Louisa Shorney

Lord Sandred paces back and forth behind his desk, head dropped as he desperately searches deep within the recesses of his mind for answers that he knows he will not find. His thumbs fumble around each other whilst his hands clasp together behind his back. His long black leather boots squeak and creak to the rhythm of his pace, with a short squeal from his heal as he spins upon it to return. The high, stiff collars of his shirt and jacket do nothing to hide the reddening finger marks about his neck. Sergeant Stormstrong stands patiently waiting for a response, his weight gently tipping back and forth from toe to heel making the squeak and creak of black leather sound in stereo, acutely aware of the fate that awaits his captain should they fail to find the girl. A loud lingering squeal, finished with a clap of heel on heel, Sandred comes to a stand still and clutches the back of his chair looking directly at Stormstrong.

‘So, the door to door searches in Arbridge have revealed nothing?’

‘No sir. Nothing on the street cameras either sir.’

‘And you’re sure you recognise him from the filling station footage Stormstrong? This Breakwater fellow?’

‘Yes sir, absolutely sir. We had our naming ceremonies together sir. It is definitely Tomlin Breakwater sir and he is the Morgan girl’s lover sir.’

‘Yes, yes, I’m aware of that sergeant. But you know what she’ll do if she discovers that we had her within our grasp, Stormstrong.’

‘Yes sir. Allowing for the facial swelling and skin reddening we saw with the Merritree rioters, it’s definitely her sir. I must say sir she’s got some balls to capsicum herself sir. That’s nasty stuff.’

‘Yes Stormstrong and the Lord High Commissioner will have our balls if we don’t find her.’

Beads of moisture roll from beneath the tight curls of his cropped dark hair and gather on his furrowed brow. Running a hand back across his head, drawing the sweat into his fringe and pinning it back off of his face, Sandred straightens his back and takes as deep a breath as his tightened chest will allow him. He musters himself for the transceiver call he knows he must make. A stereo squeak and creak from stiff black leather, masks the loud thumping of both men’s hearts as they leap from their chests, with the ringing of the bell from the receiver on the desk. The clattering stops and with their breath trapped in their throats the room fills with silence. The intrusion of a blinking red light signals that the desk sergeant has answered and transferred the call. Sandred sniffs sharply cutting the bind in his throat, releasing a steady and controlled stream of air he finds his centre. He takes another deep controlled breath and calms himself as he lifts the receiver.

‘Lord Sandred here……Yes your Lordship…… of course, straight away sire. And the name of the place sire? We will have it surrounded before the sun is up sire, they won’t know what’s hit them………Yes of course sire.’

Returning the receiver gently to its cradle, as if it will explode with any sudden movement, he lets his hand linger a while once it has docked, before he finally remembers to breathe. He breathes in calmly and deeply as he straightens his posture, he sweeps his hair back again pinning renegade curls back off of his brow. Clasping his hands against his back he collects himself together. Staring blankly, he looks directly at his sergeant through glazed eyes, silently lingering in thought. Suddenly he snaps his heels bringing himself back into the room.

‘Sergeant, gather three units. I want one armoured, one reconnaissance, one air born from the gyro corps. I want three gyrotrons in the air within the hour.’

‘Yes sir. right away sir. Where are we deploying sir?’

‘We are going for the Crone, sergeant.’

‘Is that wise sir?’

‘No Stormstrong it is not! But which would you rather face, the Crone and hope that she has mercy or disobey a direct order from the Lord High Commissioner?’

Stormstrong snaps his heels and raises a salut to his captain before spinning upon them and leaving the office with a hurried but purposeful stride, this was not a question that required an answer.

*

Lamia is beginning to wish that she hadn’t sent Jainus to cleave open the indomitable Carpinus, but that is as may be, he is where he is and she must deal with these wretched people herself. At least she can rely on Sandred to get things done. That bloody hound will come to heal even if it means casting the Crone through her own portal and beyond the veil. She toys with the delicate chain around her neck as she descends the alabaster stairs to the lower chambers. A small team of timber crafters are gathered by the giant arboretum doors awaiting her arrival. Still wearing her chokeberry charm, the sound of needle point steel striking polished stone, ricochets ahead of her like a small gun salute to her entrance.

‘Ah good! I’m glad to see you have punctuality, now lets see if you have the skill and professionality to match.’

The timber crafters all keep their heads low not wishing to meet her eye, the nervousness tingling in the air around them rustles up a little breeze whilst droplets of dew sweat glisten on their brows. Lamia doesn’t miss a shot, but her top lip raises a triumphant curl as she passes by them. Sliding the necklace off, from around her neck, she glides each tiny key into each tiny lock. One by one she turns the keys, one by one the locks release, three by three the cogs turn and nine steel bars slide back into rock. One giant steel door rises gracefully to the ceiling.

‘Now whilst you’re here this door will remain open. The inner doors will be on a timer, the key cards you were given at registration will only work between sun up and sun down, after that they are on clampdown. If you fail to leave on time, you will be left inside until sun up. If your cards are used outside of those times, an alarm will trigger an entire lower chamber lockdown. No one but myself can lift that lockdown and I will be gone for sometime. So unless you wish to end your days in an airless, lightless tomb I suggest that you don’t break protocol. Am I clear?’

A, ‘Yes Sire!’, fires from trepid lips, bouncing off of the confining walls, multiplying upon its return.

‘Good! Then follow me.’ She stares at the electronic reader and the glass doors glide open without argument. ‘All the tools and mechanicals that you should need have been brought into the arboretum for you, if however there is anything I should have missed, inform the guard that will be stationed at the top of the stairwell. They will have it brought in for you. For your own sakes, do not try to bring into this chamber anything that hasn’t been officially scanned and coded.’

