Firestone Key Page 4

“Drevel bringed her,” interjected Bert, whereupon Drevel trotted over to Elaine and pressed up against her.

  “Long talking with her, were ye?” the tiny woman responded, with withering sarcasm, hands on ample hips.

  The dog emitted a half-hearted growl and sat down next to Elaine. Everyone else avoided the exasperated woman’s eyeline. Feeling foolish, as usual, Myrrdinus gave up on the argument and poked the render, instead.

  “Ye want it waking?” she snapped.

  “We going, please?” Bert interrupted, worried by the increasing volume of render grunt. His friends, agreeing with his judgement, duly piled back onto the cart. Drevel peered up at Elaine, who seemed frozen to the spot, and gave her a gentle nudge.

  “Staying here, thanks,” Elaine told him, crossing her arms to illustrate her point.

  “Staying where I seeing ye,” the little despot informed her in a tone that brooked no argument. “Not leaving ye for renders.”

  Drevel barked his agreement and headbutted Elaine in the rear.

  “Stop that,” Elaine grumbled, but she had seen the wisdom of leaving. “I’m going.”

  Steadying himself, Bert offered her a hand up onto the cart, glaring a warning at Drevel, whose only response was a toothy grin. The tiny redhead clambered up beside Elaine, her bulk causing the cart to visibly sink.

  Surprising everyone by heading back to the render, Myrrdinus worked out his frustrations in his usual manner. Raising a borrowed sword above his head, he swung with all his might, severing the beast’s head in one colossal blow. Job done, he mounted the driver’s seat, flinging the bloody sword into Bert’s lap.

  Having been asked to move on, the poor wheezing horse took three strained attempts to get the cart rolling.

  “Think we could have eated it?” mused the tiny woman, watching the render’s corpse recede into the shadow of night.

  Chapter 4

  The temple had been built at the whim of the Queen, simply because she happened to loath the more practical castle. The morbidly ornate structure housed the Priesthood of Magikers, a member of which owned the robes Elaine had recently appropriated. Avoiding painful memories that the castle invoked, the Queen preferred to lounge in her luxurious apartments, a fire perpetually burning in an attempt to stave off the cold and damp of the dreary climate.

  Asleep in her fur-laden bed, the Queen sensed the return of the Firestone within her dreams and sat bolt upright with astonishment. Blood coursed through her veins in a manner she had thought long gone. It had been more than ten years since she had last been strong and beautiful, and the tiny echo of that promise thrilled her. Though they dare not use the name to her face, the Queen knew that her oppressed subjects referred to her as ‘Harpy’. Little did they know that her decline had not ceased and that her power had waned to a dangerous level.

  It no longer mattered. If the Firestone had returned, then it would soon be in her grasp and all her suffering avenged.

  Painfully rising from the bed, the Queen donned a hooded robe and made her way down the spiral steps to the temple’s altar room. There she found a quaking, singed Sworder addressing Gergan, the sadly flamboyant High Priest, whose own decline had more to do with over indulgence and debauchery than the horrors of magiking.

  “What’s wrong?” The Queen’s once melodious voice was little more than a croak.

  “Majesty,” began Gergan, “Sworder report Elaine arrived in castle, but she escape.”

  Expecting a scream of fury and a display of violence, Sworder found her ominous calmness infinitely more terrifying.

  “You sent trackers in pursuit.”

  It was not a question.

  Sworder’s knees barely held him erect as he replied, “No, Majesty. Renders.”

  “Fool!” the Queen exploded, landing a weak slap on his face. “They’re killers.”

  He barely felt the blow, but his fear grew, nonetheless. This Queen didn’t rule by physical strength.

  “She be with dog. Joined group of masked rebels, stealing food.” Sworder took a deep breath. “We finded bodies of renders: one bottom ravine, tother capitalated.”

  “What?” the Queen shouted, turning a shade of purple beneath her hood.

  “Head cutted off…”

  “I understand capitalated, you arnus!” By now the croak had risen to a screech. Breathing heavily, she turned to Gergan. “Send trackers before the rain starts and they lose the scent.”

