by Ian Graham
What else could it do? What other talents did it have?
There were crows on the moors. The birds gathered in dark clusters. Whenever Ballas saw them, he grew uneasy. What if they were Wardens?
When he approached some, they flapped away, apparently alarmed. They did much the same when he hurled stones at them. Perhaps, if they’d been Wardens, they would have acted differently. Maybe they would have transfigured into men, and attacked. But Ballas did not know. When the group crested low hills, then sank into the dips on the far side, it did not seem that the crows followed. They did not soar overhead, or skim discreetly over the land, hundreds of yards away. They seemed uninterested in the travellers.
Nonetheless, they disturbed Ballas. They were a problem that he did not want to have to deal with.
As night fell, the group found itself several hundred yards from a village that was perched on a rise near a stream. Drizzle was no longer falling but a nocturnal cold had seized the land. It was tempting to seek lodgings. But the risk was too great.
They struck a sparse camp amid willows growing near the stream. They spent an icy night huddled together. Heresh did not speak. Preoccupied, she wept softly. Elsefar complained about the cold, for a time. Then he grew resigned to his discomfort. Muttering, he sank into a restless half-sleep.
Ballas slept easily. When he woke, the sky was still dark—yet a blueness glowed on the horizon. Dawn was breaking. Leaving the others at the willows, he walked into the village. The streets were silent, empty. From a stable, he stole a steel-grey mare and hitched it to a cart standing outside a butcher’s shop. When footsteps sounded, he hid in a doorway. A young man came along the road, whistling cheerfully as if he were a substitute for those song birds that had fled the winter. He was almost as tall as Ballas—but very thin. He walked in long ungainly strides, and squinted short-sightedly.
As he passed the doorway, Ballas punched him on the side of his head. His whistling ended in a dull toot. He fell unconscious to the mud. Ballas dragged him into the stable, stole his boots—which, despite being too narrow, fitted him comfortably enough—and tied him up with a set of reins.
Ballas rode the cart back to the willows.
‘That should speed things up,’ said Elsefar, pleased.
Following Elsefar’s directions, they rode in a north-westerly direction. They maintained a fast pace, the cart jouncing over the tussock-studded ground. As evening approached, they arrived near a range of high, forested hills. The day had been cloudless. Now the setting sun glinted on every twig-tip. The forest was broad, and deep. Ballas estimated that it covered fifteen, maybe twenty square miles. It was a place of silence. Of seclusion. It did not surprise him when Elsefar said, ‘We are here.’
They halted.
The quill-master pointed one of his crudely fashioned crutches at the forest. ‘This place was my refuge when the Church was herding up those who traded in forbidden texts. And it shall be my refuge once more.’ Manoeuvring himself carefully, he swung down from the cart. He sniffed the air, inhaling forest scents. ‘For a man with my disability—’ he tapped his legs with a crutch ‘—this is not easy terrain. To move from spot to spot is hard work. But survival? That is another matter. If one plans ahead, one can live in something approaching ease. The forest is full of good things. There is food of some sort everywhere, if you care to look. And have the patience, and skill, to lay traps. I lived here for ten years. A long time. Come. I’ll take you to my home.’
‘Wait,’ said Ballas. He walked to the cart. Heresh clambered from the cart-back. She looked exhausted. Her eyes were red-rimmed, the whites bloodshot from constant weeping. She gazed at the forest. She seemed to see the trees, yet not absorb their presence. She knew they were there. But they meant nothing to her.
Ballas unhitched the cart. Then he removed the harness from the horse. Slapping its rump, he startled the creature into a cross-moorland canter. Lifting the shafts, he rolled the cart to the edge of a deep, fast-flowing river. He gave it a single push and it splashed into the water. It sank, then resurfaced, showing only a wheel, a shaft, and its side. The heavy current pulled it away.
‘Such caution,’ said Elsefar, at the forest’s edge, ‘is not needed. No one ever comes here. They never walk past the forest, or set foot inside it. The nearest village is thirty miles away. It has a forest of its own, which the villagers use when they wish to hunt or gather timber. There are no roads close to here. This forest is halfway to nowhere. Its seclusion is almost absolute. That is why it is so safe. That is why I chose it.’
