The air was noticeably warmer now, and the few villagers who travelled toward the rear of the long, haphazard column had removed their cloaks in the heat of the day. Wilt hadn’t even thought about removing his, he didn’t feel hot in the slightest. He recognised the change in the air, but it was as if the temperature couldn’t penetrate him. He rubbed his fingers across the stone ring on his left hand, accepting the surge of fire as he touched it with his mind. Perhaps he was beyond feeling any temperature changes. Perhaps he was no longer human enough.
Perhaps it’s just the forest cloak Nurtle gave us.
Or that. Wilt chuckled at his dark thoughts and attempted to push them away. The sun was shining, the path they trod was dry and flat, the fields to either side of them shining bright green with the growth of early spring. Even the river that curled past them on one side shone, glinting silver in the sunlight.
The Boroni. It will widen as we continue south, until it wraps around the walls of Sontair itself on its way to the far sea. Its source is high in the mountains, above Redmondis, and it cuts a lone path through the Tangle on its journey south. Its waters are cold and deep. And troubled.
Wilt watched the river flow past them, the current flowing faster than they moved, though its surface seemed calm enough.
If it goes all the way to Sontair, then why don’t we let it carry us along, instead of marching like fools beside it in the hot sun?
Many others have had the same thought before, young Higgs. And no one has ever seen them again. You note none of the villagers or soldiers have suggested such a plan. They know better.
Some of the other travellers seemed to be sharing Wilt’s thoughts. More than one of them glanced toward the rushing waters before dropping their heads and marching on. They had just left one menace behind, they weren’t eager to wade into another.
There was something strange about the surface of the water, something suggestive about the way it swirled and twisted. On impulse Wilt dropped into himself and sent out a weld.
A rushing tide, a swirling chaos. A deep coldness, an ache, reaching for warmth, for life. Dark depths, watching the lights far above, waiting to rise.
Wilt snapped back up to the surface world with a gasp.
There’s something there, in the depths. Something ancient.
Something not to be disturbed. Come, Wilt, leave such dark thoughts. We have a long way to travel.
Wilt nodded and turned his eyes south, away from the river.
24
Petron sat alone in his chamber, his chair turned to face the open sky, his eyes closed, feeling the wind against his cheeks and remembering the soar and bank of flight. If he let his mind go, let it float free in the memory, he could almost lose himself in it. Almost remember the doorway in his mind that led to that form, the doorway that was now lost to him. The doorway that perhaps no longer even existed.
A single tear rolled down his cheek, cold against the wind, and he felt himself being pulled back.
He opened his eyes to stare out across the sky, his mind still somewhere in the past. A knock at the door brought him completely back, and he stood to greet his visitor.
‘Master Petron.’ A young guard strode into the room and saluted, his boot heels clicking together to send an echo bouncing around the thick stone walls of the chamber.
Petron returned the salute with a wave and a smile. They were so serious, these soldiers.
‘What do you have for me, Pierce?’
The guard seemed taken aback by the use of his name, but quickly regained his composure.
‘Uh, the last allocation of the moonsteel—’
‘Weld blade, Pierce, please. Let us all learn to use its proper name,’ Petron corrected gently.
‘Yes, sir. Weld blades. The quartermaster reports that the last allocation has been dispensed. We’re awaiting more from the crafters.’
‘Tell the master he shall have them by the end of the week. The wielders and crafters are working as fast as they can to replicate Heather and Frankle’s work. It is slow going now without them here to help, but we will get there.’
‘Yes sir.’ The guard snapped into another salute.
‘And tell your master to send me five of his best men by sundown. I have a task for them.’
‘Yes sir!’ Pierce’s salute was even more vigorous this time. Every Redmondis guard was desperate for action. They’d spent weeks on end training and drilling within the high stone walls. There would be a clamour of volunteers for this new duty.
Petron waved him out of the room as a high cry echoed out from the open sky.
In the far distance, only just visible against the grey, a black shape approached, gaining in size even as Petron watched.
Moments later the shadow had coalesced into the form of a giant eagle, its enormous wings beating heavily against the rushing wind. Petron watched it, not allowing his thoughts free rein, refusing to let his mind return to that place of want and loss.
They know how much it costs you, seeing them together. Don’t make it any harder for them.
He turned away from the opening and began preparing a large pot of tea over the fire, busying his hands as he contemplated what they had planned. The guards were a precaution; he doubted they would be needed. No, the danger tonight would not be physical.
‘Petron.’
He finished pouring the tea and turned toward the voice, holding out two steaming cups.
‘Nurtle. Jared. You made great time.’
The road to the Redmondis garrison was still rutted with deep trenches at regular intervals, but the high guard towers that had once spiked up along its length hadn’t been rebuilt. Their rubble and lumber had been cleared up and carted away for use in other parts of Redmondis, and the only remaining trace of them were a few indentations in the land where their foundations had once stood.
The trenches too had fallen into disrepair. If Petron had had his way, these too would have been filled in and the twisting network of tunnels that linked them collapsed in on themselves, but even he had to admit finally that the effort required would not be worth it. Instead the tunnel entrances had been sealed to ensure no curious wanderers stumbled into harm, and the rest was left to time to do its work.
