CHAPTER I

CONFUSION

The weather was getting worse by the second. Charley squinted out the windshield of his green Ford Bonco as it rumbled down a dark Alaskan dirt lane, trying to see past the mixture of slush and grit that no amount of windshield wiping would clear. They squeaked from left to right to left, scrapping across the glass, and left obscuring streaks of muddy brown. Apprehensive, he leaned forward as much as possible, to could make out the terrain ahead of him. But try though he might, there was only a hint as to where the edges of the road might be, much less the plethora of deep potholes that tested the old truck's suspension every time he blundered into them. If he hadn't had such a pressing obligation to be at the party, he might have well stayed home. As it was, the aunts, uncles and cousins gathering at the lodge would have to get on with the festivities without him, for at this rate he wouldn't be there for a very, very long time.

The Seattle bred Mariner's fan shifted gears again, slowing down. Every bump jolted his already aching spine, and it wasn't long before he considered pulling over altogether. A 1971 Ford Bronco, it had seen its share of mud and snow, hail and rain. At this point in its life, the only redeeming feature it could boast of was a sound four wheel drive. Charley had inherited it from an uncle two years ago, but he didn't drive it much, his work keeping him down in L.A. where he served as an architect. Today he was supposed to be on his way to a family reunion. If he survived the hellish weather. In all his summers spent in up in Fairbanks, he had never encountered such a bad storm. In fact, it was usually so dry that forest fires were a serious risk, and very dangerous. Summer ended a month ago, and Fall though it was, the foul wind and rain put his nerves on edge.

He finally stopped the car, and turned on the overhead light. Picking up the driving instructions off the passenger seat, he put his glasses on and held the paper high to the dim glow of the old light. Maybe he had taken a wrong turn somewhere….

The instructions read:

Chena Hot Springs Resort
P.O. Box 58740

Fairbanks, AK, 99711

Take Richardsen Highway from Airport – Left on Badger Road – Left on Nordale – Right on Chena Hot Springs Road (56.5 miles). Just keep driving until you get there! Look out for the signs. Don't be late! Mother had been waiting a long time to see her favourite nephew.

See you at the lodge,

Cathy

Charley sighed. Too late for THAT. His cousin's scrawled handwriting was barely legible, but he knew it well enough to make out all the road names.Nevermind that,after a little mental backtracking, he couldn't think of anything amiss, and though he thought heremembered taking all the designated turns, couldn't be sure. Still, the road was in awfully rough shape for a popular hot springs resort. He would have expected it to be paved, or at least gravelled. Cathy hadn't mentioned anything about dirt roads, but his cell phone wasn't getting any reception out in the woods, so there was no calling for directions. There was nothing he could do but keep going. He took off the hand brake and put the clutch down to shift into first gear again. Then, as he started to press down the on the gas, the wheels spun in place and the truck lurched forward suddenly, stalling in a violent pitch that sent Charley's head into the steering wheel.

Dazed he carefully felt his forehead for a bruise, but found none. His glasses were also intact, thankfully. He took a moment of evaluation. The engine was off, but the dashboard lights were still on. His headlights gave a brief glimpse of the road through an angry storm that coated his stranded vehicle in merciless tyrants of rain. It was nothing but mud. Things had obviously gotten worse in the last half hour. Hopefully, he turned the ignition, but the beat-up Bronco only grumbled half-heartedly, and died again.

Shit, he thought.

If the problem was with the engine, then he would have to get under the hood to see was wrong. Assuming he COULD see what was wrong. Quickly, Charley shrugged on his jacket. It wasn't waterproof, but it might protect his suit. He hunched his shoulders, opened the door, and without thinking stepped out into the unavoidable ankle deep mud. He grimaced, staring at the cuffs of his pants. His good shoes were ruined.

Just perfect, he thought disgustedly.

Outside he had to continually wipe off the lenses of his glasses, but it was too late to take put them back. He wasted some time sloshing around in the flooded road, every step pulling against the suction of the sludge. Upon approaching the front of his truck, he saw how hot the hood was, rain turning to steam where it hit the metal. It hissed dangerously. He didn't dare touch it, but punched the driver's side door in frustration. Overheated! Just great. PERFECT. How did that happen? How come he hadn't noticed anything before? It must be that the storm was siphoning off all his good sense, along with his energy. Reaching into his coat, he took out his cell, but the screen still showed no reception. He sighed and got back into the Bronco, a soggy mess. What a lousy night.

Not wanting to waste the battery, Charley turned the car off completely, and was left in a shadowy kind of darkness that could have been any time of day. Only his wristwatch gave an accurate reading: 20:30. He slouched back into his seat resignedly. He would have to wait now, until the engine cooled down. Then he would see if it worked, and if his cell had finally caught a signal. He closed his eyes, and tried not to fret. His relatives would be wondering where he was.

The first thing he noticed when he woke the following morning was a digging pain in his wrists. Hard lumps poked up into his side, and an earthy perfume tickled his nostrils. From the roughness beneath his fingers, he thought he was lying on the ground. His hands felt swollen, the tips numb. His arms were also sore. He tried to stretch but was stopped by ropes tight enough to break the skin. Not only were his hands bound but his feet as well, and the way his joints felt, he must have been lying in the same position throughout the night, at least.

