C. L. Scheel - Red Eclipse

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Hard Shell Word Factory

www.hardshell.com

September 2004 Hard Shell Word Factory

NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies

of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email,

floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International

For: Judy Taylor

A dear and steadfast friend,

who helped me get through every

Chapter, page, and word

My heartfelt thanks...

Chapter One

FOR THREE NIGHTS Suzanne dreamed of snow and of a pale bloodstained moon casting its cold light

across a gleaming expanse of white, stretching endlessly to the horizon. She knew it was a sign, an

ominous foretelling that haunted and unsettled her. And this particular night, wild with shrieking wind and

driving rain, only heightened her unease and kept reminding her of the disturbing dreams.

Normally, she favored cool, rainy nights as the best time for writing. A mug of cocoa and her favorite

shawl wrapped around her shoulders helped set the mood for hours of intricate plotting. The night

encouraged the development of exotic, fascinating characters—what every science fiction author strove

to accomplish.

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She really shouldn't be working at her computer. Storms always made the monitor flicker. Power

outages were frequent in such a rural area, which shut down her computer and plunged everything into

darkness. Suzanne always kept a fire burning in the wood stove. It often consoled her as she

contemplated restoring all her work after the sudden loss of power. The cheery flames also warded off

any sinister shadows and seemed to dispel the menace of writer's block.

But, not tonight. The wind sang of omens, prophesied peril.

Her Siamese cat, Legolas, jumped onto her lap and pushed his head into her hands, demanding a

scratch behind the ears. The proud cat shared her small house—hidden in the woods—and earned his

keep by making sure the resident rodent population stayed at zero. He was a sleek, inscrutable creature,

an elf-prince trapped in the body of a cat, swathed in fur the color of smoky champagne, with eyes like

cobalt glass.

Elegant and aloof, Legolas lived up to his Tolkien namesake. He rarely meowed—not a typical “talky”

Siamese. When he wasn't hunting, he took lengthy naps draped across the top of her monitor, one paw

dangling over the side. Conversations were comprised of subtle eye contact, an occasional twitch of

whiskers or a disdainful yawn. Sometimes Legolas’ tail would snap with irritation or, languidly curl and

uncoil, conveying his utter boredom.

Suzanne stopped trying to type and studied her lordly pet. “I'm not going to get this manuscript finished

in time, and Lorraine is going to kill me."

One eye opened to a mere sapphire sliver.So ?

"You're not being very helpful,” Suzanne complained softly.

What do you expect me to do?

"I expect you to be sympathetic, understanding."

Legolas flexed the single dangling paw, unsheathing five miniature sabers that gleamed in the firelight.I

am. I'm here. Isn't that enough?

Yes, it was enough. It ought to be enough. At least the cat understood her success and her need for

solitude. Whereas David had not ... The look in his eyes, his angry bewilderment and selfish indignation

would forever torment her. David had wanted her to be hiswife , not a celebrity. Snarled within the tangle

of his hurt pride and jealous disdain, Suzanne soon realized beingalone was easier ... and safer. She

never had to worry about restoring her battered heart or surrendering her misplaced trust.

Sighing, Suzanne got up and padded into her small, dimly-lit kitchen hunting for a snack. The wind had

picked up again, beating the rain against the glass. Looking outside the living room window, she noticed

her numerous bird feeders swinging wildly in the strong gusts, spilling out most of the seed. She was

tempted to bring the feeders inside, but decided against it. It was too cold and the wind too threatening.

She'd clean up the mess in the morning after the storm was over.

Finding nothing that appealed to her, she turned back to her computer, hands chafing against her upper

arms to ward off the chill. The computer offered no consolation to her writing dilemma. Suzanne's editor

had given her two weeks to complete her newest book, but it would not come to a satisfying end. The

nearly finished manuscript sat in her computer like a malevolent toad, mocking her, daring her to break its

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evil spell.

She should quit and go to bed, but the wind troubled her and she knew the strange dreams would only

disturb her sleep.

