The Lady of Tir'Moore castle, stared unblinkingly out the high windows - PDF document

The Lady of Tir'Moore castle, stared unblinkingly out the high windows of her late husband's study. It had been nearly two days since she had sent them to Nordik and pulling them back was drawing more of her strength than she'd expected. The blood ran thin through her veins, stretched to its limit now due to her recent exertions. She cursed her recklessness in sending two of her adopted children after the boy when she'd known how close the Dread Soldier would be. It had been fortunate that she hadn't slept, or she might have missed the vision of the scarred Captain pointing his envenomed blade at her girls. As the sun ignited the horizon across the far reaches of Nod, their tiny sky boat came into view over the nets of Bisdun. The Countess could sense their confusion as she raised one long graceful arm and guided the pilotless vessel down to the dock, the ropes rising up on their own and tying if off while her loyal guards in their shining red armor rushed to the craft to help the small creatures off. Iris took Captain Himone's hand gratefully, but Arkhe shrugged off the hand of the man who tried to help her, floating up and over to her adopted mother. Their perfectly polished wooden faces gave away nothing, but Countess Brianne Tir'Moore had spent enough time in court and enough time as a vampire to sense the subtle undercurrents of people's thoughts. Arkhe was frustrated. Iris was not, but showed concern for her sister. “My lady, why did you bring us back?” Arkhe asked. “I should never have sent you to begin with,” the Countess replied, gently embracing both of them, “I had hoped that Captain O'Leary would have left the boy alone.” “What does it matter that some human is guarding him? We could have easily dealt with him,” Arkhe insisted. “Is that so?” Brianne raised an eyebrow, turning back to the stairs behind her guard Captain, “Well tell me; where does your power come from?” “From you, lady,” Iris said, stepping in beside her sister. “That is correct. In your current state, your power is taken from my blood which means that you can be no more powerful than I am.” “But with your power you could easily destroy anyone,” Arkhe said. “Even if that were so, killing is not always the best solution to our problems. Or have you forgotten everything I've ever taught you?” she stopped in the hall, opening the door to one of the guest rooms, “Captain, would you and your men please excuse us for a moment?” “Yes, my lady,” Captain Himone replied, directing his men to continue down the hall as the Countess ushered her daughters into the room. She closed the door behind them, stepping out towards the window to draw the shades, the sunlight burning slightly when it touched the exposed skin of her hands and face. When she turned back to them her eyes were glowing red. “Do you know the story of Captain Benjamin O'Leary?” she asked. * * * It took some hours before Mark could recover from the initial shock of what had happened. The giant bugs, and living-dead plant things had been enough, but those things seemed at least to be organic. There were insects and carnivorous plants in the real world, not as large, but he’d at least seen them. Iris and Arkhe on the other hand were not natural. The way they had moved, spoke and how Arkhe had disappeared from right next to him could not be explained. Even after the initial fright had passed him, he found himself clasping his hands together in an effort to keep them still. His muscles tensed and twitched at every jerk of the carriage. He couldn’t stop seeing their faces. It had been the eyes more than anything. Those dead glass eyes, empty of emotion but full of intent. Every time he glanced out the windows he could see them staring back, smiling those cold, lifeless smiles. Their delicate fingers scraped the glass, beckoning him. Mark was taken to the transient barracks on the Southern side of the plateau in the military district. It wasn’t as big as he would have expected, being about the size of the old machine shed on his parent’s dairy farm. Inside, the building was dark and cavernous. There were no rooms, just a single enormous bay area with mats on the floor lined along every wall. There were perhaps a hundred mats, but only thirty or so had any blankets and pillows. Around each used mat there were bags and chests, armor and weapons. Everyone inside was sitting in the center area, covered with a twenty foot carpeted section encircled by couches and chairs, all congregated around a large glass ball that flickered behind the silhouettes of the men and women. Most of them were silent as Mark was ushered by O’Leary to an empty mat on the opposite side from where everyone else would be sleeping. He thought of going over to them, but in truth, he was mentally and physically exhausted. His body ached