The Hickory Staff

BOOK II
THE OLD KEEP

Brexan Carderic leaned forward in the saddle, hoping the lower profile would garner more speed from her mount. A strand of wet, matted hair escaped her collar and lashed across her face, momentarily blocking her view. ‘Get it cut,’ she spat to herself, pushing the uncooperative lock away. Her patrol unit was still far ahead and she had no wish to be riding alone through the Ronan forest. Earlier that morning, Lieutenant Bronfio had sent her into Estrad Village with a coded message. All she had to do was wait in front of a particular inn until a local merchant approached and asked for directions to Greentree Square; she was to hand over a small parcel and return immediately to camp.

Brexan had expected the merchant to arrive shortly after she got to the rendezvous; she was annoyed at being left to wait most of the morning. It was nearly midday when the fashionably dressed young man finally approached.

‘Excuse me, but can you tell me how to get to Greentree Square?’ the stranger asked.

‘Certainly,’ she answered, playing along, ‘follow this street north until you come to-’

‘You don’t have to tell me how to get there, you stupid rutting bitch,’ the man interrupted in an angry whisper, ‘just give me the package.’

Brexan was taken aback at his rudeness. ‘Here you are, sir,’ she answered, and was immediately upset with herself for showing the man such deference.

The merchant calmed down. ‘Thank you, soldier. Nice work.’ Reaching into his tunic, he withdrew several sheets of parchment. ‘Take these to Lieutenant Bronfio right away.’

Brexan nodded, ‘Yes, sir,’ and watched the well-dressed man as he wandered off along the street.

By the time she returned to camp, her unit was out on patrol, policing the forbidden forest and the north shore of the Estrad River before joining another unit that evening. Determined to catch up, she rode south, not slowing even when she came to the forest. Standing alone in the centre of the village was relatively safe, but the forest was dangerous to any Malakasian separated from the safety of the unit. Few Ronans would attack an occupation soldier in a town, where an investigation might turn up any number of guilty parties, but the solitude of the southern woods was a different matter.

Brexan reached the beach; she would make up time if she ran along the water’s edge on the hard-packed sand. A full Twinmoon was coming the following day and she enjoyed the feel of the strong winds off the water. The southern Twinmoon affected the tides along the Ronan coast; huge waves pounded the beach this morning and Brexan felt the spray splashed up from her horse’s hooves. It looked as if the world itself were marking the passage of time.

As she rounded a sandy point, Brexan saw a lone man sitting upright near the water’s edge. Reining in quickly, she turned and made for the protective cover of the forest. The pounding surf and near-gale drowned out all sound of her approach. She dismounted quietly, tethered her horse out of sight and slowly picked her way through the underbrush.

Mark Jenkins stared out to sea. He had fallen asleep in the sand and his lower back ached from hours resting on the uneven surface. He had woken just a few minutes before, disappointed for once that he was not in his bed nursing a debilitating hangover. Now, still groggy, he was trying to work out how he came to be at the ocean. Two moons still hung in the sky, although they now looked closer together, as if they might crash into one another in some rare and profound galactic mishap.

Eventually he would have to go in search of food or a telephone… he wrestled with a sense of foreboding that unfamiliar constellations and a second moon might not be the oddest discoveries he was about to make.

Mark’s mind was too logical: he was not ready to accept the fact that he might have been transported to another world, or that he might have died and discovered a two-mooned afterlife. Beside him were hundreds of small holes where he had pushed his fingertips into the sand in an effort to create a map of visible stars. None of their patterns were familiar. Worse, he had seen no planes, heard no cars, spotted no boats and observed no joggers running along the beach. There were no cigarette butts, no empty soda cans, no gum wrappers and no footprints save those he had left himself the night before. He feared he was alone, but he could not think of an expanse of beach in the world where he would so thoroughly fail to find any trace of humanity.

‘Well,’ he sighed finally, ‘I can’t wait here for ever. I’d better get moving.’

He was about to stand when, over the howling of the onshore breeze, he heard someone calling his name. Brushing sand from his clothes, he strained his eyes to see along the beach: someone was running towards him. Squinting, he recognised Steven and shouted out an unintelligible oath. He grabbed his boots and sweater and sprinted towards his roommate, relief flooding through him as he hurried across the sand. Both men were oblivious to the young woman observing from the forest’s edge.