The jagged glare of headlights through the rain-wet window startled her. She rarely had visitors. Those

who did visit were by invitation or they called first. She moved to the door and pulled a small pistol from

its hiding place behind a large Boston fern. Suzanne wasn't stupid. A single woman, living alone in a

remote wooded area of Washington state had to take precautions. It was either a well-trained guard dog,

or a gun. The gun was cheaper and it couldn't pick a fight with Legolas.

Almost before the visitor knocked, she hastily put the gun away. Through the narrow window alongside

the door, she recognized the familiar black and white SUV with its crown of lights on the roof. It was

Dane McKenna, the local county sheriff. She opened the door, letting in a fierce gust of wind and a blast

of icy rain. Dane quickly stepped inside. Water ran from his heavy jacket, pooling at his booted feet.

"Wild night, huh?” he said with a wry grin.

"Yes. What brings you here? Is something wrong?"

The tall sheriff shook his head, causing more rain water to slide from the plastic cover protecting his hat.

“No, nothing's really wrong. I just got off duty and I thought I'd stop by and see ... well, you know, see if

you were okay."

Suzanne hid a knowing smile. It was painfully obvious that Dane liked her—which she had to admit was

rather nice. He was a well-muscled, heavily-armed guardian angel, who, by his own determination had

decided to keep watch over her. Several times she had noticed him cruising through the tiny mountain

town of Black Elk, catching speeding tourists or stopping drifters who were begging for money or a ride.

The first time she actually met Sheriff McKenna he had stopped her and politely informed her that her

car had a broken left tail light. And, he knew who she was, right away.

"I've enjoyed your books, Miss Jennings,” he'd said. “Read every one of them."

From that day, Sheriff McKenna had become her self-appointed champion-at-arms, which made sense

to her writer's mind. Dane McKenna was an archetype—she knew that from a writing class she had

taken years ago. Sheriff McKenna was really a warrior, with tasks and quests, living by a strict code of

honor. Suzanne took the liberty of putting him in her last book, arming him with a blazing sword and

magic armor. After a fierce, bloody battle, he slew the foul priest-king of Dores'Mar.

If he had recognized himself in the book, he never mentioned it.

His nervous cough ended her daydreaming.

"Uh, would you like a cup of coffee, Dane? Or, maybe some hot tea?” she said, motioning for him to sit

down at the kitchen counter.

"Okay. Thanks.” He dipped his head and removed his hat, which she took and hung on the coat rack

adjacent to the kitchen. He slipped onto the high stool and unzipped his heavy jacket.

"So, what will it be?” She tried to sound cheerful, mainly to keep her anxiety at bay. Alone with a sheriff

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was still being alone with a big man who also happened to have a crush on her.

"Tea's good. It's easy.” He passed a damp hand over his close-clipped hair.

"Okay."

Suzanne turned and puttered around her kitchen, filling the teakettle, setting out cups, spoons, and the

sugar. She knew from past visits he liked sugar in his tea and coffee. “How long do you think the storm

will last?” she asked setting a large mug and a tea bag before him.

"Reports say it should simmer down by late tomorrow morning, there's supposed to be a snowstorm

next week. Strange weather for September,” he said. “You, uh, need anything? You know, food or

something?” Large, square-tipped fingers tore open the paper wrapper and dropped the tea bag into the

mug.

"No, I'm fine. Had everything delivered a few days ago."

"Got all your firewood laid in?"

"Yes. Eight cords, last month."

Dane nodded, clearly pleased with her report.

Suzanne fixed her own tea, glad for the opportunity to keep busy and her mind off Sheriff McKenna's

large, authoritative hands. She poured the hot water into the mugs, and hunched herself onto the stool on

the other side of the counter, facing him. They drank their tea in amicable silence.

"Actually, there is another reason why I came by."

Suzanne saw unease flicker through Dane's dark gray eyes. He reached inside his jacket and pulled

something out from the inner pocket.

