Time Shards Read online

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Also available from Titan Books and Dana Fredsti

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About the Authors

  Also Available from Titan Books

  Also available from Titan Books and Dana Fredsti

  The Spawn of Lilith

  The Ashley Parker Novels:

  Plague Town

  Plague Nation

  Plague World

  A Man’s Gotta Eat What a Man’s Gotta Eat

  (e-original novella)

  TITAN BOOKS

  TIME SHARDS

  Print edition ISBN: 9781785654527

  Electronic edition ISBN: 9781785654534

  Published by Titan Books

  A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

  144 Southwark St, London SE1 0UP

  First edition: January 2018

  2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  Copyright © 2018 Dana Fredsti and David Fitzgerald. All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

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  For Bill “Willy P.” Galante & Lisa “Jei Jei” Brackmann

  Imagine time seen as a continuum—an infinite line containing everything that was and everything that will be…

  Time perhaps as a tangible object. One that can be touched, like a mural on a wall that stretches infinitely in both directions. Portraying everything that has happened, is happening, and will happen. In one direction is the future unfolding. In the other direction the past, much of it forgotten, back to the beginning of time itself.

  Finally, imagine time as a stained-glass window. The story of everything laid out in a glittering mosaic of trillions upon trillions of moments, from the big bang to the fiery death of the universe.

  Then the window shatters

  Everywhere… and every when.

  1

  Romford, United Kingdom Present day

  “Having fun?”

  Amber nodded as Gavin smiled down at her from his standing position at the tiller, his irregular features drawn together by an engaging grin and a pair of killer hazel eyes. He propelled the little punt slowly down the river, using the pole with an enthusiasm that didn’t match his expertise. She hoped he didn’t fall in.

  “It’s really pretty here,” she said, looking out past the grassy, tree-lined riverbank at the pastoral landscape beyond. Except for birdsong, it was blissfully quiet. Dipping one hand in the water, Amber dribbled some onto the back of her neck, stifling a small shriek when a cold rivulet ran unexpectedly down her spine.

  Pulling down the hem of her skirt in yet another unsuccessful attempt to cover her knees, she discovered there was no real way to get comfortable in a punt, even with cushions tossed down between the seats. Certainly not while wearing a corset.

  Why didn’t I change out of my Codex costume? Even as she thought it, she knew the answers.

  One, in Romford and the rest of Greater London, August was hot—much hotter than her hometown of San Diego. Two, she hadn’t wanted to take the time to go back to her aunt’s house for a different outfit, giving Gavin time to possibly change his mind. And three, she liked the look of admiration in her companion’s eyes whenever his gaze wandered over her legs.

  She just hadn’t expected to show him quite so much, so quickly.

  That morning, when Amber Richardson had walked into the dealers’ room of ImagiAnimeCon—the largest science fiction and fantasy convention event Romford had ever hosted—she’d instantly noticed the dashing, if somewhat skinny, retro Han Solo. They’d locked gazes over a table covered with action figures and other toys. He’d grinned, and Amber had turned to look behind her, certain he was smiling at someone else. Like maybe the petite blonde showing improbable mega-cleavage in her Sue Storm costume.

  As it turned out, Gavin preferred The Guild to Fantastic Four, and redheads to blondes. He was charming, intelligent, and had an accent as sexy as any of the current crop of Doctor Whos. So when he’d suggested a picnic on the nearby river, Amber had given an immediate yes, even though it meant missing the Firefly panel and the actor who played Wash.

  Priorities.

  Now here they were, floating lazily past picturesque landscapes straight out of a Merchant Ivory film. Gavin had even brought a picnic basket, one of the old-fashioned ones made of wicker, with flaps that opened upward on either side. It was nestled against Amber’s legs, next to her ever-present burgundy backpack. Her Codex staff was tucked through the sturdy top loop so that it stood nearly upright like a flagpole.

  “So how do you like the con?” Gavin said, dipping the pole into the river to propel them a few more feet downstream.

  “It’s nice,” Amber replied. “Especially after how nutso Comic-Con has gotten the last couple of years.”

  Gavin nearly dropped the pole. “You’ve been to Comic-Con?” His tone oozed pure envy.

  Amber hid a grin, pleased to have impressed her date. “Yup. Twenty-four years—every year since I was born. My dad is a raging geek. The first year I went, he dressed up as Kuato from Total Recall.”

  Gavin looked blank.

  “You know, the guy with the parasitic baby growing out of his stomach?” she said. “I was the baby.”

  “Okay, yeah.” Gavin gave a nod of recognition. “Wicked! I wish my dad was even half as cool.”

  Amber thought of all the times her dad had picked her up from school in his ancient VW bus covered in Star Trek bumper stickers. I FIND YOUR LACK OF LOGIC DISTURBING, CAPTAIN PICARD FOR PRESIDENT, and more recently, KIRK/SPOCK 2016. The cool kids hadn’t been impressed, and her Star Fleet Academy computer bag hadn’t helped. She gave a rueful smile and shook her head.

