by D. P. Prior
Loud snores rolled up from the back of the wagon. Buck shook his head and took up the reins.
“Shogging dwarves. Bloody useless, if you ask me. Good for nothing, except maybe one thing.”
“Oh?” Albert raised an inquiring eyebrow. “And what might that be?”
Buck shot a look over his shoulder at the congregating merchants then beckoned Albert closer. “Go on, then. Take a look in the back.”
“But I thought you—”
“I’m a good judge of character, I am. Reckon I’m gonna throw you a line of trust and see what I can hook in return. Looks like you need me more than I need you, what with you being way out here in your nice suit and all. You can keep stum, I’d wager. Have a gander.”
Albert went round the back of the wagon, lifted the canvas, and peered inside. The snoring was coming from a sack of filth with a greasy gray beard that must have hung below the owner’s knees, if he were standing. Albert could see why Buck had called the fellow a dwarf. He couldn’t have been taller than a child of six or seven, and he looked like he hadn’t eaten for months. It was a wonder someone so frail-looking could make all that noise snoring. The dwarf’s hand was resting on an odd-looking rectangle of black—Albert climbed up the step to get a closer look—stone? It was the size of a door, smooth, and with glinting flecks of some green mineral dotted about its surface. The wagon bounced as Buck came to look in behind Albert.
“Well?” he said, a self-satisfied grin on his face.
“You’re selling tabletops?”
“Funny. Very funny. It’s scarolite, silly. Rare as a pox-free pecker, and no chance of getting your hands on none without a nod and a wink to the dwarves. Mines outside Arx Gravis are fiercely guarded. Only ones not controlled by the Technocrat these days. See, we got connections with the miners. Well, a connection. This snoring pile of dung here used to work with them, till he got too pissed to swing a pickaxe. Other than that, no one sees hide nor hair of the dwarves. No one has for donkey’s years. Big demand for scarolite in the city. You heard of Magwitch the Meddler?”
Albert climbed back down, and Buck joined him. The other merchants were returning to their wagons, muttering and gesturing impatiently.
“I’m not familiar with—”
“Crazy shogger, that one, but he pays good, if you know what I mean.”
“And he’s your guild—what’s the term?—master?”
Buck laughed and clapped Albert on the back. “He’s the client, stupid. No, my guildmast…” Buck wagged a finger in Albert’s face. “Uh uh. Naughty, naughty. You won’t get nothing out of me. Not till you spill the beans, that is.”
“Beans?”
“What you’re doing out here, dressed like that. Who you’re working for. That kind of thing.”
Albert wavered for a moment between making his excuses and going back to see if the boreworms had returned to their tunnels and ingratiating himself to this inarticulate nincompoop. Perhaps if he could find the plane ship, he’d be able to get it to move once more. It would have been helpful to know where he was. At least then he could have come up with a plausible story. He looked up at the twin suns glaring down from cobalt skies, and a light went on. He licked his lips and offered Buck his most congenial smile.
“I must admit, sir, that I am lost. Very, very lost. My companions have abandoned me, and I can only surmise that they were paid by a rival.”
“What, a rival guild?”
“Restaurant. I have long been considered the finest chef in Sarum.”
Buck frowned and rubbed his chin. “Sarum? Where’s that, then? Never heard of it.”
Albert turned around, making a show of thinking. “A long way off,” he said, running a finger across the horizon.
“What, one of them Farfall communities?” Buck screwed his face up and curled the first two fingers of his left hand.
Albert nodded. “You never been there?”
“No. And don’t plan on it, neither. Too near the bad shit over the mountains. You know, Qlippoth.”
Albert adopted his best poker face. “Oh, it’s not all that bad really. Not once you get used to it.”
“Yeah, well you can keep it, far as I’m concerned. Reckon I’ll stay put in NJ.”
“NJ?”