"Have you ever seen anything like this?” He set the object on the counter in front of her.

The wind howled like a dying animal, pummeled the rain-drenched glass.

She stared at the unfamiliar object, uncertain how she should answer him. It looked like a paperweight, a

round, flat medallion about two inches in diameter that gleamed in the low lamp light.

"Amazing,” she murmured.

It appeared to be made of pure white marble with a smaller, inner medallion of polished black onyx

imbedded flush into the white. She picked it up, cradling it in her left palm. With a light fingertip, she

traced the outline of the dark red symbol inserted at the very center, shaped like a raindrop. Upon closer

examination she realized it looked more like a blood-red teardrop. So simple. An elegant thing, smooth

and cool in her hand.

The coolness turned cold; a sudden numbness seeped through her hand, burning her fingers, like

touching frosted glass on a winter day. A disturbing image flitted through her mind: blood and endless

snow. She almost dropped the medallion. Instead, she gingerly placed it next to her tea mug.

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She looked at Dane, noting the intensity of his gaze. “Where did you find this?” she asked.

"I didn't find it, it was given to me."

"By whom?"

Dane shook his head. “Damnedest thing ... I've been a cop for ten years, a Marine before that and I've

never seen anything like this."

Suzanne sensed this was going to be a long story. She scooted off the bar stool and hurriedly added

more wood to the stove. Once back on her perch, she gestured for him to take off his jacket.

"So, what happened?"

Dane set his jacket on the spare stool next to him then took another swallow of tea. “You know

Splitrock Bar, that biker place out east of town? Up the old logging road?"

"Yes.” Suzanne had driven by it once on a Saturday afternoon excursion. The building had originally

been a forest ranger's station, built back in the 1930s as a WPA project. In the ‘50's it became a diner

and gas station for loggers. Then, in the late ‘80's Curly Holmes bought it and turned it into a bar and

hangout for bikers. Suzanne had seen Curly once or twice riding his Harley through Black Elk—a

scrawny old thug in worn leather, with a ratty beard, bad teeth, and stringy gray hair tied down with a red

bandana.

"About two hours ago I got a 9-1-1 call from Curly ... which surprised me. I've rarely had to go out to

his place. Curly usually keeps a tight lid on things. He's got a shotgun under the bar and he'll use if he has

to. Anyway, when I arrived at the scene, Curly met me at the door. He was as white as a sheet, scared

out of his mind. Curly's never been scared of anything ... he's a tough old sonofabitch. I mean ... uh,

sorry."

"What happened?” Suzanne asked.

"When I went inside, six of Curly's customers—mean-lookin’ guys—had cornered this big red-headed

man against the wall. Except, get this ... he had asword . And I don't mean one of those flimsy fencing

swords either, but a seriously, dangerous weapon, like something a-a-a..."

"A knight would use?"

"Yeah. That's it. A knight's sword. Something like that."

Dane again ran a hand across his cropped hair. “At first I thought he was an escaped mental patient

gone wacko, but he didn't look or act like he was deranged.” Dane looked directly at her, his gaze

unwavering. “He knew what he was doing."

An unsettled feeling flitted through Suzanne's belly. “Did he hurt anyone?” she asked softly.

"No. He lowered his sword and surrendered the minute he saw me. I didn't even have to call for

backup."

Suzanne slipped off the stool, tugging her shawl more tightly across her shoulders. The chill had settled

deeper into her bones. Or, was it because the rain seemed to beat more wildly against the window?

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"Why are you telling me this? Shouldn't you be telling your superior ... you know, making some kind of

report?"

"That's just it, Suzanne, I can't."

"Why not?"

"Because, I let him go."

She turned back to Dane, shocked by the remorse she saw on his face—a warrior riddled with guilt for

having made the wrong decision.

"You let him go?"

Dane rose from the stool. “Look, I know this sounds crazy, but you're the only one I can tell this to; the

only one who might be able to make any sense of it. Suzanne, this guy wasn't from anywhere around

here, and I don't mean Black Elk, or even the county. I think he's from—” Dane glanced upward. “You

know..."

