by Greg James
Across the chasm, the slaves turned on the Molloi with a roar, cutting them down, forcing them over the edge into the abyss to join their master. The spell cast by Scaithe had been broken.
Willow crossed partway across the abyss and, hanging in mid-air, before the amazed slaves, she called out, "Spread the word, you are all free!"
The slaves let out cheers, which were suddenly silenced by a rumbling from the depths. A brilliant column of light burst forth from below, followed by a huge object rising rapidly out of the abyss. Willow recognised it –a globe not unlike the one she’d seen in the ruined Kotkan castle however this one was gigantic.
It was the Worldstone – the anchor of reality against the endless fertility of the Archtree. Every face staring at the Worldstone was a mask of shock and awe – except for her own. Willow stepped toward it and looked into the shifting mirror of its surface. As before, the surface reacted by rippling until it resembled her own face. After her lesson in the castle, she knew what to do.
“You have been awoken when you should not have been.”
‘You have been awoken when you should not have been.’
The echo of the Worldstone’s words made the rock of the mines tremble to the roots. She’d better make this quick so that the whole place didn’t collapse on everyone.
“I am the heart of this world, not its sun, nor its moon.”
‘I am the heart of this world, not its sun, not its moon.’
“It is not my place to strive against Creation, but to be its anchor, its balance and its deepest root.”
‘It is not my place to strive against Creation, but to be its anchor, its balance and its deepest root.’
“It is my place to reside where I am not seen, to always be known and felt by others.”
‘It is my place to reside where I am not seen, to always be known and felt by others.’
“I will return whence I came and let this world be born anew.”
‘I will return whence I came and let this world be born anew.’
The Worldstone rippled, her reflection dissolved, and she watched – alongwith everyone else – as it sank back down into the abyss, returning to the place it had been buried at the dawn of Tirlane’s creation.
Willow returned to her companions’ side.
Nastonik said, “I cannot believe what I have seen.”
“Me either,” Willow said, “you know, I wasn’t sure that was going to work.”
“But it did and we have you to thank. You have foiled the Lamia’s ploy. The balance of the world will no longer be upset.”
“It will always be upset as long as she exists. I have to put an end to her.”
“For my life and for my people’s, I will come with you and see that it is done.” Nastonik said, “I was wrong to doubt you and now I understand Viril’s faith in you.”
“I hope I can live up to your words,” Willow said.
“You already have,” Nastonik said, as he embraced her.
Chapter Twelve
After leaving Beorhn’s Hills and its newly-freed folk behind, the three companions came to the boundary of Gastenholt. Its trees were a black, snaggled horizon stretching away into the distance.
“What’s happened here? It wasn’t like this before.” Willow said.
“Gastenholt spread like a plague across the upper land after the Lamia’s darkness fell across Tirlane.” Nastonik said.
“A better defence than barbed wire, that’s for sure,” Willow said, stepping forward.
The trees opened for her, but when the others tried to pass through alongside her, they closed again. “Looks like I have to go on from here alone.”
“I do not like it, Willow,” Viril said, “I do not think it safe or wise. These trees are not our allies, they are poisoned by the Lamia’s corruption.”
“There’s no way around so I have to go through alone, for now. I won’t leave you behind. I’ll come back, I promise.”
Nastonik and Viril looked askance at her. Willow embraced each of them. “Be patient and wait for me. That’s all I ask. I’m not giving up here and neither should you.”
“Very well. We shall wait for you and a sign.”
She smiled, turned and went ahead into the oppressive trees. There was no path, so she had to make her way between the dark trunks as best she could, scratched every other step by nettles and brambles. She thought on how similar it was to the way she first entered Tirlane. After a time, Willow came out into a den of very old trees. It did not look so strange at first until Willow saw there was one tree towering over the rest. Its bark was wrinkled and worn ruddy by the passage of time. It crowned a small rise at the centre of the grove – much like the grandfather clock she’d encountered when she arrived in Beam Weald. She climbed the rise and put the palm of her hand on the tree. She could feel something that might’ve been a heartbeat, or the ticking of a clock. No ordinary ticking this, she thought, but the actual pulse of Time – as it is felt through all and other worlds.
