by Martin Vine
Hopskotch didn’t know. Hopskotch didn’t care. The cicada kicked its legs again, trying to claw its way free. The wings flexed and for a moment he thought it might try to fly off. Panicking, Hopskotch closed the trap.
The insect seemed to calm down. It remained perfectly still, perfectly silent.
The perfect prize!
Holding breath, Hopskotch parted the fingers of his left hand again, this time with less haste and greater caution. It was the strangest cicada he’d ever seen.
On first impressions, Hopskotch would have sworn the creature to be blue-black, save for the translucent wings and large red eyes. Only when a limping Dobbin bumped him from the side, causing the light to shift, was the true spectacle revealed.
Dazzling colours rippled across the cicada’s back, reds and orange-yellows blurring into subtle lime green, blues and purples. Hopskotch angled his wrist to keep the light moving. The cicada’s exoskeleton responded, as if absorbing the white-violet light and reflecting it in shifting bars of jaw-dropping colour. The brooch was still sealed inside his vest pocket and it took him a moment to grasp the significance. With no assistance from his magical lens, with his mind fully awake, with his eyes wide open, Hopskotch could see the colours.
More importantly, he wasn’t alone.
“It’s a rainbow!” whispered Bartrem. “It’s reflecting light like an honest-to-god rainbow!”
Dobbin remained spellbound by the vision. “What the fishmitts is a rainbow?”
“Something that isn’t supposed to exist!”
Dobbin shot Bartrem a confused look, then turned to his best friend. “Like your colours, Hops? Is this what you see in your dreams? Is this what you’ve been seeing all along?”
Hopskotch nodded. Tears welled in his eyes. Finally, he knew he wasn’t alone, wasn’t imagining it all, wasn’t stark raving mad.
“It’s like this and so much more, Dob,” he replied. “You’ve really got to see everything. We’ll do it somehow. We’ll make it so you can.”
Something clicked inside Hopskotch’s head. Returning his eyes to the cicada, he whispered, “I think I know what he is.” Offering his fist, he nodded toward the Wayfarer Sling-pouch still secured around Dobbin’s shoulder.
Dobbin took the hint, placing his own hands awkwardly around Hopskotch’s. Neither boy drew breath till the cicada was successfully transferred. Dobbin promptly changed his grip, one finger either side pinning the wing joints.
Hopskotch inhaled sharply. His heart was pounding. Don’t let go!
He needn’t have worried. If there was one thing Dobbin could do with the utmost confidence, it was handle a cicada. With Bartrem crowding his shoulder, he twisted the critter back and forth, as if mesmerised at the way it continued to turn white light into colour. The insect’s red eyes glowed like hot coals on either side of its wedge-shaped head.
“The Red-eyed Onyx,” he said.
Hopskotch nodded in agreement. “For sure, it’s a Red-eyed Onyx.”
With a nod, Dobbin pulled back the leather-mesh flap of his holding pouch, dropped the cicada inside and secured the latch. “Where you gonna put your victory badge, Hoppy?” he asked from behind a smug grin.
Hopskotch returned it in kind. His hand drifted once more toward the brooch. He so wanted to let Dobbin look through the lens. Something that powerful just had to be shared. Even if it didn’t work – like last time! – at least they would no longer think him mad.
Not after this.
Just as his fingers brushed the smooth-wood surface, the brooch’s light winked out. A cloak of darkness was thrown over the three boys, and the suddenness of it left them blinded. From somewhere over the gorge, a piercing cry echoed. Hopskotch swore he could hear flapping wings. Cold fear surged through his body.
The raven!
He jumped at a much closer noise. Dobbin called out beside him, but he could not process the words. Hopskotch spun on his heels, arms outstretched, staring blindly into the unforgiving black.
The girls? Dapple? All had fled his mind as soon as he’d spied the red-eyed cicadas. How far ahead they might be, he dared not guess.
Through blinking eyes, Hopskotch just managed to identify the shadowed outline of Bartrem’s ample rump bounding past him up-trail.
The voice in his head screamed, “Run, you dolt!”