They walked through the forest. There were no paths, but the trees—a mix of oak and sycamore—were widely spaced. Occasionally, their paths were blocked by thorn bushes: huge, densely coiled barbed stalks, impossible to pass through without injury. But this was not a problem. They merely retraced their steps and took a slightly different route.
It had been a long time since Ballas had been in a forest. He had forgotten how soothing such places were. The scent of wet, living wood; the perversely wholesome tang of rotting vegetation; the subtle, sap-thick frequence of mosses … It all calmed him. The trees had a gently mesmerising effect. They lulled him into a happy trance. Unthinkingly, he stepped over protruding roots, walked around deep puddles. For the first time in weeks, he felt vaguely restful.
They walked for an hour. Increasingly excited, Elsefar no longer moaned, or sniped, or sported a disdainful expression.
‘We are almost there,’ he said, looking around. ‘I recognise these trees. These grasses. And … yes: look!’ He pointed to a patch of ground. Peering through the fading light, Ballas saw a snare tied from catgut. The catching loop lay slackly around a rabbit’s leg-bone. Around this, other bones were scattered.
‘You shouldn’t leave snares set, if you aren’t going to take your quarry,’ said Ballas. ‘You’re a poor huntsman, Elsefar.’
‘I survived,’ said the quill-master. ‘I see nothing poor in that. And besides, it was ten years ago. These are ancient bones.’ He drew another deep breath. ‘A full decade … The beauty of forests,’ he said, ‘is that everything changes—yet stays the same. Things renew themselves. New mosses and moulds sprout up. Yet the forest remains as it always was. I had forgotten how much I liked it here.’
‘Why did you leave? Was the Church getting close?’
‘Of course not,’ said Elsefar. ‘They would never suspect that anyone lived here. If you are wise, Ballas, you’ll give up your ridiculous search for Belthirran.’ A sneering note entered his voice. ‘Instead, you’ll find yourself a deep forest and settle down.’ He grew quiet. ‘I left because the solitude did not suit me. But now, I return to it gladly. I can see more clearly its virtues. There is no one here to taunt me. No sick, half-witted souls like the scribes at the copying house.’ He wiped a hand across his mouth. ‘Like those I had to avenge myself upon.’
He continued walking, agitated again.
They emerged on to a patch of open land. The river, into which Ballas had tipped the cart, snaked across the forest floor. A wooden board crossed from bank to bank at the watercourse’s narrowest point. On the opposite side, ten yards back from the river, there was a cave. The entrance was hung with goatskins.
‘I am home,’ said Elsefar, simply. His agitation vanished. He crossed the bridge, and touched the skins. ‘A little rotten,’ he said, thoughtfully, ‘but that is to be expected. No matter. They can easily be replaced.’ A barrier of rope-tied branches stood propped alongside the cave entrance. Elsefar struck it with his crude crutch. ‘Still sturdy. I crafted this myself, of course,’ he said, glancing back at Ballas. ‘There are boar in the forest. Sometimes, they’d wander in while I was sleeping. So I fashioned this: a door of sorts.’ He grinned, exposing tiny yellow-edged teeth. Then he ducked through the skins. Ballas followed, then Heresh.
The cave was dark. Elsefar rattled about in a far corner. A flint struck against steel. A spark flared, and a lantern was lit.
‘The oil is still good,’ said
Elsefar, peering at the lantern. ‘A fine omen, don’t you think?’
The cave was practically unfurnished. Rotting blankets were bundled against a wall. A jumble of objects was clustered in the corner. Cups, bowls, spoons, all carved from wood. A dozen pouches, stuffed with herbs. A thicket of quills and a mound of decomposing parchment. In the centre of the floor there was a circle of stones and inside it was a heap of dark wood-ash. A spit was erected over the fire. There was also some unused firewood, and a bowl of moss kindling.
‘Build us a blaze, Ballas,’ said the quill-master.
Ballas complied, first igniting the kindling from the lantern flame, then heaping the firewood. The wood was slightly damp—yet it soon caught alight.
Elsefar was delighted. ‘Everything is more or less as I left it. A little sodden, perhaps—a little, ah, degraded with time. But so what? Nothing lasts, yes? Nothing remains eternally perfect.’
He shook out a clay cooking pot. A few spider corpses floated out. Elsefar wiped out the pot with his hand. ‘I do not know about you,’ he said, glancing at Ballas, ‘but I am hungry. We have travelled far, over awkward ground. And I wish to eat before I sleep. Fill this with water, will you? Then I’ll heat it up, and if you get what is needed from the forest, I’ll make us a broth.’
