by Ian Graham
He struggled on to his feet. He stumbled, the ground seeming to lurch beneath him. Then he regained his balance. He felt sick—but it was a sickness no worse than that of a hangover. His eyes burned, the roof of his mouth was raw with vomiting. He staggered numbly into the cave.
Heresh lay upon her side, sleeping. Her shoulders lifted and fell with every deep breath. She appeared unmolested: her clothing hadn’t been tampered with. That was good, thought Ballas. Elsefar’s fortunes suddenly growing sour, he had lost his ardour. With his knife and crutches gone, survival had become his priority—not copulation.
It didn’t take Ballas long to find Elsefar. On his hands, the quill-master had hauled himself about half a mile through the forest. Dragging behind him, his legs had crushed an easily visible track through the undergrowth. Ballas found him curled up at the base of a thorn bush, sleeping. He had clearly chosen the wrong track and had found his path blocked. Whereas it seemed he had previously managed to crawl through such vegetation—his tunic was ripped, his hands gashed and bloodied—he had found this final obstruction too much. Exhausted, he had given up hope.
Grabbing his collar, Ballas yanked him upright.
Elsefar woke. Crying out, he swung his hands feebly at the big man—each blow half slap, half punch. Grunting, Ballas released him. Elsefar dropped to the ground, then pitched face first into the thorn bush. Saying nothing, Ballas dragged him out. The quill-master groaned, writhing like a hooked fish. Again, Ballas pulled him upright. Lacerations on his forehead and cheeks were bleeding. A stray thorn had pierced his lower lip, hanging there like a piece of primitive jewellery.
Ballas slung him over his shoulder. Then he carried him back to the cave.
Heresh was kneeling on the river bank, retching into the water. ‘What has happened?’ she asked, looking up.
‘He poisoned us.’
Ballas sat Elsefar against an oak tree. The quill-master shivered—from cold, and from fear. ‘You need me,’ he said, staring evenly at Ballas. ‘Without me, there’ll be no Belthirran. It is true—you know it is. You said as much last n—’
‘Shut up.’ Ballas struck Elsefar sharply across the face with the hard palm of his hand. The sound of skin upon skin rang cleanly, crisply, into the air.
‘If you kill me, you’ll—’ began Elsefar.
This time Ballas punched him: a skull-jolting blow to the cheekbone. ‘Another sound,’ said Ballas, ‘and I’ll do worse than kill you. Sit still, be quiet—and I might let you live.’
Ballas removed his belt. Kneeling, he looped it around EIsefar’s stomach and the tree trunk, so that the quill-master was bound to the oak. Ballas tightened the belt as far as it would go. Then he buckled it up.
Elsefar struggled briefly against his bonds. ‘What are you going to do with me?’
‘What is the explorer’s name? Where can I find him?’
‘Release me, and I’ll tell you—but no sooner.’
‘You will tell me now,’ said Ballas, ‘or I’ll leave you here for the boars to eat.’
Elsefar grimaced. ‘How do I know you won’t do that anyway? You aren’t a man to be trusted. And … and you have a grievance with me.’
‘In many ways,’ said Ballas easily, ‘you and I are moulded from the same clay. There are things you want—and to get them, you’ll do the foulest things. You’ll lie, cheat, steal—and kill.’ He shrugged. ‘That is the world’s way, though. And it is my way. But sometimes … sometimes people like you and me must help one another. You can give me what I need to survive. And I can do the same for you.’
Elsefar chewed his lip. ‘You promise you will untie me?’
‘My promises are worthless,’ said Ballas. ‘But you know that if you don’t tell me what I need to know, you’ll stay here for certain. Within days, you’ll be dead. You’ll freeze and die of thirst. Or, as I say, the boars will get you.’
‘It seems I have no choice,’ said Elsefar sourly.
‘All men have a choice,’ replied Ballas. ‘In your case, you choose between a chance of life and the certainty of death.’
Elsefar exhaled. ‘Go to Greenleaf Village. It’s about two hundred miles due east from here—’
‘I know where it is,’ Ballas said, nodding curtly.
‘Seek out a man named Seppemus Scallen. He is the one you require.’
‘What is his profession?’
‘The last I heard he was a farmer.’ Elsefar shrugged, as far as he could with his arms bound. ‘Tell him that I sent you, and he might help you. Bribe him, and you will have greater success.’