"You mean, from another world?” she asked in disbelief.

"Yeah.” He shrugged. “That's the only explanation I could think of."

"Is that why you came here?"

"I thought you might know ... I mean, have some ideas—"

So, that was it. “Dane, I'm a writer! I write science fiction novels—fantasy stories. I'm not some resident

expert on aliens."

Her rebuke caused a flicker of hurt to skitter across his face. Dane reached for his jacket and shrugged

it on over his shoulders. “Sorry. I thought you might be able to help me figure out who this guy was.

Christ, Suzanne, he was wearing a cloak and gauntlets. What if I had brought him in for questioning?

What was I supposed to book him on? Carrying a sword? Besides, Curly didn't press charges."

Regretting her sharp remarks, Suzanne tried to sound apologetic. “Did Curly say where the man came

from?"

"No. He seemed to think the stranger was trying to find someone.” Dane looked down and shook his

head, clearly regretting what he had done. “I don't know what I'm going to report. Maybe I'll just say

some dumb kid had a few too many beers, got a little out of control and then apologized. I could say I let

him off with a warning."

Suzanne looked away, again hiding her annoyance. She ought to be flattered, but Dane had some nerve

expecting her to help him rationalize his police procedures. She could no more do that than ask him to

help her write her books. For once, her high estimation of Sheriff McKenna slid a notch. “I still don't

understand how I can help you."

"You can't,” he said bluntly. “I just wanted to know what you thought about all this. I value your opinion,

Suzanne.” The tormented look in his eyes suddenly made her truly regret her unkind feelings toward him.

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She had not meant to hurt him. What would she have done if she had been in his position?

"I don't know, Dane.” She shrugged helplessly. “Maybe it was all a hoax or a very bad joke. Maybe

someone was trying to settle a score with Curly—someone from his past. Or, maybe it really was some

crazy, hyped-up guy on drugs. Who knows?"

Dane nodded. “You're right. Maybe I'm making more out of this than I should."

She picked up the empty tea mugs and set them in the sink. “I think you need to get some sleep. I'm sure

you'll have some answers in the morning.” That sounded kind, conciliatory. Better than the way she had

tried to appease David. It never mattered how she worded her apologies, she was always wrong, always

stumbling into some new word-trap which David could twist to his advantage.

"Okay, but I need to let you know something else,” Dane said, reminding her to stop dwelling the past.

The anxious feeling in her stomach rose again. “What's that?"

"This man—whoever he was—spoke to me."

"Wh-what did he say?"

"After Curly went back inside the bar, he handed me that medallion and said, ‘Give this to the

Wordsayer before the beginning of the tenth day.’ Then he turned and disappeared."

"Disappeared? You mean he justvanished into thin air?"

"No, he went up the little hill behind Curly's place and disappeared through that wide fissure in

Splitrock.” Dane picked up the medallion and handed it to her. “I don't know what a ‘wordsayer’ is, but

you're a writer; you know about words. Take the medallion, Suzanne. Please."

She took it from him, more bewildered and disturbed than before. The raw coldness emanating from the

stone had subsided, but its eerie power still lingered and she wondered if Dane had felt it, too.

Dane didn't ask her to get his hat. As he had done on previous visits, he plucked it from the rack in the

adjacent hallway and set it firmly on his head. “Thanks for the tea. I hope I didn't upset you too much.

Maybe we could get together sometime and talk about all this. Dinner ... or something...?"

Before she could think of anything else to say, she blurted, “Sure."

Dane touched the brim of his hat. “Goodnight, Suzanne. I'll see you soon."

He turned and left, shutting the door firmly so that the wind would not blow it open. When she no longer

saw the lights from his car, Suzanne placed the medallion on the counter. The wind had done this, she

thought suddenly. It was an omen, like a prophecy from an evil soothsayer that foretold of dark deeds

and an uncertain future.

