Chapter One: Where Brave Men Fear to Tread

Chapter One: Where Brave Men Fear To Tread

 

    “Hold it steady,” said Timar, leaning over Jijanne, bracing her. “Don’t let go, it’ll fly away.”

    “It’s too hard, Pipaw,” she complained, hanging onto the kite string for dear life.

    At first the wind was soft and gentle as the two ventured out, perfect conditions for kite-flying. Yet minutes into the maiden flight, it became erratic, changing direction as the clouds overhead swirled about.

    A blustery wind swept upward off the sand, leaving the flapping kite to zigzag through the air. Nearby seagulls fared no better as the fickle winds blew them about.

    Just as the pair regained control, a sudden change of the wind’s direction sent the kite tumbling, careening into the sand. The impact was punctuated by a large crack, as the dowel rods of the frame shattered. "

    “Oh no!” Jijanne cried out, taking off in a dash down the beach.

             Doing his best to keep up with the energetic girl, Timar hobbled behind, arriving in time to find the girl sobbing as she clutched the tangled mess of string and silk.

    “Oh, Pipaw…” she cried. “It’s broke.”

    He placed a weathered hand on the girl and smiled. “No worries, sweet one. We can rebuild it.”

    “We spent all week on it, though.”

    Together they gathered the broken kite, gently dusting off the sand. “And we will spend another week, you and I, making it again. Making it better.” Her tears subsided and she embraced old Timar. “Now sweet one, the tide is coming and we should be getting to places safer and higher than here.”

    A winding path beyond the beach twisted upwards over a nearby ridge, overlooking a massive cliff. Timar could feel his age every time he made the climb. It was murder on his knees, and his heart thumped harder than what he felt was normal.

    The quaint house with a wooden shake roof surrounded by a small fence lay nestled between the cliff edge and a passing dirt road, thick with weeds from diminished travel.

    Damned weeds... If only my cucumbers were so hardy…

    He lamented having to swing that blasted sickle one more time. Last time, he swore he’d felt a snap and a pop in his shoulder.

    Yet his contempt for yard work subsided when he spotted the horse tied to the hitching post next to the house. A beautiful Sargossian courser the color of golden brown.

    “Pipaw, see?” Jijanne pointed. “A horsey!”

    “Yes…” Timar nodded. “It appears we have company.”

    Upon entering the front door, the old man and little girl were greeted by the scent of boiled onions and turnips from a pot of stew, as an old woman hovered over it, gently stirring.

    “How did it go, sweets?” asked Lilara.

    Timar looked down, patting the girl on the head as she gave a look of disappointment.

    “It broke.”

    “I’m sorry, sweets,” Lilara replied in a comforting tone.

    “Pipaw says we can remake it, though,” Jijanne exclaimed. “Right, Pipaw?”

    “Of course,” Timar said with bold reassurance.

    Lilara smiled, turning back to the pot. “We have company.”

    “Company?”

    Lilara nodded, pointing to the dining room. Timar carefully leaned past the wall, glancing upon a middle-aged man in dusty leather pants and a trench coat sitting at the table, patiently waiting.

    Glancing to Jijanne, he shuffled the girl off to play. “What does he want?” he whispered.

    “Like you have to ask.” A hint of disdain echoed in her voice. “I told him you’d be back. He insisted on waiting.”

    A troubled Timar peeked around the corner. The dull flash of a scabbard caught his eye and he swallowed, stepping into the room.

    The fresh-faced man turned and smiled, clean shaven, save for a bushy mustache under a wide-brimmed hat. He removed the hat at the sight of Timar, revealing his hair to be sweaty and matted.

    “Timar Randalas, I presume?”

    “Yes?”

    “Evening, sir,” the man moved to shake Timar’s hand. “I’m Marshal Jericus Verdinar. I came from Senshire, about a league north.”

    “Yes, I know where Senshire is.”

    The Marshal removed his gloves and hat, flashing a copper badge from his pocket.

    “Can I get you anything?” Timar asked, adjusting his glasses as they slid down his nose. “Some coffee, tea, water?”

    The man eyed the bottles on the shelf, high above the hearth. “Is that rum up there?”

    Timar turned to see. “Amongst other things.” He reached and grabbed the bottle and a glass, pouring the man a shot.

    “You’re a brave man to keep bottles up so high,” remarked the Marshal who wasted no time downing the drink, taking a moment to let it run past his throat. “I won’t presume to waste any more of your time than I have to.”

