Many thanks to daw the minstrel for beta reading!

TWO

Bell Falls

The jeep was running too warm.  Somewhere back along the way an errant stone must have hit the radiator, and now coolant was beginning to leak from the front of the coil.  Chris gauged the distance to the river in his mind; already he was nearly two hundred kilometers west of the dig, and the river between him and the ocean must be near.  He shook his water bottle; about one liter.  That, and the ten liters in a jug in the back should be adequate, unless the radiator decided to blow completely.  Then no orb in the world would be able to save him.  Samuel would catch him; he’d die sure as those ancient peoples.  Checking the dial, he saw the temp creeping up.  He’d have to stop and let the engine cool.  Ahead, a bare outcrop of rock thrust onto the plain. As he slowly approached, Chris could see a dark crack, some twenty meters wide, open to the south.  He could cover the jeep with canvas and hole up there for a while.  Besides, at first light Samuel would be looking for him.  Chris knew without a doubt that Samuel somehow knew he had found the stone.

Just twelve hours ago, as he’d held the stone for the first time, the neighing of horses had returned, louder than ever, and sounds he now knew to be of battle.  Amidst the shrieks of fear and anger, a cold, fell voice had risen, so terrifying it threatened to still the heart, and then had fallen away into nothing.  As he stood frozen in the excavation hole, the orb held before him as a ward, the world turned dark, or his eyes ceased to see.  Then there was a light, as the moon rising, yet in the west.  A voice, ancient, distant, and clear, spoke in a strange language he somehow understood:

        Tall ships and tall kings

                Three times three,

        What brought they from the foundering land

                Over the flowing sea?

        Seven stars and seven stones

                And one white tree.

Then the vision had faded, replaced by one more troubling and clearer in meaning: that of a black snake with yellow eyes, crawling across the sickened face of a cancerous moon.  When the yellow eyes met his, sharp pain had exploded in his brain, and his scream had rent the evening air.  The globe had fallen from his slick hands, and Chris had wakened to find himself face down in the river bed.  Quickly he had packed his few supplies, wrapped the ball in his bag, and headed west.  He hoped he’d come far enough to delay pursuit.  He had something to do before Samuel caught up with him, something important, though what it could be was beyond his imagination.

*      *        *

In the first light of morning the remains of the dig looked as peaceful as a cemetery garden.  Fog limped around the ruins, settling in low spots and curling around the bases of the buildings.  It was so quiet Samuel could almost hear the fog scrape along the ground.  The only sound was Kjarl’s labored breathing from the front seat of the truck.  Samuel dug at the remains of the fire with the toe of his boot.  Hours cold.  Ah for the weakness the years had wrought!  Confined to this form and forced to rely on such lesser servants.  He turned towards Kjarl and removed his sunglasses.  Kjarl tried to shrink behind the dash but instead fell from the truck, convulsing and writhing in the dirt.  In a few moments he was still.  Samuel knocked the ashes from his boot on a stone and got into the truck.  At least in this age, as in the past, he could rely on wings.  He turned the truck and headed east.

*      *        *

It was noon when Chris emerged from his camp site.  He shook the tarp from the jeep, folding it neatly and stowing it along side his pack.  The sun was warm, but the air temperature was only about twenty degrees C or so.  Comfortable, but not so hot it would overheat the jeep.  Opening the radiator cap, Chris dumped in a small handful of pepper.  He then added water, checked the other fluid levels and headed west.

For several kilometers the land continued much as it had throughout the night.  To his right the hills rose and fell, occasionally thrusting low tumbled arms out into the plain.  Far to the south, paralleling the sea, and much farther away than the northern hills, ran the Fir Mountains.  Chris was heading for a gap between the mountains and the hills, and then a highway to the ocean shore.  There, where the sea mountains encircled a natural harbor, was the city of Bell Falls.  From there Chris could jump a ship or plane and be anywhere in the world in a few hours.  He needed supplies, cash, and information.  And weapons.  He felt he’d be needing good weapons.

Within an hour he was at the river.  The radiator seemed to be holding, but twice he’d had to stop and add water.  He swam in the river while the engine cooled, and then filled the radiator and all his jugs.  After a brief lunch he crossed the river at a rocky ford and turned south.  The highway was an hour distant, and by nightfall he’d be in Bell Falls.

*      *        *

The plane dipped and turned as it swung back and forth across the track of the jeep.  The track was occasionally plain, but more often obscured by dust, brush, and rocks.  It ran straight west.  Samuel placed his hands palm upwards in his lap and closed his eyes.  The pilot could hear him chanting slowly under his breath, words that, though unknown, sent shivers down the pilot’s spine.  Samuel closed his hands and opened his eyes.

“Bell Falls.  We must be there by nightfall.”