The guards had been agreeable, eager even, to help break down the defences that surrounded the garrison. Those who had willingly followed Cantor Cortis in his ill-fated uprising had either fallen in battle or scattered to the winds once his reign had been overthrown, and the remaining guards were keen to wash the stain of that dark time in their history from the land.
Petron had made things clear. No longer would Redmondis require a fortress heart in which to squat and hide. The new Redmondis they were building required nothing more than the skills of its members—wielders, crafters, and guards—working together to become more than their individual parts. The weld blades were just the most recent example of this. Redmondis was flourishing, growing in size and power. It had no reason to fear.
Petron watched the small guard patrol he had requested spread out across the road in front of him, scrutinising each trench they passed, each shadow, on alert for any sign of a threat.
‘They’re wasting their time. There’s nothing here,’ Jared mumbled.
‘They know that. They’re just … keeping in shape,’ Petron replied.
‘Perhaps they grow impatient as well,’ Nurtle added, squeezing Jared’s hand in hers. ‘They do your leadership proud, these soldiers, Petron. They respect you.’
‘They have good teachers, that is all.’
The group moved past another line of trenches, and Petron shuddered at a cold touch on his shoulders as they passed the small sealed door hidden in the shadows.
Nurtle raised her head as if sniffing the wind. ‘Something remains here, soaked into the land. You feel it, Petron.’
‘I do.’
‘Good. That is what we will use. That will be our key.’
‘Our key to where?’
‘To the depths themselves, Petron
. To the darkness that hides within them. To the threat we have yet to face.’
The guards had reached the end of the road and were standing at attention by the great double door that led inside the garrison. Petron sighed as he stared up at it, unable to push the memory of the last time he had been here from his mind.
He stepped forward and slowly traced his fingers in an intricate design across the centre of the door, then stood back and whispered something in a language none of the guards could understand. A deep glow surged seemingly within the timber itself, then flashed as the magical barrier dropped away. Petron waved to the guards, and they stepped forward to lean their shoulders against its weight. With a grudging sigh the heavy door swung open.
‘Come then,’ Petron whispered. ‘Let’s see what still lurks in the dark.’
The guards plunged through, into the shadows.
Moments later Petron stood on the threshold of the garrison, sniffing the stale air that wafted out, waiting for the guards to give the all clear. It smelled of metal and blood, the scent of battle still lingering, clinging to the cold stone walls.
‘This place needs a good airing out.’ Jared coughed and shifted his feet as they waited.
‘The door was sealed for a reason,’ Petron said.
‘And now we open it for a reason,’ Nurtle replied. ‘It is never a good idea to lock our troubles away. They can only grow and fester.’
‘All clear, Master Petron.’ A guard appeared out of the shadows.
‘Very good. Two of you take positions outside. Close the door behind us and don’t allow anyone in or out unless I give the order personally.’
Petron strode past the guard and Nurtle and Jared followed, hands still locked together. As soon as they entered the garrison, the heavy door swung shut behind them with a low boom.
The shadows seemed to melt into retreat as they moved into the entrance chamber, their eyes adjusting quickly to the dim light that seeped in from some hidden window in the ceiling high above. Three guards remained at attention on the far side of the room, and Petron waved them on as he walked.
‘Can you still feel it?’ Nurtle asked.
Petron nodded and continued on in silence. The cold dread he had first felt on the approach to the garrison was stronger now, its weight sinking over his shoulders like an old cloak. Wrapping itself around him and settling in.
The guards ahead darted in and out of their path as they proceeded into the building, ducking into side rooms to ensure no threats were missed. Petron guided Nurtle and Jared along a particular path, taking sudden turns left and right seemingly at random, feeling his way along the twisting corridors, guided by the chill that crept ever closer to his heart.
Finally he stopped by the entrance to a side room, his head bowed.
‘What is it, Petron? Is it Cortis?’ Nurtle whispered.
Petron shook his head, unable to form the words. He waved vaguely into the room, his hand dropping limply to his side and his shoulders shuddering.
Jared and Nurtle stepped past him into the chamber. It was bare except for a long table in the centre. No, not a table. A rack. A device for torture.
Nurtle looked around, noting the heavy shackles that hung from the far wall, and the deep brown stains soaked into the timber of the rack. She squeezed Jared’s hand in sudden comprehension. ‘Come. Petron doesn’t need to see this.’
She bustled Jared out and slipped her free arm into Petron’s, pulling him past the doorway to leave the silent chamber behind.
What is it?
Jared’s question bloomed in her mind.
It is the place where Wrexley was broken. The place where Petron lost everything. Her response was couched in sensations of empathy and terror. Both Jared and Nurtle knew in their hearts that they could never survive such a separation, and the very idea of it sent a cold shiver of dread aching through them. Petron and Wrexley were wielder and ward, not quite as deeply connected as the wildlers who had been forced out of Redmondis, not quite as without limit in the sharing of souls, but a deep bonding of minds nevertheless. To have it torn away would drive most men mad.
