by Sam Bowring
‘After I am convinced that his body isn’t here, I will search for him outside the Halls,’ continued Bel. ‘I will search until I find him and know that he is safe, that he has left of his own accord – which I find hard to believe, given he bade me no farewell.’
‘It is a delicate situation,’ said Fahren. ‘He had to leave as quickly as possible.’
‘And we never claimed he left of his own accord,’ added Baygis. ‘He failed in service to his Throne, and still my father did not wish him dead. He is exiled.’
Suddenly Bel drew his sword, the shine flashing silver along its edge. Baygis raised a protective hand. ‘Bel . . .’ he warned.
Bel grinned madly, raised the sword to his own breast and slid it between a join in his leather armour.
‘Bel, no!’ said Fahren.
Bel tightened his grip. ‘Where is he?’
‘Lower that sword!’ commanded Naphur.
‘Don’t move,’ said Bel, ‘unless you want me to skewer my half a heart.’
‘You’re bluffing,’ said Baygis.
‘Am I? How can you be sure what I’m capable of? You know that I’m unbalanced, you know that part of my very soul is missing. Oh, I know I’ve been told that all I lack is some dark thing that crawled away – that I am the good it left behind. Nice to believe in such convenience, isn’t it!’ He screamed the last, and tensed his hand.
‘Steady,’ said Fahren. ‘Don’t do anything rash . . .’
‘Don’t tell me what to do,’ said Bel, backing further away. ‘I’m the one you need. I am your saviour. But I can’t be a saviour if I’m dead, can I?’
The three men looked at each other, knowing they had no choice.
‘The east gate,’ said Naphur quietly, and sighed. ‘That was where he was taken out. The soldiers he was with have not yet returned. Hurry and you will catch him.’
Bel rushed from the hall.
‘This doesn’t bode well,’ said Fahren.
‘I’d better go after him,’ said Baygis, ‘and make sure that he comes back.’
He glanced at his father, who nodded.
‘Be careful.’
‘I will.’
Baygis left swiftly. It was but a few moments later that Naphur and Fahren realised there was nothing else for them to do but follow.
•
Bel rode hard through the east gate, his sweaty palms slick on the reins. Outside, he cast feverish eyes about the hilly grasslands. White ward stones shone softly in the distance, and he spotted soldiers coming towards him, a group of four on horseback.
‘Have you been with Taskmaster Corlas?’ he called.
The blades looked uncertain about how to reply, which was all the answer Bel needed. He kicked his steed sharply and away he went, riding in the direction the soldiers had come from, following a trail of trampled grass. He passed the wards at speed. The sun was close to setting and orange light coated the hills. Cresting a hill, he spotted movement against a line of trees. Hope flared and, as he drew closer, he saw it was a man on a horse with a pack on his back and an axe at his side. Corlas.
•
‘Father!’ Bel shouted. Corlas turned in dismay at the sound of his son’s voice. Bel almost fell from the saddle and rushed towards him.
Corlas jumped from his own steed. ‘Go back!’ he shouted.
Bel hardly heard him, and a moment later the two smashed into each other in a brief embrace.
‘Do not leave,’ said Bel. ‘Return with me, and together we will change the Throne’s ruling.’
‘I think not,’ said Corlas, his face stormy. He glanced around uneasily. ‘You must not stay here, Bel. It is not safe.’
‘I’ll ride with you then.’
‘No,’ said Corlas. ‘It’s too dangerous. The Shadowdreamer hunts you still, that you must believe. You must return to the Halls at once.’
‘I do not quail before the Shadowdreamer,’ said Bel. ‘Let him come and face me, and I shall cut off his lips and feed them to him.’
Corlas felt tears filling his eyes. Despite all his anger, he knew that Bel still needed the protection of Naphur and Fahren. ‘Your woman is there,’ he tried. ‘And you will love her in a way you won’t believe possible.’
There was a soft chirping from the tree line. Corlas spun, drawing his axe. ‘You must away from here!’ he shouted to Bel. ‘Now!’
Out of the trees flew a little bird, flashing prettily in the dying light. Corlas bellowed in alarm, raising his axe.