Huddled in a thicket, Brexan watched as the dark-skinned stranger rose and began running along the beach. The Malakasian soldier marvelled at Mark’s outlandish clothing: blue leggings of some sort, a bright red tunic and a white undergarment that exposed his bare arms. She had no idea which territory produced such strange clothing, but she knew she had to get word of this intruder to Lieutenant Bronfio and the local officer corps as soon as possible. Feeling in her vest for the pages given her by the merchant in Estrad, she crawled back to her horse as quickly as she dared.

When she came upon her mount, Brexan nearly vomited from the stench. The beast lay dead, rotting at an unnatural rate in the Ronan sun. Dumbfounded, the soldier noticed the tree to which she had tethered the horse only moments earlier was also dead. It was a large coastal cedar, and when she had tied the reins to it, it had been lush with prickly green branches. Now it was grey, dry; it looked as if its life had been drained through the sand, squaring some overdrawn account with nature.

The horse twitched several times and Brexan backed away, fearing the rotten shell of the animal might spring up from the small puddle of blood and bodily fluid gathering beneath it. A moment later, the beast was bone-dry, mummified. The fluids that dripped from the dried flesh were strangely absorbed and the putrid stench faded on the ocean breeze.

Brexan nervously rubbed her palms across the breast of her tunic and wondered what to do next. Her saddle and weapons remained buckled to the corpse. Tentatively she inched towards the remains.

As she began unfastening a short dagger and her forest bow, the almor sprang up before her. Brexan screamed, ‘Lords, help me!’ and, falling backwards, stumbled over an exposed root. From the sandy forest floor, the soldier looked into the face of the demon creature and watched in horror as the nearly translucent visage peered back at her. Brexan knew the legends of terrifying demons that ravaged the known world thousands of Twinmoons before. She always believed they were tales amplified by the passage of time: monsters grew more powerful, demons more frightening and magic more mysterious as stories were handed down through the generations.

Looking up into the perfectly evil face of her first almor, Brexan realised she had been wrong. The creature’s eyes were deeply set, grey, and changing shape as the monster contemplated her. It stood on fluid, shapeless hind legs and its height fluctuated between that of a tall man and a small tree. It appeared to be comprised entirely of a cloudy, milk-white fluid, but if the tales were right, the demon possessed superhuman strength and speed. Fighting back would be pointless. All she could do now was to wait for it to decide whether or not to take her. Brexan tried to close her eyes, preparing to feel her life drain away, but as frightened as she was, she could not keep them shut. She had to look at it.

The almor had experienced ample gratification with the horse and the large cedar tree. Both had given it energy. For a moment it considered taking the young woman cowering on the ground until, reaching towards her, it was reminded of its mission. This was not the one it had been summoned to find. The almor was driven by urges, and with its need for food satisfied, the urge to find its target was renewed. It was being controlled by a distant force, a long-forgotten voice that had commanded it once before. It would not be permitted to return home until it had found and absorbed its target, a sorcerer. Reaching out with one formless arm, it found the root system of a grove of cottonwood trees. Then it was gone.

Brexan lay in the dirt, breathing hard. She rolled onto her side, vomited into a patch of sweet-smelling ferns and promptly passed out.

‘I can’t believe I found you,’ Steven called as the roommates met on the beach. ‘I was convinced-’

He was interrupted as Mark hugged him hard. ‘I thought I died. I thought this was some sort of afterlife, some crazy hallucination-’ Mark stopped and held Steven at arm’s length. ‘You are really here, aren’t you?’

Steven handed him a balled-up piece of paper. Mark unfolded it: their August telephone bill. ‘What’s this?’ he asked curiously. ‘Why do you have our old phone bill?’

‘We are someplace. We aren’t dead and this isn’t a dream.’ Mark still looked confused, but Steven continued, ‘It was the tapestry, the cloth from the safe deposit box. I threw that phone bill into the air above it and watched it disappear.’

‘What? So, it’s some kind of transportation device, some hole in the universe? What is it? How did we and our phone bill get here?’ Mark was frustrated. ‘Steven, we live in Colorado, a long, long way from the sea: and here we are, at the ocean… an ocean. I don’t even know if there are other people around here.’

‘I don’t know how it works and I don’t know where it’s dropped us, but it’s sent us somewhere.’

‘Why?’

‘What do you mean, “why”?’

‘I mean why would it send us somewhere? What’s its purpose? Why would such a thing exist?’ Mark’s head began to ache again; he rubbed his temples.