Suzanne sighed. This comes from an overwrought imagination, she chided herself. From writing about

things that never had a source in reality. She had lived in the safety of fantasy worlds too long...

There was no use trying to write. She turned off the lights and went to bed. And ... slept, undisturbed by

the wind or dreams of snow and a bloody moon.

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In the morning, all that remained of the storm were high, gray clouds and the pungent smell of wet earth

and pine needles. Suzanne dressed and ate a simple breakfast, then went outside to sweep up the pieces

of her broken bird feeders and the wind-scattered seeds. Legolas followed her out, disdainfully avoiding

any puddled water or muddy soil.

Disgusting.

"For your information, tigers happen to love water."

A whisker twitched.Tsk. I daresay they love barkers, too.

Suzanne avoided any further discussions with the cat. Legolas wandered off, apparently to look for

some unlucky mouse or perhaps an errant bird.

After cleaning up the feeders, she returned inside to decide what she would do for the remainder of the

day. Still unsettled, the mere idea of writing was out of the question; Lorraine would just have to wait,

regardless of the deadline. Instead, Suzanne found herself studying the strange stone medallion and

thinking about what Dane said to her last night.

...disappeared through that wide fissure in Splitrock.

Disappeared? Where?

He said, ‘Give this to the Wordsayer before the beginning of the tenth day'...

Tenth day? From what?

I don't know what a ‘wordsayer’ is, but you're the writer...

Curiosity was a trait peculiar to Legolas and most of his kind. It was also true of writers, but curiosity

could be dangerous. It meant she would have to leave the safety of her wooded sanctuary.

From a safe distance, she stared at the medallion still resting on the kitchen counter. It did not glow, but

beckoned to her like an enchanted talisman—its presence compelling her to action. She fought the

long-ingrained reluctance to leave her home. Beyond the secluded, green borders of her private forest,

lay the uncertainties, the tiresome vagaries of dealing with people and the world in general.

I'm not really agoraphobic or afraid, she counseled herself. Just reclusive. Private. What's wrong with

that?

The strange stone beckoned again. This time she picked it up, weighing its importance and cool power

over her. She closed her eyes and shuddered, catching fleeting wisps of her dreams: bloodbloodblood

and the hard brilliance of an icy moon. A man, with milky-blue skin, like winter dusk, howling in rage ...

or pain.

Caution and logic be damned. Suzanne pocketed the marble stone, grabbed her purse and car keys. It

was still early. There shouldn't be anyone hanging around Curly's bar before noon. She would find out for

herself where the mysterious visitor had disappeared, then return home in time to work on her book. On

her way out the door, she stopped. Legolas.

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Foreboding knifed through her again. Without quite knowing why, Suzanne retraced her steps and

hastily checked the cat's automatic feeder and waterer—used primarily when she went on the occasional

book tour. They were full; the cat would be fine for at least a week. Besides, Legolas was an exceptional

hunter.

Was she being prudent or unconsciously anticipating being gone longer than a few hours? Method and

order were her strong points. So was caution. However, the sudden need to know what happened at

Splitrock over-rode the last of her misgivings. Once in the car, she forgot about Legolas and Lorraine.

The road to Splitrock Bar was at one time a logging road, now a narrow, rarely-traveled highway that

wound eastward, through the dense forest and over a low mountain pass. Die-hard hikers and

rock-climbers knew of the route as did touring motorcyclists. Travelers with trailers and motor homes

avoided the road since it was too narrow, full of twists and turns all the way to the next mountain town

forty miles away. Curly's bar was only five miles out of Black Elk, but it seemed like she had driven for

hours, deep into the forest, far from civilization.

Except for a battered van with illegible license plates, there were no other cars or motorcycles parked in

front of Splitrock Bar. The van appeared as if it had been parked there for weeks—probably abandoned

and Curly was too lazy to have it towed off his property.

Suzanne stopped her car and got out slowly, half expecting to see someone come out of the bar and yell

at her for trespassing. But she saw no one, no one at all.

