The Smiths of Ohr-Rey

The Keep of Time, book 2

Kelly Owen

1

The Gray Warrior. Mystical, magical, destroyer of the world. Me.

The trouble was, I didn’t want the job. Being your own boss isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.

A noise disturbed my thoughts. A voice far away.

"Are they alive?" A woman, speaking softly accented Tibries, her vowels round, the edges worn off.

I tried to tell her yes, but couldn't seem to find my mouth.

"Difficult to say, and hardly worth the effort." This from a man, his words also accented, but different. Crisp, too perfect, someone who’d learned the language through formal education. I didn't much care for what he said.

One of them moved closer, their feet crunching lightly on gravel, gravel that I’d just noticed was grinding itself into my face.

Where was I? A beach? What was I was doing there? Hadn’t there been a boat?

"This one looks Zhaka-Aren." The woman again, standing next to my head.

"Yes, and the other is from the Crystal Legion. A strange combination, to say the least. They are, no doubt, nothing but trouble. It would be best to leave them here for the tide."

I was liking him less and less every time he spoke.

"No," the woman said. Her tone, soft as it was, leaving no room for argument. "We must take them up to the castle."

That a girl, don't let him push you around.

There was a moment’s silence, ended by a long sigh from the man. I pictured a hen-pecked husband.

"As you wish, my love.” He said it in such a way that I quickly revised my image of him. His tone was not that of a husband giving in to a nagging wife, but a man who gives because it pleases him to do so.

There was another short silence. I could almost see the woman smiling, perhaps putting her hand on his arm in silent thanks.

"I will stay," she said.

Silence. It took me several seconds to figure out that the man had left, making not a sound with his departure.

I tried again to communicate. This time I must have grunted something, because the woman bent down and touched my face.

"You will be taken care of," she said, her voice soothing. "Help is on the way. Now rest."

Rest? No, I couldn’t rest. There was no time.

I tried to tell her. There was something urgent I had to do. A mountain to climb, a river to cross, a universe to end.

I mumbled and she touched me again, her hand on my neck. “Sleep.”

She said the word twice and I went back to wherever it was I’d been.

Thirty feet on a side, the room’s twenty foot high stone walls dwarfed the king-size canopy bed in which I lay. Mostly empty, the only other furniture in the misplaced auditorium were a massive wardrobe of dark wood, an uncomfortable looking chair, and two five foot tall wrought-iron candlesticks, their flickering light leaving the room's distant corners in darkness. There were no windows, and the room smelled of musty disuse. I was not in Mercy Hospital.

I half rolled, half slid to edge of the bed. Pushing my feet from under the covers, I let them drop to the slate floor, and managed to sit up, taking stock of my condition. My body hurt, my head ached, and it felt like several sand crabs from the beach were eating their way through my throat from the inside. Not a bad way to start the day when balanced against being carried out on the tide.

Shivering, I took note of the fact I was naked. I pushed myself off the bed, wobbled a moment, then made my way to the wardrobe. Maybe someone had been kind enough to leave my clothes. They hadn't. Like Mother Hubbard, the cupboard was bare.

Re-crossing the room, I pulled a quilt off the bed and wrapped myself in it, then set out to find my benefactors, if that was in fact what they were. They had, after all, taken my sword.

Eight feet high and four wide, the door was out of proportion to the rest of the room. Too small. It should have been one of those towering double wide numbers, with iron bands across it. The doorknob almost made up for it though, a gargoyle’s head with fangs.

It took me a few seconds to figure out that I had to put my hand into the gargoyle’s mouth to open the door. Someone had a very warped sense of humor.

Pulling the door open, I expected one of two things to happen. Either it would creak loudly, or stay closed, locked from the outside. It did neither. Instead it swung smoothly and silently out of the way, wasting the whole effect of the handle.

A wide, curved hallway stretched away to the left, the wall on both sides broken every thirty feet or so by recessed doorways like the one in which I stood. In the dim light of two candles set in wall sconces, I counted five rooms before the corridor disappeared into its own curve.

To the right the hall was much shorter, ending in empty air about forty feet away. To the right it would be.

I passed two doors and considered stopping to see if Hagrov was in one of the rooms, but decided against it. I still wasn't sure of our relationship. While he might be the closest thing I had to an ally in this place, it was just a likely he'd help put the rope around my neck if the chance to hang me came.