  “No, you really don’t.”

  He nodded and fell silent for a bit, his attention devoted to navigating the punt around a bend in the river. Amber didn’t know if she was relieved or disappointed th
at he didn’t ask her to elaborate. On one hand, she was happy not to talk about life as an excruciatingly shy middle child in the midst of a loud and chaotic family, with a bubbly older sister and an up-and-coming jock for a younger brother.

  On the other hand, guys as a general rule weren’t interested in anything personal unless it was about them.

  Maybe it’s just because you’re boring, she told herself, giving her skirt another self-conscious tug. She looked up in time to see Gavin’s gaze directed toward her bare thighs, flickering away when he saw that she’d noticed.

  She lowered her head, hiding a smile.

  Okay, maybe not so boring.

  The punt hit something in the water, sending Gavin tumbling forward. The pole dropped into the river as he sprawled across the seats, face down, his head on the bench next to Amber.

  “Omigod, are you okay?” Amber stared down at the back of Gavin’s head as he groaned and pushed himself slowly to a sitting position on the seat in front of hers, legs straddling the cushioned bench. A small but steady trickle of blood ran from a gash on his forehead.

  “Ouch,” he said simply.

  “Hold still.” Searching in the picnic hamper, she extracted a white linen napkin and gently pressed it against the injury to staunch the bleeding. Gavin groaned, and she looked at him in concern.

  “Is that too hard?”

  He shook his head, wincing as he did so. “No, it’s just my sister is going to kill me for mucking up one of her good napkins.”

  “Oh jeez, I’m sorry!” Amber started to snatch the napkin away, but Gavin quickly grabbed her hand, holding it and the cloth against his forehead.

  “It’s too late for that now,” he said sadly. “I’m done for, so I might as well enjoy the moment, don’t you think? My last sight on earth shall be that of the beautiful Codex, tending my wounds.”

  Amber laughed, the sound soft and low. Her dad called it “stealth laughter.”

  Gavin’s hazel eyes darkened as he reached out with his free hand and touched Amber lightly on one cheek. She held her breath as he traced a line along the side of her face, his touch sending a pleasant shiver down her spine. Most of the kisses she’d experienced in the past had been planted on her forehead by her parents, and a memorable-in-all-the-wrong-ways make-out session with Danny “Lizard Tongue” Metcalf at his senior prom.

  That had ended badly. Since then she’d pretty much ignored dating and immersed herself in the three C’s— college, career, and cosplay. Now she thought she might be ready to expand her horizons.

  Gavin leaned toward her then, still holding her hand and the napkin against his forehead. She didn’t know how to react, and was afraid if she tried to say anything, it would come out as an inappropriate giggle.

  So she held perfectly still and waited to see what would happen next.

  2

  The western border of the Trinovantian kingdom, Southeast Britain AD 9

  Two Celts hid under a veil of dangling willow branches, peering out across the river they called the Leagean. Dawn had broken, but the sun would not cut through the gloom until midday, leaving the world below in a dim half-light. On the opposite bank, strands of mist wove through the reed beds and the woods beyond, cloaking the alders and black poplars with a gray mantle. The only sign of movement was a pair of ravens hunting along the water’s edge. The two young men kept their watch all the same.

  “I thought I heard it again,” the younger of the two whispered. He was Camtargarus, son of Cattus. His black hair was short but shaggy, his brow heavy and his eyes serious.

  “Are you sure? I don’t hear anything.”

  Cam glanced at Kentantorix, son of Exkamulot. A year older, slightly taller, in Cam’s eyes he could do no wrong. By long and ancient tradition, the Celts did not raise their sons in their own households. Instead, the two had been brought up together for seven years across the sea, in Gaul. The bond of the two foster brothers was closer than that of blood kin. Either might be a king some day.

  They fell silent, listening intently.

  “There,” Cam hissed.

  Odd snatches of sound came just over the rushing of the water. The clink of harnesses. Creaking of wooden chariot wheels. Barked orders.

  No one needed to tell them who moved unseen through the forest. The choices were few.

  To the east lay the Mór-Maru, the Dead Sea. To the north, a long line of earthen ramparts and ditches marked their border with the mighty Iceni tribe. The great estuary of Tamesas, the Dark River, separated them from the Cantiaci to the south. But to the west, they had only the Leagean, the Bright River, to keep their uneasy border with their hungry enemies, the Catuvellauni.

  War is coming. A chill reached in and grabbed Cam, colder than the damp in the air. He turned to Kentan. “We need our swords.”

