by John Gwynne
Brina snorted.
‘What happened, then?’ he asked, a little grudgingly.
‘You know of the Otherworld?’
‘Aye, though again—’
‘Yes, yes, you are unclear of the details,’ she said with a scowl. ‘The Otherworld is the realm of Elyon, and of Asroth. Some say we can see it, at times even visit it, in our dreams. A world of spirit.’
Corban felt a vague tugging, at the back of his mind, a distant memory struggling to break through.
‘As you know, Asroth and his Kadoshim are not best pleased with their being confined to the Otherworld. Asroth would like nothing more than to walk the land we tread.’
‘Why?’
‘Because he hates us, Corban; hates all creation. It is the joy, the crowning glory of his enemy, you see. He is too cunning to fight Elyon directly, not again, so he would destroy Elyon’s creation instead. Destroy me, you, all of us. A type of revenge, if you like.’
Corban felt suddenly anxious, as if watched. He looked about the cabin.
‘Before the Scourging the giants were different,’ Brina continued. ‘They were not so warlike, more inquisitive, but still the usual happened.’ She twirled a hand. ‘Greed, corruption, jealousy, the thirst for power, as always. The giants made things, great things, from a star that fell from the sky. Somehow the things that they forged from it–a spear, a torc, a cauldron, other things–all were somehow linked to the Otherworld. Some amongst the giants, tempted, swayed by Asroth, I don’t doubt, began to explore this link. Some kind of doorway was made, between our world of flesh and the Otherworld, the world of spirit. That was when Elyon stepped in, decided enough was enough, I suppose. And you most certainly do know the rest: the Scourging of fire and water, where the world was changed–giants, mankind, virtually destroyed, our ancestors fleeing, being washed up on the shores of the Isle of Summer…’
She ran a finger through Craf’s feathers, smiling sadly at Corban. ‘So, you see, once all animals spoke, all people were Elementals and lived in balance with this world. Much has been lost. What we have now is but a pale reflection, a fragment–and even that is fading with the passing of time.’ She sniffed. ‘That is the way of the world, I suppose. No point fighting it.’
‘How do you know all this?’ Corban asked.
‘I learned my letters, I read, I listened. I still do. You should try it, boy. History is of value. If more of us took heed of the mistakes of the past, the future could be a different thing.’
‘Mam and Da teach me and Cywen our histories,’ he said, ‘but you know so much, and about giants…’
‘Sometimes boy, you ask too many things for an old woman to keep up with,’ she said. ‘It is hard enough answering your questions, let alone answering the same one twice. I just told you: I learned my letters. I read. I listened.’
Vonn groaned, twisting in his cot. Brina returned her attentions to the pot in front of her. ‘You can go now,’ she said over her shoulder, ‘I have no more need of you this day. Return on the morrow.’
Corban met Cywen on the giantsway, near the paddocks.
‘I’ve been waiting for you. Mam wants us to fetch her some eggs,’ she said. ‘Our chickens aren’t laying.’
‘What’s wrong with them?’ Corban asked.
‘Mam thinks Storm has scared them half to death.’
‘She’s stopped chasing them,’ Corban said defensively.
‘Yes, now she just stares at them, hungrily,’ Cywen grinned.
‘All right. Let’s get Dath, I want to show him Storm.’
They found Dath sitting against the door of his house, gutting and boning a barrel full of fish. Corban made him give Storm a slice of one. Dath’s hand shook a little as he offered it, but the wolven-cub snatched it and swallowed it in a heartbeat, licking her lips and canines, which were already starting to protrude visibly.
‘Everyone’s talking about you and that,’ Dath said. He was staying perfectly still as Storm sniffed his hand, licking a finger. ‘She’s beautiful,’ he whispered, ‘but is she, you know, safe?’
‘Yes,’ Corban said. ‘Da’s helping me train her, just like a hound. She’s doing well.’
‘More importantly, can you train her to bite Rafe?’ Dath asked with a grin.
‘I’d like to, but Alona said if Storm hurts anyone she’ll be killed.’
‘Shame,’ Dath frowned.
Corban sat down beside his friend. ‘Not out fishing, then?’