‘I don’t know. Maybe it’s some experimental military transportation device they hid in our bank.’

Mark shot him a dubious look. ‘A hundred and thirty-five years ago?’

‘Maybe not. Maybe they did it six months ago and we didn’t know. Either way, I’m certain the answer isn’t going to come looking for us here.’

The first arrow struck the ground near Steven’s right foot. Without thinking, he jumped out of the way, then shouted, ‘What the hell is that?’ Before Mark could answer, a second arrow hit the sand only inches from the first.

‘Stand still,’ a voice called from the edge of the forest. ‘Do not try to run.’ Seeing Mark raise his hands in the air, Steven did the same, dropping Mark’s jacket to the sand.

‘We aren’t going to run,’ Mark shouted towards the treeline. ‘We’re lost here and need to borrow a phone. We’ll leave just as soon as we can call a cab.’

‘Speak Common,’ the hidden voice commanded, and accented the order with another arrow at their feet.

Steven looked at Mark. ‘I understand what he said. I mean, I can tell what he’s saying.’

‘So can I.’ Mark’s face modulated from fear to curiosity. ‘It’s not German and I recognise enough to know that it isn’t Russian. How can that be?’

Instead of responding, Steven turned his gaze towards the forest. Two men appeared from beneath the trees. ‘Holy shit, look at them,’ he whispered. ‘They look like something out of another time. Look at their clothes – and those weapons.’

They were dressed similarly: each wore boots, leggings made from some sort of fabric – cotton or wool, Mark guessed – and heavy cloth tunics belted around the waist. One wore a short dagger and carried what appeared to be a rapier, while the shorter of the two was armed with a longbow. Mark could clearly see it was nocked with an arrow and ready to fire. The three arrows at their feet indicated some skill; Mark suspected any escape attempt would mean certain death.

Garec and Sallax moved warily towards the two strangers. ‘I’ve never seen anything like them before,’ Garec whispered, keeping an arrow trained on the lighter-skinned man. ‘Look at those costumes they’re wearing.’

‘They don’t look like they’re from any tribe or territory I’ve ever come across,’ Sallax answered, ‘but I bet the next round they’re Malakasian.’

‘The dark-skinned one might be from the southern coast, but his clothing is absurd.’

‘His tunic is red. Maybe he’s royalty.’ The big man laughed ironically. ‘Do you think they’ve been sent here to infiltrate the Resistance?’

‘How could they expect to blend in looking like that?’ Garec asked. ‘Is Malagon that stupid?’

‘I’ve no idea,’ Sallax answered, ‘but Gilmour will know. Let’s get them back to Riverend.’

‘How?’ Garec began to look worried. ‘We’re not supposed to be out here ourselves. What if they alert someone?’

‘We kill them both and run,’ Sallax answered calmly, then added, ‘What language were they speaking? Did you recognise it?’

‘I don’t know. It certainly isn’t Malakasian.’

‘Lords, do you suppose they’ve developed some sort of spy tongue? Isn’t it enough that they’ve run our lives and our country for five generations? What do they need with a spy language?’ Sallax looked as if he were about to impale the strangers with his rapier.

‘Let’s wait. Gilmour will know who they are.’ Garec looked back along the beach. ‘Let’s get them out of here quickly, while we’re still alone.’

Steven and Mark still had their hands in the air as Sallax and Garec reached them. Sallax glared at Steven. ‘On your knees, spy,’ he ordered.

‘We told you we’re unarmed,’ Steven replied hesitantly, moving his hands in front of him in a gesture of supplication. ‘Just let us explain.’

‘We’re lost,’ Mark interjected, but he stopped as Sallax stabbed the point of his rapier against Steven’s chest.

‘Speak the common tongue, you rutting animals,’ he ordered, ‘or I will kill you both, right here.’

Mark looked at Steven, took a deep breath and tried to relax. ‘We’re lost,’ he answered. A look of surprise swept over his face and he nearly smiled at Garec. ‘I did it! I- I can talk to you!’

‘That’s better,’ Garec answered, gesturing to Mark to continue.

‘I don’t know how this happened,’ Mark went on, ‘but we were home and we found this cloth… actually he stole it-’ and then, thinking twice, he corrected himself, ‘well, no, he didn’t steal it, that was a joke… anyway, this cloth sent us here. We don’t know how and we don’t know why, but we are here, wherever here is, and we’d like to get back.’

‘You’re thieves then?’ Sallax asked.