‘Seppemus Scallen, of Greenleaf Village,’ murmured Ballas.
‘Yes,’ confirmed Elsefar.
Ballas stood up. ‘Keep an eye on him,’ he told Heresh. ‘There’s something I must do.’
‘Wait!’ snapped Elsefar. ‘You promised to set me free.’
‘And I will do, soon enough,’ said Ballas.
Returning to the cave, Ballas gathered the bags he had used the previous night when collecting roots and berries from the forest. Then he stepped back outside.
He crossed the river and, for a short while, did at dawn exactly what he’d done at nightfall: he harvested those things that could be mixed into a broth. Except that now he dug up far larger quantities. When the bags were full, he returned to the cave and emptied them upon the floor. Then he returned outdoors and did the same again. Heresh and Elsefar watched him. Both seemed puzzled. But whereas Heresh’s confusion was a numb, passionless thing, Elsefar appeared deeply agitated. In a whisper he demanded, ‘What are you doing? What game is this?’ over and over.
Ballas ignored him. After a while, a good store of food was heaped on the cave floor. Ballas then peeled moss from a few tree trunks, and collected several armfuls of dead branches. These too he put in the cave.
He unfastened Elsefar from the oak trunk. Then he dragged the quill-master into the cave. Heresh followed, curious.
Ballas gestured at the roots, berries, and mushrooms. ‘It’ll take me about a fortnight to get to Greenleaf Village,’ he told Elsefar. ‘You’ve got about three or four weeks’ worth of food there, and enough firewood to cook it. When I find Seppemus Scallen, and he proves to be what you claim, I’ll send Heresh back with more food—and other things you’ll need to survive: knives, a new set of crutches … Without those, you are useless. You can’t look after yourself, Elsefar. You’ll have to depend on the food I’ve brought. You won’t exactly be enjoying a banquet each evening. But you won’t starve, either. Unless, of course, you’ve lied to me …’
Heresh stared at Ballas, her eyebrows raised. ‘I don’t want to come back—’
‘Be quiet,’ said Ballas sharply. ‘You’ll do as you’re told.’ He swung his gaze to Elsefar. ‘If Seppemus Scallen isn’t what you say, or if he doesn’t exist at all … Heresh won’t return. And you’ll die.’
Taking hold of Heresh’s arm, Ballas pulled her upright. ‘This is a good time to go. You’d better pray you see this girl again,’ he added, gesturing at Heresh. ‘For what is she to you now—except life? So long, quill-master.’
Ballas led Heresh outside the cave. They walked several steps from the cave-mouth, then halted.
‘What are you doing?’ asked the red-haired woman.
Ballas raised a finger to his lips. ‘Wait.’
From within the cave came sounds of sobbing. Then, suddenly, Elsefar cried: ‘Come back! Please—come back! I have misled you! I was mistaken!’
Heresh started back to the cave. But Ballas stayed still.
Elsefar called out again. ‘Please, for mercy’s sake—come back!’
Only now did Ballas return to the cave. Elsefar’s face was red and tears were pouring down his cheeks. ‘I am sorry,’ he said—then, from somewhere, he managed a nervous laugh. ‘Forgive me,’ he wheezed, ‘but I got my names jumbled. I only just realised … it suddenly struck me …’ He grimaced. ‘You must find Athreos Laike. He is the explorer you seek.’
‘Where does he l
ive?’ asked Ballas, kneeling.
‘Dayshadow Town, at the base of the Garsbracks. He owns the quarry there. He is a man of some wealth, I understand.’
Ballas repeated the name to himself. Athreos Laike. Dayshadow Town.
‘And who is Seppemus Scallen?’ he asked.
‘Oh—merely a quill-master I once knew,’ said Elsefar diffidently. ‘I am old. In my memory, one name dwells where another ought to be. Forgive me. Isn’t it said that to err is human?’
Ballas shrugged. Then he swept up in his arms the food store from the cave floor. Striding outside, he dropped it in the river.
Elsefar didn’t speak.
Ballas picked up the firewood and kindling and threw it in the water.
‘W-what … ?’ stammered Elsefar. ‘I—I have told you who you must find!’
‘This time you have,’ said Ballas. ‘But before, when you thought it was safe to lie …’ He shook his head. ‘Some men only turn honest when their life depends on it. You are such a man. Sometimes, so am I.’
