by Greg James
All Things True
By Greg James
Copyright © Greg James 2017
Published by GJA Publications Ltd
London, UK
First Edition published March 2018
All rights reserved.
The right of the author to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Any reproduction, resale or unauthorised use of the material or artwork herein is therefore prohibited.
Disclaimer: The persons, places and events depicted in this work are fictional and any resemblance to those living or dead is unintentional.
Dedication
For Natalie Kaleva (1952 – 2017),
Thank you for reading.
Chapter One
“But this can’t be Tirlane,” Willow Grey said, looking at the desolate, rain-swept land.
“It is,” the sickly centaur replied, “for my name is Viril and, in the tongue of the centaurs, this means truth.” He shook on his four legs as he spoke. His golden hair had moulted away in great clumps leaving patches of bare skin. Thin and frail he was, whereas she remembered Nualan and his kin being muscular and strong.
“What happened here?” Willow asked.
“The Lamia.” Viril said. “How can you not know this?”
She remembered the darkness spreading over Tirlane as they drew away from its shores in the Pale Ship but had never thought she’d come back to a sight such as this.
“I’ve been … away,” Willow said, “across the Bound Sea.”
Viril eyed her questioningly, “Are you of the Wealdsmen or Holtsmen breeds?”
“No, I’m from … another land.”
“An island of the Bound Sea?” he asked.
“Yes.”
Viril nodded, “I would welcome you, but it seems ill-fitting. Our land is in great peril and you may not be able to return to your ship from here. There is a taint in the air of the Lamia’s making. It makes us all weak and sick as we breathe it in.”
Willow could see that he was having trouble standing – was he dying as she watched?
“Let me help you.”
“You are kind. Thank you.” He said, gratefully.
Willow took as much weight of the centaur against herself as she could manage. Weak he might’ve been but light he certainly wasn’t.
“Where should we go?” she asked.
“Back to our cavern. My kin are there.”
“Other centaurs?”
“Yes, a few of us survived the Lamia’s onslaught.”
Willow did not press him further. She remembered the Lamia’s vision of the massacre at Harrowclave. Worse must’ve followed for the rest of the centaur droves.
All because of me, she thought, they died because of me.
Viril paused and looked around, almost wistfully, “The Seaforth Flats have been the one sanctuary remaining to us.” His features and tone hardened, “but let us not speak more of such things. Tread soft and light as you go. The ground can be treacherous.”
They went along together through the mist-shrouded pools and low, uneven patches of land until they reached a part of the Flats where the thin crust of the surface had split, creating a number of islets separated by thin tributaries.
“They are not so wide that we cannot stride across them but take care, the earth may shift underfoot, and you do not want to go under the water.” Viril said.
They crossed from one islet to the other; taking care with each step. Willow thought she glimpsed something passing back and forth below the surface of the water in the tributaries.
“Are we very close to Cheren Mokur?” Willow asked, remembering its hungry waters with a shiver.
Viril shook his head, “Far enough away that its drowned thoughts and hatred of life cannot reach us here.”
“I think there’s something below, Viril,” she said.
The centaur’s brow furrowed. “That cannot be.”
“I’m sure I saw something move.” Willow said.
“Stay still. Stay quiet.” He said, “it may yet pass by and leave us be.”
Curious, Willow tried to peer into the murky water and see what was there. The depths were far too cloudy for her to make out anything distinct. But, whatever was down there was big though it did not remind her of No-men or the attack in Cheren Mokur. It passed underneath them again, sending a ripple through the waters and making the islets they stood upon tremble.
They stayed as still and silent as they could, waiting.
Willow held her breath, one hand on the thule at her waist. There was no further disturbance of the waters. She ached to breathe a sigh of relief but could bring herself to do so until she knew for sure this thing had passed them by.
Suddenly, the waters ahead began to bubble and seethe. Viril paled and reached for a long, notched dagger strapped in a leather scabbard across his chest. It looked like it had seen better days. Its edge was dull and blunt. She could see his hand was shaking as he held it out in a gesture of defiance that had little true strength behind it.
The waters spat out what Willow first took to be a giant worm or slug. It stood erect for a moment and then, gradually, another pale length arose from the waters to join with it. Another and another broke the surface, Willow realised these were not monstrous invertebrates, they were the fingers of a huge bone-white hand.
Willow drew the thule and stepped between Viril and the hand as its fingers probed the broken ground that bobbed around it. One of the fingers touched her leg. She struck at it with the thule. White light and a steaming gush of blood spilled from the wound she’d made. There was a bitter smell of burning as the wounded finger withdrew.
The hand latched into the ground before them and began to haul itself out of the waters. There was nothing attached to it past the wrist. It advanced on them crab-like, tearing at the uneasy ground as it pulled itself along. The weight of the thing made the thin earth crack, crumble and sink.
Willow brandished the thule, “No further.” She shouted. “This will destroy you if I so will it.”
The giant hand had no ears to hear her with, so it kept on coming. Its fingers twitched, preparing to lunge and crush them.