“Are you the Archtree?” Willow asked, out loud, knowing that it was.
It could be nothing else. She could smell the richness of its ancient sap, feel the eternally fertile warmth emanating from its bark. To be in its presence was warm and soothing. She felt herself drifting as if into a dream though she was not asleep – or was she?
She blinked and found herself in an area of grey emptiness facing a door. The lock was loose, broken and rusted so it was not difficult at all to open it. Across the threshold was a hole in the ground and she could make out a set of steps leading down into the dark, out of sight. She crossed the threshold and descended the steps. It took a while to reach the bottom. She couldn’t tell how long.
At the bottom of the steps was another door. She paused before opening it. The damp and the dankness closed in around her. She opened the door and crossed into a place she knew – her own bedroom.
There was the single bed, unmade, with rumpled sheets. Her possessions were scattered across the floor. The curtains were drawn. And there was a cupboard that was not hers at all. It was almost whimsical in its design with semi-mythical faces carved into its surface. It was made from a wood dark enough to be sinister. She took a step towards the cupboard, placed her hand upon the smooth brass knuckle that would open it. There were sounds coming from inside.
One could have been the drawn-out weeping of a child. Another; the bitter hissing of a cat in a trap, and there was something else too. A scratching, regular and harsh in rhythm, that seemed to come from very far off, at first, but with each second passing came closer and closer. It began as a whisper and steadily intensified until it was a near-shriek. The weeping of the child became more tortured and desperate while the hissing of the cat grew more vicious.
And, then it all stopped.
Silence.
Willow opened the cupboard door.
There was nothing inside – except a voice she knew well.
“The long, hard road you have been on is almost at an end, friend Willow. Your time with us is nearly over. Remember, it is not death if you accept it.”
She couldn’t find the words to say anything as Henu’s comforting voice faded away.
Chapter Thirteen
Willow opened her eyes – not knowing how long she’d been unconscious – and saw Viril and Nastonik. Her smile faded when she saw that they were surrounded by Molloi brandishing swords and spears. They dragged her upright and began to march the three companions through the woods along a clear path that had not been there before.
There was no sign of the Archtree or its grove. Henu’s words spun inside her head.
It is not death if you accept it.
What did that mean? What was waiting for her beyond the black veil of Gastenholt?
“We waited,” Viril said to her, “but you did not come back so we pushed on into the trees. We found you after a day of searching and we sat with you for another day still.”
“Was I unconscious for that long?”
“We thought you were dying,” Nastonik said, “you were so still. Barely breathing. We didn’t know what to do.”
“But I knew you would come back to us,” Viril said, “I felt there was life and strength in you yet.”
“Where are they taking us?”
“Where else? To Barrowdwell.”
“I don’t think it’s a good idea for us to arrive as captives.” Nastonik asked. “Do you still have the thule?”
Willow groped around until she felt the hilt. It was still there. She tried to hook her fingers around it. A Molloi looked at her slant-eyed, sidled over and snatched the thule from her belt. It laughed through its mangled, rat-like teeth at her.
Suddenly, there was a shriek from the rear of the Molloi horde.
It was answered by other screams and cries.
“Under attack and bound. This couldn’t get any worse,” Nastonik shouted, “is it the trees are they come alive to slay us?”
The cacophony escalated until the crowd of ugly creatures was parted by a stampeding, crashing force that came to a sudden halt in front of Willow. She found herself looking into eyes that were pitted, scarred, and embedded in a grey face as rough as a mountainside. At the centre of each eye, a small star of light glowed.
“It’s the Stone Legion,” Viril said, “I do not believe it!”
