All Things True

by Greg James

  “What do you want?”

  ‘What do you want?’

  “Are you going to kill me or something?”

  ‘Are you going to kill me or something?’

  The cold suddenly filled her body, making her teeth chatter. She could feel her heart growing numb. Was this a trap of some kind? It didn’t make much sense if it was. Perhaps, it was something else. Maybe she should ask it different questions.

  “How are you?”

  ‘How are you?’

  “I’m fine, thanks for asking.”

  ‘I’m fine, thanks for asking.’

  The cold retreated and her body was warm again.

  Time to try something.

  “I’m Willow Grey and you will set me free.”

  ‘I’m Willow Grey and you will set me free.’

  “Go in peace and strength. Be free of this place.”

  ‘Go in peace and strength. Be free of this place.’

  The globe’s surface rippled and her reflection dissolved into it. The globe retreated out of sight, taking first its light and then the darkness with it. Leaving Willow alone in the tomb with its dust and bones. She could move again though each step she took was marked by shaking. How close had she been to death, just then?

  Not looking back, she returned to the wine cellar where she collected two bottles and then took the stairs back up the castle and its courtyard. She found Viril sleeping and the night sky gradually lightening outside.

  A short time after dawn, she awoke the centaur and gave him the wine to drink. After an hour’s rest, his strength returned and more than he’d had before.

  Go in peace and strength.

  “Did you find anything else here?” Viril asked.

  “No, not much,” Willow said, “just some old bones.”

  Once the light of day was full-grown, they left the castle behind and set out for Harrowclave.

  Chapter Seven

  The broad sweep of the plains was as majestic as Willow remembered it. The overcast sky and thinness of its grass and gorse merely added shadows to underscore the crests of hillocks and pattern the retreating clefts of its valleys.

  “It’s still beautiful,” she said.

  “Like this, perhaps, but I can smell them. They are not far away and will soon spoil the view before you.”

  Willow’s brow furrowed, and she was about to ask who he was talking about, until she saw them for herself.

  A herd of Behemoths came over a nearby rise – a grotesque, staggering parody of a centaur drove. The pale titans lurched this way and that as if they were drunk. There was no grace to their movements, no flow of natural elegance. Their heads slumped forward on their shoulders and their lank hair clung to their sweaty necks and unclean faces. Their eyes were hollows and their mouths were slack, hungry caves.

  “They’re after someone.” Viril said.

  Willow leaned forward and saw a group of creatures on foot that she’d noticed when the Behemoths first came over the rise. Viril trotted closer to the edge of the outcrop so they could see what was happening.

  “Beorhans. They’re above ground,” Viril said, “I thought they were all in hiding. I wonder what could have driven them out?”

  “Can’t we do something to help them?” Willow asked.

  “We are without your thule and there are some ten and twenty Behemoths in that herd. We would only succeed in sharing their fate.”

  Willow swallowed hard. Not wanting to look but unable to tear eyes away from the sight below. What was about to happen was inevitable. There was nothing she could do to stop it. Viril was right. She imagined charging down there on his back, dagger in hand, or even running to the Beorhans’ aid without him. As much as she tried to picture it otherwise, each fantasy ended with her being torn apart by a Behemoth’s teeth.

  She hated feeling so powerless.

  Her mind’s eye replayed Yirae’s last moments; a reminder of what was about to happen to the fleeing Beorhans. Plucked from the ground by fingers longer than their victims were tall. Carried up high to hang over the black hole of a Behemoth’s mouth. The smell of its dirty flesh. The dead emptiness in their eyes. Then, falling, falling, falling – the last thing you hear, the teeth snapping shut as you slide down the tongue and into the reeking pit of its throat. Or, fate of the less fortunate, to be caught between those teeth and slowly ground to death before being swallowed piecemeal.

  Willow closed her eyes and took a deep breath. When she looked again, the Behemoth herd was loping on it way and there was no sign of the Beorhans. Their deaths had been and gone with herself and Viril as sole witnesses.