Ballas filled the pot from the river. Elsefar told him which roots and berries to gather from the forest, and whereabouts they grew. Ballas stepped into the darkness. Crossing the river, he dug up a clutch of skanndag-root, delving it from the leaf-mould-nourished earth. From a spiky grende bush he collected several pouchfuls of berries. He picked mushrooms sprouting from an oak’s roots, and gathered numerous other ingredients.
Then he returned to the cave. Heresh was sitting against a wall, staring at the fire. Elsefar peered into the pot. ‘Your timing is good,’ he told Ballas. ‘The water will soon boil. Did you find all I asked for?’
‘Yes,’ replied Ballas. ‘You’re making Wayfarer’s Broth.’
‘You’re familiar with it?’
‘I’ve had it before,’ nodded Ballas.
‘When times are lean, and hunger bites,’ said Elsefar, taking the roots, berries and mushrooms from Ballas, ‘one can depend upon Wayfarer’s Broth.’ He looked around for a moment. Then he grimaced. ‘I can’t find my knife. Might I borrow yours?’
Ballas cleansed the blood-caked blade in the river, then gave it to Elsefar. The quill-master cut away the tough rind of a skanndag root. Ballas left him to prepare the meal. The quill-master worked quickly; soon, he tipped the ingredients into the boiling water. After a while, the broth was ready: an odour, something like a forest in summer’s heat, filled the cave.
Elsefar spooned the broth into two bowls. Partway through the third, he paused. ‘You’d better pull the door across,’ he said. ‘The boars might be drawn by the scent.’
Rising, Ballas sealed the cave mouth with the makeshift door. When he returned, Elsefar offered him a bowl. Grunting, Ballas accepted it. Elsefar held another bowl out to Heresh.
She shook her head.
‘You must eat,’ said Elsefar.
‘I’m not hungry.’
‘Have you forgotten the Church is pursuing you? Have you forgotten you must keep your strength up?’
‘He is right,’ said Ballas, spooning broth into his mouth. It had a peculiar taste—a mix of sweet juice and old wood. Yet it was palatable enough. ‘We’ll leave at first light. I don’t want you slowing me down. Understand?’
Reluctantly, Heresh took the bowl. She ate slowly, steadily—as if the broth were a medicine to be consumed, not a meal to be enjoyed.
Ballas soon emptied his bowl.
‘I am tired,’ he said, blinking.
Elsefar watched him from the fire’s edge. ‘Then sleep.’
Something nudged Ballas’s shoulder. Heresh leaned against him. He pushed her away. Her eyes flickered, as if she were struggling to keep them open. The bowl slipped from her fingers, spilling leftover broth on to the floor. She rocked drowsily from side to side. Then she sagged against Ballas. Her breathing was deep, and even: as if she were sunk in a fathomless sleep.
Exhaustion swept over Ballas. It was an unnaturally intense and sudden fatigue.
He looked at Elsefar.
‘You have poisoned me,’ he said.
‘I do not believe that this safe house—’ Elsefar gestured at the cave ‘—is safe at all. Not with the Lectivin prowling Druine. Not with those terrible crow-Wardens.’ He shook his head. ‘If the Church’s forces catch up with me, what hope will I have? I am hiding from them—they will resent that. I have been your accomplice—that will earn me a place upon the Oak. But if I approach them, bearing a gift of immeasurable value? If I present them the head of the sinner? And the flame-haired lady who travels with him? They will realise that I am not the Church’s enemy. They will understand that I have been just a puppet, worked this way and that by yourself. I burned the copying house down—but so what? You made me do it. Just as you made me leave Granthaven.’ He held out his hands, palms upward. ‘They will forgive me, Ballas.’
‘They’ll forgive nothing,’ growled Ballas. ‘Because they don’t have to. They’ll kill you, Elsefar. It’ll be a bad death …’ Ballas grimaced. His vision swam. The fire blurred, its light surging and ebbing in intensity.
