by Alex Bentley
“A ten-year or less, according to Witt.”
I stop walking. A few seconds later, Madec, noticing I am no longer beside him, also stops. He looks back at me.”
“What?” he says.
“Our heaven has fallen,” I say. “Our gods are vanquished.”
His face turns pale, and fear darkens his eyes.
“How do you know this?” he says.
“I have seen it,” I say.
“Seen it?” asks Madec.
“Yes.”
“And I,” says Ethra. “The Fields of Wealm were grey as ash.”
Madec runs a hand through his hair, looks to the darkening sky and then down at his feet.
“Then we must hurry,” he says. “We must get your friend to the Hollow that we might get back to the Library and discuss what we need to do next.”
“And what do we need to do next?” I ask.
“Raise an army,” says Madec. “An army of Glysters.”
Chapter 30
The Hollow
The rot we’ve witnessed so far in the buildings of Utlath is nothing compared to what we see as we near the docks.
There is hardly a building that isn’t collapsing into itself, slimy, oozing, stinking. A faintly luminous algae covers everything, and straggling weeds sprout from every crack. Here and there, among the ruins, pale, bloated, amphibious creatures squat, licking fat flies from the air with their sudden tongues. The air itself feels damp. It coats me like a cold sweat.
The road begins to slope downward and widens, the rotten buildings fall to nothing but sodden debris, and the docks lifts into view. It is crammed with ships, a hundred or more. Or what is left of them. A blighted forest of masts. There are galleys on their sides, oars reaching up like the arms of drowning men. The jetties that lead out to the ships look treacherous, missing more planks than they possess and reminding me of the abandoned bridge over the Woever on the edge of Gafol. It looks as if the place was evacuated in haste—as doubtless it was—with crates, barrels and carts scattered about in disarray and rotting into puddles of their own decay.
Everything shimmers with rot. The ships so much so they no longer look as if they have been fashioned from strong timber. Rather, they look as if they are made from the flesh of some vast sea-dwelling creature. Improperly cured, the flesh has decayed until it appears almost a thick liquid held upright by Glystwork. They look as if a single prick with a sword’s tip might cause them to burst and cascade down into the sea.
“Where are they to be found?” says Ethra. “The Hollow.”
There is an undeniable tremor of fear in her voice.
“They will come soon enough,” says Madec. “I suspect they have already caught the scent of our Glyst and will be rising from their quarters.”
“Quarters? They are aboard the ships?” I ask.
“Yes. They cannot bear to be in Utlath. They do not want to be reminded that they were once the extraordinary, illustrious and celebrated Maradyns and now they are… well, you’ll see.”
Ethra looks out across the docks at the rotting ships.
“I don’t see anything,” she says.
“Patience,” I say. “You have come this far, waited this long.”
“I would wait no longer,” says Ethra and puffs herself up. “I want this curse gone.”
“There,” says Madec, pointing to a ship some two hundred yards out. It is a slumped and sorry thing.
“I still don’t see anything,” says Ethra.
Nor do I.
“The foremast,” says Madec. “See how it seems to move?”
He’s right. It seems to undulate and twist. And then I realise there are… things crawling up and round it. From this distance, they are just clots of shadow. They rise up the mast, thirty or more of them, and when they reach the uppermost yard—still miraculously intact—they leap. They land on the mizzenmast of a vessel closer to us and slither down to the deck. They scuttle across the deck, skipping over holes in the timbers, and up the bowsprit, from the sagging end of which they leap onto the poop deck of another ship. In this fashion, they make their way to shore, gathering on the jetty directly ahead of us.
They jibber among themselves for a minute, then one of them detaches from the others and scampers toward us. As it approaches, it ceases to be a clot of shadow. I wish it had remained so.