Your weapon is no protection against me, Varenkai, came Iassia’s voice in his head.
Corlas swung as the bird flew over, twittering with laughter as the axe swished uselessly through the air.
I’m so glad to finally see you past the wards, said Iassia. And with your son as well. Too perfect.
The weaver circled them as Corlas stood frozen, all the blood draining from his face. Bel looked on in confusion. ‘What is going on, Father?’
Finally our bargain can be fulfilled.
‘No!’ shouted Corlas.
Oh, yes. Say goodbye to your son, Corlas.
‘Run!’ roared Corlas, grabbing Bel by the shoulders and pushing him violently away. ‘Run, damn you, boy! Trust me now if never again and run!’
This is what you shall do for me.
Something in Corlas’s mind began to unfurl: the bargain planted years ago, binding him to the bird’s will. He felt the command of Iassia’s words as they began to form, and knew he had no choice but to carry out whatever the bird willed.
Corlas, you will kill . . .
Unwillingly Corlas’s grip tightened on the axe. ‘No!’ he screamed. ‘No!’
. . . your . . .
‘Bel!’ came a cry. It was Baygis, riding full pelt towards them. He reached out a hand as he leaped from his horse, and Iassia shrilled as he was pulled to the ground, seized in Baygis’s power. Somehow Corlas felt his terror through the link between them.
Kill the mage! the weaver screamed. Kill him, Corlas! Kill the mage who knows my true name!
A consuming purpose took hold of Corlas and he strode towards Baygis. There came the sound of more horses, and over a hill appeared Naphur and Fahren, riding hard with soldiers at their heels.
‘Corlas,’ said Baygis, breathing hard as Corlas strode towards him. ‘What – ’
His eyes opened wide as the axe head whooshed towards him, and froze in a surprise that remained on his face as his head hit the ground. A river of red flowed from his severed neck as his body collapsed to his knees, then forward.
Naphur roared. Corlas blinked in confusion, staring at the bloody axe in his hands, then at Bel, who watched in disbelief. Finally he saw the approaching horses, and soldiers drawing their swords.
‘By Arkus!’ he cried. ‘It was the weaver, Bel! The weaver! I had no choice!’
He stumbled away, shedding his pack and dropping his axe as he broke into a run towards the trees. ‘Tell Naphur it was the weaver!’ he called.
‘Father!’ Bel shouted, but Corlas disappeared into the trees.
•
‘Kill him!’ Naphur screamed, and the soldiers rode after Corlas. ‘Kill Corlas! Kill him a thousand times!’
He leaped from his steed to fall by the body of his son, his face unbelieving as he clutched at Baygis’s chest. ‘Not my son!’ he cried. ‘By Arkus, no!’
‘Bel?’
Bel blinked, stunned by what had happened. Fahren stood beside him, speaking softly. ‘What went on here?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Bel, shaking his head.
Nearby on the ground, the weaver lay pinned, watching them balefully. Fahren had managed to trap him anew even as Baygis’s magic had faded.
‘You,’ said Fahren to the little bird. ‘You had a h
and in this!’
‘Or a wing, to be more accurate,’ cooed Iassia. He struggled feebly against the glowing net. ‘A shame,’ he continued, ‘that your ruler’s son had to die instead of Bel here, as I had intended.’
Fahren’s gaze was icy cold. ‘I know your name, weaver,’ he said, and instantly the bird fell still. ‘The mage you killed – he told it to me.’
Iassia squawked as he struggled against Fahren’s power, his blood-drop eyes bulging in fear.
Fahren raised his voice skywards and threw out his hands. ‘I call your attention, Arkus! I call on you to reclaim your servant, Iashymaya Siashymor!’
Although the sun had almost set, suddenly a column of light was shining brightly upon them. At their feet, the bird opened and closed his beak in soundless terror as the light shone on him most brilliantly, picking up the colours of his beautiful plumage. It grew stronger until it hurt their eyes and they could no longer see anything of the world outside.
‘What is this?’ whispered Bel.
‘I don’t know,’ said Fahren in wonder. ‘But I don’t think we need be afraid.’
