by Ian Graham
Dropping the plank, the barge-master moved to the door.
‘What are you doing?’ groaned Ballas.
‘I am going out there,’ said the barge-master mildly.
‘Don’t be a fool,’ retorted Ballas. ‘Last night, you whined you didn’t know why the Wardens attacked the barge. You wondered if they were hunting you …’
‘I spoke those words,’ agreed the barge-master. ‘But I fear that, as is my tendency, I was being insincere. I heard you tell the Wardens of your sin. I confess its magnitude impressed me. You attacked a Master: few men can make an equal boast. And that talk of a Lectivin, in the Church’s employ … That is intriguing. But it is none of my business. It matters only that I live. And if my life depends on betrayal …’ He shrugged. Slowly, he half-opened the barn door. Then he thrust out his empty hands so the Wardens could see he was unarmed. He shouted to them: ‘I am surrendering. Allow me to come out: I am not the man you seek. He is in here, and incapacitated. Act quickly, and he will not trouble you.’
The barge-master slipped outdoors. Ballas listened for the dull thunk of a crossbow bolt sinking into a living body. Yet it seemed the Wardens had believed the barge-master. Groaning, Ballas got on to all fours. He looked through the gap. The barge-master was talking with the Wardens, pointing towards the barn.
The Wardens glanced at each other. Then they grinned.
Cursing, Ballas got unsteadily to his feet. The barge-master’s blows to his head had dazed him. The barn seemed to roll and tilt like a seashell tumbled by an ocean current. Stooping, he seized the pitchfork. His hands were blood-greased. He wiped the dark fluid on his tunic. Then he gripped the haft, holding the pitchfork horizontal. Leaning heavily against a pillar, he waited.
Both Wardens entered at the same moment.
An instant later the pitchfork plunged into the nearest Warden’s chest. He gazed at the implement, a look of bemused confusion on his face. He touched the pitchfork with quivering fingertips and looked at Ballas, perplexed. Then he sank to the floor, next to the crossbow he’d dropped. As he did so, Ballas sprinted forward, wrenched out the pitchfork and stabbed the prongs into the second Warden’s throat. His crossbow clattered from his hands. Ballas withdrew the pitchfork, and plunged it deep into the Warden’s guts. He dropped, sprawling lifelessly across his colleague.
Panting, Ballas glanced to his right.
The barge-master was watching him through the barn door. His lips were working noiselessly. His eyes were glazed; his stare was that of a man who knows he is already dead. He looked at the Wardens. Then he turned and ran.
Moving unhurriedly, Ballas picked up one of the crossbows. A black-fletched bolt nestled in the loosing gully. Ballas stepped casually outdoors.
The barge-master was fifty yards away, sprinting over the moors. Lifting the crossbow, Ballas squinted, taking a careful aim. Then, very slowly, he pulled the trigger.
A heartbeat later the barge-master fell. Blinking, Ballas walked over to him.
A bolt stuck out from the back of the barge-master’s knee-joint. He writhed, his stubby-fingered hand clutching at moor-grass.
‘Oh, sweet grief,’ he said, his voice cracking. ‘Please, please … Be merciful! Let me help you. I have friends in the north: they will be of great use …’
‘Of great use?’ sighed Ballas, sounding both bored and weary. Kneeling, he gripped the bolt, then wrenched it from the barge-master’s leg. The barge-master howled. Ballas snapped the blood-slick quarrel into the crossbow and swiftly pulled the weapon’s cord tight again to reset it, ready to fire once more. Using the toe of his boot, he rolled the barge-master on to his back.
‘I can help you get to Belthirran!’ screamed the barge-master, his gaze fixed on the arrowhead.
Ballas squinted. ‘Belthirran?’ he asked, uncertain if he had heard correctly.
‘Belthirran,’ echoed the barge-master. ‘The Land Beyond the Mountains. That is what you want, is it not? All last night, you were muttering its name in your sleep.’
From deep in Ballas’s memory, his dream floated up— momentarily as bright and vivid as a freshly woven tapestry.
He had been seated on a stone ledge shot through with red-tinged copper veins. A green valley sprawled below. There were farmhouses and cattle fields. In the far distance, figures moved. Though he couldn’t discern their features, he sensed they were happy. And contented. Those feelings washed over Ballas. Upon his high ledge, he felt at ease. He was gazing upon Belthirran—and it soothed him.
