4. A Snowy Valley Disturbed (Patreon)

Hallon opens her eyes to a world made of whites and blues. A snow-covered hill rises above her, and atop it is Milo’s Matter Transmission Engine, the mechanical tree piercing the sky. Its inventor is farther down the hill, still unconscious. The parlor chairs and his tools are tumbled in the snow twenty feet beyond him.

Eratosthenes?

The dragon doesn’t answer. He must still be traveling. The plan was for him to follow after, tracking Hallon to this world using the connection between them. She wonders at how he feels right now. Proud at what they accomplished? Worried about her well-being? Excited to discover what this world holds for them? Her own heart is nearly full enough to burst. She laughs and whoops and can’t wait to share the feeling with him.

Still smiling, Hallon gets up to check on Milo. The boy is unhurt, with no broken bones or bruises, and the spirit lines in his body show no signs of internal injury. He looks like a sleeping child, curled around himself, and she rights one of the chairs to place him carefully into it. She covers him with her coat.

Seeing him settled, she climbs the hill. The engine is split in two and its branches splintered. Heat radiates from the metal, melting the snow and forming a pool of water around its base. A breath of wind rills across the water’s surface and flows downhill. The air quiets and goes still.

The tear is barely visible to Hallon’s inner sight; thin as a paper’s edge and almost as straight. To her eyes, it looks like a simple wedge will keep it open, and she reaches into her Place of Power to retrieve a spell prepared in advance. It takes an effort of will, but Hallon shoves the wedge into position.

The universe will eventually scar over the tear and wedge both, but the spell should slow the process. Long enough to secure their passage home at least. Pleased with her handiwork, Hallon turns to scan the area surrounding the hill.

The morning sun shines down on a bare landscape stretching for miles in all directions. They’re in a long, snow-covered valley, with mountain ranges to the east and west. Hallon and Milo appear to be the only living things here. “Now this is an interesting turn of events.”

Hallon hadn’t thought to prepare for an arctic expedition, except it’s not the arctic—the sun’s in the wrong place for that. To her eyes, they’re somewhere near the equator. She walks back down the hill to find their packs. They have food for two weeks—four on half rations—but it’ll be a challenge. Their bodies are going to need energy for the trek. Are there fish under the ice? Animals they can hunt? She hopes so.

Milo snorts awake and jumps to standing. “Yowp!” His eyes go wide when he sees the snow all around him.

“I can explain,” Hallon says, hoping to cut off the ensuing panic.

“I—what—how—oh. I see. I see. Never mind then.” Milo settles back in the chair and closes his eyes.

The boy never seems to react in the ways she expects him to. “Ah, are you all right?” Hallon asks, but the boy ignores her. “Milo? Milo?” When he still doesn’t respond, she steps behind his chair and tilts it forward, dumping him face first into the snow.

Milo stands up sputtering. “What’d you do that for?”

“You weren’t answering.”

“That’s because I don’t normally talk to figments of my imagination,” he says, dusting himself off.

“We have to—wait, what? You don’t think I’m real?”

“Of course not! You can’t be, none of this can.” Milo collects her oiled long coat and examines it before sitting back in the chair. He lays it on his lap like a blanket. “It’s obvious that I’ve suffered major head trauma, and now I’m hallucinating. There’s no other reasonable explanation.”

“Sure there is. We opened a gap between universes and traveled between them.”

Milo laughs. He laughs so hard, he has to bend over and hold his belly because it hurts. “Oh, oh, that’s good. So good. Say it again, please do. It’ll help pass the time until the fire brigade comes to revive me.” He looks at her expectantly.

Hallon slaps him across the face. Not hard, but enough to shock some sense into the boy. The situation isn’t dangerous yet, but that’ll likely change come nightfall. The boy needs to be paying attention if he’s going to survive. “Still think this is a hallucination?”

“You—” He jumps up. “You hit me!”

“Just a little bit,” Hallon says. “I needed your attention, but maybe that was uncalled for. I apologize.”

Milo puts the chair between them. “Stay away from me.”

“That’s not going to work. I have the only food for miles, and you’re going to need me when it gets dark.”

“Nonsense. This is a dream. All we—all I have to do is wait for the fire brigade.” Confusion passes over Milo’s face. “But hold on. That hurt.”

“I did slap you,” Hallon says.

“But it shouldn’t have hurt. That kind of sense perception shouldn’t be possible in a dream.” He steps out from behind the chair. “Do it again.”

“You want me to slap you?”

“No, on second thought, let’s not do that.” He pinches his wrist. “Ow.” He does it again. “Ow.” And a third time. “Ow.” When the result doesn’t change, he looks at Hallon in surprise. “There’s something strange going on here.”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you!”