He opened his eyes, looking from side to side, trying to be as quiet as possible. He saw trees, pine and birch like usual, but there were some crude looking tents as well. Though they seemed empty, the hair on the back of his neck stood up, and a cold shiver ran down his spine. They were made of some kind of felt, with a grimy texture, and were mostly opaque in the morning light. It was day again, and the storm had finally ceased, though grey clouds still blocked the sun. He had to squint – it was only after he was fully conscious that he noticed the piercing headache that seemed to originate in the back of his skull. Clearly he had been kidnapped, or taken prisoner. Either way he was bound, (but not gagged, interestingly enough) and was at the mercy of whoever had put that bump on his head. He shivered slightly. His movement caught unwanted attention.

Two thick, hairy legs planted themselves in front of him. They were covered half way up by boots made of animal skin, wrapped around the calves with twine of some sort. He blinked, and looked up into the face of possibly one of the largest men he had ever seen. The man had one arm on his hip, and one down by his belt, resting on something. There was suspicion and wariness in his eyes, as he stared down at Charley. He was dressed, in Charley's opinion, barbarically, leather and furs of a foreign cut making up the bulk of his costume. Upon further inspection, he noted with some incredulity that there was armour across his broad chest. Real, actual armour, which looked dull and well-used, with dents and scrapes too deep to erase. Charley shrank back from his oversized captor.

"Who are you?" He said, nervously.

The man didn't reply, didn't even seem to acknowledge his question. He reached down before Charley could react, and grabbed one of his arms, wrenching him painfully up onto his knees. From his knees he was lifted into a standing position, and since the ropes around his feet did not incapacitate him completely, he stumbled along side the man in bewilderment and some fear.

He was taken to a large tent, the largest in fact, and once inside, was forced to his knees again. At the other end from the entrance was a middle aged man, scars lacerating across his face like electric burns, clothing much more… Well not luxurious, but certainly of better quality than the guard who still had a tight grip on Charley's bicep. What was this? A cult of some kind? Some sort of anarchic society living out in the wilderness? If so, what was he to them? A hostage? The man in front of him spoke, but Charley didn't recognize the language. When he repeated his question, this time in English, the accent was not familiar in the least.

"Who are you?" The chief asked, glaring down on him. He felt compelled to answer, despite initial hesitation. There was no telling what might happen if he wasn't forthright in his replies.

"John… Kerry," Charley lied.

"Valdemaran!" Barked the man standing beside him in recognition.

"No, American," Charley corrected slowly, and received a whack across the back of his head. He saw stars, and the headache worsened, but the lesson was learnt. Two actually: One was that these people obviously hadn't followed the elections. The other was don't speak unless absolutely necessary. Neither calmed him. The chief-like man studied him darkly. Finally his curiosity was too much.

"What is the green wagon?" The chief said.

"What? The truck?" he said, caught completely off guard.

"Truck?" The chief seemed to find the word unfamiliar. "Tell me more of the truck."

"Uh, it's a Bronco, a Ford," Charley's confusion deepened by the second.

"What is a Ford?"

Charley stared at the man for a long moment. Then, as he began to open his mouth, all his attention was drawn to a commotion outside the tent. People were yelling, and there was the sound of metal on metal. As ugly screams penetrated his shock, the chief stood up faster then his bulk suggested, and began bellowing orders. Then there was a hiss, and something shot past Charley's ear. He jerked away belatedly, but the chief slumped back into his chair. Protruding from his chest was a fletched arrow. He couldn't keep his eyes off it.

The man keeping watch over him was gone, rushing out to join the fight, but all Charley could do was stare at the arrow. He had really gone down the rabbit hole now. This was not reality the way he knew it. Just as he was convincing himself he had gone absolutely mad, he realized the cries coming from all around him were those of DYING men, and there was serious fighting taking place. The shock began to turn to panic. Suddenly, someone fell against one side of the tent, and the entire thing collapsed inward, trapping Charley beneath folds of unclean fabric.

He struggled madly, suffocating, and finally found the two flaps of the entrance, dragging himself into the open. He stood unsteadily, looking for the quickest way out of the camp, and away from the bloody slaughterhouse it had become. He backed up past the first circle of trees, then turned and ran before anyone in the immediate vicinity had the chance to notice him. His ankles, tied as they were, made sprinting difficult, but he got to the road mostly by luck, and saw his green Bronco sitting lazily right where he had stalled it the previous night. He felt relief flood over him. It was time to get out of here.

He reached the driver's side door and grabbed for the door-handle. The driver's side window was gone, shattered by a heavy object. Obviously the people who had taken him prisoner hadn't figured out how to open the door. Just has he heard the latch click and start to pull away, cold, hard steel touched the back of his neck. He froze, turned around and slowly raised his hands dejectedly. A young man in blue and white stood before him, wielding a deadly looking sword which he kept near Charley's face as he backed up a few steps.

Prisoner again.