At the end of the hallway I found myself on a spacious balcony overlooking a room big enough to hold a baseball infield. A broad curving staircase wound its way down to the floor thirty feet below. Two people, a man and a woman, sat at opposite ends of a huge dining room table. They were both looking up at me.

Gathering the quilt around me, I started down the steps, the end of my makeshift toga dragging behind. I hoped it looked more like the train of a royal robe than a little boy's security blanket.

The woman got up and met me at the bottom of the stairs, taking my arm as I staggered a little on the last step. She steered me towards the table, taking some of my weight with remarkable strength. All the more so because she was tiny.

“Good morning,” she said, helping me into a chair. “But you should not be up.”

I recognized her voice as that of the woman on the beach. The man must be the one who wanted to leave us for the fish. Better luck next time, buddy.

Grateful to be sitting, I studied the woman while I caught my breath. A little more than five feet tall, slender, with fine blond hair reaching to her waist, she couldn’t have weighed more than ninety pounds. The heavy dark blue velvet gown she wore only accentuated her petiteness, making her look like a little girl dressed up in her mother’s clothes.

“Here,” she said, pushing a goblet towards me.

Nodding my thanks, I lifted the heavy crystal and sipped. It was kavat, a thick, sweet healing potion, providing both nourishment and energy. The stuff had saved my life more than once since arriving in this world.

I looked down the table at the man. He was much like the woman, with tied back shoulder length blond hair, fine features, and fair skin. The notable difference, other than his maleness, was his size. Where she was diminutive, he was a spire. It was difficult to judge his height as he sat, but obvious he stood taller than my six-one. Though his build indicated he probably weighed less than I did. Automatically measuring him as I would an opponent in the ring, I judged I’d have to watch out for his reach, but could take him with a few hard punches to the body once I got inside. Having once been the number one light-heavyweight breeds an arrogance hard to suppress.

He contemplated me with eyes so blue they seemed unreal, as if colored by a child’s crayon. “It would seem an interesting tale that brings a Zhaka-Aren warrior and soldier of the Crystal Legion to be adrift on the same raft,” he said, continuing to scrutinize me with unembarrassed frankness. “I would like to hear it.”

“Mica,” said the woman, her tone one of reprimand. “Your interrogation can wait a moment while he recovers.”

She turned to me and smiled. “I am Showlan Llan, sixty-third Showlan. And this is Mica, Baron of Threset. May I ask how we should address you?”

“Aaron,” I said, wondering if Showlan was a title or a name.

“And what clan of Zhaka-Aren are you?” she asked.

“I’m from the Tolde’,” I said, telling the truth without telling it all.

Baron Mica placed his elbows on the table and put his palms together, long fingers pointing at the ceiling. “And how is it that a Tolde’ Zhaka-Aren comes to Threset?”

This time Llan didn’t intercede, but tilted her head in expectation. Apparently she’d decided I’d recovered enough to answer.

Where to start? Tell them that while I’d been born in this world, I’d spent most of my life in another? That a woman I loved lay locked in a state between life and death within the Keep of Time, only its waning power keeping her alive? That I was on a mission where both success and failure would lead to the end of existence?

“There’s not much to tell,” I said. “The ship I was on was attacked. When it sank, Hagrov, that’s the Legionnaire, and I ended up on a raft together. After a few day’s of floating around in the sea we washed up here.”

“What were you doing on a ship with the Crystal Legion?” Mica asked. “They are not noted for sharing their quarters with those who poses mortal souls.”

“We were not on the same ship.”

Mica nodded, his expression thoughtful, obviously understanding the implications of my statement. “Even stranger that you should be together.”

“It is unimportant,” Llan said, coming to my rescue once again. She reached out and touched my arm reassuringly.

At her touch I felt a sudden disorientation, the room seeming to vanish, my body floating in the  nothingness at the center of Keep of Time. For a moment I saw the twelve Stones hanging before me like stars in the void, their power holding the Universe together. Blinking, I broke the spell, only a cold numbness remaining where Llan’s fingers rested on my bicep.

I looked at her hand and noted for the first time the rings she wore, one on each finger. Set in each was a crystal of dark volcanic glass. I knew if I looked closely, I’d see intricate runes carved into the surface of each.

