The Age of Knights & Dames Page 18

  The witch rose her hand. Green light emanated around her. Butchers knives and turtle shell fragments raised, points directed at the Bridgemaster.

  “Your recompense will not be quick or painless,” the witch sighed. “It shall be long, agonizing, and, in every sense of the word, cruel. Suffer well in your reward, my slave.”

  ◆◆◆

  Several hours later, the Bridgemaster gave up the ghost and succumbed to his injuries. Covered in his blood, Sorgana went in search of Sir Liliford. In the basement, she found a hidden doorway leading into an underground cave system. This was the way the ferryman had run. She could smell it.

  She pursued her prey, eager for more blood, tracking him by the stench of his fear and the mark she’d given him on his wrist.

  Many twists and turns later, she emerged from the caves on the northern shores of the island. Her quarry, Sir Liliford, was far to the west, headed for the sand bar leading to the sandy island of Whittlesea. The witch pursued him, a reaper he could not outrun.

  A flicker in the water around Whittlesea caught the witch’s eye. She recalled overhearing Civium speak of a famished sea monster, the Gangrene, that lived in the small island’s lagoon. It would aid her well.

  Just as the ferryman slogged out of the surf and onto the sands of Whittlesea, the witch came down upon him. She was brutal and exact, assaulting him viciously as he screamed for mercy. When he couldn’t even find his voice to plead, she ceased. With a snap of her fingers and muttering of an incantation, the witch caused a wooden cross to grow from the sand. She strung the ferryman to it like a scarecrow. He hung limply, jaw broken, sole good eye glaring at her as blood ran from his lips.

  “Be honest, ferryman. Am I not wicked?” she cooed, wiping his bloody bangs from his eyes. “Yes. But the trick of wickedness is a heavy sense of irony. You must offer the expected solution, but the means must cause countless more…bloodshed.” She cackled. “I shall give you what you want. Rest. Peace. No more ferrying. No more running. No more starving of hope and food and justice. I believe you know of…the Gangrene?”

  Sir Liliford’s swelling eyes got big. He looked past her.

  The surface of the lagoon broke. Thick, sinuous tentacles crept toward Sir Liliford. Inside the green-tinged suckers were tiny, gnashing teeth and gaping mouths.

  The ferryman screamed as the Gangrene’s black and green tentacles wrapped around him. Blood spurted from between the appendages. He writhed in agony, his garbled words cursing the witch and her wickedness.

  And just then, as the ferryman thrashed helplessly, Sorgana got what she wanted.

  As had occurred in the castle catacombs after killing the librarian, as had happened while she mutilated the Bridgemaster in his own home, a black speck was born. It burst from her, hovering in the air. Before Sorgana’s eyes, the spark multiplied, becoming a hovering, quavering sphere of black specks.

  She looked upon the millions of swirling specks with pride. What it was, what it meant for Dembroch—

  “Quite a gruesome spectacle it would be to power this spell,” her mentor had told her decades ago when they’d first devised this plan. “A root of sin to devour Dembroch.”

  She couldn’t have put it better.

  Sorgana walked into the lagoon. The waves washed the blood of the ferryman, the Bridgemaster, and the horses from her. She pet the Gangrene as it fed. All the while, she watched the ball of black sparks. It would be a while before it was ready, but she had time to wait. And she was enjoying Sir Liliford’s helpless squeals that faded of life with each passing scream.

  CHAPTER 29:

  The Watchmaker’s Watches

  Clay and the Watchmaker trudged through the night, dragon shrieks trailing them in the distance. If it hadn’t been for the island native, Clay would have been lost hours ago, or stumbled into the Dreadnaught again.

  “The Dreadnaught haunts the northwestern woods most frequently,” the Watchmaker had explained. “We’ll stay clear. Find suitable shelter near there, rest up, and prepare for the fight in the morning.”

  As they walked on, the Watchmaker offered Clay the fortissium blade. Despite his fears, the sword did not shock Clay when he took it. He examined the sword and took a swing—but it did not cut into anything. The blade clanged loudly as it bounced off trees, stones, and dirt. It couldn’t even cut a withered flower from its stem. But when the Watchmaker held it, just a jab would slice through a boulder and send a pine tumbling to the earth.

