The Stone, The Shield & The Clocks

A Prequel to The Quavering Air

          Santir recognized the dapper blue figure the moment he walked in. The creature was broad-shouldered and muscular under his gray suit, and a tiny pair of bony wings protruded from between his shoulder blades. His humanlike face was chiseled and handsome with a neat blue beard, but his eyes were chips of ice – cold enough to burn you.

          Santir turned back to his four-armed hammering and tried to recall his visitor’s name. Lugis The Blue. A hybrid creature of unusual lineage, as well as a philanderer and gambler who somehow frequently made his debts – or debt collectors – disappear.

His neatness of appearance was not likely to last in the heat of the blacksmith shop, Santir thought. He pounded at the shield he was shaping with his four strong arms, rounding out the rough edges.

          “I’m sorry to interrupt!” Lugis’s deep voice broke through the noise.

          This time when Santir looked up, he caught an unexpected scent: magic. Old and potent.

          Lugis stood a few feet back from the hot iron, smiling pleasantly, his long tail curling around his feet.

          Santir wiped his face and stared at him, intoxicated by that familiar odor. It took him back to his days as a young assistant for the Scralls in West Iddiren, when the air was often heavy with a pungent energy. Santir had thought that everyone must notice it, and yet his master had been astonished when he mentioned that magic had a smell.

          It was Santir’s first clue that something was different about him. He was a Rydit, a race of laborers and athletes who did not dabble in the esoteric arts. They had long pointed faces and broad, squat bodies covered in downy hair, and they were especially adept at physical work with their six muscular limbs.

          Back in West Iddiren, Santir's body hair had been soft and peach-colored, but it was permanently darkened now from his six years as a blacksmith. Six years in which he had quietly carried on his studies in magic, both the loamy kind native to Span and the more intricate spells from its turbulent sister world, Avid.

          Now his coal-like eyes studied Lugis with consternation.

          “How can I help you?” he rumbled.

          “I have a simple yet divine task for you, blacksmith,” Lugis declared, his tail twisting. “I require an iron scepter, fashioned to hold this lovely jewel of mine.” 

          He produced a crystal from his suit pocket, large enough to cover the palm of his hand. The gem was streaked with pale colors and Santir recognized it as a stone from a Swirl. Within those rainbow-hued pools were occasionally found lumps of its solidified water.

          The Swirl stones were rare and highly valued, and the sight of this one reminded Santir of the Scralls’ arguments over their vast lack of knowledge about the Swirls themselves. Even the Appon, the astral wizards who had escaped from Avid and discovered Span, understood little about the enigmatic, particolored springs.

          When Santir was a baby, his mother had accidentally dropped him into a Swirl and his father had fished him out, horrified. Or at least that was the story she told. She had liked to tell stories, and she had liked to suggest that Santir had a calling.

          He turned away from those thoughts and considered Lugis’s request.

          “You mean a staff, I suppose,” he said after a moment. “That should be simple enough.”

          “Oh no, blacksmith, I mean a scepter,” Lugis said, his cold eyes gleaming. “Only an instrument fit for a king will do.”

          Santir shrugged and nodded, his long face devoid of the curiosity building inside him. Maybe the charlatan simply fancied himself a king of some kind, but Santir sensed there was a darker reason.

          “How would you like the setting for the stone?” he asked mildly.

          “That is an excellent question.” Lugis rocked back on his heels with a satisfied air. “I’m of a mind to reference the Two Great Clocks! Or truthfully . . . just the Avid clock.” He gave Santir an unsettling leer. “Perhaps you could apply your own artistic sensibilities to how it should be represented.”

          Santir stiffened at this even stranger request. Plenty of customers wanted designs based upon the clocks, but certainly no one had ever asked for the Avid clock alone.

          In the time of Santir’s great-grandparents, the Appon set the two magical timepieces an hour apart to keep the borders closed between Span and Avid, and this was what kept Span safe.

          The two clocks stood guarded in the Time Tower, surrounded by the southeastern moors. One for Span and one for Avid, clicking solemnly one hour apart.

          “Just the Avid clock,” Santir repeated, picking up his hammer.

          The words of a shield spell suddenly broke through his thoughts. They bubbled up from the depths, the way such a shield was meant to appear. Not like the smoldering metal shield that he battered distractedly.

          “Can you have it ready for me by the end of the week?” Lugis asked.

          “Likely not until next week.” 

          “I see. I suppose you are very busy.” There was a chill to Lugis’s tone that gave Santir goosebumps.

          “But I can have it sent to an address, if you’d like.” He kept hammering, thinking of the words of the spell. “Bellarune idd . . .”

