The ship hove to a short distance away and waited. I briefly considered that the crew was merely covering our retreat in case more Others should emerge from the tree-line, but the number of rope ladders being lowered did not encourage me. Two coils of rope, secured in some manner to the airship, were expertly dropped over the side. Ropes uncoiling as they fell, the ends snapped sharply several feet above the ground.
With a precision that could not have been an accident, two of the crew, these wearing what looked like darker, tighter fitting versions of the cold weather suits their compatriots sported, lowered themselves over the side in tandem, one to each line. That they were secured to the lines in some fashion was obvious by their rapid, sliding decent. What made their rappel even more unusual was that they faced the ground as they came, clearly more interested in seeing what was below than in assuming a more traditional seated position. My suspicion that they were from a highly trained, elite group was later corroborated.
Just short of the ground they slowed their descent and swung upright, landing confidently on their feet before stepping clear of the hanging ropes. One of men, as they now obviously were, drew back his hood and made a small but quite formal nod towards Layla. As he spoke, he kept his head inclined slightly, avoiding her gaze. “Princess.”
With that one word, I looked at her in surprise. Layla had an inscrutable look about her, and shrugged her shoulders at my unspoken question.
The other man, standing silent and motionless until that instant, sprung upon me with far less civility. Lifting his gloved hand to strike me across the face with the back of it, he spoke with a stern tone, quite probably chastising me for some real or imagined affront towards Layla in her newly revealed status as royalty. His anger was clear by the look on his face, but I was unable to make out the words as they were somehow slurred and slow.
Then I realized what had happened. His hand was inching towards me at such a slow rate of speed that it would take a full minute to reach my face. I was somehow in that altered perceptive state as I had been before. This instance felt slightly different, as I did not feel quite as constrained in my own motion.
Looking around, I saw Layla, still dropping her shoulders out of their shrug, also moving with incredible slowness. The airship remained stationary above, but now the busy movements of its crew had all but stopped. As surprised as I was by this strange phenomenon, I actually laughed to myself. I had no idea how long I would remain in my current condition, so as a precaution I took a step to my left, out of the path of the backhand strike.
I noticed several of the disc-like portals at various positions and angles from my location, but none of them were the same as the one that had brought me to this world. It may seem strange to you that I spent time analyzing the portals with everything going on around me, but for some reason I have found that my mind becomes incredibly curious when I am in that altered time-rate. I also feel no sense of urgency, regardless of the situation I had been in seconds prior. But I digress.
I spent time looking around, and comparing the portals. Some were close by, others quite distant. They had differing color patterns, and some were very bright, others almost indistinguishable. In the end though, I had no real desire to go through one at this point. Despite Layla’s newfound royal status, I was not assured of her safety.
Regardless of my annoying loss of memory, my various patterns of belief seem to have survived largely intact through my accident. I knew that I was not the kind of man to leave a companion in danger to preserve my own safety. I now considered Layla a companion, at the very least. I would stay and do my best to ensure that she was not mistreated at the hands of these men from the airship.
In the instant that my mind was made up on that issue, time resumed its normal course and somewhat abruptly I became disoriented. It was a lucky thing I had chosen to move when I had for the backhanded strike continued through the air, now at full speed, and missed me completely.
To his credit, the look of surprise on my attacker’s face was as short lived as his inaction. He did not assume the puzzled look of incredulity that the majority of people would upon seeing a person suddenly shift several feet to one side in the blink of an eye, apparently without moving a muscle. He merely reacted as if I were a new target popping up at a shooting range. Granted, part of his response may have been generated by the conceit of one who believes himself superior in every way to those he deals with, but it was impressive nonetheless.
His next act revealed to me yet another skill in my possession that I had heretofore been unaware of. With quick, precise movements, he drew a narrow blade from its sheath strapped snugly to his waist and thigh. The blade was perhaps a bit over a foot long with a wicked point made for stabbing. As he stepped towards me, the point angled downward and he attempted to do just that.
His blade found only air as at the last second I turned slightly to the right and stepped off at an angle to the left. This happened without my conscious thought, indeed had I taken the time to think of a response I surely would have been stabbed. Just as quickly, as my left hand knocked his wrist away from me, my right hand, without regard to the pain it caused in my injured arm, chopped down onto his wrist, knocking the blade clean out of his hand and sending it spinning into the snow.
At this point, my mind caught up with my actions and I stopped myself just short of breaking his nose. I don’t know quite why I stopped, but it may have had something to do with the snick I heard from the direction of the other guard and the strange looking pistol that appeared in his hand, pointed in my direction.
The beginnings of bewilderment which had been forming in my thoughts at the speed and accuracy of my fighting ability were quickly replaced by my narrow focus on that pistol. It may sound strange coming from someone claiming to have no memory, but I had never seen a pistol like the one he held. While I was instantly familiar, seemingly from some prior association for example, with the Springfield rifle slung over my shoulder, I knew just as quickly that this weapon was something totally new to me.
To be sure, it had a barrel, trigger, and a handgrip which allowed me to identify it as a type of projectile weapon. The part of the stock visible above the man’s hand was smooth and darkly finished wood. Its other features were far different.
The barrel and each of several small tubular protuberances that emerged at different places from it and ran alongside were bronze colored and polished to a high sheen. Three cylinders sat atop the device, running two thirds of the gun’s foot long length, and banded together in a triangular pattern.
The two bottom cylinders were of the same bronze color as the other metal parts. The third cylinder, seated atop the first two, had a distinctly darker, more coppery look. The other distinct difference that this pistol had to other firearms was the popping sound it made when fired, which the guard did presently.
Despite my detailed description of the weapon, I had spent no great deal of time examining it. I only go to such lengths so that you, the reader may in some way understand what I saw in that brief interval between the weapon being drawn and when it was fired, or discharged as I later learned, for there is no flame or powder involved in the process.
I did not initially feel any pain, and actually heard the thuds as the projectiles impacted my chest before any other sensation. Three or four times he shot, but in reality it makes no difference how many times. I started to step towards him, intent on ripping the gun from his grasp and fighting back somehow.
Managing two steps, my legs gave out and I pitched forward onto the rocks quite forcefully. Even my good arm failed to come to my aid and my head smacked against the ground with enough force to render me unconscious.
I quickly, or so I thought, pushed myself up to continue fighting. I must however have lain prone for some time and had been left quite ignored as a thin coating of ice even crackled off of my exposed skin as I rose. My head, where I had struck the ground, smarted and my chest felt greatly bruised where
the bullets had stuck. To my surprise, my arm felt little pain. I bent and extended it, and found it moved almost normally through its range of motion. I paid these sensations no heed however, as dismayed; I saw only dim starlight over the waves in the distance.
It was night, and I believed I was alone. Layla, and her captors were gone. I had not only failed to protect her, but had also gotten myself into quite a predicament. I could make out dimly the shadow of the ‘tower of the ancients’ as Layla had called it, against the horizon.
That would be as good a destination as any, perhaps to find at least shelter while I planned what to do next and recovered my strength. My head was still more than a bit muddled from hitting the rock, and being shot did nothing to engender within me a feeling of joviality. I had taken no more than a few staggering steps toward the tower, however, when I heard a distant shout behind me.
Turning, I saw with some relief an airship secured to the ground closer to the treeline. It was itself dark of any light source, but the ring of fires on the ground below gave some illumination. I assumed it was the same ship as before, but not having many options in any case began to approach cautiously.
Figures moved busily around on the ground. I saw a laden wooden platform being lifted towards the airship by a block and tackle hanging from the ship. After a few seconds of contemplation, I realized what they were doing. They were butchering and collecting pieces of the Others they had killed.