  “Perhaps it only yields its power to the current user,” the Watchmaker mused.

  Clay shook his head. “It’s the inscription. If you’re pure of heart, you can use it. I’m not. Just like the knight who stole it.”

  The Watchmaker’s eyebrows furrowed.

  “You think so little of yourself,” he observed.

  Clay hung his head.

  “I lost it once, too,” the Watchmaker said. “The will. The bravery. Once upon a time, I had the opportunity to fight, like you did in the tower, but I fell. Life knocked me down and I didn’t want to get back up. And, in the end, I lost it. But, you know what I did?” The Watchmaker watched him, expecting an answer. “I got back up. I decided to fight for what I lost. You’re lucky. You fell down and had someone to help you get back up. You haven’t lost yet. You still have a chance to make it right, to learn. But I lost my chance.”

  “And what did you lose?” Clay scoffed.

  “More than you can bear, boy,” the Watchmaker replied.

  Clay’s jaw dropped. Was the Watchmaker grieving?

  “The Dreadnaught took something from you,” he realized. “Not just the witch’s watch. Something personal of yours.”

  The Watchmaker grumbled. It seemed Clay had hit a nerve.

  “Is it another watch?” he asked.

  “It carries all the watches,” the Watchmaker grunted. “I’ve made watches my whole life, real ones that told time in increments of twelve hours over a twenty-four-hour day. Then, time stopped. Magic was spread across the kingdom. It seemed I was out of a job, but people still wanted to track time. Humans are funny that way, slave to their own constructs. So I met their demands. With the help of some magic, I created these watches that, instead of telling the time of the day, tell the time of your life over a twelve-hour period. It accounts for your body and soul. In a perfect world, every ten minutes on the clock would signify a year in a life. A whole hour could suggest five to ten years. The closer to midnight, the closer to death—most often of the person, but sometimes death of just the soul. Each watch is different and specific to the person.

  “As you can imagine, King Richard found the watches invaluable. He asked me to make one for every soul in the world, and with it, Dembroch’s purpose was forever changed. Using the watches, we were able to find the Hospites in the world beyond.”

  “How did that work?” Clay asked.

  “Back in the glory days,” the Watchmaker explained, “when King Richard was still with us, a waning soul’s pocket watch would chime when the subject was close to passing. I would find the ringing watch, read it, and, with the king and queen, select who should be brought to Dembroch to be healed.”

  “You don’t bring every person to Dembroch?” Clay asked.

  The Watchmaker shook his head. “When we first started using the watches to find people in need of healing, the kingdom was a lot more accepting of guests. We took anyone in need and got a hold of some ungodly folk. Witches, wraiths, Fomorians, Solomon… It started small enough, but they took advantage of Dembroch’s magic, went mad with the power. We had to get rid of them, one by one. Solomon was the breaking point. After him, we made a new rule: only good men and women on Dembroch. None should step foot on shore who are not allowed. So we’re more careful with who we invite to save. It can be tricky, particularly when royalty is involved.”

  Clay sensed there was more to be told, but the Watchmaker was moving on.

  “Anyhow, from the chiming watches, royalty would select those who should be brought to
Dembroch. The Praesidio, a traveling sect of the defenders, would then seek out the poor souls in need and bring them here, by which point the healers and I had read the gears and determined what to do to heal them.”

  “What do you mean ‘read the gears’?” Clay asked, confused.

  The Watchmaker unclipped one of the watches from his belt and flipped it over. Like Clay’s personal watch, the back of this pocket watch was exposed, showing spinning gears.

  “The gears tell you about the person of the watch. Who they are, where they’re from, what made them…”

  Clay felt his eyebrows knit together.