          “Very well. I will give you the address of the inn where I’ll be staying,” Lugis said after a moment.

          He strode to the table in the corner where Santir kept his record books and set the Swirl stone down with a flourish.  

          Santir turned to watch him open a ledger and scrawl on the inside of the cover. Then he placed several bills inside the book and slammed it shut.

          “Full payment will be mailed upon receipt,” he said with a toothy smile. “I bid you a good day!” Then he swept from the shop with his tail lashing behind him, the stone still on the table.

          Santir stared at the valuable gem that he’d left so carelessly. It was a defiant statement: if Santir sold it instead of making the scepter, Lugis was confident he’d find him. Santir was certain he would too.

          After a second, he opened the ledger and read what the creature had written: Solilen Inn, Eastern Wall, Tindin.

          Tindin, the closest city to the Time Tower. Its eastern wall bordered the very moors that surrounded the tower.

          Santir’s shoulders sank under the weight of that information. Here was a disreputable creature reeking of magic, who had a disturbing interest in the Avidian clock, on his way to the Time Tower. What did one do with that kind of knowledge?

          Santir scratched his long chin and closed the ledger. He studied his four hands for a moment; they were blackened and creased, strong enough to tear the book in half.

          “That one is odd,” he remembered the Scralls whispering about him.

          “I don’t like the questions he asks.”

          “He knew the growth elixir was wrong!”

          “We should send him away. A Rydit should know his place.”

          Santir clenched his fists and glanced at the door. Someone like Lugis The Blue would hire a carriage for travel, and the grandest carriages were rented from Elinna of Trivineen. The wily human had a team of drivers ready to take one anywhere in Span for the right cost. A lesser-known – and far less grand – option was to buy enough ale for a Krimmer called Durrid Lost to convince him to fly you wherever you needed to go.

          Santir flipped the sign on his door so it read “Closed.” Then he took pains to clean himself up. Only half-formed plans were stirring in his mind, but he imagined that being covered in sweat would be unhelpful no matter what he did.

          Then he placed the Swirl stone in his pocket and left the shop, striding toward Elinna’s carriage park. He nodded to familiar faces along the way: customers and acquaintances, as well as the type of stranger that greeted everyone. He was quietly fond of those.

          Iddlar was a small but steadily growing town. His life there was simple and peaceful.

          As he walked, the gem in his pocket whispered softly, just like the voices from a Swirl. It startled him much less than it should have, perhaps. Somehow it seemed natural to have incomprehensible murmurs bubbling up from his fraying brown suit. Like the words of the shield spell in his mind.

          “Bellarune idd ballidare . . .”

          At the carriage park, he sought out Elinna’s assistant, an Idgian wearing an expensive vest around her spines. After some polite persistence, she admitted that Lugis The Blue had hired one of their most ornate vehicles just a few moments ago.

          With this news, Santir hurried away and ducked into an alley, heading for the shadier side of town. The scattered shops gradually changed from practical goods to arts and gifts, to raw materials, and then to the unsavory arts. Santir had often noted the hierarchy of acceptable goods and arts – and who was allowed or expected to be involved with them.

          The brick walls crumbled; the paths choked on weeds; the faces closed tight in suspicion.

          Here were the dark corners where exchanges were made: impossible sums or superfluous limbs traded for dubious potions and treatments. But here and there, as Santir walked, he caught potent whiffs of the real thing. Nothing as strong as the power that wafted off Lugis the Blue, but authentic magic just the same.

          He tried three unsavory taverns before he found Durrid Lost slumped at a table before a bowl of foul stew and a cracked mug. The Rydit sat across from him reluctantly, eyeing the flies that crawled over the stew and the disheveled human that leered at him from the next table. The Krimmer didn’t stir, so after a moment, Santir rapped the mug against the table.

          “I am awfully busy at the moment,” Durrid mumbled without looking up.

          “How many drinks to fly me to Tindin?” Santir asked without preamble.

          Durrid’s dark head lifted, and he squinted at Santir with reddened, heavy-lidded eyes. His features were pointed and sharp in an avian way, and there were scattered face feathers, but he did not have a beak the way some Krimmers did.

          “Rydits are heavy,” he said matter-of-factly.

          “You’ve carried Rydits before.” Santir knew this only because it had been a friend of his. “And you can stop to rest,” he offered. “But I need to beat a carriage that has already left.”

          Durrid yawned and stretched his lightly feathered arms. His black hair was matted and his tunic stained, but he was lithe and strong like all of his hybrid human/bird race.

          “No offense, good sir, but you don’t appear to be a creature of means, if you know what I mean –”

          “I suppose not,” Santir interrupted. “But appearances can deceive.”