“Then why not say so?” Milo asks. “There was no need to cause a fuss.”

Hallon resists the urge to punch him. “You weren’t listening.”

“Yes, I was,” Milo says. “I just wasn’t responding. There’s a difference.”

“Do you want me to hit you again?”

“No. No. That won’t be necessary.” Milo pinches himself. “I can get all the experimental data I need this way.”

Hallon takes a breath to control her anger. “Good. That’s good. You do that. In the meantime, walk with me. I want to find shelter before nightfall, and I’d rather not have you freeze to death.”

Milo looks dubious. “Where are you going?”

“Not me. We. And we’re headed east.” Any direction would’ve served, but it’s what comes to her.

He quirks his head, thinking. “All right. I suppose it’s reasonable to play along and seek shelter.” He starts walking, pinching at his cheeks as he goes.

“Hold on, carry this,” Hallon says, handing him his pack.

Milo stares at it.

“Put it on your back.”

“I know what to do,” he says. “I’m just surprised you have two of them. It implies intentionality.”

Hallon nods. “When you’re ready to hear what’s really happened to you, let me know.”

Milo shakes his head, but at least he’s not laughing. “I’ll need a lot more proof before I believe in the multiple universe theory. As much as I admire Applegate’s boldness, the man is mad. What you’ve described is impossible.”

“Impossible is just a state of mind,” Hallon says.

Milo ignores her, but at least he’s walking in the right direction. For now, that’s all Hallon needs from him.

###

After two hours of careful walking, they’ve seen nothing to disturb the stark serenity of the land. Even the wind has gone, disappearing shortly after Hallon and Milo started their journey. The only sound is the soft tread of their feet on the ice.

Into this quiet, Milo’s stomach rumbles.

He doesn’t notice, but Hallon does. She snaps her fingers in front of his face. “We’re stopping to eat,” she says.

“Hmm? I am hungry. Do we have jam?”

“As a matter of fact, we do.”

Hallon spreads a blanket for their impromptu picnic and sets out the jerky, hard cheese, travel bread, and a sealed jar of blackberry jam. People usually don’t do well when they’ve been uprooted from their ordinary lives, so she’ll let Milo eat what he wants for now. Later, she’ll cut their portions.

As he reaches for the bread and jam, a tremor disturbs the air. A dark shape approaches from the northeast. The sound turns into the rumble of a gasoline engine, and the shape into a half-track, but with skis at the front instead of wheels. A handful of people sit in the open back, along with a woman standing at a mounted gun. The vehicle speeds across the ice towards their picnic.

An uneasy feeling crawls into Hallon’s belly. She stands up.

“What’s that?” Milo asks.

With a kerthunk, the mounted gun launches a silvery net that expands, web-like, as it flies through the air. Hallon pushes Milo aside, and the net flashes between them. The half-track swerves. Men and women pile out of the back. The number 35 is stenciled in Arabic on their thick coats.

Two men tackle Milo, and he hits the ice with an “Oof.”

Another two try for Hallon, but she’s the daughter of Nils Strongarm and the granddaughter of Magnus Ulfsson. She’s studied the Chivalric Arts under the Sword Saint Johannes Liechtenauer and the Immortal Zhang Zanfeng’s Way of the Soft Fist. If these people think they’re just going to tackle her, they’re in for a surprise.

Hallon ducks under the first one’s arms and stops the second with two palms to his ribcage. She transitions from the Donkey’s Welcome into a grapple, a simple Hook and Toss over the hip, to clear him out of the way. Just in time for her first opponent to swing back around. She’s ready for him and breaks his nose with a simple jab.

Her opponent staggers back, opening his centerline for her, and Hallon steps in with the Hummingbird’s Heart. A series of rapid punches flicker up from belly to chest. With each strike, she feels his bones compress and his balance breaking. Her opponent falls back onto the ice, and she follows up with a kick to the head. He goes limp.

A third opponent approaches Hallon. The woman has wary eyes and a scar above her left cheek. Hallon steps into the space in between and reaches for the scarred woman’s face. The woman’s instinct is to grab Hallon’s arm, to catch hold of her quarry, but Hallon isn’t so easily caught. She uses the point of connection to shove the woman off balance, before reversing the grip and throwing her aside. Hallon follows up with a heel kick to the stomach that jackknifes the woman and sends her to the side retching.

Milo gets clear of his attackers. One catches hold, but Milo slips free like an eel, wriggling out of Hallon’s long coat. The sight distracts Hallon’s fourth opponent, and Hallon closes the distance, ready to strike. He realizes his mistake and tenses, bringing up his hands to protect his face. Hallon drops and sweeps his feet out from under him instead. He crashes to the ground, knocking the back of his head into the ice.