‘No, no,’ Mark replied quickly. ‘I’m a teacher and he’s a banker. We’re from Colorado. Have you heard of Colorado?’

‘No. You’re lying,’ Garec said. ‘There is no such place as Coloredado.’

‘Colorado,’ Steven corrected, then immediately raised his hands in apology.

‘Yes there is,’ Mark said. ‘It’s where we come from. We have no idea how we’re talking with you right now. We’re afraid we’ve come to another time, another place, somewhere we never imagined we’d be, and somehow, we can speak with you. We don’t mean any harm. We’re peaceful. We just want to get back home.’

‘Liars, spies, thieves.’ Steven flinched as Sallax punctuated each word with short thrusts of his rapier. ‘I despise all of them. On your knees.’

Garec drew several leather strips from a pouch at his belt and firmly tied the strangers’ hands behind their backs. He picked up Mark’s sweater and jacket from the sand as Sallax ordered them up the beach towards the thick foliage of the coastal forest.

‘How did you do that?’ Steven asked under his breath.

‘I don’t know. I just relaxed my mind and the words came to me,’ Mark whispered back. ‘It’s not possible, though. I mean, suppose we’ve come back in time and this is early Europe. I don’t speak those languages… neither do you.’ He took several steps, looked back at their captors and added, ‘Listen to me. Back in time, what am I saying?’

‘Hey, at this point, all we can do is wait and see. When I saw the phone bill and those beer cans disappear into that tapestry, I knew this was something different from anything we could ever have imagined.’ Steven closed his eyes and tried to slow down his thoughts. Then it happened; a handful of foreign words took shape in his mind. ‘Where are we?’

Mark flashed him a quick grin. ‘That’s it. That’s how I did it.’

‘It’s none of your rutting concern where we are,’ Sallax answered, jabbing Steven in the lower back. ‘You just keep moving.’

Steven muttered, ‘Sorry I asked, I guess.’

Mark stifled a laugh. Steven felt better knowing they were together. It had taken every ounce of courage he could summon to step onto that tapestry, and when his foot had come down in the shallow inlet, Steven knew they really had uncovered something supernatural, something completely and utterly unexpected. Strangely, he was not as afraid as he’d expected to be – waiting all night on their porch, not knowing, had been more frightening; that had paralysed him with fear. Now, even with his life in danger, he was glad he had taken the risk.

‘You didn’t tell me you brought beer,’ Mark continued, softly, ‘or were you thoughtless enough to lob empty cans through? Typical – God, but I could use a cold one now.’

Steven surprised himself by managing a laugh, but the moment passed when he felt the tip of Sallax’s blade in his back again.

It was early evening by the time they reached their destination: the forest surrounding Riverend Palace. Stopping at the edge of the palace grounds, Sallax pushed his prisoners to their knees, ‘We wait here until dark,’ he said curtly, leaning against a large maple tree.

Mark looked beyond the trees to the crumbling palace in the distance. ‘Why not now?’ he asked, more to observe their captors’ reaction than expecting an answer.

‘Mind your rutting business,’ Sallax said.

Garec came to sit near the two prisoners. ‘It’s several hundred paces of exposed ground between here and the palace. If you’re really Malakasian spies, then you’ll understand why we wait here. I’m afraid you also understand why we can’t allow you to leave with that information.’ His tone was almost apologetic.

‘We’re not spies,’ Steven told him, trying to remain calm. ‘We already explained-’

‘Yes,’ Garec interrupted, ‘you said a magic cloth transported you to our forest from Coloridio or someplace. Surely you understand our hesitation in believing such a story.’

‘But it’s true,’ Steven tried again. ‘We were in our own home last night. Look at our clothes: it’s much colder where we live.’

‘Yes,’ Garec agreed, ‘it is much colder in Malakasia.’

Steven and Mark looked at each other and shrugged. They mutely agreed to try again after they reached the old castle. It was clear, even from this distance, that Riverend Palace was in ruins, the moat dry and the outer battlements crumbling in numerous places along the wall. Once an architectural monument to Rona’s royal family, it was a dismal reminder of a more prosperous time. Mark could see that the roof over several wings of the sprawling stone structure had caved in.

Looking to Garec, he said, ‘I love what you’ve done with the place.’

‘Time, weather, nomads, even local masons needing stone have all contributed to its disrepair. Legend has it the palace was once a grand residence. I sometimes enjoy imagining what it must have looked like,’ Garec mused, almost to himself.