Belthirran.
The name spun through Ballas’s mind. A place untroubled by Wardens. Or blue-robed priests. A place where no sermons were intoned, no Scarrendestin effigies gleamed.
He looked intently at the barge-master.
‘Spare me,’ said the wounded man, ‘and I will prove of some use. I swear it!’
‘You know the way to Belthirran?’
‘No,’ replied the barge-master, ‘but I know of men who do. Years ago, I traded in forbidden texts. Documents outlawed by the Church. Treatises on magic, astrology, mathematics … Back then, this profession could make a man rich. Among scholars there was a hunger for such things. Some of the texts concerned Belthirran. Some were descriptions of the Land Beyond the Mountains. Others had maps showing routes over the mountains. A few of these may still exist. There is a man in Keltherimyn who’ll know where they are.’
‘What’s his name?’
The barge-master stared meaningfully at the bolt. ‘Please …’
Grunting, Ballas lowered the crossbow.
‘He is called Lugen Crask. Like myself, he was a smuggler. But he was far more deeply involved than I was.’
‘Lugen Crask,’ repeated Ballas softly.
‘He is well known in Keltherimyn. He was captured by the Church once—but they spared him. Most smugglers were sent to the gallows. But Crask merely served a prison sentence. He spent two decades in a cell in Salworth.’
Ballas peered at the barge-master. And decided that he was telling the truth. The man trembled and every muscle in his face was taut. He was too frightened to weave such an elaborate lie.
‘Lugen Crask, at Keltherimyn,’ said Ballas, lodging the names in his memory.
The barge-master nodded.
Ballas raised the crossbow, aiming at the mid-point between the barge-master’s brows.
‘What?’ The barge-master stared uncomprehendingly. ‘You promised—’
‘I promised nothing.’
‘Bastard,’ breathed the barge-master. Bitterness crept into his voice. ‘I hope you die, you bastard. I hope the Wardens find you and kill you, and your death is a torment.’ Suddenly he laughed—a half-hysterical sound. ‘Sooner or later you will be caught. For there is nowhere you can escape to. Belthirran is a myth, a rumour. True, some men claim to have been there. But they are not to be trusted. They are madmen, liars, fantasists.’ He swallowed hard. ‘Abandon dreams of Belthirran. The Wardens won’t rest till your blood is on their knives. You will be ripped apart.’
‘Perhaps,’ agreed Ballas. Then he squeezed the crossbow’s trigger.
Chapter 9
And across the land, this pale pilgrim
Moved, caring nothing for good
But following the path of evil, and seeking
The place of power where the true Pilgrims
Were to coincide …
For three days Ballas rode northwards, with a stealth that was rapidly becoming habitual. He avoided the wheel-rutted roadways as far as he could. The lightly trampled paths, cutting through the green-yellow moorland grass, were less dangerous because they were less frequently ridden upon. Yet Ballas again chose caution, riding where he could through hills or beside rivers. His only company was the black mare on which he sat, stolen from a slain Warden outside the deserted barn. And the creatures that dwelled on the windswept, rain-blasted moors. Pheasants, deer, badgers—even those free-wandering grey wolves that, for the time being, had escaped extermination by the Pilgrim Church.
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At night, Ballas bedded down in places that provided meagre comfort. Caves, forests, the gaps between tall lichen-blotched limestone blocks—they all gave shelter of a kind. In the moments before sleep—and as he rode, through grey, drizzly daylight—he thought of Belthirran: the Land Beyond the Mountains.
Ballas suspected it was a heathen land. A place unsullied by the Pilgrim Church. Whenever he thought of Belthirran, he saw his dream. He saw fields, cattle, far-off cook-fire smoke. A place of ease, of rest.
Small wonder that he should think so often of Belthirran. That it should glimmer in his mind’s eye when he woke at dawn. That it should come to life when he settled to sleep at dusk.
