Monument

by Ian Graham

  Behind him he heard the Commander say, ‘Crask, the sleeping draught has profound side effects. Look at him: he is as frail as a child.’

  ‘He will have recovered by nightfall,’ replied Crask.

  ‘And in the meantime?’

  ‘He will feel ill,’ said Crask simply, ‘as if fever-struck.’

  Ballas squinted through slitted eyes. The light burned like a hot needle thrust into his brain. He wanted to shut his eyes again—yet he resisted the urge to do so. Painful sight was preferable to comfortable blindness. If he was to escape, he needed to remain alert. He gazed around the swamp, looking for anything that might help him. But he found nothing.

  Then things got worse.

  From a hipbag, the Commander took out a long silver chain, looped at one end. Approaching Ballas, he dropped the loop over the big man’s head.

  ‘A choker,’ said the Commander, idly grasping the other end. ‘Such devices tame the most ill-behaved curs. True, it is an ugly, brutal implement—yet remarkably effective. Not only on dogs—’ he yanked the chain ‘—but humans, too.’

  The loop slid tight around Ballas’s neck. The sharp, hard links jerked against his throat-apple, squeezing it deeper into his neck. The pain was instant. Choking, Ballas coughed— then retched pale bile. Eyes watering furiously, he dropped to his knees. As if pleased by the effect, the Commander pulled the loop even tighter. Pitching on to his side, Ballas grasped the chain near the loop to prevent it tightening further.

  The Commander glared balefully at him. ‘Lower your hands,’ he snapped. ‘Release the chain.’

  Ballas refused.

  Snarling, the Commander swung his boot into Ballas’s face. Ballas toppled on to his back. He looked involuntarily up at the sky. Though mist-obscured, it shone with dawn light— and this light lanced excruciatingly into his brain. Groaning, he shut his eyes again, embracing darkness once more.

  On the porch floorboards, Ballas quivered. He felt the chain strung around his throat. He felt echoes of the light-sparked pain. He felt the after-effects of the sedative, swirling through his blood like an ague.

  And he shivered. A hard, angry spasm.

  He was naked, he realised—except for his leggings. Crask must have stripped off his marsh-wet clothing when he’d arrived at the cottage. Now Ballas was bare to the morning’s frost. The cold slid over him like a sheet of ice. His teeth chattered, his bones ached.

  He opened his eyes again, cautiously.

  ‘Bring me something warm to wear,’ he said, slowly.

  The Commander laughed. ‘You crave warmth? You crave a soft woollen tunic, a scarf and gloves? These are the privileges of decent citizens. Do you imagine that, when you are delivered to the Masters, you will experience comfort?’ He spat on to the porch. ‘I dare say you will then look fondly on your present misery. You will picture yourself as you are now and imagine yourself to have been a blessed soul, reclining on a river bank in the warmest region of heaven.’

  ‘I shall freeze to death,’ breathed Ballas. He noticed that the marsh water was half-frozen. The reeds protruded through thin plates of ice. The rush-tips glittered. ‘You want the Masters to have me alive. Yet you do nothing to stop me dying.’

  ‘Get on your feet,’ snapped the Commander, ‘and start walking. In case you do not know, fat man, exercise can keep the cold at bay.’

  He tugged lightly on the chain. The loop slithered fractionally tighter. Gasping, Ballas struggled to his feet. Then he shivered even more fiercely than he had before.

  ‘Wait,’ said Crask’s daughter, setting down the eel basket she’d been holding. Turning, she vanished into the cottage. She reappeared moments later, carrying a rough grey cape. She draped it over Ballas’s shoulders, tying the lacings loosely around his neck. ‘Not all of us,’ she said, eyeing the Commander, ‘are barbarians.’

  ‘Your daughter has learned the virtue of compassion,’ said the Commander, glancing at Crask. ‘A pity she has not also learned to be discriminate. Save mercy for those who deserve it. And who have a long life ahead of them.

  ‘Keep your muscles warm, and loose,’ said Crask’s daughter, ignoring the Commander’s jibe.

  Her words struck Ballas as strange. She was not urging him merely to stay warm—but to avoid growing stiff. Squinting, the big man turned his face to hers. In her eyes he saw—or thought he saw—nervousness. Even fear.

  ‘Try to keep moving,’ she said, quietly. Then, glancing at the Commander, she added loudly, ‘That way, you will not freeze.’

