Beyond the Wall of Time

by Russell Kirkpatrick

  “The storm, Arathé,” he said. “Is it of the gods?”

  “I don’t think so,” she said, leaving off her work to sign the words. “I get no sense of power from this. Just a sense of being far too wet.”

  “Did you see someone hurry past a moment ago?”

  “I’ve been busy with Gennel’s loose bandages since we left the House of the Gods.” She tsked. “Whoever bound these wounds wasn’t paying attention to their task.” Talking done, she returned to her work.

  Noetos found himself studying the fading marks on his hand in the pouring rain. What had he seen? He had just about convinced himself it had been wet sand, not blood, when Tumar approached him.

  “Heredrew says we need to talk.”

  “What about?”

  The miner’s answer was drowned out by a crack of thunder that shook the earth. The fisherman’s shoulders hunched involuntarily. It reminded him of the moments he had spent with Mustar fleeing the gods in Raceme.

  “Why don’t we return to the House of the Gods and wait out the storm?” he suggested.

  Tumar shook his head vehemently and a look as close to fear as Noetos had seen materialised on the miner’s face. “Not goin’ back there,” he said, his eyes darting back and forth.

  “Why? What happened?”

  “Come ’n’ speak to Heredrew.”

  He led Noetos, Alkuon knew how, unerringly through the battering storm to the portal trees. Heredrew had seated himself under the tree to the right of the entrance. Most of the others were gathered there, though the tree itself provided little shelter from the rain.

  “I saw what I saw,” Kilfor was shouting as Noetos approached. “You’ve seen all manner of miracles on this journey, even been involved in a few of your own, so the story goes, expecting all the while for us to believe you, yet you quibble at this?” He glanced in Noetos’s direction, at Tumar, and said, “Ask the miner!”

  “I am not questioning your truthfulness,” Heredrew began.

  “He is telling the truth,” Lenares said.

  The tall Falthan stared at her. “That means nothing. I have no doubt he has described truthfully what he saw, which is little enough. What we need to decide is the relevance of his speculation as to what it means, and where the body has gone.”

  Sauxa leaned forward and shook a finger at Heredrew. “My son is a drunkard, a lecher, a coward and has a feeble mind,” he said, “but he’s no liar.”

  Kilfor’s mouth twitched in what looked like exasperation.

  The Falthan turned his attention to Noetos. “Did you see anything unusual as we emerged from the gods’ house?”

  Who decided you should run this court? Too late now: the man was in control.

  “A man rushed past me,” he said, loud enough for them all to hear. “I did not recognise him. I grasped at him, but he struck my hand away, leaving blood on my fingers.”

  Multiple pairs of eyes looked down at his hands.

  “The rain has washed the blood away,” he finished. Heredrew wrinkled his long nose. “Did you not get a clear look at his face?”

  “No, but I can guess whom it might have been.” See how you like this, Falthan. “Just as we left the Room of Blood—you remember that strange room with what looked like blood flowing from the walls—Dryman’s corpse began to bleed.”

  This occasioned mutters from the party.

  “Did anyone else see this?” the Falthan asked. When no one responded, he added, “How is it you saw it?”

  Why so sceptical? Noetos wondered. “I was helping carry the body at the time,” he said. “Later, when Tumar and Kilfor took the body from Captain Duon and me, the bleeding appeared to have stopped again. It was strange,” he admitted, forestalling Heredrew’s likely next question, “but I didn’t mention it because, frankly, I’m not totally sure how dead bodies behave. I haven’t carried many before.”

  “They don’t up ’n’ walk off,” Tumar said.

  “No,” said Noetos. “But this one has. I gather the corpse came alive as you carried it through the portal?”

  Kilfor nodded. “Someone believes me, at least,” he said. “Except we weren’t carrying it. We’d put it down to change places. Heavy thing, a corpse. Almost as heavy carrying as lugging my father to bed after one of his drunken debaucheries. Soon as it hit the ground, the thing shook itself, got to its feet and ran off, faster than thought.”