Buck pointed along the road toward the white-walled city. “New Jerusalem. About the only real civilized place out here. Unless you count Arx Gravis, that is, and I’m inclined not to. Between you and me—” He cast a shifty look toward the back of the wagon. “—if it weren’t for certain merchant’s di… trade goods, we’d most probably leave the dwarves to rot. So,” he said, rubbing his palms together, “you’re a cook, are you? That’s funny that, seeing as I work in a restaurant, too. Well, it’s more of a simple eatery, I guess, but same thing. There’s grub and booze and all. It’s not my main job, like, you know, but it’s kind of…” Buck gave Albert another of his conspiratorial looks.
“Your cover?” Albert pretended to look awed. “You don’t mean to say—”
Buck leaned in close and whispered. “Keep it between us, eh? Our little secret. Like I said, I’m a good judge of character. Chef, my arse. You got a few stories to tell, ain’t you, mate?”
Albert gave a delicate cough into his fist. “Well…”
“Go on with you,” Buck said. “Can’t shit a shitter, kiddy. You’re a man of the trades. I could tell right off.”
“You could?”
Buck drew himself up and puffed out his pigeon chest. “Look, mate—what you say your name was?”
“Albert.”
Buck nodded knowingly. “OK, Albert, let’s cut the crap. You’re a professional; I can see it a mile off. You’re also a long, long way from home, right?”
“Uh huh.”
“And you ain’t never been to NJ before.”
Albert shook his head.
“Look,” Buck said. “You hop in the back with Rugbeard there. I got contacts, if you know what I mean. I’ll take care of things, fix you up with some work. You don’t want to be going back to the shitty Farfalls, not if you can get on in NJ. We got stuff there you outlanders wouldn’t believe. Heck, that’s why everyone wants to come to NJ. If you’re in the know, then you’ll soon be in the money.”
Albert cast another wavering look back in the direction of the plane ship. “What would you want in return?”
“Just that you remember. One day, not too far off, either, I’ll need a favor back from you. You see, ol’ Buck Fargin’s going places, and when he does, he’ll want all his pieces moving together.”
How many times had Albert heard that sort of thing before? Cretinous petty thugs thinking they could make it big in the guilds. He was more than familiar with Buck Fargin’s type. More than familiar with seeing their throats cut when they got too big for their boots, or watching their bloated water corpses bobbing about on the surface of the Soulsong.
“You’d do that for me?”
“Just remember, when the time comes…”
“Don’t worry,” Albert said with as much enthusiasm as he could muster. “You can count on me. I never forget a debt.”
Heavy footsteps intruded upon the moment. Albert turned just as an immense man in a leather apron bore down on Buck. His head was completely shaven, the brow furrowed with deep grooves, face red with rage.
“Fargin, you little pillock. You gonna get this wagon rolling, or am I gonna shove it up your jacksy?”
All the blood fled Buck’s face as he backed away toward the driver’s seat. “Now hold on, Clive, I-I-I…”
The big man folded his arms across his chest and glowered until Buck was seated.
“And what the shog are you waiting for?” He turned his attention to Albert. “My boot on your arse? Get on with you.”
Albert smarted at the shame of being spoken to so… so uncouthly. He pushed himself back onto the lip of the wagon bed, wary in case the oaf made good on his threat.
Clive growled, at the same time reaching into the pocket
of his apron and pulling out a huge bread roll. “Cheese and pickle cob,” he said, face tightening in a smile that was as false as Albert’s show of helplessness. “And before you ask, fat boy, no, you can’t shogging have none.”
Clive turned on his heel and strode back toward the far end of the caravan.
Fat boy! It’s just the cushion of good living. And in any case, what makes you think I’d want to imbibe your spittle, you muscle-bound primate?
Albert was about to duck inside when he risked another look at Clive’s retreating back. By the time the big man reached his wagon, he’d already devoured the roll and was brushing the crumbs from his apron.
So, you like cheese and pickle, do you, my big brainless friend? Remind me to cook up some of my green tomato chutney. Goes down a treat with a slab of smelly blue vein and a hunk of soda bread.
He thumbed his nose and gave a smile full of shameless malignity, just at the very moment Buck cracked the reins and the wagon lurched forward. Albert landed flat on his back atop a very angry dwarf. Rugbeard shoved him off, rolled to his feet, and delivered a nose-crunching head-butt that brought tears to Albert’s eyes.