  She touched Ballas on the small of his back—a fleeting nudge with her fingertips. Was that significant? wondered Ballas. Or simply a casual gesture, something meant simply to comfort a condemned man?

  Crask’s daughter stooped for her eel basket.

  The Commander snorted. ‘A touching scene. Now, let us be moving.’ He swept his gaze around the marshes. ‘I am sick of this place already.’

  They started southwards, toward Keltherimyn. Lugen Crask led the way. Behind him, the Commander held the chain, pulling Ballas steadily onward. Crask’s daughter walked alongside the three Wardens.

  No one spoke. The only noise came from boots crunching through ice. And from the Commander, whistling softly—and tunelessly, as if the quietness bothered him and he was trying to break it by any means.

  They arrived at a long row of broad, flat stepping stones. Looking around, Ballas dimly recognised the area. It was the spot where the eels had attacked him. Grunting, he realised that if he had been more attentive he would have spotted the stepping stones on his way to Crask’s home. Walking on them, he would have been beyond the eels’ reach. And then—then he wouldn’t have been poisoned. Crask would not have been able to tie him up. And Ballas would not, at this moment, be the Wardens’ prisoner.

  He swore under his breath.

  They moved along the stepping stones. The Commander watched his footsteps carefully, scarcely glancing up. The other Wardens were also wary. Crask moved blithely over the frost-slick stones, as if heedless of the eels under the ice. And his daughter—

  His daughter halted suddenly.

  ‘I have to rest,’ she said, putting down the eel basket and hunkering down.

  The Commander turned sharply. ‘What?’

  ‘I am tired,’ replied the red-haired woman. ‘I cannot go on. This basket is heavy. My arms are aching.’

  ‘Do not be so weak.’ The Commander gazed sourly at her. ‘You can pause later, when we are in a—’ he gestured at the marsh water ‘—safer place.’

  ‘Commander,’ said Crask’s daughter, ‘I am not stopping through choice. I cannot manage another step—not yet. Give me a few moments—’

  ‘Warden,’ said the Commander to one of his men, ‘Carry the woman’s load for her.’

  ‘Sir?’ asked the Warden, who was young and green-eyed.

  ‘Carry the basket,’ replied the Commander.

  ‘The damn things stink,’ said the Warden, approaching Crask’s daughter. ‘I don’t want to spend the day reeking of dead eels.’

  When he was a few paces away, Crask’s daughter slid her hand into the basket. An instant later, she sprang upright, clutching a thin-bladed filleting knife. The Warden blinked— then reeled, as the cruel blade pierced the underside of his jaw. Losing his footing, he slipped from the stepping stone and sprawled upon the marsh. The ice was thinner here. It creaked briefly, then shattered like sugar glass. The Warden sank into a half-foot-deep stretch of marsh water. Blood splashed a few ice shards, then trickled into the water.

  Ballas did not know why Crask’s daughter had attacked the Warden. Yet one thing was clear: he had to act quickly. Sprinting at the Commander, he kicked him hard in the stomach. The Commander wheezed, bending forward at the waist. Ballas slammed a knee into his face. The Commander arched backwards, and crashed from the stepping stone into the water. Even when he fell, he still held on to the chain. The loop rattled tight around Ballas’s throat. Choking, the big man felt himself pulled into the ma
rsh. He struck the ice face down, smashing through it instantly. Cold, dark water swirled over him. Something sleek brushed his cheekbone.

  An eel.

  Scrambling to his feet, Ballas grasped the chain and wrenched it free of the Commander’s grip. Loosening the loop, he drew it from round his neck, then leaped on to the stepping stone.

  There was a moment in which time froze. A shocked stillness settled on the marsh. The injured Warden was sitting upright in the water. The Commander was on his feet once more, his eyes wide. Lugen Crask gaped uncomprehendingly. The three remaining Wardens stood statue-still.

  Crask’s daughter broke the stillness. Spinning, she sank the filleting knife into a Warden’s stomach. He stumbled, then fell; his limbs splayed, he stayed spreadeagled on the stepping stone. Drawing his sword, another Warden ran at Crask’s daughter. Lifting the weapon, he aimed a skull-splitting blow at the young woman—

  But Ballas swung the chain at him, the end wrapping around the Warden’s wrist. With a sharp tug, he jerked the man off his feet. As the Warden toppled, Ballas ran over, then stamped a boot down on his throat. Snatching up the man’s sword in an awkward two-handed grip, Ballas spun round and swept the blade-tip across the last Warden’s throat. Blood spurted on to his tunic front. Growling, Ballas slammed the blade down into his head. The man’s eyes rolled; he fell limply into a clump of reeds.