  “We need a hunting horn,” Kentan countered. “One that can be heard all the way to the sea. Come, let’s get back to the horses and ride as fast as we can to sound the alarm.” The pair turned and rose to their feet to climb back up the riverbank. Kentan stopped short to put his hands on Cam’s shoulders, leaning in until their foreheads were touching.

  “Listen,” he told him softly. “Don’t be afraid, but if anything happens—”

  A soft cracking noise from above cut Kentan off before he could finish. Both looked up to see a trio of Catuvellauni scouts staring down at them from the top of the rise. They were bearded and bare-chested under their thick wool cloaks, except for sharp triangles of red and black war paint. Their swords were drawn and their grins unpleasant.

  “Riddle me ye…” their leader called down softly.

  “Tell me three…” the warrior to his left responded.

  “Three things that are—” the one on the right said.

  “—easy to take hold of.” The leader’s stare locked on the two of them. He took a step forward as he answered.

  “Eggs from a nest…” The one on the left took another step.

  “A mouse in a serpent’s hole…” chanted the one on the right, taking a step closer as well, flanking them.

  “A pair of hapless young maidens lost in the woods without their mother.” The leader’s eyes, teeth, and blade all gleamed. His warriors laughed—an ugly sound.

  “We are Trinovantes!” Kentan stood his ground, facing them. If he was afraid, he didn’t show it. “Go back across the river, or by the treaty your chieftain Cunobelin signed with Caesar, your lives will be forfeit.”

  “Haven’t you heard?” The lead scout snorted with contempt as his scouts edged forward. “Little Trinovant whelps. Your friend Augustus Caesar is far away, and has troubles of his own. The tribes of Germania have banded together and killed three full legions of his soldiers, along with all their horsemen and cohorts. They’ve crossed the Rhine and swept away all his forts and cities.

  “The tribes have sent the Romani packing,” he continued. “Caesar won’t be coming to save you. Cunobelin is chief of the Catuvellauni tonight, but he will be king of the Britons tomorrow.”

  They were dangerously close now. Cam took a step nearer to Kentan, to stand by his side, but his foster brother pushed him back. Kentan’s other hand rested on the hilt of the knife at his belt, and he whipped out the blade, holding it out in line with the leader’s eyes.

  “Take another step and you’ll never see his coronation,” he said grimly.

  The Catuvellauni only chuckled. “Your head will sit nicely in the lintel of my house.”

  Kentan risked a glance back at Cam.

  “You have to warn them,” he hissed. “Go!”

  Cam shook his head. “No! We’ll fight them!”

  Kentan turned on him, his eyes furious.

  “Run!” he shouted. “Now!”

  The lead Catuvellauni saw his chance and rushed Kentan, stabbing out with his short sword. The blade pierced Kentan’s side and he screamed in pain. The scout to his left leapt forward with his sword raised. Reeling, Kentan grabbed his first attacker for support and plunged hi
s knife up into the man’s neck. It sunk to the hilt—then the second man’s blade dropped down on him, sending Kentan and his stricken opponent to the ground.

  “Kentan!” Cam screamed, momentarily frozen. The third scout was on him in an instant, his sword slashing in a wide arc. Cam twisted away just enough to avoid decapitation, though as it passed his face the tip of the blade cut a harsh red line across his cheekbone. His assailant’s momentum carried him forward and both went sprawling on the treacherous ground. The scout crashed over him and fell into the mud and reeds of the river, cursing. Cam kicked off him, regaining his feet, and ran along the riverbank as far as he could, but all too soon the gnarled roots and trunk of a great old oak at the water’s edge blocked his path.

  He hazarded a glance behind, only to discover that his pursuers were hot on his heels. A dagger spun through the air toward him. He ducked and the blade sunk into the oak trunk instead of his head. Cam scrambled up the steep bank, only just avoiding the grasping hands below. Then he was tearing through the undergrowth and between the trees.

  The men hunting him bayed like hounds, pounding the earth after their prey. Cam’s woolen cloak trailed behind him, flapping wildly in the air and threatening to choke him. He clawed at the clasp to release it. A stray branch caught it and tore both cloak and jeweled brooch away, nearly yanking him to the ground in the bargain.

  Kych-an-broc! he swore silently. His mind was a torrent of confusion, pain, and fear. Where are the horses? How close are the scouts? How long can I outrun them? Nev Kawgh! Shame burned on his cheeks, in his chest. Tears blinded him and he tried to swipe them away, raging at himself. I can’t cry. I’m a man, not a boy. I can’t cry.

  They’ll kill me if I cry. Any thoughts of valor, honor, and glory had gone. All hope of seeing his brother again had fled, along with any hope of vengeance. He had never felt further from being a man. Now there was only survival. He had to get word to his people, to save his tribe… if he could.

  I couldn’t save my brother. Can I save the tribe? Can I even save myself? He ran on through the gauntlet of the forest, desperate to shake his pursuers while he still had hope to fuel him. The sounds of pursuit began to fade.