    “So how can I help you, Marshal?” Timar asked nervously.

    “These are trying times.”

    “I can probably imagine,” Timar replied, taking the other seat at the table. “I don’t envy your job. Not one bit.”

    “It has its days.” The Marshal ran his finger over the edge of the glass. “I’m looking for someone.”

    “I would dare to say you succeeded,” Timar smiled. “You found me.”

    “You would be right, if you were the man I am looking for.”

    “Well then, who are you looking for?”

    The Marshal peered at his empty glass and then to the bottle. “Do you mind?”

    Timar shook his head, giving a welcoming gesture as the Marshal poured himself another shot. “I nit-pick what little information I can from the drunks passing out in the streets,” he sighed, knocking back the rest of his rum. “Seems a lot of folk have taken to the drink. Still… I hear things from the folks passing between Senshire and Thressia.”

    “What sorts of things?” Timar swallowed.

    “A lot of nonsense, I can assure you. Things being what they are, people are scared, of course. But, anyways, your name came up when I stopped by the University. Seems you used to teach there.”

    Timar nodded. “I did, yes.”

    “I had a few words with Professors Waltham Krikgrund and Marlic Senize. Do you know them?”

    “I do, yes.” Timar adjusted his glasses again. “I can tell you anything about post-migration Elytia, Imperial Reysia or even some things about eighteenth century Duria. But I can’t help you—”

    “—They said a man came 'round a few months ago. Dark glasses. Blond hair. Pale complexion. Had a queer voice. They said you two had quite a few exchanges, and he disappeared around the time you left.”

    “I’m afraid I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about,” Timar replied, as the room became hot.    

    “Why did you leave the University, Professor?”

    Timar looked around the room in thought, rubbing the top of the table. “Didn’t seem much sense in teaching anymore,” he softly replied. “Attendance was less year after year, and they could barely afford to pay us. What good is an education anymore?”

    Downing the shot, the Marshal winced as the liquor burned his throat. “Before, they said we had less than ten years. Now it’s five. Tomorrow it could be less.”

    “It’s hard to say exactly,” Timar replied sullenly.

    A soft tinkling sound grew from the bottles above the mantle. It was smooth like the soft jangling of bells, quickly growing into a violent clattering. The Marshal grabbed the bottle of rum on the table, as Timar scrambled to secure the bottles above the hearth. The entire house shook as the chairs in the dining room vibrated, pattering over the wooden floor, followed by the windows as they rattled in an ever-increasing intensity. A skittering sound above their heads echoed through the ceiling as a few wooden shingles shook loose, sliding off the roof.

    The quake lasted only a minute before gradually subsiding, leaving everyone frozen in place, hanging onto the breakables.

    Timar and Lilara exchanged looks as they breathed a sigh of relief. Jijanne came running, clutching her poppet tight. “Pipaw! Mimaw! It happened again!”  

    The Marshal took a long drink from the bottle as Jijanne eyed him with suspicion, hiding behind the chair. “She fears strangers. Smart girl. Is she yours?”

    “Aye,” Timar replied, pulling Jijanne close and kissing her forehead. “She’s our granddaughter.”

    “And her mum? Dad?”

    Timar gave a grieved expression and a shake of the head.

    The Marshall replied with a smile and a nod of understanding. “At least she’s got somebody. That’s more than most kids can say. Seems I’m constantly rounding up strays in Senshire. I swear I take one off the streets and two more take their place.”

    Timar ran his fingers through Jijanne’s hair, giving her a pat. “It’ll be alright, sweet one.”

    “That was the first quake of the day,” remarked Lilara, changing the subject. She wrapped her frazzled grey hair into a bun and straightened her apron. She smiled wide when she realized not a drop of stew had spilled.

    “Come with me,” said Timar, heading from the dining room.

    Together the men moved towards the back door, stepping out onto the wooden deck, which rested not far from the cliff edge, overlooking the sea.

    “Forty years ago you couldn’t even see the shore from here,” said Timar. “There was a forest here before the ocean came and washed it all away.” The pair peered downward as a raging tide came crashing inland, rising some twenty feet high and breaking violently over the shoreline, churning into a foaming brown slush of dirt and sand. “We’re moving this summer, the wife and I. Seems the house won’t stand much more than a couple of years before all this gets washed out, too.”