Willow struck first. The blade of the thule quickening with light, its enchantment guiding her, as she slashed at the colossal hand. As its fingers rose and fell, Willow danced between them – spinning and pirouetting – as she severed each finger in turn. The digits thumped to the ground, creating new pools into which they sank away from sight. The crippled hand slumped to the ground, still twitching and vibrating with unwholesome life but unable to continue its attack. They were safe.
“Thank you,” Viril said, “you saved my life. What you did, that was incredible.”
Willow nodded, out of breath, high on adrenalin. “What was that thing?” she asked.
“The hand of a Behemoth. They came from Mount Norn, the newest children of the Lamia. They wreck and destroy, eating everything living in their path.”
“You mean … they eat people?”
“Yes,” he said, looking as if he wanted to say more but could not bring himself to. His eyes were moist, about to tear up. He’d something horrific and lived through it, Willow thought.
A strange hissing came from the Behemoth-hand. Willow wiped the blade of the thule on a clump of nearby grass and held it ready once more as a black cloud issued from the mass of flesh.
The voice of a No-man hissed out of the cloud, “The Greychild returns to us. The Mistress will be so pleased. She thought you lost at sea.”
“Not so lost,” Willow said, “I found myself and I’ve come back to drive her out of Tirlane.”
The No-man let out a laugh that sounded like a m
an’s dying breath, “You have no such power. The Lamia is as rooted in Tirlane as the Archtree is in the crown of the world.”
“Trees can be uprooted,” Willow said, “and you can quote me on that.”
The No-man cloud hissed and spat. It slid towards them, resolving into a figure with its long, thin arms open wide, “Let us embrace you, Greychild. Drown with us. Sleep forever and put all battles behind you. Fight no more.”
“I know what you are,” Willow said, “you are doubt, mistrust, loneliness and bitterness. Foul seeds that should never have borne fruit.”
“You say such sweet things of our nature. Now, come into our embrace.”
Willow closed her eyes and concentrated.
Behind her, Viril gasped.
Before her, the No-man shrieked.
She opened her eyes and smiled; the thule was radiating light. It burned soft and bright, driving back the gloom of the Flats and making the No-man wither at its touch. The living shadow thrashed, writhed and retreated. Parts of it were gone. It hung in the air ragged and incomplete like a torn black rag, or an unwanted memory.
Willow gestured at the creature with the thule, “Tell her I will be at the gates of Barrowdwell before she knows it.”
Defeated though it was, the No-man reared up, “Three, they say, shall come to the gates of Barrowdwell. One shall stand. One shall fall. One shall go on alone. All will be claimed by the dark.”
“Don’t overstay your welcome,” Willow said. She stepped forward, bringing the light close to the No-man once more. It shrieked and dashed away; soaring into the distance like a broken bird.
“I have never seen a No-man put down so before,” Viril said, awed, “but why did you not slay it? You could have done.”
“Because that’s the Lamia’s way.”
“It is weak and wounded. I have no doubt that she will deal with it cruelly for its failure,” Viril said.
“Perhaps,” said Willow, “but it’s not my place to treat others as she has done. Fighting fire with fire means everyone gets burned.”
“You are welcome to our drove,” Viril said. “The No-men and Behemoths have preyed on us many times. I have lost brothers and sisters to them. But you have the power to preserve, it seems.”
“I don’t know about that,” Willow said, “but I want to help.”
“Tell me, are you the one named Willow Grey?”
She tensed, “Why?”
“Because much has been said about you since Harrowclave. Though I think much of it is untrue after what I’ve seen today.”
“Bad stuff’s been said then.”
“It has but if it were true, you would have left me to the Behemoth and No-man.”
“I’m glad you think that.”
“I prefer to believe my own eyes and senses rather than embittered hearsay. It would be thrice unkind to distrust someone who stopped my fate from being sealed. So, as I said, you are welcome to our drove. Follow me soft. We are not far away from surer ground.”
They finished crossing the system of islets and soon came to more stable ground.
Following in the tired footsteps of Viril, she wondered if that was at all possible. Even from here she could see Tirlane was a ruin; a shadow and a ghost of the beauty that’d been there before. And if it cannot recover, she thought, I must do what I must do anyway. I must bring an end to the Lamia. She cast her eyes to the heavens and wished she could see the stars through the gathered clouds.
“Henu, watch over me,” she whispered, “help me remain true and not stray.”
The answer to her prayer was the rain beginning to fall.
Chapter Two
Willow followed Viril until they reached the banks of the Seaforth Wane. They followed the course of the wild river to a low rise of hills where a warren of caverns could be seen. Light tongues of smoke arose from the mouth of the largest one.
“It is not much but it is our home for now,” Viril said.
“It looks good to me.” Willow said. She was cold and tired from their journey across the Flats.
“Be careful with what you say to the others,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“There are … stories about you.”
“Stories?”
“That you fled from the Lamia at Harrowclave and left our people to die.”