‘Who lives there?’ Steven asked.

‘Lived,’ Garec corrected. ‘The Ronan royal family used to live here. Of course, they haven’t been around for the past nine hundred and eighty Twinmoons.’ Steven and Mark exchanged a curious glance. ‘But don’t pretend this is all new to you.’ Garec was suddenly angry. ‘It’s your rutting horsecock of a prince who keeps us in this situation. I have to sneak about the forests of my own country. Palace grounds are forbidden, forbidden for Ronans to visit. They should be a monument, a national treasure, but instead they rot out there while we sneak around under the heavy hand of your murdering dog tyrant leader Malagon.’ Garec glared at them then rose and walked to the edge of the long meadow separating them from the palace.

Mark pieced the information together and risked a quick exchange with Steven in English. ‘So, this is Rona. They’re enemies with MalaMalasomething, wherever that is, and Mala- Malasomethingelse is the prince who rules with, and I’m guessing here, a bit of a heavy hand.’ He would have continued, but Sallax hit him hard across the temple with the back of his hand.

‘I told you to use Common,’ he ordered. ‘You wait: if Gilmour says you die, I will be especially pleased to cut your heart out and feed it to a village dog.’

Mark shook the ringing from his head. He’d had enough. He lashed out at Sallax’s legs: a wide, sweeping kick caught him behind one knee, knocking him to the ground. In an instant Mark was on him. Although he couldn’t free his hands, he did manage a fierce blow to Sallax’s nose with his forehead before Garec pulled him away.

Blood ran across Sallax’s face as he stood, breathing deeply, and drew his rapier. ‘We only need one spy for interrogations,’ he growled, seething with rage as he moved deliberately towards Mark. ‘Say good night, my friend.’

Mark tried to slither out of his way, but as Sallax raised his blade to strike, Garec stepped between the two men, wrapping his arms firmly around his friend in an attempt to pin the bigger man’s rapier to his side.

‘No, Sallax. This isn’t war; this is murder. We don’t kill unarmed prisoners. We are Ronans, remember?’

Sallax was too angry to speak; Garec continued, ‘Here, wipe your nose. Have a drink.’ He drew a wineskin from his pack. Mark crawled back to Steven’s side, but he wasn’t fast enough to avoid a brutal kick to his ribs.

‘This is far from over, spy,’ Sallax growled.

‘Untie me, you big bastard,’ Mark taunted Sallax between laboured breaths. ‘Set me free and we’ll see how tough you are, shithead. I’ll make you swallow that sword, motherfucker.’

‘Mark, calm down,’ Steven whispered, trying to stop his friend railing at the now-impassive Ronan. ‘You’ll get us both killed, and I’m pretty sure if we’re dead here, we’re dead at home too. For God’s sake, shut up.’

Finally, Mark gave up cursing and fell back to the ground, coughing violently and fighting to catch his breath.

Brexan woke with a powerful headache. She wasn’t sure how long she had been unconscious; just a few moments, she assumed. Sitting up in the sandy dirt, she rested her head in her hands until the pain subsided. She cast a curious glance around the forest, but saw nothing of the almor. ‘If it wanted me, I’d be dead,’ she said to herself and struggled to her feet. On the ground where she had fallen were the pages the merchant had given her earlier that morning. Retrieving them, she noticed the wax seal was broken. She looked around self-consciously before reading the message scrawled inside. The pages contained a detailed drawing of Riverend Palace and the surrounding forest. Arrows and symbols gave directions for an assault, by two platoons of soldiers, apparently, and outlined the direction from which they were to attack a large building inside the courtyard. It looked like Lieutenant Riskett’s platoon would approach from the south across the battlements and through a large window at the east end of the building, while Lieutenant Bronfio’s platoon – Brexan’s own – would attack from the north, through the portcullis gate, entering the building from the west.

Brexan folded the pages back up: it was obviously important Lieutenant Bronfio get them as quickly as possible. Ignoring her aching head, she began jogging through the southern forest towards the outskirts of Estrad Village. She wondered if the mysterious strangers she had seen on the beach earlier that morning were somehow involved, perhaps even the reason for the impending attack. She cursed her bad luck as she followed a game trail: she must reach Lieutenant Bronfio by dawn tomorrow; failing to deliver the message and plans would put her fellow soldiers at risk – and end her career in Prince Malagon’s army. As one of only three women in Bronfio’s platoon, she already had to work much harder than her male counterparts to earn the respect and admiration of the officers. Losing her horse and failing to deliver critical espionage information would ruin any chance of promotion, even to the rank of corporal, for at least the next ten Twinmoons. She ran on, alone and afraid, hoping desperately to avoid any lurking Ronan partisans who might take her prisoner or, worse, kill her on the spot for being stupid and irresponsible enough to get separated from her unit this far into occupied lands.