  “See the tiny gear in the back?” the Watchmaker said, his voice strangely light. “That’s always the first gear I make, the foundation of the person, their purpose.” He slapped Clay’s chest. “It’s what we have in here, what we fight for. Now, see, this watch is mine, so it’ll be easy to understand. You can see from the gear that I was a young boy, the apple of my mother’s eye. She was a watchmaker, and I followed in her footsteps. Then the girl showed up. That’s the gear beside it. The two glided so perfectly together. My wife, my mother, me…we were happy as we could be.”

  He pointed to a larger gear.

  “My wife’s love gave me purpose, as well as love from and for my mother,” the Watchmaker continued. “But then, time stopped on Dembroch. That’s the odd-shaped gear there with missing teeth. My mother thought the magic unnatural and sought to leave Dembroch. My wife wanted to stay. I was torn between the two women I loved most. And in the end, I chose my wife. When my mother left, I lost a piece of myself. That’s why the upper gears don’t grind quite right.”

  Clay watched the Watchmaker closely, sensing a layered sadness within him, as if he wished he could go back to that day and leave with his mother, perhaps take his wife, too.

  “Time went on,” continued the Watchmaker, “though there was no time on the island. I began designing timepieces for my fellow Civium and that of every soul on the planet. When I created my mother’s, I saw that she had perished in the world beyond. I was heartbroken—that rusty gear there. My wife tried to console me, but I was never the same. I fell down and didn’t want to get back up. And then, the worst of it.”

  Lastly, he pointed at the top two gears, both grinding hard against one another, skipping now and again.

  “The witch arrived on the island,” he explained. “She sent the Dreadnaught to my cottage. She knew, you see. She knew we made watches, and she knew we’d be looking for hers eventually. So she sent her monster after us.”

  The Watchmaker’s gruff face fell. His eyes became red.

  “My wife and I were in the time hall in our cottage. The Dreadnaught struck. It gobbled up every watch I’d ever made and…it took her.”

  He looked off into the distance, breathing deep.

  “I saw it in her watch, knew one day she would pass, but I didn’t know it would be like that.” He cleared his throat. “Then, right after, the monster tried to take a chomp out of me too.”

  He ran his fingers along his belt of watches, pausing in the middle where two chains hung without timepieces.

  “Took the watches of my mother and my wife and ran off into the night, leaving me for dead.”

  There was a moment of silence. The Watchmaker looked off into the woods, eyes reflecting the stars. He pounded his chest hard.

  “But that was twenty-some years ago,” he grunted, clearing his throat. “Old news. And that last gear—” he pointed at it, a crimson gear that seemed to be the shape of a human heart with a metal rod connecting it to the tiny, innermost gear “—it’s how it all ends. Without the love of the two women I love most, without the last link to their lives, I’m lost. It’s connected to the bottommost gear because it’s what I’m seeking. The queen wants me to recover the witch’s watch and reveal the secret of its gears, but first, I’ll filet that monster and pull the watches of my mother and wife from its gut.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Clay said.

  “It was long ago,” the Watchmaker grumbled. “And I shall have my revenge by next day or fall with my kingdom.”

  Through all of this, Clay could see each of these gears, predict how they moved and worked with one another, but he could not see any indication of a boy, a man, his mother, his lover, or anything the Watchmaker had explained.

  But, as fascinating and perplexing as it was, he had discovered the Watchmaker’s true quest. His most prized possession, the Dreadnaught’s reap, were the watches of every soul on the planet, including every Hospite in need, the witch’s, and ultimately, the watches of the two women the Watchmaker had loved most and lost.

  “Hold on,” Clay said. “If it was twenty years ago, wouldn’t the watches be digested?”

  The Watchmaker shook his head. “The beast has four stomachs and a painfully slow digestive system. Any living souls will have perished, but the watches will still be in there.”

  The Watchmaker strode off, wiping his face. Clay hurried after, the axe heavy in his grip, a newfound admiration growing for the island native. Not the muscles or the beard or the axe or the sword, but the Watchmaker’s courage in the face of his worst nightmare. He was the man Clay could have been and wished he was.

  And then, more than ever, Clay wished he was with Jenn. He had so much to say to her that he’d neglected to mention. He wondered where she was, how she was faring on her quest, and if she was thinking of him. He wondered if she was being brave in the face of her fears.

