by Sam Bowring
Losara sees the hands of the boat’s occupant trailing in the water as he sleeps. In a moment of cold clarity, he realises he is shadowdreaming the present, that the person in the boat is him, and the creature is reaching towards him with pincers that could crush towers . . .
Back he went, streaming to his body, rushing to contain his consciousness within it. At the very moment he arrived back inside himself, he heard a snick in the water beside him. The tips of the entity’s claws appeared above the surface, razor-sharp points clicking together at the pinnacle of the great appendages. Losara sat up abruptly, raising his hands from the water to find them gone, sliced cleanly at the wrist. Twin fountains erupted from the stumps as his life pulsed out of him in a torrent. He wondered vaguely if the attack was over, or if the boat would smash around him as the monster finished its work. A moment later his eyes glazed over and he passed out.
Twenty-two / Trickster
Twenty-two
Trickster
Trickster
First came the birds, their songs competing sweetly. That was good – it meant there were no huggers nearby. Then came the sound of someone breathing, close to the . . . bed? Yes, he was in a bed. On the back of this realisation he became aware of his aching body. And then, distant echoes from the spirit . . .
. . . must get gone to Treewith . . . if someone finds it? . . . he’s awake . . .
Bel certainly didn’t feel awake. His eyelids were strapped down like saddlebags.
. . . he’s listening . . .
When he recalled the battle, it was as if he’d been drunk. It had been intoxicating, mesmerising, how he had moved! But now, as with drink, his spirits plummeted in the aftermath. As he’d ridden a bloodlust high, his troop had been slaughtered and he’d managed only to save himself. Was that how it would be in the end? Was he to secure victory against the shadow even as his friends fell around him? M’Meska had lived, but something told him she would have lived anyway. In fact it was he who owed his life to her – she must have been the one to carry him back here after he lost consciousness.
Someone put a hand on his arm and instinctively he opened his eyes. For a moment he didn’t recognise the lean woman sitting by the bed. Then he remembered she was Pelar, the Citizen Prime of Drel.
‘Here,’ she said, ‘drink this.’
The liquid she pressed to his lips was bitter, but sparkled in his mouth and throat. Some sort of revitalising tonic?
‘I’m in Drel?’ he asked.
‘Yes. Your comrade M’Meska brought you back from the forest. She says . . .’
‘What?’ said Bel wearily, closing his eyes again.
‘That you two are the only ones who survived. That the nest was big, bigger than anyone thought it would be.’
‘Must have been a big fire,’ said Bel, echoing Munpo’s words.
Pelar’s brow twitched. ‘Blade Bel? The Saurian says she didn’t see Rokinin killed. Since we don’t have any bodies, we’ve no way of knowing who we lost.’
Bel sighed deeply, remembering Rokinin shaking in the ferns. ‘Everyone was lost,’ he muttered.
‘Are you sure? Did you see him die?’
Bel opened his eyes again, irritated that she pressed him. ‘Yes,’ he snapped. ‘I saw him die! Horribly.’ As tears formed in Pelar’s eyes, he tried to control his annoyance. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Was he . . . dear to you?’
‘It’s a small town,’ said Pelar. ‘And he was a good man who’ll be missed by many. I will be one of them.’ She wiped her tears even as new ones formed.
‘I am sorry,’ said Bel, more sincerely this time. ‘He died bravely, defending the people he loved.’
‘Yes,’ said Pelar. ‘As did the others from Drel who were with him.’ She rose. ‘I’ll leave you to get dressed. M’Meska will want to know you’re awake. I think she’s eager to be away.’
‘How long have I been asleep?’
‘Since yesterday afternoon,’ said Pelar.
Outside it was a sunny morning, just like the one so fresh in his mind. Surreally, it felt as if no time had passed.
‘Blade Bel?’ said Pelar.
‘Yes?’