‘No.’ Dath’s frown shifted to a scowl.
‘Your da inside?’
‘Mmhhm.’
Cywen kicked his foot. ‘Why don’t you come down to the shore and find nests on the cliffs with us–climbing’s about the only thing you’re good at.’
Dath looked up at them, sighed. ‘I’ll check on Da.’
A stale smell leaked out of the gap in the doorway as Dath slipped into his house. Corban heard muffled snoring, Dath’s footsteps, then his friend was back.
‘Come on, then,’ he said brusquely, setting off towards the beach. ‘He won’t be waking up any time soon.’
‘How is your da?’ Corban said, catching up with his friend.
Dath shrugged. ‘Not good.’ A slight tremor shook his voice. ‘I don’t know what to do, Ban.’ He blinked hard.
‘What does Bethan think?’
‘Bethan? She’s never home any more. When she is, she and Da just argue. I think she’s in there.’ He pointed towards a row of smoke-houses that lined the path to the beach.
‘You should come live with us,’ Cywen said.
‘Couldn’t leave Da,’ Dath replied. ‘He needs me.’
‘What, as a punch-post?’
‘You don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he snapped.
They walked in silence a while, following the winding path down to the beach.
Dath glanced to his right, to where his da’s skiff was beached, slumped on the stones.
They turned towards the cliffs that Dun Carreg was built upon. The tide was out, so they splashed through the shallow surf, fist-sized crabs scuttling out of their way, and stopped beside the cliff’s foot.
Corban stared into a large cave at the base of the wall of stone. The sea filled it, surf echoing out of the blackness, sounding otherworldly, booming. A narrow path disappeared into the gloom, slick with seaweed. Dath saw him gazing into the cave’s mouth and screwed up his face.
‘No eggs in there, Ban.’
Corban nodded. ‘All right. We’ll do the cave another time.’
‘Not likely, that cave’s cursed.’
‘Dath, are you scared of everything?’ Corban scoffed.
‘Say that to me when we’re up there,’ Dath said, pointing at the nests perched high above on rocky outcrops. He began to climb the cliff face, his slight, wiry frame easily scaling the slick, pitted rock.
‘Wait here with Storm for me,’ Corban said to Cywen. She grinned, watching the wolven-cub stalking a huge crab.
Corban began to climb, much slower than Dath. He had never been as good a climber as his friend, though he thought few probably were, Dath seeming to possess an unnatural ability to scale anything effortlessly.
As he climbed higher, the breeze that had been refreshing when his feet had been on the ground seemed far more malevolent; now clutching at him, trying to snatch him away from the rock. At last he reached a cluster of nests and filled his small bag.
Then a voice drifted up to him, calling his name and his stomach lurched as he realized how high he was. Cywen was jumping about, waving her hands at him. He shouted for Dath, then began the climb down, and in a short time he was standing at the foot of the cliffs, his legs and arms shaky from his exertions. Dath was right behind him.
‘Storm’s gone,’ Cywen almost shouted at them. ‘I tried to stop her, went after her a way, but it was too dark to see. I kept calling, but she wouldn’t come.’ Tears welled in her eyes.
‘Where,’ Corban interrupted.
She pointed into t
he cave.
‘Oh, no,’ gulped Dath.
Corban strode in, calling Storm, but the sound of waves crashing on rocks drowned his voice. Cywen was right, in only a few steps all was darkness. He went on a little way, hands grasping cold rock walls, but his foot slipped on slick stone and he nearly fell into the channel of seawater, so he turned back. ‘Where’s Dath?’ he said as he emerged blinking onto the sand.
‘Gone to get a torch.’
Soon Dath flew back across the beach to them, quickly sparked a torch of dried rushes to flame.
Corban entered first, Cywen behind him.
‘Ban,’ Dath called, hovering at the cave’s entrance. He was pale, looking as if he was about to vomit.
‘What’s wrong, Dath?’
‘I-I don’t think I can come in there…’ he muttered.
‘Why not?’ Cywen snapped.
‘It’s–it’s cursed…’
Cywen snorted.
‘Take our eggs, Dath. Take them to my mam.’