  The words had scarcely left her mouth when the gentle pitter-patter of rain began to water the foliage surrounding the temple. It was as though nature itself was determined to thwart her. Undaunted, the Queen quickly changed her plan, rounding on Sworder. He nearly jumped out of his skin.

  “You. Call on every village. Find her. Do not fail me.”

  Sworder threw himself out of the room to get out of her presence.

  * * *

  Anaemic rays of grey dawn were struggling to penetrate a dense curtain of rain by the time the ragged band of humanity, plus assorted animals, drove clear of the forest. Bereft of the leafy umbrella, Elaine felt the cold, wet force of inclement weather bombard her completely inadequate t-shirt. Hair plastered to her face, drenched jeans weighing her down, Elaine felt every one of her thirty years and probably looked far worse. Drevel snuggled close in an attempt to warm his new friend, drool dripping on her shoulder, but her shivering was growing worse. The redhead, who was a soft hearted young woman under the bravado, peeled off a layer of fur and threw it over Elaine. It might have been badly worn, but it was also warm.

  “Th...thank you,” Elaine said, teeth chattering.

  In the weak light, she snuggled beneath the fur and carefully examined her new friends; if that’s what they were.

  The man they called Bert was much older than the other occupants of the cart. His tough leanness, lined face and bald crown, with only a wisp of grey hair beneath, probably marked him as being in his sixties. He must be brave; he had thrown himself into the fight with only one good leg. The other, currently tucked beneath Drevel, ended just below the knee.

  Myrrdinus, who looked less than half Bert’s age, was every bit as handsome as last night’s shadows had implied. He stood a full head taller than Elaine and was twice as wide, with long, muddy blond hair haphazardly braided back, revealing a strong chin and prominent cheekbones. Driving the cart, his features silhouetted against the pale sky, he resembled a Viking warrior. His flame haired, tiny consort could not have been more of a contrast.

  Gwyneth adjusted the angle of her ample posterior in order to rifle through one of the sacks of food. Coming up with an apple, she bit into it with relish, the loud crunch alerting Myrrdinus to the theft.

  “Food for everybone,” he pointed out.

  “One apple, misery,” she protested, her mouth full. “I be Gwyneth,” she told Elaine. “How ye get here?”

  Elaine sighed. “Doubt you’d believe me.”

  “Not dimly,” Gwyneth said, nodding her head at Myrrdinus. “Him, maybes. Not me.”

  Staring into Gwyneth’s emerald eyes, Elaine was certain that that statement was true. “I don’t know,” she told her, straining to provide some sort of answer to the question. A severe shiver, not entirely due to the cold, wracked Elaine’s body, causing Drevel to growl quietly at Gwyneth and press even closer to his charge, furry cheek to cheek.

  “Be yer shaggy arnus, if turn out she doing magik,” Gwyneth told him as the cart finally rolled up to the outskirts of a village.

  Small wooden cottages were dotted around the meagre land, each sporting a thatched roof which kept out the rain and retained the warmth of roaring fires. With the countryside apparently overgrown with forest, wood seemed to be the only thing in plentiful supply for these oppressed people. Bedraggled livestock huddled together in the fields behind the village.

  Unseen, a plethora of furry lookouts had already bleated and chirped a sequence of warnings, alerting the villagers to the new arrivals long before the cart made its way through the empty, mud so
aked crop fields. Recognising their friends, villagers soon emerged to greet their return.

  Her eyes peering over the fur jacket, Elaine watched the crowd of villagers part, allowing passage for a man she assumed was their leader. At the latter end of his forties, he was still ruggedly handsome. His physique was undiminished by years of hard labour, though wavy, coffee coloured hair was flecked with minimal signs of greying. The auburn haired, rotund, tiny woman at his side could be none other than Gwyneth’s mother.

  Quivering with energy, the miniature whirlwind advanced on the cart with relish. Myrrdinus winced before she had taken two steps, anticipating the verbal thrashing he was about to receive.

  “Ye promised me not doing anything ‘fore telling us,” the woman scolded, as though he were a naughty child.

  Myrrdinus opened his mouth to defend himself. Gwyneth got there first.

  “He lied,” she stated, mischievously, and launched herself into the older man’s waiting arms, crying, “Dad!”

