The Broken Reign
A Time Realms Novel
Jeremy Michelson
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Ready for another adventure?
Thanks for reading
One
Joshua
The room was dim, lit only by the light bleeding around the heavy green curtain on the single window. Joshua stepped toward the bed, unsure if Grams was still alive. Through the strong scent of cinnamon and clove potpourri, the room still smelled faintly of age and impending death. A scent of sickness and pungent menthol medicine.
He hesitated. Wiped his palms on his blue jeans and pulled at his dark blue t-shirt. The room was uncomfortably warm. The air heavy and thick.
“Grams?” Joshua said, his voice soft.
A low moan from the bed, a sense of movement and rustling of sheets. A wet cough, then a pale, thin hand emerged from the sheets.
A raspy voice. “Still here, Joshie,” Grams said.
He hated that nickname. It grated on him every time he heard it croak from her ancient lips. He didn’t correct her, though. That was a battle long lost.
“What time is it?” Grams asked.
Joshua dug in the pocket of his jeans, grasping his phone. The small screen flashed numbers at him.
“It’s one in the afternoon,” he said, “Are you hungry?”
His own lunch was having a hard time settling down. He could still taste the greasy fast food burger in the back of his throat. He was trying to eat healthier, but...
"No, Joshie, this old body doesn't need food anymore," she said.
His eyes were adjusting to the light now. He could see the tiny bump of Grams in the big bed. She was always so small, but now she seemed to be shrinking away to nothing. She raised her stick-like arm and rubbed her face.
“I don’t suppose you brought any booze?” she asked.
“Grams...”
She laughed. At least it sort of sounded like a laugh, if laughter were dragged through a pile of dead branches.
“A shot of Jack Daniels would go down good right now,” she said, “Your grandpa preferred Crown Royal, but I always thought it was kinda of snooty myself. I wouldn’t turn it down now, though.”
Joshua moved to the side of the bed. He glanced at the dim shapes of the medicine bottles on the nightstand. It was like a tiny cityscape.
“Grams, the doctor said–”
“Oh, the doctor can go fuck himself,” Grams said, “I’m a hundred and six years old. I think I’ve already beaten the average, Joshie. If I want to drink and smoke and eat fried food then let me. I’ve outlived everyone else. I think I won.”
Joshua waited for the little tirade to pass. It wasn't the first time. And the way she kept hanging on, it probably wouldn't be the last. Grams started to lever herself up on her stick-thin arms. Joshua moved forward, helping her up and propping the pillow behind her. He reached for the lamp beside the bed. Grams' arm shot out, her papery hand grasping his wrist. Her grip was still strong. It surprised him.
“No, I don’t want the light. Not yet, anyway,” she said.
He almost looked behind him, but made himself hold still. The skin on the back of his neck crawled. It was back there, hanging on the wall. Maybe it was just his imagination, but he could sense it, waiting for him to look. How many years had he spent making his eyes stay away from that image?
Grams must have sensed something herself. In the dim light, he saw her lips curl up in a smile. Her sunken eyes were dark pits, pupils glittering points, her thinning hair a white halo around her head. The skin and muscle were so thin on her face, he imagined he could see the skull underneath. Every time he visited, it seemed closer to the surface.
“Does it still bother you, Joshie? The painting?” she asked.
“No Grams, it doesn’t.” He wasn’t going to admit the thing creeped the hell out of him.
"Liar," Grams said. She paused, staring off over his shoulder. In the low light, she wouldn't be able to make out the details. It would just be a shape on the wall. But maybe not to her. Even at a hundred and six, Gram's eyesight was still sharp.
“Did I tell you the story about it?” Grams said.
“Yes Grams,” he said. He’d heard a lot of versions of the story behind the painting. Some from Grams. Others from Gramps when he was still alive. More from his mother. Even one from uncle Bill.
Grams was still staring at it. “I guess after all these years, I should tell the right story.”
“What do you mean?”
Grams slowly shook her head from side to side. “Everyone thinks they know about it. Even you, don’t you, Joshie?”
“You told me the story about it,” Joshua said.