          He pulled out the Swirl stone just for a moment, pretending to fiddle with it.

          Durrid's blurry eyes widened at the sight of the gemstone. He hiccupped and sat up straighter, wincing as he did.

          “I’ll take care of your tab here for the rest of the week, but I can only put thirty down now,” Santir said, laying Lugis’s bills on the table. 

          “Why don’t you ask him to pay off your debts, Durrid?” the human spoke up with a snort. “He’s got tabs at The Tilly and Grebyn’s,” he added to Santir.

          “All the more reason to have this one paid,” Santir said mildly, but he wondered exactly how much ale the Krimmer could order in the remaining half of the week. “No buying rounds,” he added to Durrid. “Just your own drinks.”

          “Ha!” the human cackled, showing missing teeth. “As if he ever buys a round!”

          Durrid had been quiet and still since he’d glimpsed the Swirl stone, but now he snatched up his mug and threw it. It smacked the human in the face, and he tottered backward off his seat. Shouts of laughter exploded around the dark room.

          “My sincerest apologies for that,” the Krimmer told Santir swiftly. “When shall we leave?”

*          *          *

          It was an uncomfortable way to travel. Santir gripped Durrid from the back with all four arms, but his legs dangled heavily. The wind buffeted his face and made his eyes water – as did Durrid’s stink of ale and unwashed skin. The sight of the land below churned his stomach, so he squeezed his eyes shut.

          They had been flying for several hours, with the Krimmer sinking and rising wearily under his weight, cursing. He flew as quickly as Santir had hoped, however, or almost.

         “I can’t breathe, you oaf!” he called out and Santir reluctantly loosened his grip.

         The night sky colors were beginning to glow above them, the Great Kenda formation just visible to the east. It was the closest that Santir had ever been to those patterns in the sky, and it made his head spin.

         What if he was wrong about Lugis? What if he was simply an eccentric, writing a historical text on the Two Great Clocks? Maybe his desire for a sceptre was just an unrelated whim . . . and not a sign that he intended to rule over someone or something.

         Even if Santir was right about the dangerous creature, what could he possibly do?

         “Have to . . . stop!” Durrid gasped. He started sinking at a frightening rate, and Santir clenched him in alarm.

         It was the first of several rest stops, each one further tightening the knot in Santir’s stomach. They were running out of time.

*          *          *

         Santir stood blinking wearily in the spot where Durrid dropped him before the Krimmer stumbled off to the nearest tavern. They had traveled for two and a half days, subsisting on snatches of both food and sleep.

         Tindin’s eastern wall loomed over Santir’s exhausted frame.

         The sky was just beginning to brighten, and the city was stirring around him. Clutching the Swirl stone in his pocket, he shook the fog from his brain and calculated how long Lugis’s carriage ride would have taken. He had probably arrived yesterday. 

         A crew of Galopine guards marched past Santir toward the wall and he hailed one to ask for directions to the Solilen Inn. Then he hustled there to inquire after the blue creature. 

         In no time at all, he was back to searching taverns for Durrid. Unlike Elinna’s assistant, the innkeeper had been more than happy to divulge Lugis’s activities, especially since he admired the dapper creature’s style. 

         Lugis had hired someone to give him a wagon tour of the moors. They had departed just an hour before, with Lugis raving about the interesting flora and fauna he was going to see before the morning sky colors appeared.  

         Santir’s lingering doubts vanished. Fear gripped his spine and seized his muscles.

         He burst into a place called the Winged Alka and spotted Durrid leaning over the bar, nursing a pitcher of ale.

         “I need you again, Krimmer!” Santir declared. With four arms moving like a windmill, he yanked Durrid to his feet, pushed back the pitcher, and waved to the bartender for the bill.

         He might as well have had four hearts, as fast as the single one was beating. 

         The Krimmer choked and yelped, spitting ale onto their boots. 

         “Have you lost your mind, Rydit?” he shouted.

         “There’s no time to spare.” Santir hauled him outside and pointed toward the eastern wall. “I have to get to the Time Tower, as fast as you can fly.”

         Durrid hiccupped and then broke into incredulous laughter.

         “You want to fly a ring around the Time Tower?” he slurred, quoting a nursery rhyme that Santir had long forgotten.

         He rarely raised his voice – his father had done too much of that when he was a child – so the growl from his own throat surprised him.                       

         “Listen, you drunken fool!” He shook Durrid hard, rattling his bones. “The Two Great Clocks are in danger! Do you understand? And there’s no time to warn anyone!"

         Durrid scoffed at him, but there was a flicker of uncertainty in his bleary eyes.