‘The town thanks you for your efforts. M’Meska told us how you fought. We are grateful you could free us from the threat in the forest.’ She bowed her head in solemn thanks, then quietly shut the door behind her.
That’s right, thought Bel. We fought for the townsfolk. It is a victory, after all.
The tonic was muting his aches and he no longer felt like going back to sleep. Sitting up stiffly, he swung his legs over the side of the bed.
. . . mad warrior . . .
What? he demanded suddenly, thinking in a shout.
Ah! came the spirit’s voice, perfectly clear this time. You’re getting up?
I can hear you, you know. I hear things I don’t think you mean me to. What are you?
As I’ve told you, Blade Bel, came the quick response. A spirit sent by Arkus to aid you in your battles.
Aid me? What aid have you given me?
In answer Bel received a deluge of images from the previous day, showing each instance when the spirit had influenced the troop or the huggers. Bel somehow sensed that the spirit was trying to repress them, but they kept coming.
You used my comrades as monster bait? he thought angrily. You made them ignore their own safety to protect me? You caused soldiers to die who might have lived? This is the work of Arkus?
Blade –
Arkus would never send one such as you. What are you?
. . . betrayer . . . exile of the Garden . . .
WHAT ARE YOU?
‘Awake, I see,’ said M’Meska. ‘Is good. The day run by. We must be gone.’
Bel hadn’t heard the Saurian come in, but she was bobbing across the room to the bed. Gripping Bel by the shoulders, she hauled him unwillingly to a standing position. He realised, with some embarrassment, that someone had stripped him to his undergarments.
‘Get dressed,’ said the Saurian. ‘No bashful. Your human parts mean nothing to me. Ugly as the rest of you.’
She started throwing Bel’s things on the bed. Bel staggered to the window and looked out. He was in the Drel barracks.
‘What happened?’ he asked.
‘You saw.’
‘I passed out.’
‘I know. Who lug you all way back to Drel, think you?’
He turned. ‘Yes. Thank you for that, M’Meska.’
‘Well, not going leave you there. You soldier of Halls.’ The Saurian paused in attacking Bel’s things. ‘I in troop with Munpo lot of years,’ she said. One of the spines on her head twitched. ‘And some of others too. Other soldiers in troop. Many years.’
‘I understand you.’
‘Very bad, what happen in forest.’
‘Yes,’ said Bel. ‘No argument there.’
‘You fight very well,’ she said. ‘I never see like it. Like berserker, but more . . . art.’ She looked frustrated. ‘I have no way to say in Varenkai tongue. One man, how can take on so many huggers and live? Then but, you had M’Meska helping.’
Bel dimly recalled M’Meska leaping from rock to branch, plying arrows into shrieking huggers.
‘I shoot down nests after too,’ she said. ‘No nest, no trouble for Drel.’ She stood abruptly. ‘Hurry up. I want get to Treewith tonight.’
. . . Treewith . . .
You and I are going to have words, said Bel.
•
Soon enough they were riding down the main road of Drel. Some of the townsfolk tipped their hats or called out thanks. Some remained silent. Bel knew the damage dealt to these people was ongoing. He was relieved when they passed out the gate into the green fields beyond. The day seemed sunnier as they b
roke into a gallop towards Treewith.
As they rode, Iassia could feel Bel listening for him. Try as he might to keep his thoughts shielded, this whole experience had left him weak and he desperately needed to be back in his body. Soon Bel would see through his lies as if they were made of glass.
What are you? came Bel’s demand once more.
. . . a race once loved by the Sun God . . . now exiles from Paradise . . .
What? Why?
. . . because we betrayed Arkus . . .
Stay back, Iassia directed clearly. Stay out of my thoughts.
Your thoughts? Is that what I hear when I’m not supposed to?
. . . yes . . .
Why? How?
Our minds are too close. So close that if you continue to invade my thoughts, it will destroy us both.
I don’t think so, replied Bel.