  We didn’t even know their names, she thought, no-one they love knows they’re gone.

  The wind alone would remember them, until it too died.

  “Let’s go, Viril,” she said, “I’ve seen enough.”

  *

  Seeing the Beorhans eaten by the Behemoth herd haunted them as they crossed the plains. Every time they felt the heavy tread of gigantic footsteps, they sought shelter for their own sanity as much as their physical safety. Neither wished to see a sight such as that again.

  A few hours later, with the herd and the memory of its feast behind them, they heard a cry from nearby. Viril followed the sound without Willow having to ask.

  Ahead was a river and there was a No-man standing on its shore. The No-man had a-hold of someone. Its victim was screaming, kicking and cursing as the black creature bore it down, down, down into the water of the river.

  “It’s trying to drown someone.” Willow said

  “Can we face a No-man without your thule?” Viril asked.

  “We have to try.”

  He nodded.

  Willow approached the nightmare spawn. Her hands were fists and her fingernails were digging into the palms hard enough to make the skin split and bleed.

  “Unhand him,” she said to the No-man.

  A low hissing like bitter wind came as it turned around to face her. “What do you here, Greychild? We thought you lost at sea and drowned long ago.”

  “As you can see, I’m well,” she said, “and more than a match for you.”

  “Without your thule, I think not.”

  But it did not advance, neither did it retreat. Willow could hear the coughing and spluttering of the No-man’s victim. At least, they were safe now.

  “You know that She sees what we see and your presence in Tirlane is known?” the No-man hissed. “You would have done well to stay hidden rather than waste your secrecy to save fools such as these.”

  “You may be right, but it’s done now and I wouldn’t have it otherwise.” She replied.

  “You know what awaits you in Mount Norn if you continue on your quest,” the No-man said, “she will have no mercy for you. And neither shall we.”

  “If you want me so bad, come and claim me,” Willow said.

  The No-man came forward, slow and wary. The light of day giving it pause as it made the darkness of which it was composed grow thin – she could see through the No-man as if it were a retreating shadow on a summer’s day. It stopped a few feet away from her. “You will not find it so easy at the gates of Barrowdwell,” it said, “Three will make the journey to Barrowdwell, so they say, but only two will enter. One will fall at the gates. So, it is written and known. Another life for your life, Willow Grey? Can you bear it? Can you take the pain?”

  With that, the last greying traces of the No-man were blown away on a gust of wind.

  Willow helped the No-men’s victim.

  “Who are you?”

  “I am Nastonik,” he grunted.

  “You’re a Beorhan.”

  “Observant, aren’t you?” he said.

  “I just saved your life. You might be a little more grateful.”

  Nastonik eyed her and then Viril warily.

  “You don’t like centaurs?” Willow asked, reading what was in his eyes.

  “It’s because of them we’re in this mess. The summoning of the droves to H
arrowclave provoked the Lamia to make war on the land. If they’d stopped their reading of prophecies and portents and let things be, none of this would’ve happened.”

  “The Lamia and the No-men would still be here.”

  “Aye, but things wouldn’t have gotten this bad.”

  “If you’re going to blame someone then you might as well blame me. I’m Willow Grey. The one they call the Greychild.”

  Nastonik looked her over, “You’re the one, really? My people have you enshrined in legend as the Dimwielder. A walker between worlds. Do you speak true to me?”

  “I do. You saw me drive away the No-man, didn’t you?”

  “Aye, but with as much fear in your eyes as anyone who has to face those things. That being said, you did it all the same. I’ve only ever heard of a Wealdsman faring any better against those horrors.”

  “Yes, well, we have no Wealdsman here, only me.”

  Though I wish you were still here, Henu, she thought.

  “You’re good enough for me,” Nastonik said, “I owe you a blood debt, my girl. Where’re you bound?”