A whimper escaped Petron as they continued away from the room, his head still bowed and face in shadow, but the further they walked the more strength he seemed to gain, until he raised his head and shook himself free of Nurtle’s supporting arm. His eyes blazed, a deep anger fuelling the fire inside them.
‘Come. Cortis is not far. What is left of him.’
The guards had already scouted ahead and stood at attention by a doorway at the end of the corridor. Petron’s step quickened as they approached it, eager now to face the chill that still clutched at him.
Through the door the room opened out into a wide formal chamber, much bigger than most of the rooms they had passed by. It was circular, the stone walls bent and curved strangely to form pockets of shadow for guards to lurk in, and in the middle of the room carved stone steps led up to a small stage of sorts, a platform dominated by a single large throne. Sitting on the throne was a corpse, a shrunken, shrivelled husk. Long dead.
Petron stood at the base of the steps leading up to the throne, fists clenched and shaking. He looked ready to charge up the steps and strike the remains of the man who had taken so much away from him, but he held himself in place.
Nurtle stepped past him, patting him gently on the shoulder as she went, still clinging to Jared with her other hand. Neither of them wanted to let go, not here, not with what they could sense haunting the place. Both were secretly terrified that if they dropped their hands they would somehow never get their connection back.
As they moved closer, it was clear the body on the throne was not simply a desiccated corpse. Its skin was shrunken against the bone, its eyes hollow craters staring at them from the other side of life. It looked wholly unnatural. The normal stages of decay should have broken the body down much further by this stage; all that remained should be just stripped bones and dust. Something had preserved this form, almost as if to leave a reminder for all who witnessed it of what waited for them once the light of life was snuffed out.
‘Cantor Cortis,’ Nurtle whispered. She wanted to touch the thing, to feel its reality, to be sure of what she was witnessing, but her instincts halted her hand as soon as it reached out.
‘What is it?’ Jared could sense her unease.
‘I don’t … I’m not sure. But I don’t think anyone should touch it.’
As if in response, a chill wind breathed through the room, its taste stale and cold.
‘I thought the door was closed,’ Jared said.
‘It is,’ Petron replied. ‘This draft comes from deep within the tunnels that riddle this place.’
The breeze died as quickly as it had appeared.
‘Now we are here, what is it exactly you had in mind, Nurtle?’ Petron’s voice was stronger now, clearer, as if all doubt and fear had been shrugged away.
‘I’m not sure,’ Nurtle admitted, turning back to face him.
‘Hold!’ Jared’s urgent call brought all three guards sprinting up to the platform, their weapons drawn, eyes scanning the room for any threat.
‘Jared?’
Jared pointed past Nurtle’s shoulder, his finger shaking, to where Cortis’s remains perched on its throne. ‘It moved.’
25
Wilt sat close to the small fire, though there was no chill in the air. The campsite was quiet, the weary travellers making the most of the opportunity to rest. He stared into the flames of his campfire, enjoying the feeling of them cleansing his mind.
Just like we used to do. In Greystone.
Wilt smiled, then stared out into the dark.
There’s a lot more space here than we had in Greystone. A lot more world than we ever imagined.
Speak for yourself. I was always destined for great things.
Wilt turned back to the fire. The only sounds in the night were the crackle of flames and the occasional splash of movement from the river, shrouded in darkness.
>
We should not have camped so close to the Boroni.
The thought immediately snapped Wilt out of his reverie. He held his breath as he listened, searching for some clue to the sudden tension in the air, but there was nothing to hear.
Are you trying to scare us, Biore?
It’s too quiet. Where are the guards?
Wilt sprang to his feet and looked around. Biore was right, there was no sign of the usual guards patrolling the edge of the stretched column of travellers.
Perhaps they’ve relaxed their patrols, now we’ve left the Tangle behind.
Whatever attacked us in the Tangle is just as likely to strike here, Higgs.
But the Guardian closed the borders.
Higgs is right, wasn’t the goal to seal whatever those creatures were in?
The Boroni flows through the Tangle, Wilt. The trees can’t close that.
Another splash from the direction of the river brought Wilt’s eyes around and his hand to the weld blade on his hip. He stepped away from the light of the fire to allow his eyes to better penetrate the darkness.
It’s no good. There’s no moon, the night is too dark to see anything.
Use your other sight, boy. Use the gifts you have been given.
Wilt obeyed the command without thinking, and padded further out into the inky darkness on four feet, his cat’s vision cutting through the gloom with ease. To one side of the campsite flowed the Boroni, its troubled surface rippling and swirling with the fast flowing current. The river seemed pure silver to the cat’s sight, but no shape broke its surface.
Nothing. There’s nothing there.
A sudden flare of light from the edge of the camp gave the lie to that thought. Sparks crackled into the air as a campfire was kicked by a flailing leg, and a very human cry of pain cut through the unnatural silence of the night. Suddenly chaos broke out on all sides.
They are already among us. You have another form, Wilt. Give it full rein.
Wilt felt the hunger in Biore’s voice, and knew the danger that indulging such a craving could lead to, but he had no other choice. The cat disappeared and darkness itself seemed to take its place as the wraith sliced through the night, arrowing straight toward the sounds of battle.
The Forked Path Page 16