“What the…? Who, what, where…? Oh, shog it,” the dwarf said. He let out a rumbling snore while still on his feet. His eyes drooped shut, and he sank down on top of the slab of scarolite.
And you, mon ami, are a drinker, if I’m not very much mistaken. Albert made a mental note as he rubbed his swollen nose. He wouldn’t forget. He never did. But first things first. He’d go along with Buck as far as it would take him, learn the ropes, make some contacts… He’d done it before, and he could do it again. He might be older now, a little thicker round the waist, but people didn’t change all that much. They all still wanted the same things and made the same mistakes trying to acquire them. It was a game he’d played pretty much all his life, and he was already relishing the prospect of starting out somewhere new.
THE DEAD LANDS
The elf, Gilbrum, glided through the vegetation with long, easy strides. Vines and branches writhed around him and then recoiled, opening a path for the others to follow.
Out of the corner of his eye, Shader saw occasional flurries of movement—bulky shapes darting between clumps of sedges or hunkering down amid the roots of mangroves. If it was the lizard-men, they didn’t appear keen on another confrontation. Maybe having their noses bloodied once was enough for them, or maybe they were just biding their time, waiting for a more opportune moment to strike.
In front of him, Shadrak shrouded himself in his cloak and trailed Gilbrum like a shadow. Rhiannon brought up the rear, sullen and listless, eyes locked on her muck-encrusted sandals. Mosquitoes dotted her robe, flitted in and out of her hair. She swiped at them halfheartedly, as if she’d come to realize the effort was futile.
Gilbrum wove a twisting path between the trees and then skirted a quagmire tufted with towering reeds. The mud made slurping, sucking noises as they passed, and something slithered across its surface.
The elf ran effortlessly up a steep bank and waited for them at the top. It was only when Shader trudged up beside him that he noticed Shadrak was no longer with them.
“He is close,” Gilbrum said. “His preference is for stealth. It is the nature of his kind.”
“What’s that, scum?” Rhiannon said.
Gilbrum cocked his head, as if considering a reply, but then waved his hand to take in the sea of tall grass that rolled out ahead of them. “Follow in my footsteps. There are things in the grass that live for the taste of flesh. I know them well and can avoid them with ease.”
The grass bent back as he approached, creating a narrow corridor for him to walk through. At its edges, countless snakes and scorpions slithered and skittered out of his path. What was visible of the ground was studded with milky-white pustules, within which hand-shaped shadows twitched and grasped. Gilbrum lithely stepped over them, or jumped when two or more were clustered together. When he stopped and turned back to beckon, Rhiannon gave Shader a worried look but then set off after the elf, careful to plant her sandals square in the middle of the footprints he’d left. Shader followed her, doing the same, but he drew the gladius just in case.
“So, this whole place is alive?” Rhiannon asked with a quaver in her voice.
Gilbrum held up his hand, eyes flicking left and right. “When you have been here a while, you can feel it breathe.”
He continued in silence, the grass parting for him, until they emerged upon a muddy flat crawling with sausage-sized maggots. Gilbrum quickened his pace, slapping at them with his bow. Rhiannon hitched up her robe and danced across on tiptoe.
The rank stench of rotten eggs filled Shader’s nostrils, and plumes of brownish gas hissed to the surface at the edges of the flat. Gilbrum paid no heed, but continued on as quickly as Rhiannon and Shader could follow. Up above, twin suns climbed into in the sky, blurred by a clogging miasma that rose from the marsh.
When they entered a copse of bowed trees surrounding a murky pond, Shadrak was waiting for them.
“Plane ship’s definitely gone,” he said.
Shader looked to Gilbrum for an explanation, but the elf merely shrugged and asked, “This is where you entered the marsh?”
“Close by,” Shadrak said. “We were shunted off course by the Perfect Peak.”
Gilbrum nodded. “The Technocrat has many defenses. The need must be dire indeed, if you would risk going there.”
“You know of Gandaw’s plans?” Shader asked.
“The Unweaving of all Creation? Who does not live in dread of this?”
“It has started,” Shader said.
Gilbrum hung his head in silence, as if he were grieving or pondering a response. “And you will stop him?”