Even the ground beneath seemed to be nothing more than light itself. Ahead of them the light blazed and they covered their eyes. When the flare faded, and they lowered their hands from their faces, a magnificent being was standing before them. A colossal helm on its head was covered in spikes that seemed to change at a point from metal to light, becoming like rays of the sun. In the eye slots, fires blazed and danced, and the armour was made from great plates of gold. Slowly the warrior reached out a shining gauntlet, opening it over the struggling bird.
‘No, my lord!’ squeaked Iassia. ‘I beg forgiveness! I never wanted to leave you; it was the others who made me!’
Iassia fell still, and from his body rose a glowing form, flapping piteously and calling soundlessly. The giant’s fist closed on the spirit, enveloping it utterly.
‘Arkus,’ whispered Fahren. He fell to his knees, while Bel stood and stared.
Arkus’s head turned, creaking, and flames spurted from the eye slots of his helm. When he spoke, his voice crackled, as if the words themselves were on fire. ‘My thanks to you,’ he boomed, ‘for the return of my servant.’
‘Praise be,’ murmured Fahren.
‘It is good,’ said the god, ‘that you have unwittingly opened this pathway. I have words for you both.’
‘For us?’ said Bel dumbly as he gazed up at the breathtaking entity.
‘Yes, Bel Corinas. Even my fate depends on you now. You are the one who will upset the balance.’
‘But, great lord,’ stammered Fahren, ‘what of the other?’
‘It is true the one called Losara grows potent with shadow magic,’ rumbled the god. ‘Soon none will be able to match him.’
‘Are we lost?’ asked Fahren.
‘The solution lies with the Stone of Evenings Mild.’
‘I don’t understand,’ said Bel.
The fires flared. ‘Bel Corinas, you were born with the blood of the Sprites, with both light and shadow. That is why the Stone ripped your soul asunder. The mages who warred over you did not know the power of the gateway that splits light and shadow. He who was one now stands divided. Balance will continue until you are combined again.’
‘Combined again?’ echoed Fahren.
‘Yes. If Bel and Losara return through the gateway of the Stone, to emerge as the individual soul they once were, we will have won.’
‘How?’ asked Bel.
‘Because you are stronger than Losara,’ said Arkus. ‘The shadow in the child you once were was never as strong as the light. It came from the Old Magic in your Sprite lineage, and your parents were not even full-blooded. You are born of Kainordas, and Losara is only a small residual part. If he is drawn back into you, he will become that small part once again.’
‘But how can he be small?’ asked Bel. ‘If he’s as powerful as you say?’
‘His power with magic is but a single trait. You are the governing personality, Bel. You are more complete than he.’ The god seemed to shimmer, like a mirage in a heat haze. ‘I cannot remain long. Hear me well. To stop the threat against us, Losara must be merged once more with Bel. You must find the Stone of Evenings Mild.’ Arkus’s voice became more distant. ‘As before, two mages must work the Stone – one of shadow, one of light. Only through such a combination will the Stone function. Only then can you undo what has been done.’
The world began to appear again, the same as before Arkus came to them: Naphur slumped over his dead son, the soldiers calling to each other in the trees, evening falling. No time had passed.
‘Only then,’ came Arkus’s final words, ‘can Bel lead us to victory.’
Then the god was gone and Fahren and Bel were kneeling on grasses that rustled gently in the wind. After the warmth of Arkus, the world seemed very cold.
•
‘Well, well,’ said Lady Vyasinth. ‘Wherever did weavers inherit their penchant for lying, I wonder?’
She sat back from the still pool, pondering what she had seen. She had chosen a good time to watch, it seemed. Often when she tried, Arkus blocked her sight; and if she looked southwards, Assedrynn did the same. This evening, however, Arkus had been preoccupied, filling the boy’s mind with strange directives.
He can’t possibly know that bringing Bel and Losara back together is the way for him to win. Nobody knows the way for sure, except perhaps cursed fate. So why claim it?
Maybe, she thought, not because he knows it is the only way he will win but because it’s the only way he can win.
She rose into the air, a swirl of twigs and leaves.
And maybe the same goes for me, she thought merrily.