Clad in a filthy robe, it is the size of a toddling child, but wrinkled as the oldest of men. In fact, it is more wrinkled than any old man I have ever seen. It is as if someone has somehow made a person from a potato then left it in the dark for many months. There are no eyes to speak of, just bruised indents as if made by pushing a thumb into the thing’s too-yielding flesh. The nose is a hole. The mouth, a slash. Most horrible of all are the pale roots that sprout from the furrows of its shrivelled face and from the backs of its hands and the tops of its shoeless feet. The roots move, as water weeds move in a river’s current. They strain toward Ethra, Madec and me, and I know that it is not us that attracts them but our Glyst.
It stops a few yards from us. The slash of a mouth widens, and a tongue that is more like a grey slug licks non-existent lips. Even though it has no eyes, I can feel it staring at us, staring into us.
I find myself drawing my bowstring to the anchor point and training my arrow on the creature’s chest. From the corner of my eye, I see Ethra’s hand go to the grip of her sword.
I do not know what I expect it to sound like when it speaks. Ancient? Mouldering? But it is neither of those things. Its voice is soft and clear. Not the voice of an ‘it’ at all, but the voice of a young woman.
“I am sorry we are such an awful sight,” she says. “Please do not be frightened.”
“I am not frightened,” says Ethra, but her tone suggests otherwise.
“We will not harm you. They call us the Hollow and Glystleeches and worse, but we are none of those things. We are the Maradyn, as we always were. But powerless now. During the Abundance we showered the land with gifts, with healings and help. Now, the only gift we can give is peace if the Glyst is a source of suffering for its possessor. The stories have us feeding out of hunger, but that is not so. We feed to serve, as the Maradyn have always served the people of the world.”
“She speaks true,” says Madec. “There is no need of weapons.”
I lower my bow and replace my arrow in its quiver. Ethra’s hand moves from her sword.
“And how are you, Madec?” says the old Maradyn.
“Well, thank you. And yourself?”
“Terrible, as always,” she says cheerfully, the slash of a mouth lifting in a smile. “But I am alive and that is quite a thing.”
“It is,” says Madec, smiling himself. “Quite a thing and always a surprise.”
The Maradyn turns to Ethra and me.
“Which of you wishes for peace?” she asks.
“Me,” says Ethra.
The Maradyn steps forward, her root-sprouting hand extended.
Trying—and failing—to conceal her reluctance, Ethra shakes her hand. The pale roots extend and probe at Ethra’s fingers.
“That tickles,” she says.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “They are impertinent things, these tendrils. They do not do as I bid.” She withdraws her hand and conceals it, along with her other, in her tattered, stained robe. “My name is Hrof,” she says. “Hrof Arstafas. My Glyst was Touch Learning. I could put my finger to the temple of an old shipwright, and I would know all the intricacies of shipbuilding. I could touch the forehead of an apothecary and know the precise ingredients and measurements of any decoction, elixir or tincture that was within their knowledge.” She chuckles. “Once, when I was a child, I touched a squirrel and knew where he had stored all his heartnuts for the winter!” Her delight fades quickly. “All gone now, of course, along with most of my memory. Now, all I can do, all any of us Maradyns of old can do,” she casts a glance over her shoulder at the gathered shadows on the jetty, “is take that which is not wanted, that
which is causing pain.” She looks up at Ethra, and somehow, a kindliness appears on her strange face. “Are you in pain, child?”
“I am,” says Ethra.
“Then let us get to this,” says Hrof. She turns to Madec. “I will see you again in the morning.”
“In the morning?” I say, as Madec nods.
“It is a slow process if it is to be painless,” says Hrof. “The Glyst is everywhere in the Glyster. It connects the soul with the heart with the mind with the muscles with the bones with the blood. It is not easily separated.”
“Then I will stay,” I say. “I will wait.”
“That isn’t wise,” says Hrof. “It will be full dark soon, and this is a most dangerous place for those who do not know it. Even Madec does not stay out long after dark.”
I look up at the sky and realise it is already getting dark. I can see two stars. One is reddish, the other yellow. The Mismatched Eyes from the constellation of Memynd, God of Madness. They are always the first stars to show themselves as night begins to fall. The others will make themselves known within the hour.