Turning, Ballas ushered Heresh from the cave.
‘Come back!’ shrieked Elsefar. ‘You cannot do this! I shall die! Sweet grief, I shall die!’
‘After days of lies,’ muttered Ballas, ‘he speaks a truth.’
‘You truly intend to leave him?’
Ballas nodded. ‘The cold will destroy him. Or, as I said, the boars.’
They left the forest. As they stepped on to open moorland, Heresh touched Ballas’s shoulder. She pointed to the distance. A group of grey-silver shapes were bounding towards the forest.
‘Wolves,’ said Heresh softly.
Elsefar’s cries were dimly audible. He shrieked for help, for mercy … yet these cries, twisting hoarsely in the air, only summoned those things that would kill him. Soon, he would perish amid snarls and gleaming teeth.
The wolves vanished amid the trees. Turning, Ballas walked away.
They headed northwards through a fresh fall of drizzle. Ballas did not consider the seasons to be entities governed by a calendar’s strictures: summer didn’t truly arrive on Wisten’s Day, nor winter on the day of Winter Prayers. As a vagrant, he had learned that the seasons were inconstant, wilful. They came and went when they pleased. Their presence could be observed only by looking outward, at the world. Winter, for instance, existed as a particular type of coldness. Not the crisp cold of autumn, which spoke faintly of impending renewal. But an aggressive, bone-splitting cold that chimed icily with death. According to the Pilgrim Church’s calendars, winter had gripped Druine for a month and a half. Yet only now was a true winter cold evident. Evident, too, were other markers of the Fierce Season. The fallen leaves were scarcely noticeable: they had traded their sharp browns for the sullen, stinking blacks of death. The frosts lay thicker—as thick, almost, as snow.
And this troubled Ballas.
If he was going to cross the Garsbrack Mountains, he would need to beat the snows. He accepted that snow lay upon the peaks, even during the swelter of summer. But if it clogged the lower slopes, it would be near-impossible to climb the mountains.
It might prove near-impossible even in the best of circumstances. But at least he would know the way. Surely the explorer Elsefar had spoken of would supply a map. Then the ascent wouldn’t be a test of route-finding but of straightforward endurance. It would be a physical rather than an intellectual trial. And that suited Ballas. He was accustomed to physical pain and hardship.
On the first night since leaving Elsefar’s home, Ballas and Heresh encamped in a gully a few hundred yards from a stream. They took turns at keeping watch. The next day, Ballas acted in a way that, since he had begun fleeing the Church’s forces, had become familiar: he slipped into a nearby village, stole a couple of horses, then returned to Heresh.
They rode in silence. This too, Ballas noticed, was typical. Except when Crask had been present and his nervous blathering had relentlessly filled Ballas’s ears, the big man seemed to render mute those around him. No one made small talk. Not the barge-master, many weeks ago; not Heresh, riding with him now. Ballas approved of this. He disliked chatter.
For two days they rode onwards. In the predawn dark, Ballas performed another robbery at another village. This time he stole a couple of whisky flagons. The following evening after striking camp against a wind-blocking upthrust of rock and dining upon the meat of a moorland sheep, Ballas offered the whisky to Heresh.
She shook her head.
‘It will help you,’ he said.
‘Help me?’
Ballas stared intently at her. Since her father’s death, she had cried incessantly—while riding, while setting up camp— while sleeping, even. Her noise irritated Ballas. He understood it—yet it grated upon his nerves to hear the deep misery of another person.
‘It’ll soothe you.’
‘I don’t want it.’
‘Go on.’ Ballas held out the flagon. ‘Take it.’
‘I said that I don’t—’
‘Out of respect for your father, yes? You reckon you ought to suffer as much as you can, to prove how much you loved him?’
Heresh appeared momentarily surprised. ‘Yes. That is the reason.’
‘It’s horseshit,’ said Ballas. ‘You’re suffering enough. Drink.’
‘My father is dead. I shan’t do anything that will make me forget … I shan’t drink myself into oblivion.’
‘Oblivion?’ Ballas laughed, loudly. ‘Sweet grief, woman— you aren’t a drinker, are you? This—’ he wagged the bottle ‘—doesn’t bring oblivion. It brings a sort of darkness—a sort of twilight. You’ll won’t forget your father’s dead. But you won’t ache as much.’ He sighed. ‘Beside, it’ll clear your head. It doesn’t always bring fog, you know. Sometimes … sometimes, when drunk, you stop worrying at things. You stop stirring things up. The water’s left alone long enough to go clear. Then you understand a little better.’