  Lightning flashed, illuminating the entire party. Lenares groaned, at what Noetos could not say.

  “Dead bodies shamble,” Stella’s guardsman said.

  “Seen many, have you?” Kilfor replied to his friend. “Or are you going by the night-stories the old man used to tell us? Remember ‘The Shuffling Dead’? Well, this wasn’t like that. The body seemed more alive than when it was alive, if you get my meaning.”

  “I don’t feel well,” said Lenares.

  A young woman stood. For the moment Noetos could not remember her name; she was one of the Falthan party, a quietly spoken lass who spent most of her time close to Phemanderac. A scholar like the old Dhaurian, that was as much as Noetos could recall. Pretty, though, in a bookish kind of way.

  “So Dryman’s corpse is missing,” she said in a precise voice, “and two men claim to have seen the body come to life. Another touched it and blood came off on his hands. Given where we were and what has been happening to us, I see no reason not to suspect that Dryman is now alive again.”

  Murmurs from around the gathering. Noetos waited for a lightning flash, just like the story of the seaman’s ghost, but the dark sky did not cooperate.

  “What we do not know,” she went on, “is what this means. Is the god back in charge of the body? Or is there some power in the House of the Gods that undoes death?”

  Now the sky flashed and the air roared. Around them the rain eased off somewhat. Lenares moaned and put her hands to her head.

  Kilfor smiled gratefully at the woman. “Thank you, Moralye,” he said. Ah, Moralye, Noetos thought. He didn’t remember ever hearing her name. “At least someone believes us—uh.”

  The man’s hand dropped to his stomach, where an arrow shaft protruded.

  “Down!” Noetos cried, but people were already moving. Even as the plainsman cried out and slumped to the ground, the others dived for whatever cover was available.

  “It’s the hole in the world!” Lenares cried out, then screamed as an arrow took her in the leg.

  They are shooting at sound, Noetos realised, as Duon called out: “Poisoned arrows! Everyone quiet!”

  Flat on the ground, Noetos heard two shafts whistle over his head, but no thunks. The captain had hopefully been lucky. His turn to chance to luck.

  “Into the House of the Gods!” he cried, and dragged the nearest person to her feet. Arathé.

  Lightning flashed, illuminating the entire party. Lenares moaned. Dizziness tickled Noetos’s mind. Something… is wrong.

  “Dead bodies shamble,” said Robal irrelevantly.

  Come on, man, move, there are poison arrows! Noetos wanted to shout at the guardsman, but he couldn’t form the words. Time itself felt greasy, stretched out. Broken.

  “Seen many, have you?” Kilfor said. “Or are you going by the night-stories the old man used to tell us? Remember ‘The Shuffling Dead’? Well, this wasn’t like that. The body seemed more alive than when it was alive, if you get my meaning.”

  What? This is the strangest feeling. He knew they were in danger… something about arrows… but he could not quite remember…

  A young woman, Moralye, stood. “So Dryman’s corpse is missing, and two men claim to have seen the body come to life. Another touched it and blood came off on his hands. Given where we were and what has been happening to us, I see no reason not to suspect that Dryman is now alive again.”

  For some reason Noetos was reminded of the story of the seaman’s ghost. He hadn’t thought of that story for years—or was it moments? Why did he feel as though he had experienced this before? And what did arrows
have to do with the story?

  Moralye continued. “What we do not know is what this means. Is the god back in charge of the body? Or is there some power in the House of the Gods that undoes death?”

  Lightning flashed, followed immediately by the crack of thunder. Lenares, Noetos thought wildly. She will moan and put her hands to her head. She’ll cry a warning about the hole in the world—arrows—Kilfor—oh, Alkuon!

  Lenares moaned and her hands went to her head.

  “Thank you, Moralye,” Kilfor said.

  Fighting with everything he had, Noetos struggled against something—against the flow of time itself—and bunched himself.

  Kilfor was still talking. “At least someone believes us—uh!”

  Noetos launched himself at the plainsman and took him in the stomach, knocking him to the ground. He felt the arrow streak past his right ear and thock into the portal tree.

