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  BATTLE ACROSS WORLDS

  Copyright: Dean Chalmers

  Published: 5 September 2015

  The right of Dean Chalmers to be identified as author of this Work has been asserted by him in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  BATTLE ACROSS WORLDS

  by Dean Chalmers

  -1-

  “NO!! Please don’t!”

  Dragoon Captain Jack Chestire was only a few steps from the front door of Mother Henne’s tavern when this feminine cry of distress echoed from around the back of the building. His every nerve bristled, and he instinctively reached down for the hilt of his sword—but his hand closed on empty air.

  Jack swore under his breath, then pushed his plumed Dragoon’s hat firmly down upon his head as he prepared to charge into action.

  Of course, he had no weapon, neither blade nor hand-gun. None of the Dragoons were allowed to bear them anymore; not since the Lord Protector had exiled them to the island along with the Queen whom they served.

  He broke into a run and headed around the tavern, leaving the cobbled main street of Bryttington town to follow the rough path that ran alongside the tavern. Turning the far corner into the weedy rear yard, he stopped and surveyed the scene which the fading light presented.

  A tall young man in the rust-brown uniform of the Lord Protector’s Grenadiers held a woman pinned by her arms to the rough fieldstone wall of the tavern. This captive was Mother Henne’s slender serving girl, Jinny, and her face was tight with fear.

  “Please, sir,” she begged. “I’d best go, have to get back to my wor—“

  Her tormentor removed his right hand from her arm and brought it up to clamp down on her neck. “Bony little wench,” the Grenadier sneered. “I might just break you.”

  Jack recognized that low hiss of a voice, as well as the man’s close-cropped blond hair.

  Aubren.

  The man must have heard his approach, because he suddenly whipped his head around, glaring at Jack. His gray eyes were cold and piercing, like a wolf’s.

  “Let her go, Captain Aubren,” Jack said. “You’re hurting the lady.”

  “Lady?” Aubren said. With his hand cupping her chin, he wrenched her head to one side, then another, while he made a show of examining her. “Doesn’t look much like a lady to me. Just a skinny little whore who swabs the slop off the tavern floor. But then you Dragoons will trouble yourselves over anything in a skirt. You followed your slut Queen long enough, hmm?”

  Jack seethed at the insult to his departed sovereign, but he reminded himself that the important thing at the moment was to secure Jinny’s safety from injury. Captain Aubren was known to be rough in his play; rumor had it that he’d been transferred to the island after breaking a wealthy young lady’s arm in Ironbound.

  Now, Aubren held Jinny to the wall by her neck. With his other hand he drew his sword and wriggled it at Jack, taunting him.

  “LET HER GO!” Jack shouted, feeling the blood rise hotly to his face.

  Jinny let out a choked sob.

  Several armed men emerged from the back door of the tavern. All were tall and muscular; like Aubren, all wore the rust-brown uniforms of the Grenadiers.

  Jack still had no weapon. Looking around, he caught sight of an axe leaning against a pile of firewood nearby.

  If he acted swiftly, could he surprise them? They might not expect a fight from him, as they were so accustomed to the passivity of the disarmed Dragoons. But they were all carrying swords and pistols, and he knew he wouldn’t last very long.

  Ah well …

  “Come now, Captain …” he told Aubren, trying one last civilized appeal. “You know the Guardian wouldn’t want you bothering the townsfolk.”

  Aubren laughed. “Bothering? Nah, just wanted a bite of sweetmeat with my supper. But this little one thought she could toy with my attentions.”

  More people emerged from the tavern now, apparently curious about the disturbance: there was the baker and his stout wife; two noble Ladies in faded layered skirts with high periwigs on their heads; and finally, two young Dragoons, who wore scarlet coats with silver buttons and yellow-plumed hats like Jack’s own.

  These latter were Leftenant Sarde and Sergeant Mullet, Jack’s subordinates. They looked to Jack, then down to where his hand hovered close to the handle of the axe.