Yet Ballas did not know what Belthirran truly was. He felt a near-overwhelming urge to gallop northwards to the mountains. Yet he acted with restraint. It was unwise, he thought, to behave as if he knew for certain that Belthirran existed. The Land Beyond the Mountains was a rumour. A thing of speculation … of dreams. It might not exist. Or might not exist as he imagined it. Beyond the Garsbrack Mountains there might be nothing save ocean water. Or dry, dead soil, unable to support life. Or a wilderness, wolf-prowled, boar-haunted—a place too fierce for man to dwell within.
Ballas hungered for Belthirran. Yet he had to be certain it would serve his purposes.
After three days Ballas reached Keltherimyn. The home of Lugen Crask.
Keltherimyn hunkered on the edge of a north-eastern bend of the Merefed River. It resembled any small dock-town in the Realm. The buildings were made from grey stone and were topped with thatch. The roads were largely unpaved, a latticework of frost-toughened mud. Ballas arrived in the late afternoon. Already, autumnal gloom was settling. His hood pulled up, he rode through the town, wondering how best to locate Lugen Crask.
Where could a former smuggler of forbidden texts be found?
In Ballas’s experience, a man who had once employed his talents illegally often, once his taste for danger had vanished, practised them in a perfectly lawful manner. Maybe Lugen Crask was an archivist. A librarian. Or a tutor to a wealthy merchant’s children.
There were no archives in Keltherimyn. No library. Nor was there any suggestion that, in this impoverished place, there was anyone who could afford a tutor for their offspring. Scowling, Ballas rode along every lane, street and ginnel, finding only taverns, butcher shops, barber-surgeons—and, to the north, a market square that, at this late hour, was shutting down.
Muttering to himself, Ballas decided he ought to find lodgings. Or, for safety’s sake, a warm, inconspicuous place: a stable, again—or maybe the leaf-sheltered roots of a hedge where he could doss down and sleep unnoticed.
It would be a cold night, though. Already, he was shivering. His clothes were damp and he needed something to warm him.
Riding along a lane, he saw a cart travelling the opposite way. A young man with curling brown hair was on foot, leading the horse by its bridle. On the back of the cart nestled a dozen whisky flagons, and various other spirits. Ballas touched the purse tucked behind his belt. His fingertips met hard-rimmed coins—four copper pennies, stolen from the dead Wardens, and the two gold pieces taken from the priest.
That was good. He could at least pay for his drink. He would not need to rob the young man.
‘You there,’ called Ballas, drawing closer. ‘That whisky, is it for sale?’
The young man slowed. ‘Two pennies for a flagon. I brewed it myself; it is fine stuff.’
Remaining in his saddle, Ballas proffered two copper coins. Reaching up, the young man took them.
‘Your face is not familiar, my friend,’ said the young man, walking to the back of the cart.
‘I’m from the south,’ replied Ballas, thinking quickly. ‘I’m on an errand that irks me.’
‘Few visit Keltherimyn for the fun of it,’ said the young man, picking up a flagon. ‘Always, they are driven by need. Why have you come here?’
Ballas hesitated. ‘I’m looking for my uncle.’
‘What is his name?’
‘Lugen Crask.’
The young man paused. ‘Crask?’ He held the flagon, standing motionless. Then, as if a spell had broken, he held the container out to Ballas. ‘Here,’ he said.
‘You seem surprised,’ observed Ballas, taking the flagon.
‘I did not know Crask had any family—except for his daughter. And she is an odd piece.’
‘Odd?’
‘Withdrawn. Too wise for her years. She looks at people as if they are beasts … as if they are eels … Ha! I should watch my tongue. For I am speaking of your cousin, am I not?’
Ballas shrugged. ‘Speak freely. Me and Crask are bound by blood—not by loyalty. And as for his daughter? We’ve never met. Our family unravelled long ago, not that it was ever lightly stitched.’ He slipped the flagon into his saddlebag. ‘I’m here to tell him it’s unravelled even further—and irreparably.’
‘A death?’ said the young man, understanding immediately.
‘Crask’s brother—my father.’
‘I am sorry to hear it. It is a terrible thing, to lose a parent.’
‘Where can I find my uncle?’
The young man pointed northwards. ‘That direction.’
‘What’s the street name?’