Willow said nothing.
“Is it true?”
“Not exactly,” was all she could say.
“I believe you,” Viril said, “you could not have done so and be one who could face a No-man as you did today.”
I was different back then, Willow thought, I was scared, and I did run away. I didn’t know then what I know now. I wish I did. Things might’ve turned out differently. Nualan might still be alive, for one.
“Willow, why do you cry?”
“Sorry,” she said, “remembering someone I lost that day.”
“We have all lost loved ones,” Viril said, “the Lamia’s evil deals in naught but death.”
Willow nodded.
Three young centaurs were waiting for them in the cavern. The male was lame in one of his forelegs and had a tawny colouring as well as a mane of chestnut curls. The two females were golden and silver in hue respectively; the one looked at Willow haughtily while the other blinked with doe-eyed curiosity.
“What’ve you found there?” asked the male, “she looks too skinny to be very flavoursome.”
“Willow, this is Kirrick. You will forgive his humour. Our sisters here are named Laene and Yirae.”
Each of the centaurs bowed their heads in greeting.
“So,” Kirrick asked, “what real food do you bring? Or, were you thinking bringing home a two-legged stray would be enough of a good deed to make the rain turn into vittles?”
Viril shook his head, “No, but she helped me in evading a Behemoth … and a No-man.”
Doe-eyed Yirae gasped. “A Behemoth here?”
“What was left of one.” Viril said.
Kirrick’s eyes narrowed as he regarded Willow. She could feel him appraising her. Haughty Laene stepped forward, her nostrils slightly flared, “Do you have a weapon?”
Willow carefully drew the thule from its scabbard and presented it.
“A thule?” Kirrick said, peering at it, “one of the old sacrificial blades. I’ve never seen one with a clear gemstone before. Usually they are as red as the blood they spill.”
“This one isn’t.” Willow said.
“Yes,” he said, slowly, “I can see that. Well, two-legs, you may shelter with us for a time. We could use someone who can fight off No-men. Are you much good at foraging?”
“I’ve never tried.”
“You can’t do much worse than Viril.” Kirrick said, “you will have to earn your keep. We do not have enough rations to feed another mouth without starving ourselves.”
“I’ll do my best.”
Kirrick looked her over, “Yes. You will. What is your name by the way?”
Willow licked her lips, remembering Viril’s words of caution, “Tasha. Tasha Lovechild.”
“Be welcome with us, Tasha.”
Though Kirrick’s eyes told that he didn’t believe her words.
*
Willow sat with the young centaurs that evening around a meagre fire, eating tough strips of jerky and roots that had been slowly roasted in the embers. There was a little talk between the centaurs. They were all tired and hollow-eyed. Their minds were as exhausted and malnourished as their bodies.
After a pause in the faltering conversation, Willow asked, “Can you tell me more about the Behemoths?”
A hush fell in the cave as if she’d made a curse. She opened her mouth to apologise but before she could, Viril sighed, took a breath, and told the story.
“We know they are of the Lamia because No-men are always close by when they are abroad. The plains of Tirlane used to be the reserve for our blessed droves, but now it is bespoiled by Behemoth herds. The first were seen after the massa
cre at Harrowclave, only a few in the beginning but their numbers grew rapidly. They came for the droves, and then for the nymphs and dryads. The Beorhans went into hiding in their hills so they didn’t end up in the Behemoths’ bellies. Of the Holtsmen and Wealdsmen, we know not. They were never many but may have survived somehow thanks to their magic.
“They resemble the Giants of the northern mountains in size but their skin lacks of the colour of life. Their hair is lank and black, mostly, and they do not speak. The only voice they possess is their hunger. Its groans and its moans drive them on through the land. They are a bitter mockery of life.”
“Can they be killed?” Willow asked.
Kirrick laughed, “Do you think we would be the only centaurs left in the land if they could be felled with ease? You can cut and cut away at a Behemoth and spill not one drop of blood, nor pierce a vital organ. They have no bones to break. Their flesh grows tougher and harder the deeper you wound them until the edge of your blade fails. Then, they eat you.”
Willow shivered at his words and ran her fingers over the thule at her waist. It might be able to do more harm to one of these Behemoths, but after her encounter with that huge hand, she wasn’t sure that she was super-keen to test her theory unless she had to.
What do I do, Henu? How can I help these people, and Tirlane?
In the back of her mind, she thought a voice answered her.
‘By doing what you have always done, Greychild. You fight.’
Chapter Three
The next day, Willow went out onto the Flats with Yirae. The centaur maiden was as quicksilver in her nature as the colour of her hide; moving spryly across the thin crust of the land. She possessed a child-like energy that seemed to have ebbed away from the other centaurs. Her company felt good in a land that had grown dark and was steadily losing all trace of life and light.
“We take it in turns,” Yirae was saying, “we used to hunt in pairs but that was when there were more of us. Now, we must be very careful. We can’t risk losing anyone now, not really. One would be too much.”
