen. There was a debt to be paid but not to be spoken off.

  The emissary stood still, in awe of the pomp and opulence of the palace. He had seen it as his ship sailed around the Cape of St. Vincent. It stood mighty and proud over the sands of the vast desert. The Herald entered with more grandness than a Scottish lord to announce the arrival of his majesty.

  “All hail and bow to the King of Morocco, Father of The Sands, Ruler of The Sea, and the Hand of God on earth.”

  Every subject present bowed at the hip and remained there until the king was firmly in his thrown and pounded his staff on the floor.

  “How is my old friend Magnahul?” he bellowed.

  The guard to the emissary’s left whispered, “Speak now.”

  “He is well your Great Highness and sends you his many thanks that you will see his humble servant. He also sends you gifts which have been submitted to your guards for inspection.”

  “The King is pleased with his old friend’s gestures. What is the intent of this visit?”

  The emissary liberated the missive that bore Magnahul’s seal and handed it to the guard to his left. The guard handed it to the Herald who inspected it, then ascended to the throne and handed it to the King. King Afolabi opened it and read it. There was no indication on his face. Then he lifted his gaze and looked at the emissary.

  “When will you return to Magnahul?”

  “As soon as possible, Your Highness. The tides turn tonight, and we would be most grateful if Your Majesty would permit us to ride those tides.”

  “You are permitted to leave with the tides tonight. Until then, you will remain within the Palace walls and be treated to our hospitality as if you yourself were Lord Magnahul.”

  With that, his Herald struck the gong and once again, everyone present bowed as the King alighted and left. The emissary was escorted to the bath hall where he was cleaned. Then he was escorted to the dining hall where he was fed. His crew was there too.

  As they enjoyed the lavish kindness of the King, the Herald entered the dining hall with fanfare and
approached the emissary with a large parchment.

  “This is the King’s response to your Lord’s missive. You will be escorted to your ship to make preparation for your departure. King Afolabi’s gifts to Lord Magnahul are being loaded into your cargo hold now. May God watch over you as you sail home.”

  Chapter 7

  Inquisition

  Bronia, her soldier and the Vicomte arrived with the moon high in the sky. Lord Magnahul remained in the War Council’s tent speaking to two of his trusted advisors. The Vicomte was placed in the incarceration tent and chained to the iron grate. Guards were placed in and outside his location.

  When Bronia entered the Council’s tent, she greeted the elders and her father. Magnahul cleared the hall.

  “Speak freely, Bronia. What news?”

  “We have a prisoner, m’lord.”

  She explained who he was and the reason she decided to capture him. The interrogation was the next order of business. Father and daughter relocated themselves to the holding facility. The Vicomte du Meaux was arrogant to his captors. He pretended to not know Magnahul and was indignant.

  Magnahul said nothing, and let his daughter retrieve the information they needed.

  “I will tell you nothing because there is nothing to tell,” he offered.

  The guards entered his cell and placed iron shackles around his ankles and wrists then stretched his arms as they secured the chain to posts on either side. They did the same to his feet. He was then relieved of his attire except for a small covering for decency.

  “You cannot do this,” he said, “I am a member of the French palace.”

  No one responded. The more they remained silent, the more the Vicomte grew impatient. Bronia walked up to him and whispered, “We already know what we need to know, we do not need any information from you.”

  At hearing this, the Frenchman turned pale. In his mind, it dawned on him that information was all he had to trade. He was all alone, no one was there to help, even if the troops amassed at Moray Firth came to his aid, Magnahul’s troops would decimate them. They were not yet strong enough.

  He had to buy time, he thought. Only information would allow that, or he could offer the wealth of France as ransom. They left him in the tent to marinate in his own thoughts.

  Father and daughter returned to the former’s tent. There they spoke at length. He could see the fatigue in his daughter’s eyes, but he could also recognize the fire that lit her soul. Her body may have been exhausted from the days of riding and battle, but she was as resilient as he was at that age.

  “Ten thousand men camp at Moray Firth. The French have at least another one hundred thousand more who they can dispatch.

  “Will Edinburgh, London, and the other clans rise against us too?” Magnahul asked.

  “I believe so. It seems like the French are behind this,” Bronia replied.

  There was sorrow in Magnahul’s tired eyes. He knew what had to be done and knew what would happen if he did not act. He had been pushed into a corner to take up arms against his countrymen. Bronia could see it in her father’s eyes – the disappointment and the frustration, but she could also see his resolve. She left her father and went back to her tent. She fell asleep on the fur rug without even removing her boots.

  By the time Bronia Magnahul woke up the next morning, the sun had already risen high. Not far from her tent was her father’s and beyond that was the detention tent. Hagan was in one of the cells within. He could not get to sleep all night as the Vicomte begged and pleaded to be released.

  He had given in to the plight of cold accommodation and having to stand all night.

  By the time Bronia walked in, she didn’t have to ask for anything. He was voluntarily telling her the French plans for the Isles. She disregarded him and walked passed to see Hagan. Her main reason was to be seen in the detention tent. She wanted the Vicomte to see her while she remained aloof. She told the guard to release Hagan.