A kerthunk from the half-track sends Milo tumbling, wrapped in a net. There’s a satisfied yell from the men chasing after him. Hallon rushes and leaps into a split kick, hitting one opponent and then the other, knocking them away. Another kerthunk sends a net flying towards Hallon, but she rolls under it. The woman at the net thrower curses and reloads.

A man steps out of the cab’s passenger side. “Nine hells,” he says in Arabic, “but you idiots can’t do anything right.” He aims a pistol at Hallon. “Enough’s enough.”

Hallon freezes. She’s dodged musket balls before, but a modern bullet? That’s a question with a potentially deadly answer. She reaches for The Gate of the Sun Horse, and the fire pours into her limbs. Her breath steams. Her senses open like a flower. They sharpen to a knife’s point. Time slows, and the world’s movements become dance-like. She can almost hear the muscles of the man’s hand tighten, getting ready to pull the trigger. She feels his intent to kill.

She licks her lips. Grins. A mistake, but too late to correct it. The man with the pistol breathes in, abrupt. Surprised. His eyes widen. Then they narrow in suspicion. He makes a decision—quick—and the gun barrel slides, aiming past Hallon. The gun barks, echoing, and Milo cries out. In pain? Hallon spins and sees him sitting unhurt, tangled in the net. Snow tumbles in the air, knocked up from where the bullet hit the ground.

“One step and your friend dies,” the gunman says.

Thirty feet and the half-track in between—Hallon can be there in the blink of an eye, but the trigger’s already partially depressed. The gunman will be able to shoot once before she can reach him. Will he miss? Is she willing to bet Milo’s life on it?

The pistol holds steady, and the gunman’s intent doesn’t waver. He has no qualms about shooting people. From the darkness in his eyes, she can see he’s done it before. He won’t miss. Hallon knows it, and she raises her hands in surrender.

The fire inside her spins loose, and the need to run hits Hallon hard. She grapples it down and feeds the excess energy into the Sun Horse. With the remnants, she weaves a spell—a line of influence between her and the gunman.

This is just a young girl hiding in boy’s clothes. Scrawny. Given up. There’s no need to be so alert.

But the gunman has a strong will. His finger doesn’t leave the trigger. “Zed, you do it. The rest of these idiots are useless.”

Hallon keeps the influence flowing. These are children, and they’ve given up. Everything’s fine now. No one was hurt badly. We can relax.

The driver named Zed steps out onto the ice. He’s older, with salt and pepper hair and a tired face. He has round eyes, like an owl, three times larger than you’d expect. A faded band of blue is tattooed across his forehead. The size of his eyes surprises Hallon, and she almost loses her grip on the spell.

With a grunt, Zed climbs into the back of the half-track. He waits for the woman there to move from the net thrower.

Kerthunk.

So slow. The net is so slow. Hallon can easily step aside, but doesn’t. The gunman refuses to let down his guard. The trigger is still partially depressed. The spell isn’t working, and she absorbs the energy back into herself. Hallon grits her teeth and lets the net take her. The strands are woven from metal wire and strong. Kerthunk and a second net hits Hallon, this one knocking her down.

The gunman disappears from view and reappears above her. His knee grinds into her back, and the pistol presses against her head. “Don’t. Move.” He glances at what’s left of the short battle—the people slowly picking themselves up and those still unconscious. “You made a mess of things, didn’t you? Well, you’ll get yours. You Gloop always do.”

“We did nothing wrong,” Hallon says.

The gun barrel digs into her scalp. “Quiet. I don’t want to hear anything from you.”

“But—”

The gunman punches the back of her head, not holding back. “For every word you say, for every thing you do to make my already-difficult life more difficult, I’ll cut off one of your friend’s toes. Ten words, and we switch to his fingers. How does that sound?”

Hallon keeps her mouth shut, and he laughs.

“Not so dumb then. Good for you. Now, stay quiet.”

Zed brings a rope shot through with metal wire and circles it around her like he’s spinning a cocoon. He does the same for Milo, and only once that’s done does the gunman holster his pistol.

Hallon is dragged across the ice and tossed into the back of the half-track. Milo is dumped in beside her.

Out of sight of the gunman, she whispers, “Are you okay? Hurt anywhere?”

“I don’t think so,” Milo says, looking dazed. “I don’t understand what’s going on. Why am I dreaming in Arabic?”

One of their captors kicks Milo. “No talking.”

The rest climb into the back and settle into their seats. One of them, the woman with the scar, not-so-casually uses Hallon’s head as a footrest. They pass around the food Hallon brought, all except for the jam, which the gunman claims for himself.

The half-track pulls away.