“Yes, I told you the story, but I never told the story behind the story.”
Joshua shook his head. Grams’ mind had always been as sharp as her eyesight. But maybe she was finally losing her grip on reality. The stupid painting was just some creepy part of Grams’ past. He didn’t know why she kept it. The first thing he was going to do when she finally kicked the bucket was burn the damn thing.
“You should get some rest, Grams,” he said.
Shadows moved ac
ross her face as she turned to him. “Rest? I don’t think there will be any rest for me,” she said, “Not after the things I’ve done.”
She looked back to the painting behind him. He still refused to look at it. If he didn’t see it, then maybe it wasn’t real.
“Once upon a time I was beautiful,” she said, “Not the desiccated hag I am now.”
“Grams...” he said.
"When I walked down the street, men's heads would turn. The women's too," Grams said, "I enjoyed it. The power of it. I used it, too. There are a lot of things a beautiful woman can get. A lot of doors that will open if a woman knows how to apply that power."
The thought of his grandmother as a young and beautiful woman made Joshua slightly nauseous–and slightly aroused. Once, back when gramps was still alive, he had been staying over at their house for the weekend. His mother and father were having problems and needed time alone. That’s what Grams told him anyway.
Bored, Joshua had gone into Gramps' study, and started going through his huge wooden desk. The room smelled of musty books, but the desk had faint musk of machine oil. It seemed to have a million drawers and were stuffed with the things that made a nine-year-old boy's heart beat fast. Gears, pulleys, pocket knifes, pieces of old electronics, tiny tools, odd bits of machinery.
He didn’t take anything out. The drawer handles were wood, too, and the finish had been worn off by decades of hands pulling them open. He’d pull a drawer out and look longingly at the contents. Then he’d push the heavy drawer back and pull out another one. This had gone on until he got to the big, flat drawer in the middle of the desk. The one over Gramps’ squeaky wooden chair with its cushion worn shiny in the shape of Gramps butt.
The drawer caught on something and something fluttered out the back and fell to the floor. Heart thumping Joshua dropped down to get the object. He didn’t want Gramps to know he’d been snooping. He grabbed the object, a stiff, flat piece of paper.
Bringing it out to the light, his breath caught. It was a picture. A naughty picture. In it, a red-haired woman with no clothes was lying on a bed in with her arms folded behind her head. She was smiling in at the camera in a strange way. Something he would later recognize as seductive. Her breasts were large and her cherry red nipples stood up prominently. The area between her legs was bare.
Joshua had seen his mother naked and knew that women grew hair between their legs. The woman’s naked crotch in the picture riveted him. Something about it gave him a certain kind of feeling that he wasn’t used to.
He was still looking at it when Gramps walked in the room. Joshua shot to his feet, trying to hide the photo behind him. Gramps made him hand it over. Looking at it, Gramps laughed, then looked wistful. I wondered where that picture went, he said. He ruffled Joshua’s hair. Thanks for finding it for me, sport.
Who is it, Gramps? Joshua asked.
Gramps laughed again. He looked at the photo, then at Joshua. There was a mischievous twinkle in his eye. He grabbed a book from the desk and held it over the naked part of the picture, leaving the woman’s face visible. Look at her, Gramps said, Is there something familiar about her?
Joshua stared at the face. There was something...
A jolt of electricity ran through him as he realized who the woman looked like.
Is that Grams? he asked.
Gramps nodded, his lips quirked up in a smile. Joshua’s face was suddenly burning. Then he was running for the bathroom, the peanut butter sandwich he had for lunch rocketing up from his stomach.
Neither he or Gramps ever spoke of what happened. He never saw the photo again. Though he often wondered what happened to it.
Two
Joshua
“You still with me, Joshie?” Grams asked.
Joshua shook his head, driving the memory of the picture out of his mind. Trying to anyway.
“Sorry Grams, just thinking about Gramps,” he said. Close enough.
“I used him up, too,” Grams said, “He didn’t seem to mind, though. I caught him when I finally realized my looks weren’t going to last forever. We had your mom and Bill late in life. Never was much for the whole mothering thing, though.”