The dinner aven had nearly passed when Brexan reached the encampment. Another platoon had arrived; she recognised Lieutenant Riskett pacing outside Bronfio’s tent. All around her, people were readying themselves for the coming conflict. She hustled to the lieutenant’s quarters to deliver her message.

Brexan explained the delay – leaving out the almor attack; she wasn’t sure they’d believe that – to an exasperated Lieutenant Bronfio and waited, sweating, filthy and tired, while he contemplated the pages she had handed over. She’d decided to say nothing of her encounter with the almor: most Malakasians believed the demons to be just a legend, and she was pretty sure her story would be interpreted as nothing more than an elaborate excuse for losing one of Prince Malagon’s mounts. Instead, she blamed a riding accident.

Now, standing at rigid attention outside the lieutenant’s tent, she ignored stares from Riskett’s soldiers while friends from her own platoon grinned at her, some in compassion and others in ridicule: it would be a long time before she would be allowed to forget that she’d lost her horse.

Lieutenant Bronfio appeared through the flaps of his tent, looked Brexan up and down and ordered her to make ready for the assault on Riverend Palace.

‘Get a mount from the pack animals. There are a few sturdy enough,’ Bronfio told her. ‘I commend your determination to get these pages to me, soldier. However, in the future, I would encourage you to be more careful with His Majesty’s horses.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Brexan replied, then, glancing towards her fellow soldiers, added quietly, ‘Ah, sir? There were others on the beach, sir. They were-’

‘Never mind that now,’ Bronfio interrupted, annoyed with the young messenger. ‘Just ready yourself for the morrow.’ Brexan shut her mouth.

When night finally fell, Garec motioned for the two prisoners to stand. ‘We’re going in… stay low, and don’t say anything until we’re inside the battlements. One word out of either of you and we’ll leave your corpses for the spring flowers.’ Steven and Mark nodded assent. Sallax said nothing as he started out into open ground. Covering the distance to the crumbling battlements took less than a minute, but for Steven it felt like an eternity. Remembering the accuracy with which Garec had fired arrows at his feet that morning, he feared there would be other archers, assassins or snipers watching for this Ronan Resistance group.

‘I don’t even know what they’re resisting,’ Steven grumbled, staying as low to the ground as possible. Though his head and shoulders were bent, he felt as if his backside were exposed for any passing archer to skewer like a ham.

But when they reached the palace, he thought they might have stepped onto a big-budget film set. Even in its dilapidated state, Riverend towered above them, an imposing stone edifice black against the night sky. It was difficult for him to believe it had all been constructed for one family. The main building alone looked like it could easily accommodate several hundred guests. It stood now, a disintegrating relic from a majestic past Steven could not begin to understand. A small part of him was excited, wanting to get inside and look around.

Steven’s thoughts were interrupted when Garec took him by the arm and guided him to a narrow opening in the battlements. He was glad they didn’t have to climb over the walls with their hands tied behind their backs. The stone ramparts reached nearly thirty feet into the sky and although they were crumbling in places, scaling them would be a difficult task, even for experienced climbers like him and Mark. He squeezed through the thin breach in the fortress’ defences and found himself in a large courtyard.

Garec and Sallax immediately relaxed and Steven guessed they had reached a safe area. Still afraid to speak, however, he and Mark followed the two partisans towards the main building across the courtyard. There was an enormous stained-glass window in one of the outer walls. Steven had travelled through Europe while in high school; he’d seen many examples of stained-glass, and he was certain this window dwarfed the largest he could remember by several times: he estimated it was nearly a hundred feet high and fifty feet wide. Even in the dark, illuminated only by the light of the twin moons, Steven could see this was a stunning example of both creativity and engineering, even though several of the panes had been shattered – most likely falling victim to children throwing stones before fleeing back across the crumbled ramparts.

He was still appreciating the intricacies of the window by moonlight when Mark nudged him gently in the ribs. His roommate gestured towards the window’s lower left corner, from where a soft, eerie glow emanated. Steven understood they were not alone. There were others waiting inside.