all over and every bandaged wound seemed to have split open since his mad dash from the hospital basement. Spots of red showed through his hospital robe and he thought fearfully that he felt a warm trickle leaking down from the bandage on his neck. He lay down as O’Leary went over to the main group and sat with his soldiers. He was alone, then. The flickering ball seemed to have pictures inside, moving about like the images on a television screen. There was sound too, though Mark couldn’t hear it from where he lay. Tears welled up. He wiped them away hurriedly, furrowing his brow in frustration. He wasn’t crying. Still his eyes watered. He wondered if it could be the chemicals in the air, but the warmth in his cheeks told him otherwise. He had reason to cry. Like before, he thought of his parents, his brothers, sisters, and his friends Patrick and Greg. He guessed that he’d never really stopped thinking of them, but it was hard to tell. So many things kept demanding his immediate attention that there hadn’t been much time to think. He wondered if they were missing him by now, or if they even knew he was gone. Does time pass in the same way here as it does there, he wondered. Then, Mark thought of the dolls again. He shuddered, pulling the heavy blanket up to his chin. Yet, he continued to think on them. They had said something important, or at least, alluded to it. Had they known? Could they have known where he was really from? If they did, perhaps their mistress really could help him get home. Somehow thinking of them in this manner helped to ease his fears. Then the image of the two orderlies on the floor of the elevator, throats torn open, faces white, completely drained of all color….no…they hadn’t intended to help him. Even if they had, he didn’t want that kind of help. Mark shook his head, fresh tears spilling down his cheeks. It didn’t matter. He never wanted to see anything like that again. Adding to that, he thought, I never want to see giant bugs or plant zombies again either. Of course that was wishful thinking. Realistically, he knew he wouldn’t be able to avoid any of those things if he had to stay in this world. There would probably be worse. He’d only been in this place for little more than a week. He gazed over at the rabble around the glowing ball. The group erupted with laughter at something Cornwell said and Mark found himself growing redder in the face. O’Leary got up, finishing a mug of what Mark could only assume was alcohol, then headed his way. He set up a foldable chair next to him. “How are you feeling, mutt?” he asked. Mark moved his lips as if to say something but nothing came out. Blood dribbled to the floor from the corner of O’Leary’s mouth. In a blink, they were both there, standing to either side of the captain. Iris smiled her plastic smile, while Arkhe effortlessly slid her razor sharp fingernails across his throat, dark fluid immediately pouring down the front of his white undershirt. Mark’s lips trembled as he tried to speak, to beg them to stop. Iris gripped the Captain’s head in both hands and with one savage motion, snapped his head completely around. “Mark!” They were gone. Goosebumps stood up on every inch of Mark’s body, fizzling like carbonated bubbles. He could feel razors of ice, splitting his nerves. He shut his eyes. It wasn’t real. They’re gone. I’m safe. There was something dripping from under the Captain’s handkerchief, but he wiped it away. Mark supposed it was difficult to drink with an open cheek. “Here,” O’Leary said, taking Mark’s hand and placing a large mug in his grip. Mark opened his eyes. “Drink it. After the week you’ve had, God’s blood, you need it.” Mark didn’t bother to look inside the mug or sniff its contents. He pulled himself upright and tilted the mug back, gulping great mouthfuls of the bitter burning brew before he finally gagged on it and took a few deep breaths. O’Leary nodded approval, giving Mark a pat on the shoulder and taking the mug for a moment to refill it with the contents of a leather sack he carried on his belt. “You finish this, mutt and then get yourself to sleep. I don’t envy the time you’ve had thus far, but we’ve all seen our share here. In the morning we can welcome you properly to the company. Till then, if I were you, I wouldn’t go anywhere.” The burning in his throat, the smell of it and the numbness in his lips that followed were enough for Mark to figure out his drink wasn’t medicine. Still, when he’d finally finished it, he actually felt a little better. The numbness gradually spread to his fingers and toes and dizziness overcame him which made him lie back once again, and close his eyes. The smell of strawberries and roses lulled him to sleep, still clinging to his clothes. It became a disturbing reminder that he wasn’t yet dreaming. *** Cornwell woke him up the next morning. Mark sat up, immediately squinting at