  “To Harrowclave.”

  The colour drained from Nastonik’s face, “Where the centaurs fell?”

  Willow nodded. “But now I think it is time to rest. We can’t go anywhere until Viril has recovered from his wounds.”

  “You should be in no hurry to tread the ground at Harrowclave. That place is haunted by the dead.”

  “It is where I have to go, regardless of the danger. What about you?” Willow asked, “Are you travelling alone?”

  “No, I was with a party, but we were separated. Behemoths and No-men came after us. I was snared as you found me, and the others were chased out onto the plains.”

  Willow’s face paled.

  “You have seen them?” he asked.

  She nodded. “I’m sorry. We couldn’t do anything for them. They were too far away.”

  Nastonik closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “The Behemoths.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I know, and you wish that you could have done more,” Nastonik said, “but there is nothing to be done against such horrors. They are as the Giants of old, only without thought or feeling.”

  “The hunger is all they have.” Willow finished.

  “Just so.”

  “Where were you going to?” Willow asked. “Viril said Beorhans do not usually come above ground.”

  “Even below ground the Lamia has corrupted what once was,” Nastonik said, “We were seeking the one safe place remaining in Tirlane.” Nastonik said.

  “Where’s that?”

  “Starababa’s lodge.”

  Willow remembered the vision of the old woman, mother to the nymphs and dryads. “She’s still here then?”

  “She will be until the last trace of life has left Tirlane,” Nastonik said, “which could be any day now. The Behemoths will not rest until they have consumed everything that draws breath.”

  “D’you think she can help us stop them?”

  “Stop them? My, my, you are either ambitious, or very stupid.” Nastonik said.

  “You don’t have to be rude.”

  “I am merely blunt. A Beorhan says what a Beorhan sees.”

  “And they are all born with rocks in their heads,” Viril interjected.

  Nastonik narrowed his eyes at the centaur, “You offer me insult, you four-legged nag?”

  “Certainly, you musty old lump of coal.”

  Willow stepped between them, “That’s enough. We are not going to fight among ourselves. Nastonik, you know the way to Starababa’s lodge from here?”

  He nodded, “We had mapped it out fair and well.”

  “Then be our guide and lead the way.”

  “Very well, but I’ll not forget what he said to me.”

  “I’m surprised you can remember a thing with all that gravel between your ears.”

  “Viril!” Willow snapped.

  The centaur hung his head. Willow gestured to the Beorhan and the three set off for Starababa’s lodge, last sanctuary for the good folk of Tirlane.

  Chapter Eight

  They arrived at the lodge by evening. The clouds overhead had cleared somewhat, allowing a few stars to shine through down – lighting a glimmering path to the hillock Willow remembered. Runes set in the gnarled wood of the lodge’s door glowed as if from moonlight though the moon could not be seen.

  None of them disguised their eagerness at the welcome sight. It was all they could do not to break into a run as they approached. Willow stepped into the lead though she slowed at the sound of commotion from behind her. Nastonik and Viril were pushing and shoving one another, as well as muttering further insults to their respective peoples. She sighed as she ascended the front steps and knocked upon the door. There was some shuffling inside before it opened and the short, wrinkled figure of Starababa was before them wrapped in her finely-stitched black dress and red shawl. “Welcome to my humble home. And you two, wipe your feet and see you behave yourselves before sullying my threshold.”

  Nastonik and Viril muttered agreement and apologies to Starababa before they entered.

  “That’s better. I will only have well behaved guests beneath my roof.”

  Inside a meal was set out on the table. Willow remembered being here afore with Nualan’s drove. “Where are the nymphs and dryads I remember?”

  “Gone,” Starababa said, “Below ground, mostly. Into the deepest rivers and most darkly-buried streams so they can survive out of the Lamia’s poisonous sight.”

  “Why didn’t you join them?”