  Perhaps, he decided, it was time to stop pretending to be brave and to be brave. Like he used to be. To have something worth fighting for in his heart.

  CHAPTER 30:

  Off the Reservation

  Elsewhere, Meg landed hard on a steep hill of wet grass. She tumbled and twirled, vines and creepers wrapping around her, finally rolling to a stop at the bottom of the hill.

  Grumbling under her breath, Meg got to her feet. High above was a canvas of black sky and twinkling stars she didn’t recognize.

  She climbed to the crest of the hill she’d just rolled down. From the peak, she took in her new surroundings. One thing was for sure—she wasn’t on Dembroch anymore. But she recognized where she was.

  Before her were steadily declining slopes that led to a pebbly beach. Small and hidden in the dark was a squat hut with a dock.

  She glanced behind her. Far off, a dozen miles away, shrouded in the nighttime mist, were the lights of a tiny city.

  She was back in northern Scotland, she realized, where she’d been when she’d first begun this adventure. A quarter mile to the north would take her to boats and back to Dembroch, and a dozen miles behind her was a city that would provide the means to go home.

  Meg hesitated on the top of the hill, unsure what to do. She had succeeded in her task on Dembroch—her flame was lit, though it lay unattended in the Gate Grounds, not yet spread to the castle, and it was only one of six. All the same, her task was complete. She could go home now, like she’d wanted to in the beginning, and her conscience would be clean.

  And if this had been twenty-four hours previous, Meg would have done just that in a split second. But she had lived a lifetime since she’d first arrived in Scotland. She’d seen too much to go back now. There was too much worth fighting for. And she only just begun her path. She needed her friends…and they needed her.

  She balled her fists and ran toward the shack. Toward the rowboats. Toward Dembroch.

  CHAPTER 31:

  Midnight Mystery

  Clay and the Watchmaker emerged from the woods on the western end of the island near Coral Canyon and the Bridgemaster’s home. The windows were dark. The horse stables were ominously quiet.

  “Isn’t the Bridgemaster under the witch’s spell?” Clay asked.

  “He won’t be for long,” the Watchmaker replied, wielding the fortissium blade.

  They approached the cottage. Clay’s legs ached. He wanted nothing more than to barricade himself inside and lay down.

  At t
he door, the Watchmaker hesitated.

  “Someone’s been here,” he whispered. “They entered with force.”

  Clay would have preferred to sneak into the cottage, but the Watchmaker kicked the door aside and charged in with the sword. Reminding himself to be brave, Clay ran after him, tensing his arms to wield the heavy axe.

  But there was no need for bravery, only a strong stomach.

  The room was in shambles and reeked of death. Furniture had been splintered. Fragments of gutted turtle shells were crushed into pieces. Gobs of blood and flesh were splattered across the walls. The Bridgemaster, body maimed and cruelly tortured, was pinned to the wall.

  The Watchmaker swore softly and knocked his chest.

  “Who did this?” Clay gasped.

  “Who else?” the Watchmaker countered.

  A flicker of movement caught Clay’s eye. He spun, tensing.

  Across the room, Clay saw a dancing black flame. Dark sparks hung around it like a million baby spiders free from their eggs.

  “What—” Clay stammered.

  From outside, a dragon let out a cry. The flapping of many wings grew louder.

  “Hurry, boy,” the Watchmaker grunted, leading him through the carnage, deeper into the cottage.

  “What about the Bridgemaster? Clay shouted.

  “Leave him,” replied the Watchmaker. “He’s gone. The dragons will go for him first while we hide.”

  Sickened by the thought, Clay followed the Watchmaker. They charged through the house and past the black fire while, behind them, dragons burst into the cottage. They heard snarls and crunches as the beasts fought over their food.

  At the back of the house, the Watchmaker threw open a trapdoor that led into a basement. They ran the length of the room and, in the corner near overturned barrels, found a tunnel burrowing deep into the ground.

  “Caverns run the whole length of the island,” the Watchmaker explained. “The beasties will have a hard time finding us down here. The smell of the blade will fill all the tunnels.”