Simultaneous, ‘Yes Sire!’s, drop into the moss covered pathway, absorbing into the still silence. Lacking any aliveness, not even death stalks the air here. An uneasy chill bristles along the crafters’ spines, each one watching the others’ backs with unspoken camaraderie as they follow the Lord High Commissioner deeper into the sacrificed forest. George Betula, the master crafter subtly scours the scene for any signs of a large crow. Ever since crossing this threshold there has been an unmistakable, melancholic, caw, whispering in the back of his mind. Just as he notices the mite, mottled, dull black feather fallen at the foot of a tumble of rocks, he almost jumps from his skin with the sudden acerbic roaring in his head.

‘CEASE THAT INCESSANT WHIMPER CROW! YOU KNOW I CAN’T STAND THAT SELF PITYING SNIVEL. Keep yourself quiet and out of sight, there are others here and you know what will happen to them if you are discovered.’

‘Vile snake!’ Barely a croak in retort.

‘But Morrigan my love, why do you curse me so?’ An audible cackle gushes from Lamia’s lips and scorches the moss at her feet. A shiver creeps and crawls across the crafters’ skins before running down their spines.

‘BETULA!’

‘Sire?’

‘How long do you need to get this sorted? I want you back on Basilos, I’m leaving before sun down you will be ready?’

A statement of command rather than a query, Betula knows full well he must obey.

‘Yes of course sire, I can set the lads to work here, it’s a simple enough task that doesn’t need my supervision. Is there a problem with the crannog sire? I wasn’t expecting to return before the black of Rhiannon.’

‘Nothing wrong man, it needs finishing! I want it fully functional before Rhiannon’s light is full.’

‘Yes sire, of course sire.’

‘Good, I’ll leave you to get on with it. This spot will do as well as any other. Make sure that she has all the comforts that she will need for her retirement. You, Betula, will be at the gyropad one hour before sun down.’

Not requiring a response Lamia deftly spins on the balls of her leather soles and struts out of the arboretum, leaving a sense of relief in her wake. What little life resides here stirs from its hiding, the trees breathe deeply now that the contaminant has gone.

‘Has the Elm sent you?’

‘Are you Morrigan?’

‘I was once, but now I am not……….as I was.’

‘I am Betula.’

‘Ah, a hound. Are you a lone dog or a pack?’

‘I am neither one nor the other Sister.’

‘Are you come to rescue me?’

‘We are come to see what we can and what we can’t.’

‘I must endure then.’

‘Yes Sister, for now, but you will not endure for long.’

‘I have endured long enough Birch, more or less is of no relevance. It is not usual for her to let others in here, what is the forked tongue up to now? Another device of torture for me is it?’

‘We are to make a lodge here.’

‘A lodge? What poor fellow must be imprisoned away from the light?’

‘She aims to catch the Crone.’

‘THE CRONE!!!!…..HAHAHahaha…….Oh the conceited fool…….hahahahaha…..Oh thank you thank you……I have not been able to find mirth in more moons than I can remember. Oh thank you thank you. Hahahahaha.’

The croaking chatter of a crows laughter reverberates through the wooded glade unmasking its factitious fence. Even Betula can not help but let it shiver down his spine.

‘Ok lets get on with this. The sooner you’re finished the sooner you’re out of here. Her lordship commands that I join her on the gyrotron back to Basilos tonight, so I will need to leave this job in your capable hands. If you have any questions you better speak up now as I must leave to beg forgiveness from the holder of my heart and hearth. Taxus can I pass the helm to you in all her particulars?’

‘Yes of course brother, I will see that it is all done as it should be. And please brother, be sure to send my best to your gracious lady and the wains, it’s a disgrace that you should not have your leave after so many moons.’

‘You are a good man Taxus, but take care of the words you speak with in these halls. You will find no generosity of mercy here.’

‘Aye brother, I know but she……it does make my blood fair boil.’

‘Keep that for your axe now, it will serve you in good stead. Brothers I bid you good crafting and leave you in the very capable hands of our good brother Taxus. He will lead your works and make fair your trade. He will tend to your needs if you have them. I bid you fair well and hope that we shall craft together again some day.’

‘Fairwell brother, keep safe.’

Having given himself plenty of time, Betula can take the climb up the rise to the old citadel and lose little of the precious moments he has left with his family. He can only hope that one of the falconari are keeping watch ready to take word to the Grand Master. The view is breath taking from up here, Central City sprawls out across the plain below the One Hill. A mosaic of sandstone and red fired earth quartered by the three tributaries, Holda, Perchta and Befana as they become the Great Nicnevin meandering through the lower sedge moors of Gladmarsh before she breaks out in to sea. The piquant light increases the contrasts making everything appear more of its self. The russets, yellows and lime greens of the turning leaves leap out against the darkness of branch and bark, red roof tiles highlighted by the creamy walls that they cap, four majestic rivers glinting reflective mirror strips carving a quartered wheel. Something deep in the heart of him knows that this will not be seen by him again, tears fill the well of his eyes and he brings his breath back in, absorbing all that he can.

‘Are those George Betula’s ocherous locks wisping in the breeze?’

‘Wisping! You have an unmistakable cheek on you lady peregrine as brash as those yellow stockings of yours. Hahaha. I am glad it is you Pansa my friend, least we may never have met again.’

‘What is the meaning of this maudlin, melancholy brother are you struck with some life shortening disease?’

‘I am afraid we all are Pansa. I do not think that Lamia will stop until she has sapped the life from all that is left living.’

‘Come brother, meet me at in the shade of the ruins, we can talk eye to eye.’

Betula turns his back on the vista and disappears into the copse upon the rise.