the lights, glaring down from the ceiling. With his eyes partially closed he struggled to his feet, Cornwell helping him as much as he could. By the time his eyes had adjusted he realized the entire group of strangers he’d seen gathered around the glowing ball that previous evening was now fully dressed in sharp black and white uniforms and standing at attention in a box formation. “Hurry up, mutt. We don’t have all day to do this,” O’Leary said. The Captain stood at the front of the formation, a folded up uniform and a small box resting on his left arm. He wore the uniform like the rest of the group, but his was nearly covered with medals on the left side from collar to belt. Cornwell led Mark to him then helped him to the correct standing position for the ceremony. “Mark Kane, by the authority given me by the Duke of Tir Pobell and the commanding General of the standing militia, I hereby offer unto you a contract of enlistment into the 57th Burner Company. Do you accept?” Mark gaped, staring blankly at the Captain. Before the past week he’d never so much as held a weapon in his hands, much less thought of using one. Surely the Captain couldn’t be offering him a real enlistment? His tiny stature aside, Mark couldn’t imagine being a soldier. He glanced back at Cornwell, hoping their brief acquaintance had earned him the courtesy of at least a moment’s support. Cornwell looked to O’Leary, his eyes wide. “What?” O’Leary seemed annoyed, “No one told him?” “Told me what?” Mark asked. “I told you before it’s not an official contract. It’s open ended. We have to make you a part of the unit or we can’t take you with us to our base in Tir Pobell. As soon as we get you there and to the records library we can figure out where you come from and send you back home. Till then, to avoid any complications, it will be easier for you to be considered a part of the unit. Now do you accept?”Mark hesitated, but after a moment, he nodded. After all, if anyone had been trying to lead him astray, they wouldn’t have bothered to send him to two separate hospitals and then save his life. “I accept, sir,” Mark replied. “Then let all who are here bear witness see that Mark Kane is from this day to be trained as a soldier in the 57th and is given the rank of private. Here is your uniform. You are assigned to third squad, third platoon, under Staff Sergeant Jones. He will oversee your training.” O’Leary handed Mark the uniform and box, then turned sharply to the formation. “Dis-missed.” Sergeant Jones immediately rallied his group, making a circle in the air with his hand. Those that Mark knew were Cornwell, Guy and Perch. There were six others besides. All of them formed a tight semicircle around Sergeant Jones, Mark on the outside until Guy grabbed him by the wrist and pulled him into the group. “Alright third, we’ve got two weeks before we can head up to Tir Pobell. First thing, Mark, this is third squad. You know Cornwell, Guy and Perch. They’re my team leaders. Cornwell, Evans and Uphouse are team one. Perch, Knut and Arthurs are team two and Guy, Rendo and you will be team three. When I’m not around, you answer to Guy, understood?” Mark nodded, trying to fit each person with their name. Sergeant Jones and Cornwell were easy enough to fit. Both of them were black, though Jones was very dark and Cornwell very light skinned. Evans and Uphouse were both taller than Cornwell and very white, though not as white as Knut, who was the only one with red hair, even the stubble on his broad chin showing a hint of bronze. Arthurs was shaved bald, like Jones, but had a mottled tan complexion and slightly graying mustache. He didn’t see who Rendo was. “Alright, Guy, this week you’ll be responsible for teaching this private how to shoot. In the evenings, Mark, you’ll be meeting up with me outside this building for breaking in. Rendo will be your hand to hand instructor. As for the books, you’ll have to get them from Captain O’Leary. Now I understand you might need some more time to recover from your injuries, but that‘s time we don‘t have. If something hurts, let us know, otherwise do your best to push through, understood?” “We on patrol duty today?” Cornwell asked. “Give me a minute before you run me over, Corn. Yes, this week our squad has patrol of the business district.” Jones went on to hand out the assignments for the day. Each team leader received a small packet. Guy took Mark over to her sleeping mat and sat down to read their assignment. She looked different in her clean black uniform. White seams ran up the sides of the pant legs and the sleeves of the jacket to the high collar which touched her chin in the front. Her previously wild hair was now pulled back in a tight bun. She even wore a pair of white gloves which meant the uniform effectively covered all of her tattoos. “So, where do I change?” Mark asked. “You can change by your matt. We’ll