Shader shrugged. “Ain permitting.”
Gilbrum sighed and cast his gaze around the marsh. “I would join you, only I am bound to this place. I have no freedom in Malkuth, save where the Sour Marsh has encroached.”
“But can you lead us there?” Rhiannon asked.
Gilbrum nodded. “You can see the Perfect Peak from the edge of the Sour Marsh. A black moat encompasses it—another pollution, this time of Gandaw’s making. The earth around the mountain has been dead for hundreds of years, devoid of all life. Yes, I will lead you there, but I would counsel against a direct assault. Metal orbs patrol the skies, and they spit fire that burns to the bone.”
“What would you suggest?” Shader asked.
Gilbrum sighed again, and this time sat down cross-legged, gesturing for the others to do the same. When they complied, he reached beneath his cloak and drew out a small wooden box, which he placed on the ground. He opened the lid, and a ghostly fire spilled forth, casting a comforting warmth over them.
“The Unweaving was attempted once before,” he said, “back when the Sour Marsh was a mere trickle at the foot of the Farfalls. It is not a swift process, this unmaking of worlds, and back then, Gandaw was thwarted by the dwarves. Their tale even reached their kin across the mountains, and thus made its way to us.”
“Kin?” Shader said. “I knew a dwarf from Aethir. He was present at this first Unweaving. He told me the dwarves were creatures of Gandaw. How is it they have kin in Qlippoth?”
Gilbrum looked up at the sky and then focused on Shader. Moisture rimmed his verdant eyes. “Your friend was correct. Gandaw made the dwarves. He made them to mine the scarolite ore he had been led to by the homunculi.”
Gilbrum’s gaze flicked to Shadrak and then back to Shader. The assassin was rigid beneath his hooded cloak.
“Like so much that Gandaw made, the dwarves were not an original idea. Whatever has been dreamed, whatever has entered the minds of humans, was inspiration for his experiments. Long before Gandaw melded the races to form dwarves, the Creator had dreamed such beings for himself. Like my people, the elves, the dwarves were a remedy for the nightmares. We are the Creator’s defense against madness.” Gilbrum shook his head and looked off into the trees.
&nb
sp; “If the Sour Marsh goes unchecked, the nightmares will encompass all of Malkuth. Aethir will be a living horror, and the Creator will be rendered insane.”
Shader thought about something the Gray Abbot had told him. “Aethir is the Dreaming to the natives of Sahul—a country on our Earth.”
Gilbrum was nodding. “The nightmares would seep through the portals between worlds. If the Sour Marsh spreads its evil throughout Malkuth, the Earth will be contaminated. For this reason, I cannot leave it untended. It is the task my people are charged with. One elf, for a span of one hundred years, must slow the progress of the marsh’s malevolence. We can spare no more. Our people are few. The nightmares of Qlippoth are slowly killing us, just as they killed the dwarves.”
“The dwarves of Qlippoth are dead?” Shader said.
Gilbrum picked up a fallen leaf and gave it his full attention. “The city of Arnoch was their mightiest structure. It enabled them to hold out for years against the worst horrors imaginable. The Creator dreams darkly, and his protectors ultimately fight a losing battle. Arnoch now lies beneath the sea, a lost testament to a good people. Gandaw’s dwarves are a pale imitation, tainted with the blood of the homunculi, the spawn of the Deceiver.”
“Spawn of the Deceiver,” Rhiannon said with a sardonic smile at Shadrak. “Sounds about right, if you ask me.”
Shadrak’s eyes glowered red from beneath his hood, but he said nothing. Perhaps there was nothing he could say. Maybe he knew as little as Shader and Rhiannon.
“They have removed themselves from the life of Malkuth,” Gilbrum continued. “They skulk in the sun-starved chambers of Arx Gravis at the foot of a deep ravine. But it is to them that you should go. Gandaw bred his dwarves for mining scarolite, and they know the tunnels that run beneath the Perfect Peak.”
“What if we still want to take a look at this mountain for ourselves?” Shadrak said.
“I have said I will take you there.” Gilbrum shut the lid of the wooden box, and its warmth gave way to the damp chill of the marsh.