  A cry shook the air.

  Around the Warden who Crask’s daughter had stabbed the marsh water seemed to slither and lurch. Dirty foam bubbled around the young man. His body jolted, as if seized by a fit. He tried to stand, yet something was restricting his movements. Shrieking, he struck at whatever was under the surface. Through the churning water Ballas glimpsed eels. He saw thick bodies. Variously coloured skins. Tiny swollen eyes. And teeth, sparkling like barbs of frost.

  The Warden dropped backwards.

  Screaming, the Commander tried to scramble up on to a stepping stone. But he couldn’t find any purchase on its slippery surface. Turning, he ran in high wading strides through the water to a clump of tussocks. Clambering on to the raised patch of ground, he glanced back at Ballas.

  Then he started off into the mist.

  Swearing, Ballas wrenched the sword from the last Warden’s head and hurled it clumsily towards the Commander. The blade spun murmuring through the air—and landed several yards to the Commander’s left. Ballas cursed his poor aim. Then he fell silent. The Commander was slowing down. He stumbled from side to side, as if drunk. Then his knees buckled, and he collapsed.

  Ballas walked unhurriedly over the stepping stones to the tussocks. The Commander lay on his side. His eyes rolled in their sockets and he breathed in short, sharp gasps.

  Blood seeped from a tear in his leggings, just above his ankle. Ballas tugged the tattered cloth aside. Beneath it lay a circle of bite marks, oozing blood.

  Ballas gazed evenly at the Commander.

  ‘You should have killed me,’ he said, grasping the Commander’s wrist.

  He dragged the law-keeper towards the marsh water. The man seemed to be trying to speak: his lips quivered and a thin rasping noise came from his throat. But Ballas ignored him.

  At the edge of the tussocks, he paused. Then he rolled the Commander into the water. Within seconds, a hundred glossy, slender bodies were swarming over him. They coiled around his face and slithered into his mouth, devouring him from the inside out. The Commander’s goggling eyes gazed helplessly at Ballas. The big man held his stare for a moment. Then he went back over the stones to Crask and his daughter.

  Lugen Crask was frantic.

  ‘Sweet grief,’ he said, looking at the dead Wardens. ‘Oh—sweet grief! There are not words—’ He spun to face his daughter. ‘What have you done? You stupid girl!’

  ‘They meant to kill us,’ explained the red-haired woman. ‘When I was returning with the eels, I passed the window of the sleeping room and heard them talking. They wanted to tell the Masters that they alone had tracked and captured the fugitive. But they feared we would contradict this tale …’

  Lugen Crask licked his lips. ‘Why has this happened to me? To us!What have we done to warrant such—’

  ‘Untie me,’ interrupted Ballas, holding out his rope-bound hands.

  Lugen Crask blinked.

  ‘Come on!’ snapped Ballas. ‘Untie me!’

  ‘You—you are a fugitive,’ stammered Crask. ‘I ought not—’

  ‘We are all fugitives,’ retorted Ballas, angry at the old man’s hesitation. ‘Your daughter and I have murdered Wardens. And you did nothing to stop us.That is a crime, old man.’

  Crask did not move. Suddenly, his daughter leaned over the stepping stone and pulled the filleting knife from the second Warden’s stomach. Striding to Ballas, she began sawing through his bonds.

  ‘What are you doing?’ shouted Crask, grasping her wrist.

  ‘Did you not hear what he said? We are all fugitives!’

  ‘I know what my crime is,’ said Crask, dragging his daughter away. ‘And I know what yours is. But this man’s? He was a fugitive before he came here. We do not know what he has done. Although I suspect it was a violent deed. He seemed too easy with such …’ His voice trailed off.

  The filleting knife had sliced halfway through the rope. Now, clenching his fists and jerking them apart, Ballas snapped the remaining strands. The effort sent blood racing to his skull. A wave of nausea swept over him. For an instant, he felt dizzy. He swayed upon the stepping stone. Then he found his balance.

