by A. J. Smith
‘You worry a great deal,’ said Ruth suddenly. ‘Things happen in their own time and in ways we can only accept and rarely predict.’
Randall snorted with little elegance, showing his scorn for the words. ‘That’s one of those annoying things that sounds profound, but is basically rubbish.’
‘You are cynical beyond your years,’ replied the Gorlan mother.
He laughed, more genuinely this time. ‘That is a commonly held opinion.’
The ship was alone, bobbing gently southwards on an empty blanket of blue. Randall and Ruth stood alone against the railings of the forecastle, far from the sailors, who went apathetically about strange tasks that Randall didn’t understand.
‘We should mate,’ she said, as if she’d been thinking about it for a while.
The squire raised an eyebrow at her.
‘You’ll forgive me if I don’t agree,’ he replied. ‘And the suggestion is a little... er, disconcerting.’ He looked at her. ‘You’re a spider.’
Her thin lips curled into the merest hint of a smile. ‘Actually, I’m a Gorlan, not a spider.’
A shiver travelled up his spine as he remembered their first meeting. She was, as far as Randall could tell, a huge, talking spider. He’d never liked spiders, even the small ones that killed chickens throughout the Darkwald, and Ruth was a terrifying specimen.
‘Have you known women?’ she asked.
Randall’s life had moved quickly over the past year and he had been forced to miss out on the usual stages of a young man’s experience. ‘It’s strange to think that I haven’t... and that it doesn’t bother me.’
‘I haven’t known another’s flesh for time beyond your understanding,’ said Ruth.
Another shiver of nerves, tinged a little with revulsion. ‘Don’t you... mate with other spiders... er, Gorlan?’
‘Only when the need to procreate is paramount. We eat our males after mating.’
He took a step away from her and his eyes widened.
‘Do not worry, Randall of Darkwald,’ said Ruth. ‘We mate in other forms purely for pleasure. The instinct to consume applies only to male Gorlan. That is why there are no remaining Gorlan fathers.’
‘You are seriously scaring me,’ muttered the young man. ‘I’m no expert on seduction, but I think you’re going about it the wrong way.’
‘I understand that humans often use alcohol to aid seduction. Perhaps we should try that.’ She wasn’t joking and Randall wasn’t laughing.
‘Can’t we just forget about it?’ he asked.
She attempted a smile. It didn’t quite work and her narrow face looked harsh and angular. ‘No, I don’t think so. Maybe I’ll try another method of seduction. What do you think would work?’
Randall suddenly found the situation funny. He snorted with amusement, his face cracking into a broad smile. Ruth was slim and would be attractive to a man who had not seen her true form. As he looked at her, his smile became softer and he leant forward over the railing.
‘I don’t think any attempt at seduction would work. I’d be nervous having sex anyway, and adding the Gorlan element to the equation would probably make me catatonic.’
‘I could relax you,’ replied Ruth.
‘It would probably take a lot of booze.’ Randall instantly realized that this comment would offend a normal woman. He found it reassuring that Ruth was immune to petty annoyance.
‘I’m sure the captain has plenty of wine.’
‘Wait,’ Randall said, shaking his head. ‘Are we seriously considering this?’
She gazed out to sea. ‘We have little else to do. The ship can sail without us.’
They locked eyes. The young squire was taller than the Gorlan and his shoulders, broad and muscled from months of activity, made Ruth appear rather petite. She had a vulnerability in her eyes that disconcerted him, a low gaze from green pupils and dark irises.
‘We would enjoy each other,’ purred Ruth, causing him to shiver with involuntary arousal.
‘Stop it,’ he said.
‘No.’ She stepped closer to him until they were virtually touching.
‘Please,’ he murmured with little confidence.
Ruth lowered her head and looked Randall up and down. Her eyes moved slowly, making him even more uncomfortable. She paused for a second, looking at his chest, before returning her gaze to his eyes. It was a deeply sensual look, loaded with hidden meanings. Randall understood his rapid breathing, his sudden arousal and his nervousness, but he didn’t understand seduction.