‘Understand? What is there to understand?’
‘Just drink,’ ordered Ballas.
Heresh complied. She took a recklessly deep gulp of whisky. Then gasped, as if she had swallowed a burning coal.
In silence, they took turns drinking from the flagon. After a while, Heresh was drunk. Her eyelids were heavy, her voice slurred slightly. There were different depths of drunkenness, Ballas knew. Heresh had reached the point where she hadn’t lost control of her tongue—but spoke honestly instead.
‘On the morrow,’ she said, ‘I will leave you.’
Ballas drew a breath.
‘I am sick of this. I am tired of being wet and cold and outside on moorland. I am tired of sleeping under the stars. And, more than anything, I am tired of being hunted … No: I am tired of running away. I want to go somewhere safe, where I can simply hide. My nerves can’t take much more of this.’ She looked at Ballas. ‘I have an uncle. He will take me in—my father promised it.’
‘You said you’d go with me to Dayshadow.’
‘I have changed my mind,’ said Heresh.
‘You made a promise.’
‘I swore no oath.’
‘You didn’t have to,’ replied Ballas. ‘You begged to come with me. I said you could because—’
‘I’d be of some use to you?’ She closed her eyes. ‘I shan’t be treated as … as a tool. As something to be used. Not any more.’
‘Then I’ll kill you.’
Heresh looked directly at Ballas. ‘After all we have suffered … After Granthaven, after the sewers … After I saved your life, more or less, in the marshes—’
‘After all that, aye.’ Ballas shifted, slightly. ‘You know where I’m going. You know I have to get to Dayshadow. Leave tomorrow, and by nightfall the Wardens might have you, and—believe me—you aren’t strong enough to keep a secret. They’ll make you tell them where I am. What my plan is. And that isn’t a chance I’ll take.’
Heresh laughed, disbelievingly. ‘So I must travel to Belthirran with you?’
‘Come with me to Dayshadow,’
said Ballas. ‘We’ll find Athreos Laike. Then, once I’ve started up the mountains, you can go wherever you like. The Wardens won’t follow me then—no matter what you tell them. And if they do—so what? I’ll have a head start. They won’t be fast enough to catch me.’
Heresh drank from the flagon. ‘For a man who is so practical,’ she said, after a pause, ‘you can also be incredibly … fanciful.’ She handed the flagon to Ballas. ‘You are levelheaded in many ways. When something must be done, you charge in and do it. There is no hesitation. No procrastination. As soon as the thought appears, the deed follows.’
‘It keeps me alive.’
‘It may also kill you.’ Leaning back, Heresh stared up at the stars. ‘You are going to climb a mountain—the most treacherous in Druine. Why? To find a place that probably doesn’t exist. Need I repeat what you have heard already? Belthirran is a myth, a rumour. Yet you look upon it as a certainty.’
‘What choice do I have? If I stay in Druine I shall die, sooner or later. The ports are blocked: I wouldn’t be able to find a ship to take me to the East. So where remains? Where does the Church hold no sway?’
‘You don’t seek Belthirran out of necessity. You crave it in its own right. Every time you utter its name, a light flares in your eyes. In the marshes, when my father drugged you, you spoke its name, over and over. You were in a deep sleep, yet your lips moved, and you uttered “Belthirran … Belthirran”. Youhunger for it—and no man hungers for a last resort. He goes there grudgingly, and without excitement.’ She lifted her chin. ‘What will you do if you cross the mountains and find Belthirran does not exist?’
‘It is there,’ said Ballas. ‘There is such a place as Belthirran.’
‘What if you are mistaken?’
‘I’m not,’ replied Ballas firmly.
Heresh stopped talking. They drank more whisky. Heresh passed the flagon back to Ballas, then fell asleep. Ballas raised the flagon to the sky. The moonlight silhouetted the liquid remaining inside the vessel: the flagon was half full. This pleased Ballas.
He thought about Heresh’s words and for a heartbeat he felt himself doubting, too. What proof did he have that there truly was a Land Beyond the Mountains? And that it would provide sanctuary?