Behind the building, the land sloped upward toward the landmark for which the bar was named:

Splitrock Pass. It wasn't a pass actually, but a towering granite rock, a monolith that had been split down

the middle, making an enormous fissure wide enough to walk through.

An angry god had done this, she mused. Enraged after discovering his beautiful mortal wife had been

unfaithful, the god had taken his axe and broken the rock in two.

Good stuff. She ought to be taking notes for her next book.

Drawn by its sheer enormity, Suzanne inched toward the rock, uncertain what she should do when she

reach the fissure. According to Dane, the strange visitor had walked through it and simply disappeared.

Nah. It had been dark and windy. Dane had allowed his imagination to get the better of him. But at the

opening, she stopped. The wind picked up again, tossing her hair across her face. She clawed the dark

brown strands from her mouth and eyes, wishing she had brought along a barrette. It had also grown

colder, much colder. Her teeth chattered loudly as she clutched her arms to her chest. She had foolishly

left her jacket at home, thinking she wouldn't need it.

Suzanne thrust her hand into her jeans pocket, making sure the stone was still there. Her body heat had

warmed it, but threads of cold flickered through her fingers. Satisfied, she braced her hands against each

side of the fissure and looked through to the other side. She saw only trees and more forest stretching up

the mountainside.

Where had that man gone?

She closed her eyes and took a step into the fissure. Then another. The wind lessened, and stopped.

Her hands slid forward, touching the hard stone.

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Another step. She dared not open her eyes, suddenly afraid she would see what had haunted her in her

dreams—a snow-covered wasteland and that cold, white moon, covered in blood.

One more step. Her fingers found the sharp edges of the rock and she knew she had reached the other

side of the fissure. Time to see where that angry god lived and find the man who was looking for a

wordsayer.

Suzanne forced her eyes open and stepped into bitter cold and an empty, terrifying blackness.

Chapter Two

The Tenth Day

THE COLD STABBED like a thousand knives piercing her skin. Dazed, Suzanne huddled against a

gray granite boulder and pressed the heel of her hand to her throbbing left cheek. A sharp wind whipped

her hair across her eyes, cut through the thin fabric of her shirt. She grasped at the rough rock near her

right elbow and pulled herself to her feet.

She was still in the mountains, but high above the tree line. A winding trail stretched out before her,

leading downward through more raw-edged rocks and finally into the forest. Beyond, she saw a

snow-covered valley, stretching far into the distance to the base of another range of mountains.

Another sharp gust tore through her clothes, making her shiver and her cheek ache. With tentative

fingers, she touched the tender spot. She must have fallen when she stepped through the fissure.

A scrabbling noise, like falling rocks made her whirl around. Behind her she saw two sharp granite

pinnacles thrusting high into the sky. They stood like sentries guarding a pathway cut between them—a

pass leading deeper into the mist. Panic caused her heart to thud in large, painful beats, her mouth turned

to cotton wool.

It did not look like Splitrock Pass.

Turning back toward the pathway, Suzanne knew she had to decide quickly which direction to take.

With no outer garment, food or shelter within sight, she wouldn't survive. The way through the stone

pinnacles looked oddly familiar, but not the same, as if Splitrock Pass had somehow changed its shape.

Panic began to override her reason. Almost instinctively, she slipped her fingers into the pocket where

she had put the medallion, reassuring herself it was not lost. Suzanne sensed the possibility that it might

have value or meaning. Dane's strange encounter with the man who wielded a sword and demanded he

find ‘the wordsayer’ could only mean that the medallion was of great importance.

Directly across the path she caught the dull gleam of something metallic embedded in the ground. Upon

closer examination, she discovered the source was a plaque, bolted into a flat rock—a marker. She

struggled to make out the message, written in words close to English, but rougher, cruder. The craftsman

who made it had spent all his creative skills on the plaque itself, but knew nothing of spelling or lettering.

Thys plas marx wear the Messnjer vanish'd.

In honor, we r'membr hym, for he gave

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