She gently ran her fingertips along his forearm and lightly cradled his hand. ‘Do you still want me to stop?’ she asked, a gust of wind catching her hair.
‘I... I don’t know,’ he stuttered in reply.
* * *
It was a strange hour, spent largely naked and filled with constant apologizing from the virginal squire. Sex seemed to be a matter of not trapping your hair, skin, legs, hands and private parts in a manner that caused pain. When this was accomplished, the melding of flesh was a deeper and more fulfilling experience than Randall would have thought possible. He fell in love a little as Ruth, straddling him, rose in apparent ecstasy and caused her new lover to become utterly lost in sensation. He couldn’t see beyond her skin, the smooth and dusky flesh that swayed on top of him. He didn’t think about her true nature; it was further away than the gentle rippling of the water or the surge of the sails.
The sex ended quickly, but the naked sprawling on the floor of the small cabin lasted nearly an hour. Ruth had pulled down two unused hammocks to act as a blanket and they had been quiet enough not to disturb the sailors. Utha, still seasick in the next cabin, had been silent, probably asleep, and the two naked, sweaty bodies that adorned the wooden floor were undisturbed.
‘You have much to give a lover, Randall of Darkwald,’ purred Ruth. Her dark hair was wild and wavy, spread across her naked back. Their bodies glistened.
‘Do you mean other than you?’ he replied, still breathing heavily.
She leant on her hand and ran a finger down his chest. ‘It would seem selfish to keep your talents to myself.’
She kissed him and Randall lost himself again. He felt naive, young, stupid and, for the first time in weeks, out of his depth. He had found it easier to deal with swords, blood and death than with a woman and sex. Even in the warm afterglow he was wide-eyed and light-headed, not fully trusting himself to speak without sounding like an idiot.
Ruth craned herself over him, looking down into his eyes as he lay on the white linen hammock. ‘Even now you can’t relax,’ she said plainly.
‘Especially now,’ he replied.
‘We have nothing to do at this moment, no commitments or responsibilities. The Ghost is occupied, the sailors are sailing. We are alone.’
She kissed him again. This time it lingered. Her lips parted gently and he closed his eyes, letting the sensation ripple through his body. They remained there for what seemed like days.
* * *
Utha the Ghost dreamt. When he wasn’t awake and vomiting, murmuring quiet insults to the waves, he was lost in his own mind. When Ruth had touched his mind in the Fell, she had awoken something within him. Now, his sleeping hours were filled with visions and dreams of obscure places and bizarre beings for which he didn’t have names. Creatures lived and died in worlds of imagination and realms of fantasy.
He believed that he saw the halls beyond the world, but he couldn’t understand what he saw. His eyes were not equipped to translate the vistas of castles, mountains, halls and caverns that his dreams showed him. He saw ethereal roads, arcing through the eldritch sky. He saw patterns and silhouettes colliding together.
The upper and lower void, the faded pathways, the fragment of R’lyeh, the flesh halls, the dreamlands, the plateaus of Leng, the sea of urges. None of it made sense, but he could see it and it did not drive him mad. He was unique among men. He could perceive beyond the world and keep his mind intact.
The only thing that
made sense was the pull southwards, the desire to find the staircase, the labyrinth and the guardian. Utha believed that he could reach beyond the world – that he was the last being who could do so. He wasn’t given to selflessness, or to follow vague intuitions and dreams, but someone – or something – was summoning him.
He’d always been an outsider, since before he joined the church, since before he cared about his pale skin and pink eyes. He didn’t belong and he’d always assumed that was his calling from the One God, a part of being infused with death.
But what his dreams told him was that he didn’t belong because he was not entirely human. If for no other reason than to discover who he was, Utha the Ghost, last old-blood of the Shadow Giants, would walk up the stairs, traverse the labyrinth and defeat the guardian.
CHAPTER 2
KALE GLENWOOD IN THE DUCHY OF HARAN
THE WALLS OF Ro were an impressive sight to a man who had never been to the western lands of Tor Funweir. The path through the mountains had been easy. It would have been dangerous, but Rham Jas had effortlessly seen off three bandit attacks. Glenwood had given the third group a chance to run, but they’d stubbornly refused to believe that the diminutive Kirin was dangerous.