Elsefar seemed amused. ‘Do not fight it, Ballas. Lugen Crask—poor, dead Lugen Crask, butchered while he was having a piss: an ignominious demise, yes? A man should perish while holding his sword, not his cock … Crask said you have been poisoned before. He claims your constitution is extraordinarily strong. Alas, it shall not be strong enough. I have given you somnaris. In small doses, it aids sleep. In large amounts, it kills. And you, Ballas, have eaten a huge amount.’ He knocked the bowl with his crutch’s tip. ‘You mistrust me. Yet still, you look away while I am serving you your food. You should have been attentive. The girl, though, has had but a sleeper’s dose.’
Ballas frowned, puzzled—if Elsefar was to kill them both, why preserve Heresh’s life, albeit temporarily?
Elsefar caught his confused look.
‘Oh, come now, Ballas—my legs are ruined, not my child-maker! She is a fine piece of work, the eel-catcher’s daughter. I have never rutted with a red-haired girl before. It must be rather like sticking a poker in a fire. Visually, I mean …’ He grinned. ‘Submit, Ballas,’ he whispered. ‘Submit.’
‘Not … yet,’ slurred Ballas, forcing himself to his feet.
Elsefar blinked.
The room spun. Ballas swayed, then sagged against the wall. Elsefar got himself upright. Edging sideways, he kept the fire between himself and Ballas.
Ballas glanced at him. Then he stumbled towards the wooden chopping board, where Elsefar had cut the vegetables. Grasping the knife, he turned to Elsefar.
‘Do nothing foolish,’ said the quill-master. ‘You are too slow to kill even me.’ He moved further around the fire. ‘Look at yourself. You can scarcely move.’
Ballas stared hard at Elsefar. He knew that if he threw himself through the fire, he’d have a chance of plunging the knife into the quill-master’s guts.
He took a step—then halted. A thought swirled up from somewhere.
Ballas faltered.
‘I … do not … want to kill you,’ he said, his voice sluggish. He could hardly keep his eyes open. ‘You know the explorer … who will take me to Belthirran.’
‘You never tire of that idiot dream, do you?’ said Elsefar. ‘Your only journey, my friend, will be to the Eltheryn Forest— or to Hell, perhaps.’
Leaning against the cave wall, Ballas moved slowly around the fire. Elsefar kept his distance. Suddenly, Ballas stood up straight—and crashed himself through the makeshift door-cover, into the dark night outside.
He fell heavily; above him, stars swirled—and continued swirling, even after he had temporarily stopped moving. Groaning, he stirred himself and crawled towards the river.
Dragging footsteps sounded behind him.
>
‘Do you intend to crawl to Belthirran?’ asked Elsefar, laughing. ‘A feat in itself, I admit—and ambitious, since you still don’t know the way.’
Reaching out, Ballas tossed the knife towards the river. It fell inches short, and lay glinting on the dark mud. The dragging footsteps sounded again, moving quickly now. Grunting, Ballas clawed his way to the knife—just as Elsefar’s crutches appeared in his vision, on the river bank.
‘Crafty,’ said Elsefar, stooping to pick up the blade. ‘But also very, very stupid. You are dying; I have no need to dispatch you. Heresh is the only one I need kill by physical deed. True, I intend to use the knife. But I could equally well use a shard of stone—to open an artery, say. Perhaps I could beat her to death. Or burn her. It wouldn’t matter if she were unrecognisable: I’m sure the Masters would take my word for it, when I declared she was your companion—’
Rolling on to his back, Ballas grabbed one of Elsefar’s crutches and yanked it away. The quill-master stumbled, then started to fall. As he dropped, Ballas swung the crutch into his face. It connected squarely with his teeth.
Struggling on to all fours, Ballas crawled to Elsefar. Slowly, deliberately, he threw the first crutch into the river. Then the second. They floated briskly away on the moonlit water.
Ballas picked up the knife. He held it in front of Elsefar’s eyes—then hurled it into the water. It sank with a muted splash.
‘What have you done?’ asked Elsefar, his eyes wide.
Ballas did not reply. Darkness flooded over him. He collapsed face down, and sank into sleep.
Ballas woke.
During his slumber, he had not moved. He still sprawled on the river bank. The water swirled palely in dawn-light. Out of the corner of his eye, Ballas saw frost covering his sleeve: a film of sharp crackling whiteness. Closer to his face was a puddle of vomit, also frost-capped.
Groaning, he pushed himself up on to his knees. The skin around his neck ached. A dull pain throbbed in his throat. He was cold—it seemed as though his bones, if struck hard, would shatter like ice.