Mom would agree with you, he wanted to say. He kept his mouth shut.
“But I was going to tell you the real story about the painting,” she said.
“Grams, I really don’t–”
“I guess it’s important someone besides me should know,” Grams said, “It’s dangerous, after all.”
He was about to protest some more, but that stopped him cold. “Dangerous? What do you mean?”
“I mean–”
The room was suddenly shaking, the floors and walls rumbling around them. The first thing he thought of was an earthquake. But they didn’t have earthquakes around there. Did they?
“Joshie! Run! Get out of here!” Grams shouted. Her voice was strong, loud enough to hear over the rumbling.
He tried to remember what people were supposed to do in an earthquake. Run? Crawl under a table? Stand in a doorway?
He had to get Grams first. He rushed to her bed, legs unsteady as the floor jittered under him.
“No! Leave me! Run away Joshie!” she shouted.
He ignored her protests, scooping her up from the bed. Something burst through the window. Shattering glass tore the heavy green curtain down, and light flooded the room.
Joshua turned away from the window, trying to shield Grams from the flying glass. The rumbling and shaking went on and on, seeming to grow in intensity. He stepped toward the bedroom door and looked up.
The painting on the wall caught his eye. It seemed huge. A landscape of fire and mountains. Rivers of red–lava or blood, he could never tell. In the foreground were heaps of skeletons. Something like dark rain streaked the skies in the background. At the center of the painting stood a woman in black armor. Her red hair flowed around her like a cloak. Her face was fierce and beautiful. The face from the naked photo he had seen so many years ago. Her eyes were deep black without whites or irises. Tiny specks of white like stars dotted the blackness of her eyes.
The woman's right hand rested on the hilt of a long, naked sword, its point resting on the burning ground. In the woman's left hand was an ornate silver teapot. The hinged lid of the pot was up. Poking up out of the pot was a pure white cat with brilliant sky blue eyes.
The cat in the teapot was the thing that always disturbed him the most about the painting. It just didn’t belong there in that hellscape.
“Joshie! Don’t look at it!” Grams cried.
He tried to tear his eyes away from it. The woman's black eyes seemed to have a lock on him. He stumbled forward. The painting fell off the wall, leaning over him. The star-filled eyes seemed to grow huge. He dropped to his knees, hunching over Grams to shield her.
The painting tipped over. Fell onto them. A wave of cold washed over him as it enveloped them.
Three
Joshua
Snow swirled around him. Grams was gone from his arms. The cold air bit into his skin, cutting through his thin t-shirt. He tried to stand up. Wind pushed at him, howling around him.
He got to his feet, looked around. His heart pounded. Panic clawed at his mind. He couldn't see anything but snow. It fell in wind-driven bursts, a curtain of icy, skin burning white.
“Grams!” he shouted.
His fingers were already aching with cold, his ears burned. He remembered the earthquake, the painting falling on them. What happened? How did he end up here?
“Grams!”
The snow parted for an instant. He caught a glimpse of something glowing orange. Orange could be fire. Fire was warmth. For a moment he thought of the painting and its hellscape. Then he was stumbling through the snow toward where he thought the fire was.
His legs were getting stiff, his toes like lumps of ice. He was shivering so hard he could hardly focus his eyes. A part of him realized that if he didn’t get out of the storm within the next few minutes he was going to di
e. He paused, waiting for a break in the curtain of snow again.
There. The orange glow.
He did his best to make his stiffening legs run. The snow parted and he was stumbling toward the mouth of a cave. A roaring fire was just inside the mouth of it. He didn’t stop, but went inside. Maybe there were hostile cavemen in it. He didn’t care.
Joshua fell on the hard ground by the fire. The sudden heat against the skin was painful, but he didn’t move.
“Who the hell are you?”
Joshua looked up. Sitting on a rock was a large man dressed in furs. He had a thick, black beard and a steel helmet on his head. He also had a deadly looking two-sided ax in his hand. The other hand had a honing stone held against the blade. The scowl on his face furrowed thick eyebrows over his small eyes. He also exuded a pungent aroma. It smelled like sweat and wet dog.