Thirty-four / Pilgrimage
Thirty-four
Pilgrimage
Pilgrimage
They did not tarry long in Swampwild, for Lalenda found it difficult to be there. Although she still had not wept, neither did she look back as her home fell from the horizon. In the days that followed, she was quiet, speaking only to thank Losara for setting her free and taking her to Swampwild. She had regressed almost to the Lalenda he knew from Skygrip, except that her sadness was deeper and less fearful. He grew more and more annoyed with Battu for having caused this. It would have been a simple matter to allow Lalenda out of the castle to visit her mother, or at the very least fetch her mother to her, but that would never have crossed Battu’s mind.
South they flew, and soon came to frosty plains sparse of vegetation. Ahead lay the towering Bentemoth Mountains, a range like shards of broken glass, ancestral home to the Graka. The journey to the top was arduous, for swirling winds flung snow and ice at them, and the peaks were almost as high as the Cloud itself. Losara had to cloak Lalenda in his power to protect her as they buoyed upwards, while Grimra laughed and raced around, snapping his fangs at the tails of lightning bolts. Losara noticed that finally Lalenda seemed to be taking in the world around her, her eyes gleaming with reflected lightning, her black hair flying wildly about her head. She grinned fiercely.
‘You’re keeping me safe, my lord?’ she said, and somehow the question didn’t seem to be just for there and then.
‘Yes,’ he said.
They arrived on a high plateau where a Graka funeral was taking place. A wiry old Graka with a chin sharp enough to cut bread was presiding over a corpse, chanting and making signs in the air. Four others pulled the coffin along with ropes, two at the back and two at the front. As they reached the edge, they beat their wings and carried the coffin out over the leagues-long drop. A group of mourners standing further back began to sing a funeral dirge.
‘Back to the rocks!’ wailed the elderly Graka.
The four flying Graka released their ropes and the coffin disappeared into the swirling white.
‘No good for meat,’ Grimra informed Losara and Lalenda. ‘Graka be hard, ’specially when dead. That one be nothing but pebbles and dust by the time he bounce all the way to the bottom.’
Losara landed on the ledge and presented himself and Lalenda to the surprised Graka, who never saw outsiders this far up the Teeth. They were welcoming enough when he told them who he was, and together they went into the mountains, where he saw elaborately carved halls full of statues, and an ice mine where glowing blue veins rippled the rock.
After that they flew west, all the way to the Midgeon Hills. The hills themselves were low, uniform, pale and dry, with orange grass as patchy as the scalp of a burn victim. Clumps of stone congregated here and there, and sometimes it was hard to tell where these ended and the ruins began. Some forgotten people had lived here once, but now there was little sign of civilisation save a lonely winding road. As Losara and Lalenda landed atop a hill, Grimra’s skull became visible low to the ground, as if he sniffed after something.
‘What is it, Grimra?’ asked Lalenda.
The skull faded. ‘Grimra be living here before Tyrellan be catching him,’ the ghost said. ‘Long hunts along the funnels between them rises, Grimra had.’ He seemed to be having trouble remembering. ‘In them ruins, that was where Grimra’s pendant be, buried or hidden . . . or Grimra forgetting. Not good eating round here . . . plenty of dead things, scarce of the living. Travellers sometimes, but they learn where Grimra can reach the road and leave it to circle wide!’
This particular memory seemed to enrage Grimra and he flew straight up into the air, howling. Losara decided they had best not tarry.
North they flew, following the coast, to where the Nyul’ya River met the sea under the harbour city of Afei Edres. The Cloud above seemed thinner, and the light that shone through it showed off the colour and style of the city. A high stone wall ran around it, enclosing it against the sea, while the river ran through the centre under a gaping arch with raised portcullis. Inside the walls were blue stone buildings of many floors, with curly-topped turrets painted yellow. These seemed to be home to many people, putting Losara in mind of ants’ nests. The streets were a network of wharves, bridges and platforms elevated above the tide line and the river, and often there was the sound of water underfoot. There was a sense of cleanness and wealth to the place – the air was fresh and crisp, there wasn’t filth lying about, and the people were well dressed and industrious. The Arabodedas capital did its people proud.