“She’s right,” says Madec. “We will go back to the Library. I have a great deal to tell you.”
“It’s okay,” says Ethra. “I’ll be fine. I’m not scared.”
“You sound scared,” I say.
“Well, maybe I am a little. Or more than a little. But this is what I want, and I would have it done before I change my mind.”
“Do you wish to change your mind?”
“No,” says Ethra. “But I might, the more we dally. And I would regret that, I think.”
“She will be safe with us,” says Hrof. “I give you my word, as Hrof Arstafas, the Glystmistress as was, once know not just throughout Abegan but in many countries of the world.” She smiles up at me. It is as sweet a smile as I have seen since my mother passed. “My solemn, sacred word,” she says.
“Very well,” I say, and go to Ethra. I put my arms around her and pull her close. She hugs me hard.
“Thank you, Alys Clainh,” she says. “For saving my life, for returning my life and for bringing me here though it put you in much danger. In my home of Mella, such acts would make us sisters. There would be a ceremony, and you would after be called Alys Clainh-Kell kin of Ethra, and I would be called Ethra Kell-Clainh kin of Alys.” She hugs me harder. “Thank you.”
“You are welcome, Ethra Kell-Clainh,” I say. “My kin. My sister.”
We hold one another for a long time and would have carried on doing so, but Madec says, “We should go, Alys. Utlath becomes more dangerous by the minute after dark.”
Ethra pulls away, plants a kiss on my cheek and turns to Hrof.
“Let’s be done with this,” she says.
“Very well,” says Hrof. She turns to the other Maradyns and waves them over.
As one they come, the details of their pale, folded faces coming into focus as they advance. They do not seem so grotesque now that I have heard Hrof speak and seen her smile. In fact, they do not seem grotesque at all. Rather, they seem like strange vessels of concentrated kindness, agents of gentleness. And they seem sad, too, the form heartbreak might take if it somehow manifested as a physical being.
They gather in a circle around Ethra and begin talking in soft, sweet voices. I do not recognise the language they speak.
Madec puts a hand on my shoulder.
“Let’s go,” he says.
I smile at Ethra. She smiles back. It is a brave smile.
I turn away and begin walking back up the road, away from the docks, away from Ethra and the sweet, almost singing, voices of the ancient Maradyn.
As we pass the dead rat-thing—mostly bones now—I ask Madec, “If Heaven is fallen, where are the dead?”
“I don’t know,” he says.
“The Fields of Wealm were to be their reward, their rest…”
“Best not think on it. The books may yield the answer in time.”
“My mother…” I say.
“As I say, best not think on it.”
But I can think of nothing else. Has the Gravene taken them?
And then another possibility enters my head. I wish it hadn’t. What if those faceless things… what if they were the dead?
I push all thoughts from my mind then, and focus on putting one foot ahead of the other.
We are halfway back to the Library, the wound in my thigh aching once more as the balm Cass purchased in Leax begins to wane, when a figure darts from the shadows between two buildings.
It happens so quickly.
A sword blade flashes.
Madec drops to his knees, his own sword falling to the ground.
And Slek Mydra strides toward me, grinning.
Chapter 31
The Same River
Mydra says something in that deathly quiet voice of his, but I don’t hear it over the sound of my heartbeat, over the roar of blood in my ears.
I loose an arrow, and it strikes his shoulder.
He winces, but only a little. The blood-red leather of his Sceada armour is thick, and I have wasted my chance. There is barely enough time to select another arrow, and none to nock, draw and loose it. I cast my bow aside, jump back and draw my sword.
Madec looks at me. The lower half of his face is red with blood. There’s a deep, wide wound to his chest. I can see bone among the gore, gleaming white. It reminds me of my father’s deathwound, inflicted by the slite’s antlers, and why does that seem like years ago now?
Madec raises his hands. They are gloved in flame.
“Burn him!” I say, pointing my sword tip at Mydra. “Burn him!”
