The Planter #3

November 16, this year
Venice, Italy
8:37 pm CEST

As Loche runs down the ramp on the southern end of the bridge, he catches sight of Rearden just before he disappears to the right. He hears the distinct clang of a metal door slamming shut. He hurries toward it, but carefully, keeping his eyes on the several nooks and inlets in the high stone wall beside him.

Still some distance from where Rearden vanished, he hears a scream. His heart feels a jolt of electricity. He grips the handle of his sword tighter and advances. After another twenty yards, Loche finds a door. It is shut. A black, metal security grate is latched over its top. He places his hand on the latch and lifts it silently. The grate swings without a creak. He then turns the door nob and nudges the door open so he can peer inside.

He sees a body huddled on the cement, cradling what looks to be an injured arm. Loche pushes inside with his sword outstretched. The injured figure recoils. Loche notices a cloak and mask. But most notably, fire red hair.

“Who are you?” Loche demands.

The man tears his mask down to his throat. His eyes are a bright blue. “You’re—you’re wearing the death mask,” he says.

“Who are you?” Loche says again.

“I’m Marcel Hruska,” he answers. Loche shakes his head. The name does not register. “You’re wearing the Ithicsazj— wait…” Marcel says wincing and pulling his arm tighter to his chest. “You’re Loche Newirth. Dr. Loche Newirth.”

“Your arm,” Loche says, “are you alright?”

“It’s broken—Rearden broke my arm.”

“Rearden? Where is he?”

“You need to stop him, Dr. Newirth. He’s after Professor Finnley. He’s going to kill her. Please stop him,” Marcel pleads.

“Where is he?”

Marcel’s eyes point toward the museum courtyard. “The omvide! Please stop him.”

Loche runs to the archway and crosses into the line of roman pillars that mark the perimeter of the ancient underground pyramid. The court is empty.

A second later, Loche is on top of the planter.

A second later he is squinting under a gravel-gray sky. His eyes sting beneath the flat daylight. Far down the ridge-line he can see a ruined city. Mud and vines claw over the half uncovered forms as if the earth was unwilling to let the sky see it. Excavation vehicles are parked near to the site. Loche knows the shape of the surrounding hills—he was just here—but that was a thousand years ago. From this very place he watched Wyn Avuqua burn in the distance. He watched the high towers fall. Now he sees the city of his imagination has been found.

There are no workers or archeologists. There are no people, save two. One is a woman in a burgundy dress carrying a red notebook about a half mile away. She runs along a carved path to the dig site. Not far behind her is Marcus Rearden. He carries a broadsword.