‘Thank you,’ Dath said, taking Corban’s bag of eggs.
‘Tell her we’re helping Brina with something,’ Cywen added.
‘I will,’ Dath called over his shoulder.
The cave burrowed further than Corban would have thought, narrowing as they went deeper, though the ceiling was too high for the torchlight to touch it. They found Storm standing over a rock pool. Even as Corban watched, her paw snaked into the water and scooped out a fat, silvery fish. It flopped about on the rocks for a moment, before the wolven-cub pounced on it and crunched into its head.
‘Think she likes fish,’ Cywen said, relief dripping from her voice.
‘Aye,’ Corban grinned.
Storm saw them, picked up the fish and backed into the darkness. They gave chase, their torchlight sending shadows flickering up glistening rock and across the dark swell of the sea. The path narrowed to almost nothing, winding and curling about tall rock formations. Suddenly the cave ended, walls closing in. Storm was crouched at the end of the path. The half-chewed fish lay discarded beside her. She seemed to be growling at nothing, just a wall of pitted rock.
‘What’s wrong with her?’ Cywen asked.
Corban swept the cub up. She twisted, hissing at the wall in front of them.
‘Don’t be stupid,’ Corban said, ‘there’s nothing there.’ He tapped the torch against the wall, suddenly gasped as the torch and half his arm disappeared. He staggered forwards a few steps, off-balance, felt a pressure building in his head and chest, heard a humming. Then it was gone.
He looked about. A massive chamber opened in front of him, his back seemingly to a rock wall, Cywen nowhere to be seen. Distantly, he could hear her voice, calling his name. He reached a hand out to touch the wall behind him, saw it sink into the rock. With a gasp, he snatched his hand back, then did it again. Taking a deep breath, he stepped into the wall, the pressure and humming building again, Storm spitting and growling, then he was through, Cywen before him, mouth open.
‘Follow me,’ he said, and stepped through the wall again. He walked into the chamber, and in a few moments Cywen emerged from the wall, eyes wide.
‘What was that?’ she said.
‘A glamour,’ Corban whispered. ‘Must be. All the tales tell of giants doing them. They built Dun Carreg. They must have built this, as well.’
They were in a massive chamber of rough-hewn rock, damp and dripping. A large archway was at the far end, stone steps leading upwards.
Storm was still hissing at the glamour-wall, ears flat to her head, so he took a dozen steps away from it before putting her down. She growled at the wall one last time, then set to sniffing about the cavernous chamber.
‘Where do you think those steps go?’ Cywen muttered.
‘Up,’ Corban shrugged. ‘Only one way to find out.’ They climbed for a long while, an endless spiral. Then they spilled into another hall, where a shape drew Corban’s attention. Motionless at the centre of the chamber lay a coiled mass. The three of them approached cautiously. It was the carcass of a dead snake, huge, its body thicker than Corban and Cywen together, its skin a pallid white. Its head was gone, a pool of black, dried blood soaked into the rock floor. Storm sniffed at it and backed away.
‘I don’t like the look of that,’ Cywen whispered.
‘Me neither,’ said Corban, glancing about at the shadows. ‘What killed it, and do you think there are others?’ He’d heard of snakes growing huge in far-off Forn, but never imagined anything like this.
He knelt, prodded the carcass with the butt of the torch. The skin was thick, a layer of something slimy coating it, mucus, jelly-like. ‘What could have killed this?’ he muttered.
‘I’d rather not hang around to find out,’ Cywen said. ‘Let’s get out of here.’
Corban frowned. The beast’s head was gone, the cut looking clean, no signs of toothmarks or tearing. Chopped off. By a weapon? ‘Agreed. But let’s go up, not down. We’ve climbed so far, we must be near the top.’
Cywen looked at him dubiously, but nodded.
Another archway led out of the chamber, ever up. They took it. Passages branched off it now, smaller ones, twisting into darkness. Corban stared into each one, imagining white snakes coiling in the gloom, waiting to strike. He ran his hand against the tunnel’s wall, in case they passed another glamour, and increased his pace. Eventually the passage came to a dead end, the rock all around them hard to the touch.