  She noticed a scar on his neck. It was not there before.

  “What happened to your neck?”

  “Nothing,” he responded. The truth would have been uncomfortable for both, so he chose to say nothing.

  “Why are you here?” she asked.

  “If I tell you, do you promise that you will at least let me finish before you deem me to be a liar?”

  “Yes, you have my word.”

  “More than five years ago, I fell in love with the person the gods wanted me to wed.” It was the best way he knew how to tell her that they were soulmates. Her eyes met his. There was a sudden change in her demeanor. A palpable alteration in her temperature. Her eyes softened.

  “Go on,” she said in a softer tone. It was something that Hagan had never heard from her lips. He thought she was incapable of speaking softly.

  Her tone had changed because the more she sat across from him and allowed his voice to enter her being and feel the radiance that he emitted, the more she believed him. There was something in his image that stirred within her. Something familiar.

  “She disappeared one day.”

  “Did she leave you,” Bronia asked.

  “No, she was taken away. I set on a quest to find her and I ended up here.”

  There was truth in his eyes. There was also pain.

  “What is her name?”

  “Clarissa.”

  Bronia morphed from a rational state to one that seemed lost. She looked at him in utter disbelief and opened her mouth to respond when a messenger came to tell her that she was being summoned by Lord Magnahul.

  “We will continue this later,” she said, as she recomposed her shaken self.

  Chapter 8

  Solution

  “Professor Pietre, there seems to be a solution with a high chance of accuracy.”

  “Quick. Tell me.”

  Twelve years had passed since Hagan’s disappearance. Pietre had been busy working on a solution to the crashing time trunks. None seemed viable until today.

  The last simulation that had been attempted seemed to suggest that the bridge between the two time trunks was located in the Scottish Highlands. It had always been there, but when Hagan’s astral horolog surged, it pushed the pod through the tear between the two timelines and emerged on the other side.

  “Is there a way to replicate it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is there a way to push the time trunks apart?”

  “There is a 98.5% chance of success.”

  Gray proceeded to tell him what could be done that would be able to retard the crashing time trunks and mend the damage. Pietre listened as he absorbed the information.

  “I need to visit the Scottish Highlands,” Pietre decided.

  Chapter 9

  Truth

  Bronia hurried to her father’s tent. As she walked she thought to herself that Hagan was more than just a random traveler. It was not the first time that she had heard the name, Clarissa. She had dreamt of the name and the face since she was a little girl. The dream was always the same. She would always see the girl as a reflection in the water.

  The name was not a common Highland name and the reflection was of a girl who was happy.

  “Was this some kind of witchcraft,” she thought.

  She played back the conversation that she had just had in her mind repeatedly and looked for signs of supernatural elements or of treachery. She found none. Hagan was honest. She could read a person very well. She decided that as soon as she met with her father she would talk to Hagan again.

  Bronia entered her father’s tent. He was listening to a rider that had come up from London. When they finished talking, Bronia presented her self.

  “Let us see what the Vicomte has to say.”

  “Yes, m’lord.”

  Father and daughter walked to the detention tent. The Vicomte had no grace about him.

  “You hatch plans to come against me.”

  “This is true.” The Vicomte was in tears.

  “I know it is true. All I want
to know now is why.”

  That was the only answer that the Vicomte could not offer in return for his freedom. He could give troop numbers, movement plans, and strategies, but he could not give a reason his monarch had decided to lay an attack on the peace of the Isles.

  To conceal his ignorance, he began blurting out what he did know.

  “One hundred thousand troops will march from the east and the south. At the moment, forty thousand troops are amassing at Inverness. Sixty thousand are amassing at Dundee. It will take three months and they will attack in the middle of winter.”

  “We know all this, as I said. We want to know the reason. Why do you want to break our peace that has lasted for more than thirty years?”

  “Of this, I am ignorant my lord. In my position, I am sometimes left at a disadvantage of not knowing my king’s intentions.”

  Magnahul and Bronia returned to the War Council’s tent.

  “We cannot fight back one hundred thousand men by land,” Magnahul said to his daughter. “However, we may have divine intervention in our favor.”

  “Divine intervention?” Bronia asked, perplexed.

  “Fetch the stranger, and bring him here and you will see.”

  Bronia left instantly and returned within a few short moments.

  “The two of you spoke?”

  “Yes, m’lord.”

  “Has he told you that I gave him that scar he now wears on his neck?”

  “No, m’lord.”

  “Interesting,” Magnahul detected character in the stranger’s actions.

  “Ask him how he got here. Our scouts found him on the ridge. Ask him how he got on that ridge.”

  Bronia did not understand. But she knew her father better than she knew any man alive. If he had posed the question, he knew that the answer held a key.

  “How did you get here?”

  Hagan was afraid that things were about to get very dicey for him. The last time he told the truth in the best way he knew how he almost got his throat sliced. That was the reason he was ginger with the facts when Bronia spoke to him at breakfast.