  Jack sighed. This might get very messy, and he did not want to involve his men. But if Aubren forced him …

  Aubren glanced around at the onlookers, as if suddenly aware of all of the potential witnesses to his aggressions. His right eye twitched as his gaze returned to Jack, indecision holding him for a moment.

  Then, with a growl of frustrated rage, he jerked Jinny away from the wall and threw her roughly towards Jack. She stumbled on a clump of weeds, but Jack caught her and helped her to her feet.

  “Not much sport with her anyway,” Aubren sneered. Several of his fellow Grenadiers edged towards Jack, but Aubren waved them back.

  He pointed a finger towards Jack and his lips curled up in a cold smile. “You try my patience,” he said. “But your time is coming.”

  Straightening his collar, he turned and led the other Grenadiers back into the building.

  When they had gone, Jinny coughed and breathed in deeply. “Thanks, Jack,” she said, turning to him. “That gave me a fright.”

  Jack placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Are you hurt, Miss? I know a nurse. Come along and—“

  She shook her head. “Nothing more than a few bruises. They’ll heal quick enough. Whole thing was my fault to begin with, anyway.”

  Jack shook his head. “Miss, I cannot see how this could possibly be your fault.”

  She sighed. “He was looking me over, said flattering things. Said he wanted to go out back and admire the garden with me. I wouldn’t have minded if he got a little friendly, but things got … ugly. I should have known better.”

  “It’s NOT your fault,” Jack repeated. Certainly a lady should never need have feared such an assault from any soldier, least of all an officer! But then, those were old standards—gentlemanly standards—and he could hardly accuse the Grenadiers of being gentlemen.

  Jack pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at the tears around her eyes. “Just be careful, my lady,” he said. He nodded towards his fellow Dragoons. “The fellows here will keep an eye out.”

  She took his hand and lightly kissed it, managing a weak smile. “I’ll be all right,” she said. Then, taking a deep breath, she turned and walked back through the rear door of the tavern, her face set and determined.

  Leftenant Sarde took a gulp from the mug of beer he held and shook his head. “Cap’n, that louse-grubbing bastard’s going to have it in for you now.”

  Jack nodded. “I know. But you two should stay out of it if you can. This is my fight and you’d best not get involved.”

  “But Captain Sir!” Mullet protested. He added in a whisper: “We could sneak up on the blighter. Back you up. Maybe—“

  “NO.” Jack shook his head. “Both of you are young, and I’ll not have you ending your lives on Grenadier blades if I can help it.”

  “But what about you, Sir?” Sarde asked. “Cap’n, don’t tell me you’re planning on dying?”

  Jack sighed. How could they understand? They were young, they had only been Dragoons for a few years before the coup occurred; but the old ways were in Jack’s blood. To be an unarmed Dragoon in exile was to be nothing at all …

  Ever since the Queen’s death, Jack had been expecting his own demise. His time had passed, it seemed; his world was gone, perished with her Highness. He was like a noble armored knight who’d survived centuries too long, destined to charge a line
of cannon and expire in a futile blaze of glory. Only his concern for his men had stopped him from taking rash action against Aubren and his ilk.

  “You coming inside, Cap’n?” Sarde asked.

  Jack shook his head. He felt too restless to sit and drink just now.

  “Actually,” he said, “I thought I’d go call on young Mister Quenn. He’s not been feeling well, and I thought I’d look in on him.”

  Jack hadn’t seen his friend since the day before last and he was a bit worried. Ralley Quenn had a delicate temperament to begin with, and the youth’s recent dreams had caused him to become confused and sometimes physically ill.

  Jack bade farewell to his two men, raising his plumed hat to them and nodding in response to their casual salutes before walking off down the cobbled main street towards the public stable.

  The sky had grown dark, and from the south he heard another crash of thunder. The storm was taking its time coming up, but it would come soon. But it wasn’t far, and if he rode fast, maybe he could beat the worst of it …

  That thought brought a smile to his face.