The assassin had chosen to ride in the lead for the last few days and had actually stooped to talk to his companion. It seemed that Rham Jas Rami, arguably the most infuriating man he had ever met, was actually looking forward to their arrival in Ro Haran. He’d even spoken at length about his intention to get blisteringly drunk once he’d killed Shilpa the Shadow of Lies. After the events of the last few months Glenwood thought they both deserved it... assuming that for once they weren’t running away from their enemies.
As they followed the trail down through the mountains, the river lands of Haran came into view. In the valley were clusters of wooden villages where fishermen lived peaceful lives, isolated from the rest of Tor Funweir by the mountain range known as the Walls of Ro.
They were not yet within sight of the city, but it was no more than a day’s ride away. He had never seen the high banners of Haran, but the heraldry of the red hawk was well known, as were the city garrison, the Hawks.
‘Do you think the fishermen will have anything to drink?’ he asked, as the path dropped below the reach of the biting wind that lashed the higher altitudes.
Rham Jas turned in his saddle with a dubious grin. ‘Goat’s milk, maybe home-brew... nothing worth paying for.’
‘Anything worth stealing?’ countered Glenwood.
‘There might be some buxom young farmers’ daughters down there,’ said Rham Jas with a chuckle.
‘You’re not that charming, Rham Jas.’
They both laughed at that.
‘Where do we go from here?’ asked Glenwood, as the trail grew steeper. ‘From Haran, I mean. Assuming you kill Shilpa with your customary style and grace.’
‘Well, we’ll need to tell the duke that his city’s free... assuming he doesn’t kill us on sight... and then it’s off to Ro Weir.’ The Kirin was grinning broadly as he spoke.
‘And that Saara woman, yes?’
‘That’s the idea,’ replied the assassin. ‘If all goes well, you should be back in Ro Tiris and plying your nefarious trade within a couple of months.’ He patted his companion on the back in comradely fashion. ‘It’s okay, Kale, no need to thank me.’
‘Fuck you, Rham Jas,’ responded Glenwood, with an ironic smile.
‘Aren’t you sweet?’
They rode for a while until the ground levelled out and the wind dropped away completely. Some way to the north, across the rugged plains, Glenwood could see riders heading away from them at a trot. Otherwise the two men were alone in the duchy of Haran.
‘See those riders?’ asked Rham Jas, pointing. ‘We’ve been spotted.’
‘Who are they? Friend or foe?’
‘They look like Hawks to me.’
The assassin raised his head as if he’d caught a scent on the wind. ‘I think we’ll know in a minute.’ He gestured to the south. Glenwood turned, just as six more riders emerged from a rocky outcropping.
As the riders approached, Glenwood was relieved to see their weapons were sheathed, though all were dressed in full battle armour. Rham Jas pulled back on his reins and wheeled his horse to a halt on the gravel path. Glenwood followed suit and the two men waited for the news or, more likely, confrontation the riders would bring.
All six wore the heraldry of Duke Alexander, a tabard bearing a red hawk volant, and well-maintained chain mail underneath. They wore short swords and rectangular shields, and the hard expressions of professional soldiers. Their faces suggested they had seen neither a bath nor a bed in some time.
‘The road is closed, friend,’ announced the lead rider.
Nudging his horse forward, Rham Jas held his empty hands wide. Glenwood followed. Their leader was a man of Haran of middle age and the chevrons on his shoulder suggested an officer’s rank.
‘We have business in Ro Haran, captain,’ said Rham Jas, showing more knowledge of the Ro military than his companion would have credited.
‘Not today you don’t, Kirin... any business you have can wait until the city is open to travellers. No exceptions,’ replied the soldier.
The assassin nodded and glanced to where the other riders had disappeared northwards. ‘You are the duke’s men?’
A chuckle erupted from some of the Hawks, though the captain looked unimpressed. ‘We are Hawks of Ro, Kirin,’ he replied scornfully.