Foolish human, continued Iassia. I am weak, and fighting you makes me weaker. Do you know what will happen if I expend my strength?
Tell me, liar.
My mind will unravel inside yours and I’ll never be able to leave. For the rest of your life you’ll be haunted by echoes of me. Is that what you want?
Where did you come from? Bel demanded angrily. WHAT ARE YOU?
Iassia could not hold out against the force of Bel’s will, and answering thoughts poured forth.
. . . I am a weaver . . . joined you accidentally at Treewith Inn . . . my mind was separated from my body when I entered yours . . . I became lost because there is something missing inside you . . . we need to get back to the inn . . .
A weaver? A weaver bird?
. . . yes . . .
So you are a trickster.
Yes, said Iassia. What did he care now? I am.
What did you mean there is something missing?
You aren’t a whole person, Bel. You are forced together like the wrong pieces in a puzzle. Your components grind against each other like malfunctioning cogs.
He sensed Bel considering this.
Everyone has chaos inside them, Bel said eventually.
Not like this. You always believed, didn’t you, that it was a blessing that the shadow part of you was expunged? You think you lost nothing. You think, in fact, that you are better than others because you have been cleansed of weakness. Well, it isn’t true, Bel. You are less of a person than your other.
Your lies mean nothing.
But you’d be able to tell if I was lying, wouldn’t you, Bel? You can hear my real thoughts. Listen to them now.
. . . empty . . . shell . . . half-made . . .
You don’t know what you’re talking about.
The view is very clear from here, I assure you. You forget that I am privy to your thoughts, as well as you to mine, and your doubts betray you. You do not disbelieve my words in your heart.
You are nothing but a servant of evil.
And you, Bel, are a warrior. A killer. I have never seen a man fight like you.
Why are you telling me this? asked Bel, confused at the sudden change in tack.
You imagine yourself fighting on the side of right, said Iassia. But in truth it doesn’t matter who you fight for, because it’s the fight itself that you love. I was there, Bel, along for that ride. How joyous you were amidst the ruin. Dancing, isn’t that how you’ve been thinking about it?
Shut up.
If it was you who’d been taken to Fenvarrow as a child, you would be fighting for us now, too stupid to know the difference. All you want is to be powerful, to be adored! Arrogance and vanity are not equal to fighting for one’s beliefs, Blade Bel. There is no depth to you.
It is sickening to have such an insidious thing as you inside me, replied Bel. Spinning your weaver’s lies, no truth to their fabric. My father was born in Kainordas, and my family before him, yet you think me so mutable?
You argue out of pride, said Iassia. You have no true convictions. You simply love the thrill. And that, my dear, makes you shallow.
Where is your body in Treewith? demanded Bel suddenly.
You couldn’t destroy it even if you found it.
Where is it?
Don’t force me to defend myself over this. I know you sensed the truth in the threat I made before, because I was telling the truth. It will not be pleasant for either of us if our minds become entangled.
Much to Iassia’s relief, Bel fell silent.
•
Bel tried to keep his mind blank as they rode, not wishing to share his private thoughts with his invader. It was difficult – Iassia’s words had shaken him, made him think again on his other self. That was just some dark, twisted thing, that was what Fahren had always told him. A worm of shadow that had crept away, which he was better off without. One day Bel would track him down and . . . what? He wasn’t exactly sure.
Perhaps he did feel empty. Sometimes.
Time and again he found himself returning to thoughts of the fight, remembering the violent ecstasy that had fuelled him. He hadn’t been empty then, of that he was certain. He found himself longing to fight again – surely that wasn’t the right reaction? What had Iassia said? That he lived for the fight and not the cause. What did it matter, as long as the job got done? He needed time, he decided. Time to sort it all out.
When night fell, the Saurian asked if he wished to camp or push on. Bel opted to push on despite great weariness. A few hours later they saw the twinkling lanterns of Treewith in the distance. Bel sensed excitement growing in the weaver as they approached. He was loath to let the creature go free, but equally loath to delay its exit from his mind. They arrived at the inn and, while M’Meska saw to the horses, Bel went inside.