A Nightmare Made Real
The trail detoured the boys inland and away from the south ridge of Saddleslip Gorge, before narrowing into a canyon-like corridor hemmed in on either side by looming grey boulders. Climbing a ladder of stepping-stones – carved out of what appeared to be one enormous rock – brought Hopskotch puffing and panting to a wide clearing.
To his left towered a grove of tree ferns separating the rock platform from the impenetrable black of the forest night. The broad, sweeping fronds cast great shadows that resembled the claws of some giant crayfish. That was the first thing Hopskotch noticed. Seconds later, he realised someone else had joined the party.
The silhouette lurched from the shadows toward him, hunched over and dragging one foot.
Hopskotch froze. His brain screamed, Shriven!
Cadets, ravens and rampaging ants were bad enough, but now he was face-to-face with a real forest wraith. To make matters worse, his legs refused to move. Blind fear had shut down the flight impulse that ought to have been presently rushing to his limbs.
Before the wraith could reach him, Dapple rushed in. Hopskotch staggered backward in shock. Then something unexpected. Dapple wasn’t attacking the creature, but helping it. As the cloud light touched the side of the wraith’s face, Hopskotch saw a jagged scar below three tufts of ill-kempt hair.
“Grandpa Rand!” he yelled.
Darting forward, Hopskotch angled himself under his grandfather’s left arm. He felt a hand squeeze his shoulder, but there was pitiful strength in it.
Slowly and carefully, Dapple and Hopskotch lowered Grandpa Rand on his haunches. His luggage was missing and he slouched, doubled over, clutching something in his right hand. Hopskotch observed a leather thong holding a glass-smooth stone tight to his grandfather’s opposite wrist. He couldn’t recall ever having seen it before.
The greater mystery was what had put Grandpa Rand in such a state. Barely conscious, he had the look of a man who’d just survived a great battle. Hopskotch’s keen night eyes were quick to spot the spattering of red under the old Sylt’s nostrils.
With shaking hand, Hopskotch retrieved the hanky from his vest and clumsily wiped at the congealed blood.
Grandpa Rand shied away from the feeble attempt at first aid. Hopskotch heard him whisper something to Dapple. It was obviously not meant for his ears, but Hopskotch was certain he’d heard ‘relentless’. The sound of that single word made him shudder.
A familiar clinking from over his shoulder swerved his attention.
“Whoa! What’s up with him?” gasped Dobbin. Bartrem was by his side, both Syltlings panting heavily from the climb. “The raven?”
Hopskotch shuddered. It was not a possibility he’d stopped to consider. Taking a deep gulp, he dared a look skyward, scanning the clouds through the claw-like fern fronds.
Did that thing do this to Pa Rand?
A slight gesture caught his eye, causing Hopskotch to return to his grandfather.
The wounded Sylt pushed a tube into Hopskotch’s ribs. “Take this,” he wheezed.
Hopskotch accepted the package, staring in confusion. It was about one foot long, top to bottom, and almost too round about the middle for his grip to manage. The surface felt like smooth cardboard but with a waxed finish like the paint-supply boxes in the school’s art room.
Hopskotch went to ask what it was.
“Not now,” said Grandpa Rand, cutting off the words before they could leave his grandson’s mouth. Taking the bloodied handkerchief, he scrunched it tight and threw it to the ground. Then he pointed to the leather sling attached to the cylinder and flicked his forefinger twice upwards.
Hopskotch n
odded in understanding. Fighting shaking fingers, he fastened the strap over his right shoulder so that the cylinder wouldn’t bump against his sling-pouch resting on the opposite hip. The weight of it intrigued him (it felt like it might be filled with wet sand), as did the presence of tiny holes running its length.
But surely sand would just spill out?
In his head, Hopskotch began to shortlist what could be inside that was so important.
“Whatever happens,” Grandpa Rand began, before breaking off to catch his breath. Taking a moment, he paused and squinted his eyes, which only served to highlight the pain he was in. “The ants must not get it!”
A shiver ran across the surface of Hopskotch’s skin. Grandpa Rand became suddenly animated, switching from semi-conscious to fully alert in an instant. Craning his neck, the old-timer proceeded to scan the line of tree ferns, left to right. An unsettling sound began to build, rising in volume to drown out the background hum of cicadas.
Hopskotch heard it too, and was quick to recognise the danger: an ant swarm, and by the sound of it, bearing down fast. Hopskotch could have sworn the noise was coming from directly underground.