‘I know that,’ said Rham Jas. ‘What I mean to ask is, are you still the duke’s men or do you follow... a new mistress?’
Worryingly, Glenwood noticed the Kirin’s hand rest casually on the hilt of his katana. Well, if Rham Jas intended to fight half a dozen men of Haran, he was welcome to do so... without Glenwood’s aid.
‘We follow General Alexander Tiris,’ replied the captain. ‘The Karesian witch holds no sway over us.’
At the mention of the enchantress, the faces of the Hawks became ominous.
‘That’s good, then,’ said Rham Jas, with a disconcertingly friendly grin. ‘Would it be possible for us to have a little chat with your general?’
The captain frowned. ‘Why?’ he asked.
‘I’m here to kill your witch,’ replied the assassin cheerfully. ‘It’s only polite to let the duke know that he’ll soon be able to return to his city.’
The Hawks were silent. The captain nudged his horse forward until he was as close to Rham Jas as their horses would allow. Glenwood felt the Hawk assessing the Kirin, taking particular note of his katana.
‘I’m Captain Brenan of the Walls,’ he said. ‘What is your name, Kirin?’
‘I’m Rham Jas Rami, friend to Lord Bromvy of Canarn and enemy to the Seven Sisters.’ He wasn’t grinning now and Glenwood caught a rare note of seriousness in his voice.
Brenan nodded slowly. ‘Bromvy’s a Black Guard and you’re wanted by the Crown,’ said the captain. ‘They say you killed an enchantress in Tiris in front of a hundred armed men.’
Glenwood coughed. ‘Probably a few more than that, but most of them weren’t armed.’
‘And who are you?’ asked Brenan, turning to face him.
‘Me? No one really, just a loyal companion... well, a companion. My name is Glenwood. I’m mostly just here for the scenery.’
A few of the Hawks chuckled, but the captain shook his head and returned his attention to the assassin.
‘Well, maybe you and your pet here,’ he gestured at Glenwood, ‘should come and meet the general.’
The Kirin’s grin returned. ‘Excellent. Just one thing, though, what do we call him?’ He pouted and there was a note of cheek in his voice. ‘You Ro are obsessed with titles and your general seems to have more than most people. What is he, duke, prince, general, what?’
Captain Brenan smiled wryly. He seemed not overly impressed with Rham Jas. Glenwood thought his men looked even less impressed by the slight against their general.
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‘You can call him whatever you like, but he’ll likely kill you if you piss him off,’ replied the captain. ‘So be on your best behaviour.’
Rham Jas smirked as though he were about to say something caustic. Thankfully, after a moment’s thought, he merely nodded.
Brenan motioned them to follow, wheeling his horse off the path and towards the north. The others paused until Glenwood and Rham Jas had nudged their mounts after the captain, and then closed in formation behind. They broke into a gentle trot, travelling smoothly on to the lowlands of Haran.
‘No matter what soldier-boy says, I’m not your fucking pet, okay?’ whispered Glenwood.
‘I actually liked the sound of loyal companion,’ replied Rham Jas, with a smug grin. Glenwood felt like punching him.
* * *
It was several hours before they saw signs of life, albeit just abandoned fishing huts on the banks of the Red River. Captain Brenan said something about it being too cold for the trout this far inland. It was odd that a captain would trouble himself with such a mundane fact. The other Hawks, once they had become accustomed to their new travelling companions, filled the journey with equally trivial matters of weather, hunting and the seasons. By the time they reached a wooden watchtower that marked the edge of the duke’s lands, Glenwood knew more than he wanted to about the winter migration of the local cattle and the hardy men who herded them.
For a man who had spent little time outside the city, he felt he was becoming strangely accustomed to this rough life. Since he and Rham Jas had left Ro Tiris, what seemed like a hundred years ago, he had not slept in a bed for more than a night at a time. As they had traversed the wilds of Tor Funweir he’d even learned how to light a campfire and to skin a rabbit. He still left the business of catching and preparing Gorlan to his less squeamish companion, but he shared all the other duties.