have to head over to The Smashed Toe to pick up Rendo first thing,” she replied. Mark went back to his bunk, trying his best to pull up his pants underneath his hospital robe. He didn’t want to disturb the bandages on his legs, but he winced a few times, feeling cuts reopen. He had little difficulty with the undershirt, which was a simple long sleeved garment of flexible white linen. However, the jacket turned out to be more than a trial. The high collar pressed against the bandages on his throat painfully, more so after he’d fastened the top button. Once he’d laced up the narrow black boots, he stood and looked everything over. The buttons were polished white and a small name tag, stitched with white thread on the right side of his chest read, Kane. He thought the uniform looked very nice, but the thickness of the fabric made it feel rigid, especially around the neck and shoulders. He wondered what type of work they’d be doing in such fine clothes. Outside the barracks were two rows of motorized carriages, numbering twelve all together. The narrow metal wheels were lined in rubber, softening the rattle as they rolled over the rough stone roads. The driver’s cabin was on top, much like the civilian model they’d taken to the hospital, but these carriages were made of thicker steel, and the driver’s cabins were enclosed by metal cages. Inside, the windows were smaller and the seats hard steel rather than cushioned wood. Mark climbed in while Guy got up top and started the engine, which rumbled behind the back seat like a geyser, primed to burst. Mark felt sick and not just from the pain. Everything was wrong here. Not just being in a different world, but the common circumstances of his situation. He was badly injured, but just like that, off to work. He thought he could actually feel blood pooling in his socks, but it could just as easily have been sweat. The construction of the city rattled him. There were no sidewalks on the ground. Every building had walkways surrounding its second and third stories, with bridges linking them all together over the road. Here and there a ramp led from the ground up to the skywalks as they were called, but for the most part, the entire world seemed to be revolving overhead. Now and then, a bump or crunching sound would signal him that they had just run over some giant insect or mole creature lying dead on the road. Each one made him cringe. He hadn’t been given a weapon, which was about the only thing that made sense to him so far. From what Guy had explained to him, Rendo was a part of their team, but the day’s task was actually getting a hold of him. Apparently, Rendo was a part time soldier. The rest of the time he was some sort of engineer or tinkerer. Guy had informed him of little else, save that the man had a very short temper and that he should be careful what he said around him, especially concerning his height. It was nearly an hour before they came to the far Northern end of the plateau. There, Guy drove the carriage up a ramp and onto a large extended bridge, wide enough for a single machine to pass. Every piece of Mark wanted to jump out before they started out onto that rickety looking pathway into oblivion. The bridge was supported by cables strung from towers overhead and went far enough that the end of it was literally out of sight. The fog obscured the other side, but not the other bridges. To either side ten or more were strung in the same direction, some higher, some lower, all of them creaking and swaying as carriages rolled over the heavy looking steel planks. As soon as they crossed the threshold of the plateau, Mark dug his fingers into his thighs. He stared straight ahead through the tiny window that looked out from underneath the driver cage. The bridge was swaying slightly, but they didn’t slow down, in fact Guy seemed to be speeding up, likely because the bridge hung down in the middle, wherever that was. While they continued down the slope of the bridge, Mark began to notice the clouds of gas clearing, until all at once, they broke out from underneath the yellow haze and the canyon below opened up. Mark looked down in awe. He’d known it must have been large, but at this point they were possibly six hundred feet from the bottom. To the front and back, the walls of the plateaus were visible and unbelievably massive, like the two trunk-like legs of a great stone titan. Along these walls of stone were sections of holes and pits like honeycomb, where great sucker faced worms writhed and squirmed, reaching out and filtering nutrients from the air. Huge black crab creatures with four sets of pincers crawled down over them, sometimes too close, being instantly pulled to pieces and consumed, or instead going on the offensive and taking one by the throat with a massive claw. Below in the canyon valley lush vegetation overflowed, almost completely obscuring