The ranks of soldiers were gathered behind their commander. He tilted in a slight bow to Willow.
“Don’t they speak?” Viril asked.
“Stone doesn’t speak,” Nastonik said, “it watches, it waits and, when needs be, it crushes all who stand in its way.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Willow could see Molloi edging forwards with weapons drawn. The Commander raised a hand and three soldiers broke away from the company. The Molloi squawked a few times and then they were quiet. The soldiers returned, duty done.
“You will come with us to Barrowdwell?” Willow asked.
The Commander nodded.
“We’ve a long march ahead of us.”
“I hate long marches,” Nastonik grumbled.
Chapter Fourteen
The gates of Barrowdwell stood tall before them; fashioned from ore recovered at the roots of the northern mountains, deeper than anyone but a Giant could hope to prospect. Beyond the gates, an ancient city-home long-defiled by the presence of the Lamia and her No-men. Elegant circular sigils carved into the gates’ metal were disfigured by the crude slashes of the Black Spider’s spawn.
“There must be another way in.” Nastonik said.
“I don’t think there is.” Willow said. She wasn’t altogether keen on knocking and announcing her presence to the Lamia – but the Stone Legion were at her back. She had the army she’d hoped for. There was no turning away now. This must be seen through. Taking a deep breath, she strode up to the gates and declaimed, “Let the Mistress of the Infinite Dark come forth. We would speak with her.”
For long moments there was silence but for the echoes of Willow’s challenge. Then, heavy metal began to grind upon stone as with a heaving and a crash, the gates of Barrowdwell were flung wide open.
Something emerged, like a No-man but not the same, it was taller and robed in clothes of undulating shadow, “And who are you that would speak with the Mother of Night?”
“I am Willow Grey. Greychild. Walker Between Worlds. Dimwielder.”
“We know of your coming, Willow Grey, but think you do not know enough of yourself.”
“I’m not interested in double-talk,” she said, “I am here to take back Barrowdwell from your mistress.”
It laughed, “None have ever come here with such seeming arrogance and foolishness, we shall give you that much. We might even inscribe some passing flattery on the stone you are buried under.”
“It is not I that will fall but you,” Willow said. “If the Lamia is so strong and sure, why does she not come out here and speak with me herself?”
“But she does through me, as she once spoke to you through old Scaithe.”
“Then she should know that I am here to make an end of her.”
“We shall see,” the Dark-man said.
From behind him came the sound of a battle horn. The emissary evaporated in a cackle of bitter laughter as a whooping, hollering tidal wave of No-men and Molloi poured out of Barrowdwell. The Stone Commander strode forward, passing Willow, Viril and Nastonik, leading his soldiers into battle.
The Legion and enemy ranks closed upon one another. Willow saw a change come over the soldiers. Where once they had seemed slow and ponderous as one might expect stone to be, their pace began to quicken, the movement of their limbs flowed with the life and grace of mountain rivers and streams. Their rugged hides fell away, scattering as dust and shale, leaving bodies behind that were smooth and polished like marble and jet. Their mouths opened, sealed for far too long, and everything resounded with their battle cry; a bass reverberation sewn with fine, ensilvered threads of loss and melancholy.
They met the spawn of the Lamia head-on, before the gates of Barrowdwell, and fought as they once had; in the olden days when the sun, land and mountains were young. Though they were outnumbered, they did not let this knowledge quell their spirit. For the sorrow of stone goes ever on. They knew their story was not over and that death was not the end. Even when broken down into dust, they would become one with the earth and, in time, rise again as seeds of the mountains they were cut from in the distant past.
Bodies of Molloi formed into ragged piles and the evaporating shadows of No-men darkened the air around them, until, out of the gates, came something they had not seen before. A Behemoth that crawled on all fours because it was too tall to pass out of Barrowdwell on its feet. And, when it stood, it towered so high that the mist of the mountains clung to its head and shoulders.