  As he reached the stable, he saw a young man limping towards him, heading into town. The man’s clothes were disheveled, and his dark hair hung down lankly over his eyes. His tri-cornered hat was pushed far forward, tilted down as if to further obscure his face. Only the tarnished silver badge he wore marked him as a Constable of the new Stefanite regime, employed by the local Guardian.

  Constable Bocke, Jack recalled.

  Bocke scowled as he limped towards Jack. He picked up his pace, as if he wanted to get past the Dragoon Captain as quickly as possible. His right foot, covered by a large, ill-fitting boot that did not match the one on his left, did not seem to want to cooperate with his haste.

  A clubfoot, Jack presumed. He had nothing but sympathy for one born with such a burden—though Bocke’s sour demeanor did not encourage such.

  Still, Jack wanted to be polite. He held up his hand and waved to the youth, saying: “Good evening, Constable.”

  “Uhh!” Bocke grunted, and shuffled past him.

  Oh well, Jack thought. His long-departed mother, gentle and cultured lady as she had been, had told him at an early age that courtesy was never wasted.

  However, in the case of Constable Bocke, he had to wonder …

  -2-

  Ed Bocke shuffled into Mother Henne’s tavern with his head down, bracing himself for the taunts he knew would come. He’d entered by the back door, but one of the bastards inside was bound to notice him anyway.

  The place was full of drunken louts, as usual. There was a catcall and one idiot shouted, “Oh, we’d best behave. Constable’s here!”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Ed saw someone stumbling towards him. It was one of the exiled aristocrats, a pathetic remnant of the former Queen’s order. His frizzled white wig was sliding half off his head, and his once fine clothes were threadbare and patched.

  Ale-swilling bastard!

  Ed turned to avoid the man. But, although the drunken nobleman wobbled as he came, he moved fast. He was upon Ed in an instant, blocking his path.

  “Welcome, dear Constable!” he said. “Hope you’re not here to arrest me for public drunkenness?” And then he belched loudly in Ed’s face, nauseating him with the sour smell of ale and onions.

  “Rutting hell!” Ed swore between gritted teeth.

  “What was that?” the drunk noble asked.

  “Out of my way,” Ed rasped, trying his best to sound intimidating.

  The man placed a sweaty hand on Ed’s shoulder and gave him a leering smile—but he did, at least, allow him to pass.

  Ed saw Jinny, the barmaid, scrubbing some glasses at a table nearby. The skinny, beak-nosed girl looked up, eyeing him with obvious disgust. As if she had any right to judge …

  “Where’s Mother Henne?” Ed asked, not meeting her gaze. “I got a note. She wants to see me.”

  “Where’s she always?” she sighed. “In the cupboard.” The girl nodded to her right, then got back to her scrubbing without sparing Ed another glance.

  The cupboard was barely six paces by three, lined with shelves holding sacks and jars of supplies. Mother Henne sat hunched over a small table inside, poring over a ledger-book while she ripped bites out of a long strip of jerky with her few remaining teeth.

  Ed removed his hat and nodded greetings to the gnarled old woman. The crone was the closest thing to a friend he had here on the island, and she showed him more kindness than his own parents ever had. She was vastly older than Ed, but in terms of temperament, they were very similar.

  “Mother,” he said, “you sent for me?”

  “Edwyn!” she cackled, spitting a small chunk of jerky onto the ledger book. “About time you came ‘round!”

  “I got a note,” Ed explained. “But I don’t understand it.”

  “Sit down!” she motioned him towards the floor. It was awkward with his bad foot, but he managed to sit down there.

  She took a cheesecloth-covered plate from a shelf beside her, leaned down and placed it in front of him. Ed removed the cloth to find a piece of currant cake on the plate, and a small mug of ginger beer set at its center.

  If it was an attempt to bribe him, it was a childish bribe. But Ed did like her currant cake. And ginger beer was a rare treat. He broke off a piece of the cake with his fingers and lifted it to his mouth. It was sweet and good.

  “Now you have to investigate,” she said. “As I told you in the note.”

  He shook his head, and mumbled through his mouthful of cake: “I don’t understand. You didn’t tell me what you saw.”