the river that ran through. The trees grew everywhere, even up the sides of the canyon walls, patches of green spotting the flat areas higher up like parasitic moss on stone. There were wisps of cloud floating by beneath them and then, there were things flying about. They were like centipedes with wings instead of legs. Each one was perhaps fifteen feet long, with dozens and dozens of wings beating at either side making it ripple like water. About them were fat rodent sized flies, angry red things that flitted back and forth. Mark’s eyes widened as a massive bird with an impossibly long feathered tail swooped through the mass of insects and snatched a fly up in its great upturned beak. Then suddenly, a shadow flitted past and he saw a bright silvery tail disappear into the fog overhead. He tucked himself back, hiding from view with sudden trepidation. They passed up into the fog again and his heart began to slow. It was a wonder that the gas didn’t settle, but a part of him wished it would. Although he could appreciate the beauty of this world, in a way, the size of it frightened him. He could picture any of those things snatching him from the ground and tearing him to pieces, or swallowing him whole and chewing him up inside. The Northern plateau was divided into two districts. The Western half was called Stone Ledge and according to Guy, most of it was a slum run by a shady character called Mink, who owned most of the homes and businesses. The Eastern half was named Hammitt, for the brothers who owned the chemical plants. The Smashed Toe, was in Stone Ledge, on the third level, which meant it was a place only accessible by the skywalk. They didn’t drive far in Stone Ledge. The roads were in disrepair and Guy informed Mark that from time to time things would accidentally fall from the skywalks, especially when a military vehicle was passing underneath. As they walked down the skyways, brushing and bumping through crowds of people Mark tried not to look anyone in the eye, rather observing the general architecture. The buildings were tall, none less than three stories, but the first stories were all constructed of stone, while the upper levels were either half-timbered or metal framed works. The rooftops all shared the same style of brick or stone shingling, though many homes were missing patches and in some places they seemed about ready to slide off onto some hapless passerby. In most places, the skywalk was built flush up against the buildings, but in some areas it extended out with rails on either side, and a good ten feet separated the general public from private homes. In places like these the skywalk was suspended over beams that ran from building to building, as though everything in the district had been designed and built together on a single frame. Sometimes, it was clear that additions had been made, where a rope suspended bridge would connect two sections, or a single building might literally have a drawbridge on the third level, preventing any other entrance aside from breaking through the walls on the ground floor. Down below, carriages passed here and there, but much fewer than on the Southern plateau. Mark understood why a few minutes later as a bottle of whiskey flew from somewhere above and shattered on the roof on a particularly fancy buggy with gold lined wheels. The man who had thrown it laughed ferociously loud, teetering on the ledge of the skywalk in front of a group of drunks who were cheering him on. Mark suddenly cringed, stopping in his tracks, unable to take his eyes off the spectacle. The man hooted at the buggy, waving his hands, tongue hanging out, when he began to lose his balance. At first Mark assumed one of the spectators would take his arm and drag him down, but instead, another bottle flew at his head, nearly striking him, but causing him to lean back. He waved his arms for a moment, at last realizing the danger, but too late. With a slow backwards somersault, the man fell from the skywalk, arms and legs flailing. He struck the road with a loud thump, like the sound of a hammer striking a watermelon. He stopped moving, but the laughter and cursing continued up above. The buggy skidded to a halt down the road, the driver looking back, then leaning down to whisper something to the passenger. With that, it began to back up towards the fallen man. Mark held his breath, hoping they’d be able to help. He wondered if the man in the buggy could be a doctor, but the buggy didn’t stop. There was a sort of sickening pop as the rear wheel rolled over the man’s head. Mark looked away, but not in time to avoid seeing the red and grey mush that spilled out onto the road. The laughter gave way to shouting and cursing then, and Mark opened his eyes. Down below, the buggy started forward again, running over the corpse one last time while the passenger waved his middle finger out the window.