  Breathing heavily, he said, ‘Crask, you have seen how easily … how quickly a man’s luck can turn sour. How fate ran piss on him. Well, it pissed on me once by making me a first offender. Now it pisses on me again, making me a repeat criminal. Don’t think I brought it on myself. I didn’t.’ He glanced around the marsh. ‘We cannot stay here.’

  Crask stared at him.

  The Wardens in Keltherimyn will soon wonder where their Commander is. This will be the first place they look.’

  ‘You are mistaken,’ said Crask firmly. ‘If the Wardens intended to do as Heresh said … to pretend they, not I, captured you, they will have told no one they were coming here.’

  ‘Crask, you forget what you are,’ said Ballas.

  Crask frowned. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘You smuggled forbidden texts. You have been a criminal. Consequently, in Keltherimyn you are mistrusted.’ He scowled. ‘When they realise their Commander is missing, the Wardens will seek you out. Your only choice is whether to remain here and face them—or to escape.’

  Crask’s mouth worked noiselessly.

  ‘It is a choice,’ said Ballas, ‘that is truly no choice at all.’

  They returned to the cottage, leaving behind the eel-gnawed corpses of the Wardens and their Commander. On the porch Crask’s daughter, Heresh, prised leeches from her boots with the filleting knife, then passed the implement to her father. Crask did the same, flicking the fat-bodied parasites into the marsh. Then he held out the knife to Ballas. As Ballas took it, unease flickered in the old man’s eyes. Stooping, Ballas cut the leeches from his own boots. Then, straightening, he grabbed Crask’s tunic collar. ‘Inside,’ he said, shoving the man through the door. Seizing Heresh’s upper arm, he jostled her through as well.

  Ballas glanced across the marshes, as though wary of being watched. Yet there was no one else in this quiet, vapour-clogged place.

  He stepped inside.

  Crask and his daughter stared at him. A heavy silence hung in the room. Using the knife, Ballas gestured at Crask. ‘Bring me my vest and tunic,’ he said.

  ‘I will get them,’ said Heresh, moving towards a door in the far wall.

  Ballas stepped in front of her, blocking her way. ‘I told your father to bring them—and he will. Crask, do as I say.’ He looked intently at Heresh. ‘I do not trust you, woman.’

  Crask disappeared through the door. Alone with Heresh, Ballas stood upright, swaying slightly. He felt sick to his guts. Fr
eezing sweat trickled down his face. His eyes still burned. ‘Your father said that by eveningfall I will have recovered from the sleeping draught. Is that true?’

  Heresh did not respond.

  ‘Is that true?’ shouted Ballas, his voice filling the small room.

  Heresh flinched, as though he’d slapped her. Her mouth slightly open in shock, she stayed silent. Yet this time her silence had a different reason, Ballas knew. Moments ago she’d been defiant, stubborn. Now she was simply too frightened to reply.

  That was good, thought Ballas. If she feared him, she was less likely to cause trouble. Ballas stared intently at her, concentrating on her dark hazel eyes and her reddish hair, a few strands of which had escaped her ponytail and hung loose.

  ‘Why are you staring at me?’ she asked quietly.

  ‘I was thinking …’

  ‘Thinking what?’

  Ballas shrugged. ‘You would make a good whore,’ he replied. ‘In Soriterath … in any city in Druine, men would pay a lot to lie with you. Perhaps we can reach an agreement later, hm? Your talents are wasted here, in the marshes. It would be more profitable to put a different type of eel into a different type of basket.’

  Heresh fell silent once more—and this time she was mute with disgust.

  Lugen Crask returned, carrying Ballas’s clothes. Quickly, Ballas tugged on his vest and tunic. Then he drew the woollen cape around his shoulders. He felt no warmer for doing so.

  ‘Yesterday,’ he said, turning to Crask, ‘we spoke of Belthirran. And you lied to me.’

  ‘Lied?’ stammered Crask.

  ‘Yes, lied,’ repeated Ballas. ‘About one thing and another. You said no one knows what lies on the other side of the Garsbracks. You said every map that might lead a man over the mountains has vanished …’

  ‘Every word I spoke is true,’ retorted Crask.

  ‘My friend,’ said Ballas, ‘I have spent much time among liars. I know their habits, their manners. And you are a liar.’

  ‘If a truth displeases you, it is a lie—is that your logic?’

  Ballas grew very still. With the knife-tip, he gestured to the front door. ‘You,’ he said, to Heresh, ‘go outside.’