The chosen location for the peace talks the following morning was the shell of a bombed out house in the Marksville suburbs. Sitting as it did almost directly halfway between the city walls and the Viborg lines it had presumably been selected as a neutral location, though the charred wallpaper still clinging to the shattered walls and the pathetic bits of broken furniture piled up in one corner proclaimed it as anything but. By the time I was escorted by my two burly minders to take my reluctant seat at the conference the principle players were already in place. Continue reading
It was some time after midnight before Michael and I returned to the bar of The Hotel Majestic, still no closer to striking inspiration in terms of finding something to barter for our inter-dimensional travel drive repairs. I was undoubtedly beginning to warm to the idiosyncratic delights of Marksville home-brewed alcohol, and there had certainly been plenty more of it on offer on the way back, but in none of its many textures, tastes or colours could it be said to particularly lend itself to clear thinking. Continue reading
For the next hour or so it proved quite impossible to leave the square. Fitz may have melted away as soon as his speech was concluded but, with all patrols cancelled, the crowd in general showed no inclination to move on. Various bottles, barrels and jugs of home brew were swiftly produced from Lord-knows-where and Central Square became the scene of a vast outdoor party. Situated as we were in the very midst of the throng we found our every attempt to escape blocked by hordes of exuberant citizens, singing and dancing with joyful abandon. For the time being there was nothing for it but to join the celebrations. Continue reading
It may have been the effect of the cotton wool, or perhaps it was just the sheer state of exhaustion I was in, but nothing was capable of disturbing me once I had collapsed into my bed in Room 312 of The Majestic Hotel. By the time I woke the sun was sitting low in the sky and the city outside our window was eerily quiet. There was no sign of life emanating from any of the rooms occupied by our fellow passengers so I enjoyed a good long soak in the communal bathroom before Michael and I made our way downstairs. Continue reading
For about thirty seconds I was treated to a unique insight into what it must feel like to be a lone sock being buffeted around the inside of a tumble dryer on a medium spin cycle. When the walls of the tender finally stopped revolving around me I lay completely still in an effort to calculate the damage. That the numerous bruises I could feel springing up here, there and everywhere were just bruises and nothing worse seemed to be down to a large collection of seat cushions that had been abandoned in the tender when they proved less flammable than hoped and which had served to soften the blows. Despite some rather melodramatic groans it appeared that Charters, who had been buffeted around alongside me, was also largely intact and so together we crawled out of the upturned tender to assess the wider damage. Continue reading
When the sun went down the temperature plummeted. Inside the train, stranded motionless on the tracks, a thin frost crept up the windows and breath hung in delicate clouds upon the air. Outside, a bright, chilling moon threw its stark light over the parched, featureless plain. There was no sign of life, no prospect of rescue or comfort visible in any direction as far as the eye could see. Under the circumstances it was perhaps no surprise that the conversation turned to the question of which of us, should circumstances eventually dictate, we ought to eat first. Continue reading
Outside the train we wordlessly shuffled ourselves into a line, standing with our hands upon our heads as ordered. I found myself in the centre of our little group, with Michael to my right and Charters to my left, staring directly ahead, somewhat transfixed by the blank, expressionless face of the Viborg soldier directly opposite me. All along the train the other passengers were alighting from their carriages and similarly offering themselves up to their new Viborg masters. There were no further attempts to make a break through or beyond the Viborg line – it seemed the lesson of the earlier escapee had been well-heeded. Continue reading
An awed hush settled over the carriage as the steady drum of clanking footsteps drew closer. Everyone instinctively huddled in the centre of the car, all eyes fixed upon the door. William’s mother threw a protective arm around her son; Charters and Caldicott, standing shoulder to shoulder, drew themselves up to their full height; the businessman gripped the nearest table more tightly than ever and let out a murmur of dismay. Flanked by the tall, upright figures of Michael and the accountant I concentrated hard on the suddenly tricky business of remembering to breathe. Continue reading
Travels Through An Imaginary Landscape 