“Oh, mittens!” squeaked Dobbin.
Grandpa Rand launched himself to his feet, still clutching Hopskotch’s shoulder. “Get them to the bridge!” he yelled to Dapple.
Hopskotch’s brain was overloaded. Bewildered and disorientated, he struggled to process what was going on around him. The cylinder clanked against his left flank. The sound of the swarm was building to thunderous levels. Hopskotch had no idea which way he should be running.
A rough shove from behind startled him into action. Grandpa Rand was yelling something at him. He couldn’t hear over the background noise, but he was clearly being told to follow Dapple. Blindly obedient, he staggered after the feather-clad Sylt, signalling Dobbin and Bartrem with a jerk of his hand.
The high ground beyond the shadow of the fern canopy provided an improved view of the landscape. Bordering the great boulder a giant chasm had opened, blocking their escape. Several tree ferns tilted out over the gap, as if it had formed suddenly and recently. Running the length of the nearest edge, Hopskotch could see hundreds of zigzagging hairline cracks. Loose rubble and scree was spilling into the void. It chilled him to think he might have walked blindly over.
The nightmarish tap-tap-tapping found its way to his eardrums, setting his hair on end. From the inky depths, the ominous sound of countless insect legs marching on hard stone echoed. The truth struck him like a kick to the guts: the swarm was ‘relentless’, not even a giant trench could stop them. The real and present danger was on their left flank: hundreds of thousands of ants charging up the inside wall of the chasm. Soon they would spill over the edge like an unstoppable wave.
Right into Grandpa Rand!
Hopskotch made to return for his grandfather, but Dobbin turned him roughly around, shoving him ahead with unbending strength. Two steps ahead, Dapple sidestepped a smaller rock and the scenery opened up before his bulging eyes. Hopskotch looked straight out at a different kind of horror.
Dobbin knew exactly what he was looking at. Anchored to the edge of the bluff soared two rough-cut wooden poles, angling away from each other to form a giant V. Each emerged from the ground as if the solid rock had melted just long enough to anchor the stakes deep within. Bound to the wooden supports by massive knots as fat as Bartrem’s head, thick ropes curved away into the swirling fog of Saddleslip Gorge.
Though his legs protested, Dobbin just had to know the bridge’s strength. Pushing past Hopskotch, he tested the first plank with one foot, preparing himself for the worst by clinging to the lowermost rope rung. Not entirely satisfied the bridge could carry his weight, he hopped off again and waited for Nissa at the base of the pylon.
There was no way he was going to flee like a coward while Nissa remained on the rock (so he told himself). Dobbin stood his ground, anxiously shifting his weight from side to side, even as his brain screamed at him to push his chest out and brave the bridge. In a moment between breaths, the swirling fogs of the gorge parted and Dobbin’s eyes caught the torchlight lining the span.
“The golden glow,” he whispered, sucking air. T’was the bridge all along!
Though it was only a brief moment in time, Dobbin’s memory held the snapshot. The flaming brands were set high in wrought-iron clamps, creating clouds of orange mist that bathed the wooden planks below in warm golds. The richness of colour brought to mind the subterranean journey through Bridgetown with Bellows.
A flash of movement disrupted the memory. It was Bartrem, shuffling out across the bridge on wobbly legs.
Dobbin took another deep breath. Well, if it will hold him—
While his best friend fixated on the flaming brands, Hopskotch remained locked in his own private torment. A sense of déjà vu settled in his stomach like curdled milk.
He knew it was impossible, but Hopskotch could not shake the feeling. This wretched bluff; this giant rock; the bridge to nowhere. I’ve been here before and I know how this ends!
Before Hopskotch was a nightmare made real. Behind him, a stampeding ant swarm that could tear his flesh right down to the bones (a small part of his brain wondered how long it would take). The sound of them was growing unbearably loud, making his ears itch and his skin prickle all over. An unnatural heat washed over his body. He felt like a piece of hot metal, glowing with energy, yet trapped between anvil and hammer.
As the first wave of fire ants swept over the lip of the chasm, Hopskotch’s instincts screamed, Flee!
A conflicting thought froze his limbs in place: I can’t set foot upon this bridge!