‘Street name? Truly, you haven’t spoken with your uncle for some time. He does not live on a street; unless every channel among the reeds counts as one.’ The young man smiled. He has a cottage out in the marsh. If you’d been here a half-hour earlier, you would have found him in the market. He trades here-’
‘Trades? What does he trade?’ For a moment, Ballas wondered if Crask still smuggled forbidden texts.
‘Eels,’ said the young man. ‘He plucks them from the marsh. And, though I have no love for him, I confess they are the finest in Druine. White-Tooth, Red-eye, Mottled Spider-Crop—he captures them all. Including those commonly thought uncatchable: Skull-Walker, Slender-Alice … He has a rare knack. You will find a gate at the marsh’s edge. Pass through and tread northwards. Eventually, after a half-mile, you will find your uncle’s home.’
With a nod of thanks, Ballas rode through the streets of Keltherimyn to the gate.
Beyond a low fence, the marsh spread out—a rush- and reed-clutched expanse of sodden earth. Pools of water bubbled softly, releasing a pale vapour that lay like gauze upon everything. The day’s weak light scarcely pierced it. Instead, it seemed to linger within it, illuminating it from the inside. A strong odour of decay drifted from the marsh. It was a place where everything that lived also rotted. Slimes of decomposition slicked the vegetation.
There was no path into the marsh. No neat line of stones, nor any stretch of raised dry ground. Grunting, Ballas realised the black mare would not walk placidly over the sinking ground and through clinging undergrowth. Dismounting, he stepped out into the swamp.
His leg plunged calf-deep into the waterlogged ground. Muddy liquid surged over his boots, flooding them. The big man swore, loudly. Still cursing, he trudged on a few paces. And noticed a deadening of his words: within the mist, his profanities—though loudly voiced—scarcely sounded. He paused, listening. Every other noise was also muted. Somewhere, a crow croaked; branches creaked; the water glooped— and each sound, usually clear, was weak and brief.
The mist prickled Ballas’s skin.
He continued walking. After a time, he glanced back. The gatepost had vanished from view. He took a few more steps, and found it increasingly difficult to lift his feet. Water-dwelling weeds ensnared his ankles. Dragging free a foot, he found black leeches—half a dozen, glossy and gently pulsing—stuck to his boots. He stared. Then he noticed other bits of wildlife upon him. On his breeches, pale-bodied spiders crawled. A long centipede slinked along his sleeve; Ballas knocked it away— then found three beetles, their carapaces a swirling metallic purple, creeping up his tunic front. These too he flicked away.
The creatures did not bother him. Years of sleeping rough had accustomed him to
such things. Even before then, as a child living upon a farm, he had been comfortably familiar with all kinds of parasite and insect.
The marsh’s fauna did not worry him.
Until something large and heavy bumped against his shin.
He glanced down. Something briefly broke the water’s surface. In the mist-cloaked light, it was scarcely discernible: just a sleek glistening flash, there for an instant, then gone, slipping underwater.
An eel. A large one, true enough. As heavy as a small child, perhaps. But just an eel, nonetheless.
For some time, Ballas moved onwards.
Then something coiled tightly around his ankle. He stumbled. Pitching forwards, he swept out his right hand, grasping a willow branch. Reflexively, he thrust out his left hand to balance himself and to break his fall if his grip on the branch failed. His hand splashed wrist-deep into the marsh. Cold swamp-water swept over his skin. Then a sharp pain coursed up his arm.
‘Pilgrims’ blood!’ barked the big man, jerking out his hand.
He peered closely at it. In the thick flesh at the base of his thumb there were four small marks. Each was a neat puncture, made by something needle-sharp. At first they were hardly visible. Only when they started bleeding did Ballas see them properly.
‘Bastard,’ he muttered. ‘Pissing whoreson bastard …’
Blood dripped into the water. Below the surface something stirred. An eel’s head emerged, as smooth as a ripened plum. Its mouth open, it surged forwards, drinking the blood-drops. Then it sank away.
Scowling, Ballas sucked the bite wound. He drew his sleeve over it so that the cuff absorbed the blood.
He walked quicker now. As he went he concentrated on what he would say to Lugen Crask. He could not tell him the truth. He could not reveal that he had attacked a Blessed Master. That the Church was hunting him. And that the only sanctuary was Belthirran. He needed to construct a lie. But what?