But Madec doesn’t burn him. Madec’s eyes roll back until only the whites are visible, and he falls face first to the floor. And then Madec starts to burn.
“One less Glystgedder in the world,” says Mydra, giving his sword a flourish. “One less specimen of Glystfilth staining all our lives. Good. And soon we’ll be less another.”
He says more, but I hear none of it. My heart, erupting with fear now, has made my pulse all but deafening.
He heaves his sword at me and, more from instinct than intent, I parry. A mistake. He is stronger than me, his blade heavier. The jolt from the blow almost disarms me but I manage, just, to retain my sword.
I try to recall El’s training:
When an opponent is stronger than you, keep moving. Tire him out. Wait for an opening.
And then I remember another piece of advice, delivered on the same cold, damp morning:
If an opponent is better than you, run. It is as simple as that.
Slek Mydra is both stronger and better. He has fought in battles, in wars. I dread to think how many people he has slain. And not just people: beasts and monsters.
But I cannot run. The wound in my leg means Mydra will catch me with ease. I would not win the Five Feathers today. I would not win any race.
Then another pearl of wisdom from that seemingly years-ago training session:
And if you cannot outrun him, and you must fight, then be sure to have allies. That is why you endured the Ritual of the Seven Cuts and the Seven Cups, that your father, my brother, would have an ally when he hunted in the Freewood. The making of allies is one of the greatest skills a warrior can possess, equal to their ability with sword, shield, spear and bow.
I look around.
I have no allies.
I am alone. And I am scared. When will I ever not be scared?
Mydra lunges at me with his blade. I sidestep, then slash at him. But he is quick as well as strong, and my weapon finds nothing but air. He lunges again and I skip back several paces. The wound in my thigh chooses this precise moment to awaken fully, and I almost fall.
“You can’t win, girl,” says Mydra, and his voice is calm, reasonable. “Drop your sword, and I will take you back to Gafol, to the Jarl. He might show you mercy.”
We circle one another.
“And what of my father?” I say, my voice tremulous with fear. “T
he Jarl will show him no mercy.”
“Your father?” says Mydra, and there is a note of pity in his voice, and for the life of me I cannot decide if it is true or mocking. “Your father will be dead a day or two from now. I sent the last of my men back to deliver a message to my Jarl. The Clainh girl is a Glyster, my man will say, and her father is a liar.”
“You’re the liar!” I say. But then I remember Cass saying he had heard there were four men looking for me when he went in search of spedig in Awlen. Mydra, Hilder, Syrunn… and another. Another, conspicuous by his absence.
“The Sceada do not lie,” he says. “We do not lie. And we do not betray. If I say something is so, then it is so. Your father is, to all intents and purposes, already dead. You underestimated me, girl, and that will be your undoing. How do you think I found you here? Luck? No. I knew your friend, the Scur, was seeking money. I knew you were headed east. It is not possible to make much of a fortune from fish, so it could only be Utlath that he sought and its bounty of grefa stones. If you had not underestimated me, I would still have had need of a tracker. And your father would yet live.”
And now I am so much filled with fear—for myself, for my father—that I can barely hold my sword. Fear is in my muscles, weakening them. It is in my heart, trying to claw its way out. It is in my lungs, displacing every ounce of air. It is in my mind, making me think of the Ritual, making me think that I am still enduring the ritual, still strung up like a pig or foorstig, the seventh cut (which is really two cuts) having just been delivered across my thighs and blood running into my mouth, up my nose, into my eyes.
Mydra lurches toward me, swinging his sword once, twice. Both times I dodge, the second time by such a small measure the tip of his blade tears the arm of my tunic.
I am dizzy with fear.
Why didn’t I ask El, when I had the chance, what the cure for fear was, how it might be overcome? Was it embarrassment that kept the question in my head, that prevented it from finding its way to my tongue?
Am I to die of embarrassment?
Would El even have had a lesson for me?
But then I remember I have received a lesson in the nature of fear.