  The leader, now identified as Gwyneth’s father, hugged his daughter fiercely, leaving the disciplining to her mother.

  “I not lied,” Myrrdinus retorted, angrily.

  “Telled me of this trip then?” the angry matriarch pressed, continuing her interrogation.

  “Er, no…but I…”

  “Come here!”

  Myrrdinus reluctantly got down from the cart and shuffled up to the little woman, looking everywhere but down into her eyes. She barely reached chest level. Suddenly relenting, she let fly a squeal of laughter and threw her arms around his waist, squeezing until he wheezed in her vice-like grip.

  “I be fine,” Myrrdinus pushed out of his lungs.

  She let him go, just before suffocation, and turned her attention to Bert. “As for ye, sposed be sensible.”

  “Not want going,” Bert mumbled. “Boy begged me.”

  Myrrdinus was about to deny that statement, but decided to keep out of it.

  “And ye lose nother leg, I seeing. Who be replacing that?”

  Although the little woman’s affectionate expression belied her words, a livid Bert struggled to hop from the cart.

  “Not some old creak, Melith,” he insisted, fighting to retain balance and ending up leaning on her shoulder.

  “We not saying ye creak,” Gwyneth’s father sighed, relieving his wife of her taller burden, “but should not goed without more of us.”

  “Without ye, ye mean,” Melith pointed out, accurately.

  The husband’s eyes went to heaven, but he held his tongue. Over the years he had learned that strategic silence made for an easier life.

  “What happened to this?” Melith exclaimed, retrieving the dented frying pan from the cart.

  “Be fine, mam,” Gwyneth advised, straight-faced. “I eated me fill.”

  The older woman burst out with a bellow of laughter and hugged her daughter. “As for ye…” she began, but didn’t bother to finish.

  “Asher, be sorry, but we not wish to use many from village in raid in case we get catched,” Myrrdinus said, trying to explain his actions to Gwyneth’s father. “Soldiers not see who we be, our faces covered.”

  “So, ye take Bert, with his one leg, and Gwyneth, instead? Goodly thinking,” Asher responded, arms crossed.

  Elaine could see from whom Gwyneth had inherited many of her mannerisms.

  “Hello,” Melith interrupted. “Who be this?”

  She was pointing at the shivering, sodden mass that was Elaine.

  “Oh, Elaine,” advised Gwyneth, matter of factly.

  There was a momentary pause in the passage of time, followed by a mass stampede of villagers into their cottages, punctuated by slamming doors.

  “Telled us that now?” asked an incredulous Asher.

  Gwyneth pointed at Myrrdinus. “He finded her.”

  Myrrdinus pointed at Drevel. “He finded her.”

  Drevel barked and snuggled up to Elaine, clearly taking full responsibility. The recipient felt strangely grateful for his loyalty.

  “Why Queen searching for ye?” demanded Asher, his formerly genial demeanour having vanished in favour of a steely sternness. “She looking from long ago.”

  Elaine was more confused than ever. “Queen? Don’t know who she is,” she responded, truthfully. The listeners’ expressions indicated that they didn’t believe her, even Drevel’s. “I don’t,” Elaine insisted, vehemently.

  “Soldiers see her?” Asher asked Myrrdinus. The young man looked away, giving the older man his answer. “Wonderly. So, ye bringed her here, to our home.”

  Melith stared at the dripping, traumatised Elaine and made a moral, if risky, decision. Placing her arm around the waist of the taller woman, Melith gently guided her towards a nearby cottage, her voice delivering a comforting, “Come inside. Ye wet through.”

  “Melith, remember last time we taked in woman…” Asher began.

  Melith cut him off with, “Asher,” said in a tone that her husband knew well. He gave up arguing. “I be Melith,” the tiny woman explained as they disappeared inside the cottage. “Stone hearted one be me husband, Asher. Come sit by fire. Asher, inside, now.”

  Asher glared at Myrrdinus (who shuffled), at Bert (who shrugged) and at Gwyneth (whose mouth opened and closed again). He stormed inside as the rain poured down.

  “Be thinking,” said Bert, now utilising Gwyneth for support, “if wanting hurt soldiers, let Melith loose on ‘em.”