Where? he asked.
The same room you had before.
Bel spoke to the innkeeper and, thankfully, the room was vacant. He shouldered his pack and went quickly upstairs, pausing at the door to fumble with the key.
All right, you parasite, he said. You’d better fly faster than my sword.
There was no reply. Bel realised he could no longer hear the distant echoes of the weaver’s thoughts. Pushing the door open, he pulled the crossbow from his belt.
On the windowsill sat a tiny bird like a colourful sparrow. A beautiful thing, yet Bel didn’t hesitate to squeeze the trigger. The bolt flew across the room and bounced off some kind of invisible barrier.
‘Mortal weapons?’ chirped Iassia merrily, his blood-drop eyes glinting. ‘How optimistic. And really, after all we’ve been through!’ The bird gave a chirp that Bel knew was a laugh, and launched from the window into the night.
Bel ran to the window, but the weaver had disappeared. He closed the window and locked it, even though the night was warm. Still feeling disquieted, he collapsed face forward on the bed, exchanging worry for oblivion.
•
Iassia was joyous to be restored, savouring the air under his wings as he zipped through town. He was weary, but it wasn’t the crippling weakness of the last few days. Dinner had been welcome too: a pigeon that had been roosting peacefully until his sharp little beak had stabbed into the main artery of its neck.
He landed on top of Treewith Inn, wondering what to do next. He would alert the Shadowdreamer to Bel’s whereabouts, but doubted the dark lord’s operatives would arrive before Bel made it back to the Halls. Battu would be angry, but Iassia wasn’t worried. Even if Battu shadow-travelled to ask him questions, he would claim he’d only just stumbled across the lad tonight, and it was very sad there was no time left to take advantage of the situation.
After that, there was one more thing. He fluttered about the town, peeping through open windows, and soon found what he was looking for.
•
The small blond boy was stupid and easy to manipulate. He was also a clumsy writer and Iassia was g
rowing frustrated. He hid it well, however, continuing to speak to the child in warm, soothing tones.
‘Come now, young Meriwan,’ he chirped from his place on the oak writing desk. ‘Surely parents wealthy enough to own a lovely house such as this have also seen to your education?’
‘Yes, birdy,’ said the boy. ‘Mr Neirdu is my tutor. He comes for lessons once a day, and I gotta practise an hour after too!’
‘Well, that sounds like fun,’ said Iassia.
Meriwan pursed his lips. ‘It ain’t,’ he said. ‘I hate it. It’s borin’.’
The child stomped across the study, which was located on the second floor of a large house. The parents, who were downstairs with guests, were obviously well-to-do. Paintings and tapestries hung from the walls, and the ledge above the fireplace was littered with jade statuettes. The child Meriwan had been asleep in his upstairs bedroom when Iassia had spied him through an open window. It seemed, unfortunately, that the child’s delight at meeting a talking bird was not enough to overcome his dislike of writing. Iassia was having to work harder than expected and he was getting a headache.
‘Now, Meriwan,’ he said, ‘the sooner you finish the letter for me, the sooner I can give you your reward.’ The child’s eyes lit up with excitement. ‘Just a couple more lines and then we can go. This boring work will be over very quickly if you just sit down and finish.’
‘Allllll riiiiiight,’ said the child, begrudgingly walking back to the desk and sitting down. He picked up the quill and dipped it in ink. ‘What next?’
Iassia dictated the last lines of the letter and the child struggled onwards, sometimes stopping to sound out longer words. Iassia was sure there’d be spelling mistakes, but it hardly mattered as long as the message was clear. Finally it was written, and Iassia had Meriwan read it back to him. This also took a long time, and his anger with the moronic man-child grew, though he was the picture of patience as he listened. Eventually the child finished.