    The Marshal looked upward at the moon in the southern sky. Larger than ever, it appeared broken and shattered, with a long fissure running through it, as if someone had struck it with a mighty hammer for no reason other than to break it. A large detached portion floated not far away, with a subtle trail of what looked like smoke, comprised of smaller bits of dust and dirt following behind, trailing over the sky and vanishing over the opposite horizon.

    “I suspect you’re either hiding him, or you know where he is,” the Marshal said with a deep exhale.

    Timar balked. “I’m sorry… What?”

    The wind swirled over the cliff, and the Marshal pulled his coat tight. “I just want to talk with him. That’s all.”

    “I think you should be leaving,” Timar replied with a pointed glare and gesturing to the broken moon. “I just want to be with my family, for what little time we have left.”

    The two men stood, staring outwards over the sea, when the click of the door handle preceded the soft footstep. The Marshal spun around to find a man with dark glasses and pale skin standing behind them, attired in plain dress but wearing the Marshal’s hat. Timar froze in place, terrified.

    “I heard someone is looking for me.” The man possessed a uniquely seductive voice, low and sweet, like music. “Mind if I join you, gentlemen?” Timar moved to stand between the men. “It’s alright, Timar.”  The man pulled a freshly-rolled cigarette and lone match from his pocket, striking the match off the wooden rail. With a deep breath, he blew a waft of smoke in the opposite direction of the others in deliberate courtesy, taking a casual posture. “So, Marshal Verdinar. It’s been a long time.”

    The marshal instinctively flinched for the sword on his belt, then relaxed his hand. “Indeed,” he replied with grit teeth.

    “Old habits die hard, I see. I must congratulate you on finding me. I couldn’t help but overhear some of your conversation with my good friend here,” the man said, with a grin aimed at Timar. “I had hoped we could let the past be the past. After all, had I not done what I did, you might still be Deputy Verdinar.”

    “Marshal Rancic was a good man.”

    “A good man, yes. A pragmatic man? I’m afraid not. Did you come to seek revenge?” The man casually leaned against the wall, enjoying the shrinking cigarette, when a gust of wind blew the cherry off. “Damn,” he cursed, flicking the rest away.

    “I need you to come with me.”

    The man blurted out a laugh so hard he coughed. “No chains, no cuffs, no fetters? I do say, if I was a betting man, I’d wager you’re under the impression I’d come willingly.”

    Timar bristled, unsure what to say or do. “Rowen, don’t hurt him,” he muttered under his breath.

    “How presumptuous of you, Timar.” Rowen pulled another cigarette from his pocket, patting himself over. “Shit, that was my only match. Timar?”

    The old man shook his head. “Gave those up decades ago. They’re bad for you.”

    “So, as we were saying,” the cigarette bobbed in Rowen’s mouth as he talked. “About me surrendering myself to you?”

    The Marshal tried his best to hide the fear in his eyes. “It’s not like that.”

    Rowen stepped forward and his disposition soured. “Tell me why I shouldn’t throw you off this cliff and let your body break against those rocks down there.”

    “Rowen!” Timar shouted.

    “Marshal Rancic couldn’t let sleeping dogs sleep, poking his nose in places not worth smelling. I see the acorn falls not far from the—”

    “—They think they can fix things,” the Marshal blurted out.

    Rowen turned to Timar. “His breath stinks of liquor. He’s drunk.”

    A shaken Timar moved to grab the Marshal. “What do you mean, fix things?”

    The Marshal turned around and pointed upward at the moon.

    Rowen laughed.

    “But how?” Timar asked, genuinely interested.

    “I can’t say how, for certain. They’re putting together a group led by someone from the University in Thressia. They sent me to find you.” The Marshal looked directly at Rowen.

    “Why me?”

    “They said you had information. Information that can help them reach Galadripol.”

    Timar and Rowen exchanged looks of shock.

    “Galadripol is gone,” Rowen scoffed. “Who knows what lies in its place now, assuming it isn’t flooded or consumed by fire.”

    “And then there’s the Dreth,” Timar added. “There’s no way a lone man could make it two thousand miles and not get butchered by those iron monsters.”

    “I smell bullshit,” Rowen seethed, slinking towards the Marshal.

    “Hear me out,” the Marshal pleaded. “Like you said, I didn’t come here with chains or fetters. I don’t know my head from a hole in the ground when it comes to these things. I admit it. But from the way they’re talking, some folks really believe there’s a chance. A real chance.”

    “What if he’s telling the truth?” Timar asked.