  “If Melith and Gwyneth both going, we never moving cart,” quipped Myrrdinus.

  “Can hear ye, childlin!” resounded Melith’s voice from inside the cottage.

  * * *

  Wearing newly supplied wool, fur and leather clothing that was warm, if worn, Elaine sat in front of a roaring fire and pondered her predicament. Realising that the helix stream had experienced a sudden power surge, Elaine could not scientifically deduce why, or construct any theory as to how to get herself home again. Whilst there was some satisfaction in the knowledge that the Project had succeeded, she didn’t relish being doomed to spend the rest of her life in a technological black hole, no matter how kind these people had been to her: a stranger. The simple manner of their way of life, the lack of anything that resembled machinery, the roughly hand made clothing and the deeply rural burr to their speech all pointed to her having travelled back in time centuries, if not millennia. True, the women seemed to be wearing a variation on weave and leather trousers, rather than skirts, but that could be due to expedience, given the awful climate.

  Melith had provided the dry clothes, allowing Elaine the privacy to change and afterwards fussing over her as though she were her child. Their humour and generosity made it easy for Elaine to like Melith and her daughter. They reminded her of those dolls she had seen in her youth: the ones that you could push, but never topple. Neither of the robust women seemed to be daunted by any degree of poverty or oppression. The rest of the villagers, however, were another matter entirely. A selection of them lurked in the next room, periodically glaring at her through the open doorway, their conversation with Asher growing more animated by the minute.

  Melith blocked their view as she entered, carrying a steaming bowl of something resembling stew. The smell made Elaine’s stomach rumble loudly, for the last food she had eaten had been breakfast at home, light years away.

  “Here. Be goodly and hot,” Melith insisted, carefully handing her the overflowing bowl with its floating wooden spoon.

  Elaine took the food with gratitude, but also a sense of unease. She had never been brought up to accept the ministrations of a parent and found Melith’s maternal warmth difficult to receive.

  “Thank you,” she told the giver. Her hands shook violently as she raised the spoon, spilling its contents. Melith gently steadied Elaine’s fingers, encouraging her to eat.

  “Mam’s stew cure everything,” Gwyneth commented, plopping down beside her. “Even sticked doors.”

  “Can you spare the food?” Elaine felt obliged to ask, with pover
ty so evident all around her.

  “We fine,” Gwyneth answered, smiling at her encouragingly. “Be fishing when we can and stealing food off priests when going badly. Me, I always be fatling. Getted that from mam.”

  Melith’s laugh was deep and resonant. “Be telling ye girl, we be maked for lasting.”

  A strangely pungent odour wafted into the room, followed, a moment later, by a damp, black carpet of canine manginess.

  “Not here, Drevel,” Melith sighed. “Go lay in tother room.”

  Drevel looked from Melith to Elaine and back again.

  “Now, please.”

  Grumbling loudly, he slowly turned and padded out again. A chorus of animal chatter greeted his return to the main room as though saying, ‘I told you so’.

  In the cottage’s largest room, the villagers were haphazardly squashed into the small space in front of the fire. Their discussion of the current turn of events was becoming heated.

  “She bringing Harpy down on us,” they moaned, worried by Elaine’s presence amongst them. “Bad nough ye stealing food.”

  “Not see ye refuse,” Bert retorted, angrily gesturing to the empty bowls, lying discarded. “I thinked we decided to resist, whether tother villages join or no.”

  “We not agree her coming here,” was the reply.

  “Ye want me leave her to renders?” Myrrdinus protested.

  As if in answer, a villager stormed through the doorway and loomed up at Elaine, halting inches from her face. “Who be ye? Why ye here? Who with ye?” he shouted, reminding her of her father. She scrambled backwards, spilling the stew, a look of terror distorting her scarred features even further.

  “No-one’s with me,” she cried out. “I don’t have anyone!”

  A snarling Drevel inserted himself between his new friend and the man, whose turn it was to back away.

  Asher spoke more softly to Elaine, but still with urgency. “How ye get here?”

  Elaine wracked her brain for a way to even begin to describe what had happened. She settled for lying. “I don’t know. I think I was brought to the castle, but I don’t remember what happened before. My head hurts…”