  “Down!” he cried, as he knew he would.

  Kilfor cried out, but it was a cry of surprise and anger, not pain.

  Things are changing. Are you aware, Lenares? You’re dead if not.

  “It’s the hole in the world,” she said, but it was little more than a whisper, not a shout. With no sound to shoot at, the arrows never came.

  Duon is supposed to warn us about the arrows. Noetos waited, breathing hard in the wet grass, Kilfor lying inert beside him. Only silence.

  No one dared move. They could hear movement in the grass around them. Noetos could sense the approach of a group of people, but sound attracted arrows, that was the lesson here. Keep still and stay alive.

  A bare foot kicked him in the shoulder. “Get up.”

  He rose slowly to his feet, arms extended, hands raised in what he hoped would be taken as a conciliatory gesture. None of the others moved.

  A man stood before him. Behind the man were at least fifty of his fellows. All were dressed in little more than loincloths and jerkins, and most held bows in their hands. At least half had arrows at the ready, some nocked. All poisoned, if the stories about the natives of Patina Padouk could be believed.

  These natives, Noetos recalled, were an unpredictable lot. The official history of Roudhos, written by Bryant of Tochar, suggested that the Padouki had once had this part of Bhrudwo to themselves, covering it as far as their forests extended. How did the famous line go? “The whole of southern Bhrudwo was once a green city, with the Padouki its only inhabitants.” Locals told a different story, one of Padouki invasions of their farmland, of crops burned, of children taken, of villages feathered. Noetos had been inclined towards the official version, but the look of these people made him wonder.

  They loosed poisoned arrows at us. They don’t care if we live or die.

  “Where is Keppia?” the man asked. “Has he remained in the Godhouse?”

  A reasonable Fisher Coast accent, Noetos observed. Just one more oddity in a hatful of them. “No,” he answered. “He has left us.”

  “We offered your people safety out of respect for Keppia. Why now should we grant you leave to be in our heartland?”

  “We are leaving,” Noetos assured him.

  Around him, members of the party had only now raised their heads. “Leave the talking to me,” he said to them.

  “You may be leaving, but you are still here,” the leader said. “It is death to be found in the heartland uninvited, even for one of the Padouki. How much more so for one of the tree-eaters?”

  “As I said, we are leaving. The sooner this conversation is finished, the sooner we will be on our way.”

  The man signalled and ten of his fellows stepped forward, arrows at the ready.

  “You’re going to tell us it’s not that easy, aren’t you?” Noetos said. Time to put this man off balance. “Where did you study? Tochar?”

  “You have an ear,” the man replied grudgingly.

  “And you have bows and arrows. Had you wanted to kill us, we would be dead. So what is it you want?”

  “We have no love for you, tree-eater, so do not presume to cow us with your arrogance. Your lives are spared only because we do not know if killing you will offend Keppia. And since he is not here, we cannot ask him.”

  Just as well for us then, Noetos acknowledged silently. “What was a Padouki warrior doing in the Tochar academy?” he asked.

  To his left Heredrew signalled vigorously, but Noetos paid him no attention. While others kept their heads down, it was his time to lead.

  “Or are you a Fisher Coaster gone native?”

  The man’s face darkened, but none of the men either side of him stirred at this insult. None but him speaks Bhrudwan. I have learned something, at least.

  “This is not about me,” the man ground out between clenched teeth. “You have asked your last question. Keppia would understand if you end up dying in agony, andali coursing through your veins.”

  “Very well then. What would you have of us?”

  The man ignored Noetos’s impudence. “You are to be taken to the Canopy. There our elders will decide what must be done with you.”

  The Padouki did not, apparently, bind their captives, but nor did they allow them to keep their weapons. Swords, knives and even Phemanderac’s staff were bundled up in linen ropes and carried on the backs of three of their captors. We have a few weapons they cannot take from us, Arathé reminded herself. Even if they are double-edged.