‘What’s that?’ Cywen said.
It was an alcove, fist-sized. Corban held the torch close and peered in. There was some kind of handle inside. He reached in and turned it. With a hiss an outline appeared in the rock–a doorway. Cywen pushed against it and it swung open. They crept through and found themselves still underground, a dark pit opening up before them, with a path around it.
‘We are in the well-house,’ Cywen said.
The well-house was where most of Dun Carreg’s water was gathered, and a short passageway led up to the fortress. Pale light, dusk, Corban realized, marked their way out.
Cywen pushed the door closed and it snapped shut, its outline disappearing, just a rock wall.
‘There must be another handle this side,’ Corban said. They searched long and hard, eventually finding it in the actual well. Cywen had to hold Corban’s feet while he lay on his belly and wriggled over the edge to reach the alcove, just a darker shadow in the well-shaft. He tried it to make sure it worked: as soon as he turned it the outline of the door appeared in the wall.
‘Let’s get home. The moon’s almost out, Mam’s going to skin us,’ Cywen said.
Corban closed the door; even its outline disappeared. They crept into the fading daylight, the well’s courtyard empty before them. Then they heard voices, footsteps, and darted into the doorway of an empty building.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CAMLIN
Camlin stared at the wall, watching as moisture pooled slowly into a single droplet. It rolled down the rock face, its course changing as it encountered pits in the surface, until it eventually reached a horizontal edge. Here it hung awhile, suspended, clinging to the rim until another droplet rolled into it. Swelling, it tore away from the edge and tumbled through the air to burst on the stone floor.
Camlin sighed. He hated it in here, just rock and stone, no trees or wind or sky.
Grunting, he stood from his cot, stretching his arms overhead. He winced as skin pulled tight around his wound, reached down, tentatively stroking it, reassuring himself that it had not torn open. Although she had a sour tongue, he had to admit the healer had done a fine job. He’d seen men die of much less, especially once the fever took them. That was not an end he wished for himself.
He grimaced.
‘Made me well so they can kill me properly, most like,’ he muttered quietly, pacing around the large stone room that had become his cell. ‘Still, alive is alive.’ He tutted. Talking to yourself, you old fool. First step to madness, that is.
He frowned, suddenly rememb
ering Goran’s face staring life-lessly at him from amidst a framework of wildflowers and meadow grass. That had happened a lot of late, remembering faces from the past: his mam and big brother, Col, both long gone now, other, nameless faces he’d killed in combat or ambush, and especially those of the crofter’s family near the Baglun. He shook his head, as if to dislodge the memory.
Stretching out on the floor, he began doing push-ups until sweat was staining his linen shirt. Eventually, when his arms were quivering and he could do no more, he rolled onto his back and stared at the roof. It had been difficult at first, forcing his body to exercise, trying to regain his strength. He had been as weak as a baby, but solid hard work and stubborn determination was starting to pay now. His wound and fever had sheared what little fat had been on his body, along with a good portion of his muscle. It was the reflection of his face, which he had seen on his first walk past the well-pool, that had shocked him most: like a wax doll left out too long in the sun. Still, the effort was working; he was definitely stronger now, even if he had not put much of the weight back on yet. Given time, it would come. Especially if they kept feeding him so well.
As his breathing returned to normal he heard noises filtering through the window above him. People were shouting, and feet were echoing on stone. Clenching a fist, he banged on the thick oak door of his cell. ‘What’s happening?’ he called.
No answer.
He resumed his banging, paused and then called out again.
‘Be silent,’ a muffled voice shouted from the other side of the door, none too pleasantly. He smiled to himself and pummelled the door some more, pausing periodically to call out.
There were no more answers, so he sat back down on his cot, set his eyes back on the tiny channels of water gathering into droplets on the stone. ‘One,’ he breathed out as the first droplet plummeted to the floor. You had to do something in this cursed room of rock to aid the time in its passing.
It was still daylight when the door to his room rattled and creaked open. Inside his cell it was semi-darkness, torchlight making his eyes sting. He resisted the urge to leap up, and forced himself to remain lying on his back, his only movement to link his hands behind his head.