         “It’s too late to warn anyone now,” Santir repeated, despair creeping into his voice. “By the time I convinced someone, we might be lost!”

         Durrid shook his head and stepped away from him quickly.

         “I don’t want any part of this. If you want to rush out into some kind of danger, you’re on your – ”

         Santir thrust the Swirl stone into his hands, startling him. Then he grabbed his collar just in case he flew off with it.

         “Drop me outside the tower and this is yours! That’s all I need!” His throat was so tight he could barely speak.

         Durrid cursed under his breath. For a moment he did nothing but glare at Santir as if he hated him with every inch of his being. Then he stuffed the gem into his pocket.

         In a moment, they were airborne again.

         Santir’s empty stomach lurched as they flew over the high city wall, its guards looking up at them curiously. The great moor was so flat that the Time Tower was immediately visible – a dark stone finger pointed at the sky. 

         Durrid continued to curse as they flew, sinking and rising erratically. Santir barely listened as he ranted about how the guards would interrogate him on his way back, and what in Span was he supposed to say? The shrubs and short grasses of the moor fluttered below them, stretching out like great woven patches of fur. There was no sign of the wagon that bore Lugis to the tower. No sign of the danger that was flashing red in Santir’s mind.  

         Then at last the tower loomed before them, silent and grave. Shivers shot through Santir at the sight of the deserted lawn before it . . . and the abandoned wagon that rested forlornly some distance away.

         “There should be a sentry here,” Durrid said, suddenly afraid. He drifted halfway to the ground, reluctant to land. Then he gasped, startling Santir.

         “There’s a body in that wagon!” he hissed, staring at the discarded vehicle.

         “The guide,” Santir muttered.

         At that moment, the air crackled as if lightning had struck. Goosebumps flew up Santir’s arms. Durrid dropped him and the light dimmed as he fell, as if a lid had covered the sky.

         His four hands slapped the ground, his knees crunching into the dirt. Grimacing, he jerked his head up and stared. The sky colors were muted and dull. The air tasted sour in his open mouth; the bracken and the dirt smelled acrid.

         Durrid’s hair stood on end as he hovered over Santir.

         “Too late.”

         The stone walls of the Time Tower seemed to vibrate, and then an ice-cold breeze swept across the moor. Santir shuddered, clenching and unclenching his fist.

         “Look!” Durrid shouted, pointing back towards Tindin.

         Far off in the distance, a streak of light appeared in the air. It was like a slice or a tear . . . or a seam splitting open.

         Santir found his voice suddenly and cried out, “Bring help, Krimmer! Go!”

         Durrid gave him one look, his face deathly pale, then he shot away into the sky.

         As he flew, Santir saw another slash appear, this one much closer. Something dark and long-limbed fell through it . . . and then another.

         The tower’s double doors were open. Santir hurried inside, knowing it was no safer there with Lugis. But he dragged the doors closed behind him and stood there in a dim hall. Heart pounding, he stared down at the sprawled bodies of several guards. He pulled an axe from a set of limp fingers.

         Wizard guards, wearing long red sashes from the Appon, were slumped across the wide stone steps. Blood dripped down the arching walls. The air reeked of forceful magic.

         Who was he to battle a powerful magician? Surely he was walking towards death.

         But he had to do something. The axe hung limply in his hand.

         “Bellarune idd ballidare,” he whispered to himself and began to slowly climb the stairs. It felt as if he were under a spell – or perhaps inside a dream – ascending toward something inevitable. His heartbeat slowed. His vision blurred at the edges.

         He murmured the shield spell over and over as he climbed. The air around him warped and prismed, then relaxed. Again and again he recited, until he reached the round clock chamber and saw the bodies of more creatures in red sashes. The gleaming floor and the white columns were flecked with blood.

         Santir stood silently at the entrance and stared at the Two Great Clocks in the center of the chamber. The room was awash in an eerie glow and within it, the clocks vibrated strangely. Standing as tall as horses, they were sculpted with swells and curves like hourglasses, yet they were clocks with elegant faces. SPAN was carved in gold above one face, AVID painted black above the other – and their silver hands were supposed to be set one hour apart.

         But they were both set at noon. The clocks were synced. The sight made Santir’s hair stand on end. The borders between Span and Avid were open!

         Through an arched window, he caught sight of another rent in the sky. Something large and dark flew through it, screeching. 

         He imagined thousands of such portals, bursting open all over the land. Raining monsters upon unsuspecting victims.

         Lugis stood before the clocks, his long tail twitching. He was swaying back and forth, and muttering. Strange syllables floated on the air, heavy with intent.

         Santir recognized some of the words from West Iddiren. It was a spell of bidding, a massive one. Lugis was attempting to take command of the beasts breaking through from Avid. The potency of the spell made Santir choke.