Dapple had other ideas. The force of his yelling echoed right across the gorge.
Hopskotch barely heard the call, but the words “Flek” and “bridge” rang clear. Someone crashed into him and a familiar voice shrieked in his ear. It was Grandpa Rand, his face twisted in fear. He began to say something but Hopskotch couldn’t understand exactly what. It was as if the old Sylt was speaking another language entirely. Something cool thrust against his left wrist and its touch jolted him from his trance.
It was an amber pendant, entirely unremarkable in appearance, but its touch awoke something deep within Hopskotch. He felt lifted from the chaos, like all the fear and insecurity holding him back was leaching out of him and into the ancient sap.
A grimacing Grandpa Rand finished strapping the leather thong to his wrist. Hopskotch winced, then flexed the muscles in his forearm just to see whether it could be done. He was surprised to see the small movement under the skin flipped the gemstone from wrist to palm. The amber pressed into his soft flesh and the strange feeling amplified. His eyes bulged wide as the surrounding landscape sharpened in focus. His skin felt like it was on fire. It was as exhilarating as looking through the magic brooch, minus the fear.
The world was moving in slow motion and Hopskotch thought it not in the least bit unusual. He could see everything and everyone. The bridge swayed a little as Bartrem continued his unsteady journey to the far side the gorge. Dobbin had not yet joined him, instead waiting hand-in-hand with Nissa at the base of the bridge’s pylons. Flek was there too, alongside Dapple, who was staring with fearful eyes at the ground beyond Grandpa Rand.
Less than fifteen yards away and closing fast surged the ragged front of the ant swarm. Hopskotch could see the cloud light bounce pinprick white reflections off their orange-brown abdomens.
Curiously, he felt no fear. From head to toe, his entire body had become spring-loaded with energy. For the first time in his life, Hopskotch was too confident to back down.
Someone else made the decision for him.
Grandpa Rand began pulling him by the pouch sling. The old man thrust his face right up close and it felt to Hopskotch like he was seeing his grandfather for the first time: really seeing him. No longer was Grandpa Rand the lovable, bumbling eccentric of his childhood. Hopskotch recognised primal strength rippling through his grandfather,
and it both intrigued and terrified him. The very air surrounding the old Sylt seemed to crackle and distort with energy.
“It’s up to you now, Blessed,” said Grandpa Rand, barely a whisper. He reached down and snapped the amber out from Hopskotch’s palm so it rested against the inner wrist, then held it fast.
Hopskotch’s world shifted again. He felt the power fade. ‘Blessed!’ His grandfather had not called him that since he was a small child, such an age ago he could scarcely remember. Even amid the chaos and danger bearing down on them, the sound of that name and the memories it conjured brought a lump to his throat.
Grandpa Rand nodded to the cylinder resting on Hopskotch’s hip. “It’s time to bring them home.”
Before he had time to grasp the meaning, Hopskotch was lifted physically into the air. Grandpa Rand bundled his grandson past the others and dropped him roughly down onto the wooden planks of the rope bridge.
Excerpt From The Secrets Of The Ancients
by Tulloch Greighspan
Sedition 7.11
The Battle of Brothers
In the latter days of the month of Summerhoch, Year of Empire: 1104, Albreck Stormsonne walked through the famous Tower Gates of Skeyne and into a city tilting on the edge of anarchy. Word had travelled west that the Blighted had laid siege to Trapspur, the capital of neighbouring Tarador. Military rule was in force throughout the province of Braythorn and whispers of enemy sightings, spies, and rumours of a new sickness were creating a situation of great anxiety that spread as rapidly as Skyfire Blight through the old town.
The Sol Mage of Sanufell had to distance himself from the local troubles, for his mission was very specific: uncover what Dewbreck and his clan of grey-robes were up to and, if necessary, flush out and arrest the old hag in the name of the Crown.
And as he walked the dusty streets of the desert city, Albreck did grow aware of the magical undercurrent emanating from the gaol precinct, moreover, the instability of this new and unfamiliar energy. The dark auras surrounding Dewbreck’s hideout did chill the marrow in his bones, and as cautious as he was powerful, Albreck Stormsonne resolved to confront his brother with guard up.