Willow, Viril, and Nastonik were awestruck. Frozen still at the sight before them.
The Great Behemoth raised a leg and drove its foot down to shatter the Stone Legion beneath it. But, the soldiers moved swiftly and scattered as the foot stomped into the earth, cracking the ground in every direction. The soldiers moved in a dance around the Great Behemoth as it swept its arms down and around, trying to snatch them up and crush them between its fingers. They were on its body, like so many ants, cutting and slashing at the pale meat of its hide. Blood ran from the wounds made, but the Great Behemoth did not falter. Willow could see it was stronger in every way than its lesser kin – and it was standing right in her way.
“We’ll never get past it without being crushed.”
Viril scraped at the ground with the hoof of a foreleg, “You say that, but I think we should try all the same.”
“Viril, you’ll never make it.”
“Can’t you see how slow this thing is in catching the Stone Legion? I made it through the Behemoths of the village, and I can do the same here.”
“It’s suicide,” Nastonik said.
“Perhaps, but is it better to wait here to be ground into mulch by that thing? See, the Legion have it distracted, but they’ll never put it down.”
As he spoke, Willow glimpsed the Great Behemoth’s hands closing on soldiers that had been slower than their fellows, grinding them into dust.
“Let’s do it!” she said.
Nastonik helped her onto Viril’s back and climbed up behind her.
“Good luck, friend.” The Beorhan whispered.
“I think I’ll need it,” Viril replied, “Hiii-haaa!”
The centaur galloped downhill, weaving between the mounds of fallen Molloi. The cracked carcasses of stone soldiers thumped into the earth around him, and Willow thought she heard a terrible sound that might’ve been the Great Behemoth’s laughter. Its shadow fell over them and it was as if night had fallen so completely that barely a thing could be seen.
Like this world under the Lamia, she thought, let it not be so.
Clouds overhead rolled with thunder and several bolts of lightning spat down to strike at the Legion and the Great Behemoth.
Willow blinked fiercely. When her vision cleared, and she saw the Legion were no more. The Great Behemoth roared above them, head thrown back, raising its fists in victory, showering them with the grey shards remaining of their comrades. Viril took the chance whilst the monster was revelling in butchery and murder. He dashed between the colossal columns of its legs. The threshold of the city, where the Great Behemoth could not follow them easily, was dead ahead. Viril’s forelegs wedged into the ground and he bucked like an angry foal, flinging Willow and Nastonik through the air. They tumbled over and over before they landed, winded, just inside the gates.
Willow staggered to her feet and reached out a hand towards Viril. She opened her mouth to say, come on, you can make it.
The Great Behemoth’s foot stamped down, crushing the life out of Viril.
Chapter Fifteen
The city of the Giants was a magnificent sight; a city of ghosts carved from black stone, threaded through with lanterns of green-coloured light, creating glowing palaces, temples and towers. Dark things stirred all about. A black wind bit viciously at Willow and Nastonik as they trudged through the city streets; heads hung low, one less than their number should’ve been. The buildings of the Giants were beautiful. There was a melancholy stroking heavily upon the strings of Willow’s heart as she took in the vista before her; structures fashioned from sapphire, emerald, amethyst and carmine. It was beautiful. They passed through hallways and courtyards, the sound of their footfalls echoed back and forth.
The black wind of sorrow gnawed at her, growing colder with every step.
Viril was dead. Viril was gone. She would never see him again.
Another friend lost to death. Another face in its depthless gallery.
Willow saw reflections keeping pace with them in the mirrored walls fashioned from precious stone. She saw herself as a princess, a beggar, a hero and a murderer. So much blood was on her hands. So many people she had been and would become in all of the worlds out there; aspects of herself showing themselves in these mirrors, all with her face. All possibilities cast in darkness and light indivisible. Some smiling, others sombre and ill at ease. In their eyes, she saw a glimmer of something. Something ancient and burning bright. A flame eternal passed from one to the other.