These were Casting Stones. In the hands of someone with the gift, they could be a powerful tool. Or weapon.  Somehow their touch had momentarily returned me to the Keep of Time.

“You are still unwell,” Llan said, apparently taking my momentary distraction as a sign of lingering exhaustion. “You should eat a little and then return to bed.

“Flora, Emman.” She called out the names loudly.

A man and woman appeared. They resembled Mica and Llan not only in their fine blond hair and slender builds, but facial features as well. I wondered if they were part of the same family.

“This is Aaron,” she said, introducing me more as one would to equals than to servants. “Please bring a plate and some food.”

The two nodded their heads slightly in my direction and left. They returned in a few minutes with bread, cheese, some kind of sausage, and a bowl of fruits resembling apples.

In spite of my recent starvation, or maybe because of it, I wasn’t particularly hungry, but decided I’d better eat a little anyway. I’d just started in on the bread when Mica turned his head to the stairway.

Following his gaze, I saw Hagrov coming down the stairs, wrapped as I’d been in a blanket. Which reminded me I still wasn’t wearing any pants. It was a tribute to Llan’s graciousness and style that I wasn’t uncomfortable with the situation.

Hagrov hadn’t done as thorough a job of wrapping himself toga style. Much of his powerful chest and right shoulder were exposed, showing the thick layered muscles of a heavyweight in his prime. Remembering our brief fight, I was glad he’d been more dead than alive. In top form he might have taken me and there’d only have been one guest at dinner tonight.

As she had done for me, Llan rose and escorted him from the foot of the stair to the table, while Mica sat and watched. He was no gentleman.

“Aaron was just telling us of your adventures together,” Mica said, once Hagrov had been provided with food and kavat. “Perhaps you could help by clarifying how the two of you met.”

Hagrov looked at me, dark eyes questioning what he should say. Finally he shrugged, the blanket sliding off his left shoulder, revealing a, fresh, blood spotted bandage. Sword wounds often heal slowly.

“He pulled me from the sea,” Hagrov said. “We floated around a few days, no food, no water, getting weaker each day. Aaron saw land and tried to bring us in. A wave flipped the raft as we neared beach. I’m not exactly sure how we made it ashore.”

“I dragged you,” I said. There was no thank you.

Mica once again made a steeple of his hands, this time resting his chin on the tips of his fingers, looking at us both with those blue, blue eyes. “Very convenient for you, Aaron coming by on a raft as he did. You owe him more than your life. Your soul would now be trapped in the rock of Atune’ had he not saved you.”

Hagrov frowned at his plate. “Yes, I was lucky.”

“Well,” Mica said, pushing away from the table. “It would seem we need to find you both some clothes.”

“And my sword,” I said. “I’d like my sword back.”

“You’ll have no need of it here. You’re quite safe within the castle.”

“I have a sentimental attachment, almost a phobia,” I said. “I just can’t relax without it.”

Mica turned the full attention of his strange eyes on me, and for a moment I was mesmerized, locked in place by the power behind them. “I have heard the word of a Zhaka-Aren can be trusted in all things. Is this true?”

“I’m not Zhaka-Aren.” The answer was drawn from me, going directly from brain to mouth, bypassing the normal filters.

“Then what are you?”

The compulsion to answer was overwhelming. I knew, with that part of myself that stands off to the side and watches, that Mica had somehow hypnotized me.

Pain suddenly flared on my right index finger, shocking me out of the trance. I broke contact with Mica’s eyes and looked at the ring I wore, one similar to Llan’s. The micro-runes cut into its surface danced a moment, then settled back to immobility.

I returned my attention to Mica. “I’m simply a traveler who wants his things back, then to be on his way.”

Mica tilted his head, long blond hair falling to the side, his lips pressed together, eyes slightly narrowed. I don’t think he was used to people breaking his psychic hold. But he recovered quickly. “For the moment let us tend to the clothes.”

I nodded. “For the moment.”

In my peripheral vision I noticed Hagrov’s hand on the table, relaxing his grip on the dull dinner knife next to his plate. Interesting. I wondered which of us he’d intended to use it on. Perhaps both?

Llan moved from behind Hagrov to stand next to Mica. Also interesting. I hadn’t seen her leave her seat. Had she been ready to intervene if Hagrov had tried something?

“If you will return to your rooms,” she said. “I will have clothing sent up for you to try on. We should be able to find something that fits. Then you must rest for a few hours. Flora will call you for dinner.”