         No one had the power to alter the clocks other than the Appon – or perhaps an elder Scrall. Yet this abominable creature had done it, and still had the strength to summon an army.

         He suddenly twitched and turned his head. Santir didn’t move, stiff with fear. Features twisted in concentration, Lugis studied him for a long moment.

         Then he smiled slowly, as if he enjoyed having an audience after all.

         “Have you brought my sceptre?” he asked, the strain audible in his voice. “I’m going to rule over legions, blacksmith. I must have the proper accessories.”

         A creature outside shrieked and Lugis chuckled in delight.

         “Hear that? They already heed my call,” he growled, turning back to the clocks.

         “How?” Santir demanded through clenched teeth. “How do you have such power?”

         “Surely you’ve heard of the Extrunikrim.” Lugis’s voice faltered as he pushed to maintain his spell. “Some of us are more . . . creative than others.”

         Santir blinked, recognizing the name of those rare creatures, highly gifted in magic. Extrunikrim were supposedly born of two already powerful magicians – often thought to be barren. Still, none had ever rivaled the strength of the Appon before . . . or at least, none had tried.

         A roar outside brought a chilling laugh from Lugis.

         “Why not go join my army, blacksmith? Or at least give them some sport!” He sneered and laughed again. “After all, they might be particular about who joins their ranks!”

         Abruptly, he began to chant his bidding spell again, raising his arms toward the chamber’s windows.

         Santir glanced at the carving of the Appon on the wall, their slender figures observing quietly. He had often thought that he would like to attend an assembly at the Observatory Hearth one day, to see the Appon’s wise, white eyes in person. But he would be a nobody in the crowd – a common Rydit with no reason to speak to the exalted ones.

         Except perhaps to remind them that magic found its way into the most unexpected places: within the mysterious Swirls, within the unlikely Extrunikrim, and even within a lowly Rydit blacksmith.

         Closing his eyes, he thought of the Swirl stone, and imagined it was still in his pocket. He heard the voices rising from a lovely rainbow spring meandering through a distant wood. Then he began to whisper the shield spell. He felt the air around him pulse and stretch. Lugis’s voice and the dense atmosphere inside the chamber grew distant; he was aware of them as well as the cries of monsters outside, but that was all outside the center.

         He was at the center by himself, calmer now and increasingly certain.

         When he opened his eyes, a shimmering dome surrounded him, just an arm’s length away on all sides. The apprentice Scralls had practiced the difficult spell endlessly as he watched, and most had failed to cast it. He had dreamed of casting it often . . . and wondered why.

         Half in a trance now, he stepped forward, gliding the shield across the polished floor with him.

         He strode slowly toward Lugis, all of his senses consumed by the two very different spells in the chamber. The voices of the Swirl urged him on.

         “I didn’t take you for a fool, Rydit,” Lugis said suddenly. “But I should have!” He flicked a hand and a bolt of energy exploded between them.

         It struck the shield before Santir’s face. He watched breathlessly as it dissipated.

         Then he pushed forward faster.

         Astonished, Lugis wheeled to face him. Then he froze, his mouth slack in horror. He recognized the shield. He knew.

         His own spell drooped, and the monstrous noises outside changed. The beasts of Avid set up a bone-chilling howl.

         Cursing, he blasted Santir with red fire. The flames raged against the shield, but they did not pass through.

         “How?” Lugis shrieked, echoing Santir’s question from before. “You are no wizard! You are nothing!”

         Santir raised the axe.

         “I was meant to stop you.”

         Then he chopped off the demon’s head. The world was silent as it struck the ground. He dropped the weapon a moment later and his shield collapsed, his strength expended.

         Terrible cries flooded the room through the windows. Santir sank to the floor with his four hands over his ears.

         The weight and the stench of Lugis’s spell was fading swiftly. As it did, the beasts moved away from the tower, no longer under his sway. Santir felt the stones tremble as they raced across the ground, screaming and raging their way in all directions. They were no longer an army, but still a terrifying pestilence to be wiped out. And they would keep coming through until the clocks were reset.

         It was several long moments before it was quiet. Then the chamber itself seemed to sag inward. The clocks ticked quietly and strangely, still in sync. The tower groaned deep within its bones and the wind worried across the moor.

         At last, Santir raised his head, as weary as if he’d fought a long battle. He studied the clocks in their eerie glow. Slowly, aware of the futility of his actions, he reached out to touch one of their silver hands.

         Sparks flew immediately and burned his fingers. He could not reset the clocks.

         But that was not his calling. He had done what he was meant to do. The rest was up to the Appon.

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