  The rain ceased as they tramped across the plateau, and by the time they reached the cliff-edge the sun had come out. There, a thousand paces above the steaming forest, they stopped for food and to take in the vista. Even the most frightened of captives surely could not help but be impressed by the view. Arathé shaded her eyes and gazed down at the dark forest stretching to the horizon in every direction save for the plateau at their back and a faint blue line on the eastern horizon, no doubt marking the sea. The trees smoked in the heat of the sun, giving back to the sky much of the moisture that had recently rained down on them. Above, glorious white clouds formed as the captives sat and ate the fruit doled out to them.

  “Beautiful. Unique. Beyond the grasp of mortal men.” Their chief captor stood beside her father, his arm outstretched. “Every tree a sacred pillar of our temple, some of them three thousand years old and more.” Her father was about to imperil them again, she knew. Like the old Red Duke of Roudhos, who had been burned at the stake by the Undying Man, Noetos, his grandson, never knew when to leave well enough alone. Couldn’t help himself. Yet it was just as well someone in their party had his persistence. Whatever had happened back there in front of the Godhouse door had nearly killed them all. Arathé had felt her father fight against the relentless stream of time as it seemed to double back on itself; perhaps others had tried, but he was the only one to succeed.

  “You’re about to tell me how outsiders have cut down the trees and put the spirit of the forest in jeopardy, aren’t you?” Noetos said. “How we evil tree-eaters are always destroying the sacred grove of something-or-other. Do not bother, friend. Our journey is more important than a few trees. The whole of Patina Padouk is as nothing beside it.”

  “You want me to feather your friends?” the man asked, incredulous, and raised his bow.

  “For Alkuon’s sake, Father, be silent!” Anomer hissed.

  “None of you understand, do you!” Noetos said. “Something happened to us back at the portal that just might make everything we’ve done, or might do, completely irrelevant. Did you all sleep through it, or am I the only one with courage enough to talk about it?”

  Arathé listened intently. Even the Padouki leader took a step closer, holding up his hands to keep his bowmen from loosing their arrows.

  “Are you talking of the double-time?” he said.

  “You have a name for it?”

  “No, but one of my warriors called it datinala, which means ‘two-time.’ A good name, I thought. It’s happened once in living memory, coincidentally when last Keppia visited the Godhouse. Perhaps not a coincidence. This time was much longe
r in duration according to some of the older warriors.” He swept an arm out, indicating those behind him.

  “Did you see it as we did? You found three of us with your arrows the first time, but none the second?”

  “We did,” the man acknowledged. “It made many of our warriors nervous.”

  “Not as nervous as it made me, I’m sure.” Her father sighed. “Look, we’ve begun this all wrong. I’ve begun this wrong. Whatever happens in the next few days and weeks will affect Patina Padouk as much as the rest of the world. Believe me, we are at the heart of it. Why otherwise would we be travelling with a god?”

  The man grunted. “As I said, that is all that has kept you alive. But where is he now?”

  Lenares came forward. “Do you have cosmographers in your culture?”

  Noetos took her hand and began to pull her away.

  “Leave me alone!” she said. “Don’t touch me!”

  “Let the woman go,” the Padouki leader commanded, then addressed Lenares. “What are cosmographers?”

  “Special people who can see the meaning of what the gods do,” she announced. “Did you know the gods are trying to break into the world so they can live here all the time? Would you like them living in your heartland if they succeed?”

  The man grunted at that, and turned to his warriors. A rapid exchange followed, in which the warriors became more and more animated.

  “We must take you to see the elders,” their leader said eventually. “They have spoken of something like this, but we warriors do not pay heed to such talk. The elders will, however, want to hear what you have to say. Come, no more discussion. Save it for the elders. Before them you must measure every word and apportion it like the purest rice. You will need more courage than I,” he finished darkly.

  The winding trail down from the plateau took an entire afternoon, the slow pace clearly frustrating the Padouki. The captives began to droop with fatigue. None knew exactly how long they had been within the House of the Gods, but it had certainly been at least one sleepless night. Phemanderac seemed to be faring worst. Moralye and then Stella kept him upright and walking, but even the effort of staying awake appeared to be draining him.