I gathered my blanket, and dignity, around me, gave her a slight bow, then headed for the stairs. Hagrov followed. I was careful to stay at least two steps ahead as we ascended, not knowing if he’d left the knife behind or brought it with him.

Back in my room, I sat on the edge of the bed. I felt like hell. Apparently it takes longer than twelve hours to recover from several days of dehydration. Normally I would have given Mica some serious thought. However, right now I didn’t much care. All I needed from him was information. And my sword back.

I had to get out of here. Armageddon. Ragnarok. The Apocalypse. Whatever name you have for the end of the world, the countdown was on. And there was a rumor only I could stop it. Honestly, I didn’t give a damn about the world. It was Jharen I cared about. If the Keep of Time died, she died with it. I couldn’t let that happen. It was my fault she was there.

There was a knock on the door. It was pushed open before I could answer. The old guy, the servant who wasn’t a servant, came it. He had a tall stack of clothes in his arms and dropped them on the chair.

“Thank you,” I said.

He looked at me a moment, eyes hooded, then turned and left. Apparently bringing me clothes was beneath his normal duties.

I sorted through what he’d brought and found a dark blue silk shirt and pair of forest green hose that fit. The square-cut hem of the shirt hung to just above my knees, acting as a sort of doublet. My own boots stood next to the bed. Someone had taken the time to remove the salt from their soak in the ocean and soften the brown leather with polish or saddle soap. They looked better then they had in a long time.

I was pulling the second one on when the door opened again and Hagrov came in, then closed it quickly behind him. He was dressed much as I was, only his shirt was golden-yellow and his hose light green. Neither of us would make the cover of GQ.

I took a quick glance around the room, searching for something to use as a weapon, in case this wasn’t a social call. The five foot tall candle-holder next to the bed was the best I could do.

“We must leave this place,” he said, his voice pitched low as if someone might be listening at the keyhole, or gargoyle’s ear.

I stomped my foot into the boot and stood, sliding closer to the oversized candlestick. “I’ve every intention of doing so, once I get my sword back.”

“We can not wait. It must be now, before nightfall.”

I reached out, casually putting my hand around the candlestick as if using it for support. “Why?”

“What he did to you, with his eyes, didn’t you feel it? He is a Kaatune′ , one who lives on the blood of others.”

“A vampire? Shouldn’t he be sleeping off the day in his coffin?”

“I know not what you mean with your mockery,” Hagrov said, picking up on my derisive tone, if not understanding my words. “But if we remain here we will not live to see the dawn.”

Crazy as sounded, I had to take Hagrov’s belief seriously. After what I’d seen in this world, vampires were just a likely as flowers. On the other hand, they were unlikely to be anything like the ones in the late night movies I’d watched in the collage lounge. While I’d begun to figure out that some of the strangeness of this world occasionally slipped across to the one I thought of as normal, they were never exactly like the stories. So much for eye-witness accounts.

“Any idea where we are?” I asked.

Hagrov shook his head. “We caught your ship somewhere between Mont and Te’ata. How far we drifted after that I do not know. But we must be somewhere on the Southland coast.”

“We need information. We don’t know what it’s like outside. It could be jungle, or desert, or anything in between. And we have no idea what direction to go in.”

“It does not matter. We have no time. Once night falls, the Kaatune′ s strength increases to that of ten men. In battle his wounds heal instantly. He will break our necks as we would break a bone to suck the marrow.”

I wasn’t sure Hagrov was right. It seemed that if Mica had wanted to play mosquito with us, he wouldn’t have suggested leaving us on the beach to drown. And there was Llan. She’d intervened to save our lives. Why would she let Mica kill us now?

But Hagrov was right about leaving, if for the wrong reason. I needed to get moving.

I let go of the candlestick and moved toward the door. “Let’s see if we can find a map. And my sword.”

Hagrov stood for a moment, blocking the door. I prepared myself for a fight, hoping he didn’t have the knife with him. But he moved aside to let me pass.

Acutely aware Hagrov was behind me, I opened the door a couple of inches and peeked out. The hallway was empty.

Hagrov moved up next to me. “What is your plan?”

I didn’t have one. But as this had never bothered me before, I started toward the staircase, figuring our weapons were unlikely to be kept in the bedrooms.