  She leaned forward, her eyes bulging wide. “I saw a demon.”

  “What?”

  She cleared her throat with a phlegmy cough and repeated, “I saw a demon. It was up on that mound on the Guardian’s land, last night. Very late.”

  “You were on the Guardian’s estate?” Ed asked, confused. No one was allowed there without permission. The Grenadiers watched over the place, but even they were under strict orders and were not to enter the house itself—or so he had heard.

  “Well,” she said. “It was late at night, and very foggy. I like walking about then, ‘cause I can spit in the direction of people’s houses and laugh at them as they sleep.”

  “Oh,” Bocke said. He knew Mother Henne didn’t like people much. After fifty years of running a tavern, she’d said she was sick of them. That was the reason that she now spent most of her time hiding in the cupboard, letting Jinny and the rest of the help handle the customers.

  “There was a flash of white light,” she continued. “It was blinding like lightning, though it came from on top of them stones on the faerie mound there. And I saw the demon there, dancing and screaming as the light flashed. There were men, too—one in preacher’s clothes. My eyes are still sharp, boy, and I saw it all.”

  “Umm … Why do you think it was a demon?” Ed asked.

  “It moved unlike a human person. Body twisting and rolling like a snake’s. And those red eyes! I don’t think he saw me, though. I shuffled off into the trees pretty quick.”

  Ed sighed, and chewed another bite of his cake. “The Guardian’s property is out-of-bounds for me,” he said. “Not sure what I could do.” And it was likely that Mother Henne was sampling a bit too much of her own home-brew rotgut late at night, as she was apt to do.

  But then … Guardian Crandolph was so very secretive, and this wasn’t the first time Ed had heard of the odd flashes of white light.

  And then there’d been all those recent shipments of materials up to the Guardian’s estate. Ed had been asked to help supervise one of the orders, and the crates had weighed tons; they’d had to use oxen to pull the carts.

  Some crates had held ingots of silver, as had been obvious from the mine stamp seared on their sides. There’d been other things, too: iron hardware from the mainland, lumber from town, glassware …

  Maybe there was something queer going on. And Ed Bo
cke, who was supposed to keep law and order and spy on the Lord Protector’s enemies, was being wrongly excluded from the affair.

  Hells, he was supposed to be working for the Guardian, he should have been informed directly of any secret projects! But no one was telling him anything.

  He did not like that—not at all. It gave him a fearsome itch that was half curiosity and half unmitigated anger.

  “Can’t you have a little peek, maybe tonight?” Mother Henne asked. “You’re a Constable, you have some authority? I don’t hold with demons on my island!”

  “All right,” he said. “I’ll see what I can do tonight. But don’t tell anyone else, please?” The last thing he wanted was for word of this investigation to get to the Grenadiers. If they caught him nosing around the Guardian’s estate at night, Aubren and his pack of brutes would have a ready excuse to do him all sorts of harm.

  “Of course I won’t tell, Edwyn,” Mother Henne said, smiling a gap-toothed smile. “You’re the only one I trust, because you don’t trust anyone. A fine and practical trait in a young man!”

  -3-

  For as long as he could remember, Ralley Quenn had dreamt of a lovely brown-skinned girl who lived in a desert kingdom.

  Now, the dreams seemed to be driving him mad … piercing him with a dagger-sharp longing that overwhelmed everything else.

  Still half-awake, he blinked and caught a glimpse of the plaster ceiling above his head, the one-room cottage lit by the grey glow of an overcast twilight filtered feebly through the bottle-glass windows. He knew that he was dozing at home, in the nation of Garatayne, near the town of Bryttington on the balmy Isle of Briars—where there were no deserts and no brown-skinned maidens.

  Yet the girl he saw when he closed his eyes was so real that he felt he could touch her flawless mahogany skin, could smell the cinnamon scent of her perfume as she sweated in the desert heat. He clamped his eyes shut, fighting to stay in the dream. To be torn from her now would be like dying! The waking world was a hell of separation from her, and he could no longer endure it.