*      *        *

The highway was smooth, relaxing after the rough journey through the back country.  The speed of the jeep seemed to help with the overheating, and Chris made good time. The road, first several kilometers from the river Chris had crossed earlier, now swung back east even as the river cut west, until finally they ran side by side, cutting across a smooth flat before dipping suddenly into a sharp valley.  At the bottom of the valley lay Bell Falls.  It was only about five o’clock.  He’d head to Myrtle’s restaurant for supper.

It was just getting dark as Chris pulled into the parking lot, leaving the jeep around back under an awning with the garbage cans.  Putting the stone in his pack, he entered Myrtle’s through the kitchen door, pausing long enough to glance up and down the alley.  Not even a cat in sight.  As he turned he felt a hard grip on his arm.  He jerked back, swinging the pack in an arc over his head.  The pack never fell.  A large woman gripped the pack in one powerful hand over her head.  With the other she grabbed Chris by the neck and lifted him off his feet.  She stared at him for a second before pulling him to her, smothering him in a bear hug and planting a kiss on his forehead.  “You’re late,” she said, dragging him inside.

The restaurant was packed with the supper crowd.  Chris forced a seat at the counter as Myrtle brought him beer, hot beef, and pie.  She leaned close as she slid the plates across the counter.

“There was a man here, looking for you,” she whispered, her breath as warm as coffee in his ear. “I told him you had died alone, a long way from home, and we’d buried you out to sea.”  She laughed in her nose.  Chris raised an eye brow.  That was quick, but not unexpected.

“What’d he look like?”

“Your height, but not as cute,” Myrtle answered with a smirk.  “Long gray coat, dark boots, but you’ll know him when you see him by his hair.”

“Long and black,” Chris said, as if he knew.  A look of surprise crossed his face at her answer.

“Long, yes, but white, as if he’d boiled his head in bleach.  He didn’t stay but a second, just popped in, asked if I’d seen you and bolted out the door.  That was about an hour ago.”

Myrtle left in response to a yell from some longshoremen at a table, leaving Chris to ponder her news.  He knew Samuel or some of his drones would be searching for him, but this man didn’t fit his expectations.  The men he’d seen working for Samuel were invariably short, swarthy individuals, dressed in black.  Now it seemed unknown others were looking for him.  He finished his meal and slipped out the back.  Time to get under cover.

*      *        *

Chris sat under a tree in the bottom of a dark ravine, starlit sky close as a cloak about his head.  After he’d left Myrtle’s, he’d gone to a friend’s place.  The friend was gone but Chris had helped himself to food, a pile of bills and coins, a pistol, a rifle, and a hundred rounds of ammunition.  He’d then headed out of town a few miles to the farm of another old friend.  The jeep was stashed in the barn, and Chris was holed up in a dark watercourse.  The night was still, the orb warm and heavy in his lap.  Chris stared into the depths as he unconsciously rotated the ball.  The globe was black as a sky devoid of stars.  The polished surface felt like velvet under Chris’ fingers.  It was deceptively hard, as if it were inviting you to sink your fingers through the surface; the hardness was an illusion.  Chris ran his fingers over the ball again and again, unable to stop, unaware of his actions.  He couldn’t take his eyes from the surface of the globe.  The inky blackness seemed to be drawing him in.  Starlight glimmered on the curved surface, warping the silver light into bright streaks.  As he shifted the ball to gather more light, the moon rose above the edge of the ravine.  Chris gasped.  The reflection of the moon seemed to come from inside the sphere, but it moved and shifted, forming small ghostly figures.  As Chris bent lower, he realized the images were inside the ball.  A tall man, long white hair braided to his waist, stood on what appeared to be a silver dais.  Behind him, light shone so brightly it could not be looked at.  Suddenly the scene shifted and the white light was replaced with the dark blue of the evening sky.  A cloaked and hooded man was walking a road, carrying a tall staff.  He seemed vibrant, energetic, even in the minute picture in the globe.  Then, without warning, the scene shifted again, and Chris recognized the dark figure of Samuel.  He was looking with disdain at a man writhing in pain on the ground.  The man stopped moving and Samuel lifted his eyes to Chris’.  Again came that terrifying pain in his head.  Chris jerked, and the globe rolled from his lap and went dark.  As he breathed deeply to clear the pain, Chris became aware of the oppressive stillness of the night.  In the sudden quiet, there came the unmistakable sound of a boot scraping on gravel.  Chris rolled to the side and came up quickly, pistol aimed at the dark figure silhouetted above him on the bank.  Instinctively he fired but the bullet passed into nothing.  The figure raised a long staff, said something in a strange tongue, and the gun fell from Chris’ hand.

“Finally, I have found you.” said the man, climbing down to where Chris stood.  “Please don’t shoot at me again; it will do you no good.”  The man stood before Chris, his hooded face impossible to see in the dark.  “Now, hand me the Palantir.”