The hallway was now lit only by the indirect light from the candelabra on the table in the main hall, the candles on the wall having been extinguished. Again I noticed there were no windows.

We paused at the top of the stairs, listening. All was silent. This was the place in the movies where someone says, ‘It’s quiet. Too quiet.’ I don’t go to many movies.

We descended the stairs and started circling the great-room to the right, peaking in each door as we passed.

The first led to the kitchen. I wasn’t hungry.

The next was closed. I put my ear against it and, hearing nothing, lifted the gargoyle latch and pushed it open. An office, replete with oversized wooden desk. But nothing that looked like a weapon. The pen is not mightier than the sword. We moved on.

The prize was behind door number three. Going through the same listening routine as before, I opened the door onto a small armory. The room smelled of oil and rust, overlaid with a mustiness hinting at a space little used. Shields, spears, pikes, and lances hung on the walls. Beneath them were racks of swords.

“Grab a candle,” I said.

Hagrov went to the dining table and pulled one of the fifteen or so candles from the candelabra. I let him lead the way into the armory.

My sword wasn’t hard to find. It was just inside and to the left of the door. Someone had taken the time to clean it and apply a film of oil to protect it from rust. Thoughtful thieves. I picked it up and looked for a scabbard that would fit, mine seeming to be missing.

The clank of metal on metal brought me back to Hagrov’s presence. I turned, remembering the last time he’d been armed he’d been trying to kill me.

He stood beside the door, swinging a three and a half foot long broadsword back and forth, testing its balance. He’d stuck the candle into one of the racks, and in it’s flickering light the blade seemed to dance in and out of existence, accompanied by a soft whoosh as it moved through the air.

For a moment another light joined that of the candle, the runes imbedded in my blade coming to life as they always did in the presence of a creature of Hell. I prepared to fight my way out of the room.

“A good weapon,” Hagrov said. I didn’t know if he was talking about his or mine. “Let’s return to the kitchen, take some supplies, and go.”

I shook my head. “We have no idea which direction to go in once we’re outside. We need to find a map, or at least talk to one of the servants.”

Hagrov had a doubtful expression, then shrugged his oversized shoulders. He was used to taking orders. Good military training.

I nodded towards the doorway, indicating he should go first. I’m used to giving orders. Good life training.

“Check the office,” I said, my voice almost a whisper. “Look for anything that will tell us where we are. I’ll look in the other rooms.”

He grunted what I assumed was agreement, because he headed back toward door number two. I went the other way, toward a hallway we hadn’t checked yet.

I was in front of the first door when I heard a moan from the next room. I couldn’t tell if it was someone in agony or ecstasy. My initial instinct was to ignore it. I’m more into participation than voyeurism. I started to move away when I heard it again, this time accompanied by soft sobs.

The better part of valor told me to move on. But the image of Mica torturing some helpless villager to force them to sign over the family farm wouldn’t let me. “Damn,” I muttered under my breath.

I slid quietly down the hallway and paused outside the door where the sobs were coming from, louder now. “Damn,” I whispered again.

Should I knock? Or….

Holding my sword in my left hand, I reached into the gargoyle’s mouth, lifted the latch, took a breath, and as I exhaled pushed, hard, throwing the door open.

The room was lit by a dozen candles placed in holders on the walls, their yellow light illuminating a scene from the corners of Hell. Llan, lay naked on a narrow cot, her almost translucent skin in sharp contrast to the crimson staining the sheet under her legs. The soft sobs and moans were hers. Mica sat on a stool next to her, his face turned away from me, seemingly unaware I’d entered.

I took a step forward, sword raised, ready to separate Mica’s head from his shoulders.

Hearing me, Llan opened her eyes and lifted her head. “No,” she whispered, her voice horse. “No,” she said again, shaking her head to reinforce the word.

At the sound of her words, Mica turned his head. His lips and chin were stained with fresh blood. His eyes, though looking at me, were unfocused, as if in a trance.

“Get out,” Llan said, her head dropping back onto the cot, her voice barely loud enough to hear.

Feeling as though I’d walked in on a couple on their wedding night, I backed out of the room, pulling the door shut after me. For several seconds I stood staring at the wooden edifice, trying to both understand and erase what I’d seen.

“There you are.” It was Hagrov, standing at the end of the hallway. “We can leave now. I found a map.”

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