  “Because my home and place are here. Tirlane cannot be Tirlane without one safe house for wanderers and those who are lost to come to. There must be some comfort, even in the most blighted of times. Now, please, that is enough talk of sad things. Sit, eat and be as merry as you can be.”

  There were pies of rare meat and mead brewed to a lustrous piquancy. Also, fruits sliced, sugared and studded with both raisins and sultanas. Tiredness ebbed from their limbs as they sat down to a modest but sumptuous repast. Their bodies ached a little less as they shared a green berry wine from hefty wooden jugs brought in by Starababa on a tray. Willow marvelled at the old lady’s strength given the weight of the jugs. She had to grit her teeth to lift one and pour from it without spilling. Viril’s colour returned alongwith the shine of his hide. Nastonik’s surliness gave way to a joviality followed by a bawdy song or two from the hills he called home.

  After the meal, they all retired to sleep. Nastonik and Viril went under in minutes, snoring lightly. Willow remained awake until she saw the light of a small candle approaching through the house’s herb-scented dark.

  Starababa sat down at her bedside.

  “You were there in the Giants’ Graveyard,” Willow said.

  “I was indeed. You needed a guide after Henu returned to the heavens though you do not need one anymore. You are strong and sure. You have done well to come this far, Greychild. Do not doubt it.”

  “People have died. My Dad died. I feel like I’m surrounded by nothing but death. Viril and Nastonik, I fear I will lose them too.”

  “Then, you must lose that fear and let it go. Fear is a part of life but if we live according to it, that is no life at all. It is said our time is like a narrow sliver of light, much like this candle’s flame, caught between two kinds of greater darkness; the time before we are born and the time after we are gone. All we have is this and so often we spend it unwisely.”

  “Is there so little light? So little hope?”

  “Why should there be more?”

  “Because there must be.”

  “No, and this is not a lesson I can teach you tonight. You will have to learn it for yourself.”

  “That’s not very helpful.”

  “I am not a guide and teacher in the same way as Henu,” said Starababa. “It is not my place to act as he did, nor do I wish to. I am healer, carer, and mother to those who cross my threshold, not
master and teacher to all and sundry.”

  “I thought you could help me more than that.”

  “Am I not helping by feeding you, letting you rest and heal for the journey ahead?”

  “I meant in defeating the Lamia.”

  “And you think you will do so better if you are tired, burnt-out and have an empty stomach? I disagree.”

  Willow sighed. “I am sorry. I didn’t mean to be so rude. Thank you for your kindness, Starababa. I’m just tired of it all.”

  “As are we all. And I understand. It is no crime or affront to be tired of the way things are. Life is a hard thing to get through and can often feel like there is little reward to it for all our pain.”

  “Can you tell me if I’ll survive?”

  “Ha. Fate is a cruel mistress and keeps her own counsel. I am not she. Learning that we do not last forever and that there will be an end to our time in this world is one of the hardest things to understand and accept. But, if you can accept it, then the end might not be death, as you expect it.”

  “When I became sick,” Willow said, “I thought I was too young to die but now I’m not so sure. Death comes for everyone, doesn’t it? Regardless of how old or young they are. There’s no too early or too late, only the time that it happens. That moment. I fear death by going to face the Lamia, but I know that I must do it, nevertheless.”

  “Courage is being afraid and still doing what needs to be done,” Starababa said. “If you were not afraid, I would think you as foolish as Nastonik said you were.”

  “I guess so. It’s hard to feel that is true though. How did you know he said that about me?”

  “A Beorhan can be depended upon for certain things. Their way of looking at the world never wavers.”

  “I am starting to see that. I should sleep, Starababa.”

  “You should. The road ahead for you is a long one.” Starababa passed Willow a steaming clay mug, “A little herbal tea will help you sleep better. No dreams for once.”

  “Thank you, Starababa.”

  “Thank you, Willow Grey. Without you, I fear Tirlane would have fewer tomorrows to look forward to. Sleep well now.”

  And she did.