Stone Rising by Gareth K Pengelly Page A

promise of our lord. He’ll not forsake us. Hold out here, as long as we can. He will return. Lawrence snorted to himself in quiet derision. Not likely. Not if the months they’d already been here were anything to go by. As far as he could see, the future only held more of the same; more of the misery, more of the mind-numbing boredom. And more of the ever-present fear that never left, that chilled each man, right down to the bone, no matter how warm the strange mechanical heaters of this complex kept the air.
                  Lawrence?
                  More of the dried, tasteless, tinned food. More of the poisonous, fume ridden air and burnt, orange sky.
                  Lawrence?
                  He paused his lamentations for a moment as he lay there on the unyielding, dusty padding of the restaurant seat. Did he… did he really hear that? Or were his suspicions right? Were his frayed nerves finally beginning to play tricks on his mind?
                  Lawrence, why did you leave us?
                  He sat bolt upright, blanket falling to the floor, hand snatching out to stop his cannon from doing the same.
                  “T… Tanya?” He whispered the name quietly, lest the other resting warriors heard. No, it couldn’t be. Not possible. Not here, not now, not after everything that had happened. Impossible. Yet there it was again; faint, yet unmistakable. And it sent a shiver down his spine.
                  Why did you leave us, Lawrence? Why?
                  He stuttered, trying to find the words, but his mind and mouth failing to reach an agreement on how they should proceed.
                  It’s cold out here, Lawrence. So cold. Won’t you let us all in?
                  “Y… you all?”
                  Your father’s here, Lawrence. Your mother, too. We’re all here, but it’s cold. Won’t you let us in?
                  His heart hammered in his chest as he whispered quietly through trembling lips.
                  “How…?” he demanded as if unto the air itself. “How is this possible?”
                  I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you everything. But please, first come and let us in.
                  He slid his feet off his makeshift bed, confused, scared, but desperate; desperate for a chance of familiarity, a glimpse of home. A second chance.
                  “Where are you?” he breathed.
                  Follow my voice, Lawrence, came the whispers in reply. Follow my voice and let us in…
     
    ***
     
    Marlyn stumbled, eyes half closed in his tired state, almost splashing his feet as he relived himself in one of the porcelain urinals.
    Should’ve listened to Arbistrath, he thought to himself, ruefully.
    He pulled his trousers back up about his waist, fastening them in place with a thick leather belt, before hefting his ever-present cannon to his shoulder. The mail and plate of his garb resounded loud and harsh in the tiled bathroom as he trudged his way to the door, patting himself down with a frown as though he’d forgotten something, then shaking his head and continuing on. Heavy, cumbersome; Marlyn had voiced his objections at wearing the armour all the time, and his voice had been only one of many. But Arbistrath had been adamant; armour to be worn at all times, save when bathing.
    Once upon a time, people might have disobeyed that order, coming from him, especially here and now, far from the prying eyes of other Lords or the threat of punishment. But the Arbistrath of today was a different man from the proud, naïve young Lord of Tulador they once knew. The Demon of the Bridge had shocked into life a courage within the man, a courage that had perhaps always been there, though dormant, buried beneath layers of fear and responsibility. Then the death of Hofsted had tempered