Beyond the Wall of Time

by Russell Kirkpatrick

  For a stupid moment she hung there, stretched between two precarious handholds, trying to remember what she needed to do next. Let go, she told herself, and forced her right hand to release the lamp-holder. She fetched up against the hole with a rustle and thump.

  Just another noise from the shipwreck, she willed those above decks to think.

  Blood dripped between the fingers of her left hand where the splinters had dug deep. Ignoring the pain, Moralye pulled herself into the hole.

  She encountered unexpected resistance. Some kind of material had been slung across the hole: did Captain Kidson know of the gap? Had he patched it with a tapestry? She forced herself to think. I am coming up through the floor: this is likely to be a carpet of some sort. It certainly smelled of dust and something sour, the sort of state a floor covering was likely to get into out at sea. Once a floor, now a wall. Nailed down then. No real idea where she would emerge, but likely into the captain’s eye line. Not a risk she wished to take; better to return to Noetos and tell him of her discovery.

  A hand seized her hair.

  Moralye had no idea she had such self-possession. Though she imagined Kidson’s hand dragging her into the cabin, sword raised in his other hand, she managed not to scream. The soft skin of a woman’s fingers, not the calloused hand of a seaman, touched her face, found her lips and placed a finger firmly across them. She breathed out gently.

  Abruptly a voice sounded in the cabin, shockingly loud. “You have nothing I want. Go away and gnaw on the bones of Old Roudhos.”

  Kidson’s voice, at least a few paces away. Now a faint voice came in reply. He would be facing the one he conversed with, even though the adversaries could not see each other: thus it was even in the darkness of the Hall of Scrolls. Safe, then, to risk a glance.

  The edge of the carpet lay close to the hole. It was something of a wriggle to force her head past the edge, but within moments she found herself looking into the dim cabin and into the face of… of Lenares the cosmographer.

  No, not Lenares. This face was harder, more lined, hollower. The eyes were the same though. Exactly the same. She had seen that unnerving stare, so knowing, nowhere else.

  “There’s a hole,” Moralye whispered into the girl’s ear, rather unnecessarily.

  “Can I fit through?”

  Voice a little deeper than Lenares’, but otherwise so similar she wondered if the gods were playing a trick on her, on them all. She nodded.

  More indistinct shouting, then Kidson laughed. She could see his back: wide-shouldered, muscular and intimidating, yet his jerkin had been shredded and his skin was covered in what looked like dried blood.

  “Wounded,” the girl whispered. “Weak. Desperate. Has a sword though.”

  “Come with me,” Moralye said.

  “It will take a while. Have to free this carpet.”

  It took perhaps five minutes of quiet struggle before the girl worked the edge of the carpet free of its nail. During this time Kidson never turned, his ramrod-straight body focused on the voice coming from beyond the door.

  “Now,” Moralye breathed.

  Her heart in her mouth, she withdrew from the hole and waited while the girl eased her way out of the cabin. She imagined the captain turning, seeing legs protruding from the carpet, crying out in anger, lifting his sword…

  She hadn’t thought this through, she realised. She could not maintain a grip on the edge of the hole and at the same time allow the girl to pass through. Taking a deep breath, she allowed herself to fall.

  She knew the floor was close, but it seemed so far away—and she thumped into the bedding with far more force than she’d imagined. Her knees smacked into her chin, clacking her teeth together. The sound, though muffled, was surely loud enough to draw attention.

  A moment later the girl landed beside her.

  “Come on,” she said, “we are not out of danger yet.”

  As she drew Moralye to her feet, she whispered “Thank you.” Just once, but the sincerity made the risk worthwhile.

  Hamapha wasn’t laughing now.

  Moralye and the girl, who had introduced herself as Cylene, were approaching the hatch when Kidson let out a blood-chilling roar.

  “He knows then,” Moralye said, and smiled.

  “Aye, he knows. He knows his life isn’t worth much now I’m not there to guarantee his safety. Tell me, Moralye, that was Noetos I heard, wasn’t it?”

  The girl’s smile at Moralye’s nod was a sight to behold, transforming an already pretty face into something of remarkable beauty. Lenares never smiles like that, to her detriment. Too serious by half. Though she does have a great deal to be serious about, as do we all.

  “And you are his friend? One of the party from Faltha perhaps, or from Elamaq? What he told me, it is all true?”

  “I don’t know what he said, so I can’t confirm it as truth,” Moralye said, always the scholar. “But yes, I am from Faltha—or near enough anyway.”

  She emerged from the hatch and pulled Cylene through after her. The noise drew attention from all four on the deck. Their eyes widened when Cylene came into view.

  Noetos called her name, joy transforming his face, banishing the hard lines.

  She smiled again, dazzling them all.

  INTERLUDE

  IT IS DARK, IT IS COLD, IT IS SILENT.

  Thick fog rolls in from the ocean, a damp blanket tumbling across the grass of the treeless hills, smothering the stone of Andratan’s keep, causing the walls to weep. The faint sound of dripping water is muffled almost to inaudibility, but the drops find his raw skin, each one a cold sting. It is night, so no other sounds reach this high up in the keep, so near the top of the Tower of Farsight. The servants have gone to their sleeping cells, leaving him alone to haunt the corridors and stairs of the Undying Man’s fortress. No one to hear his frantic breathing, his grunts of effort, his cries of pain. Until tomorrow, when they come to hunt for him.

  Husk hurts, Husk is confused, Husk is frightened.

  He is no longer sure where he is. Once he knew this castle better than he knew the workings of his own body. He knew every dungeon, every corridor, every door, every room. None had been barred to him, not even the Undying Man’s own throne room. But now he is lost.

  He is lost because of the terrifying thing that has happened to him. Before the terrifying thing, his connection to the void beyond the Wall of Time had given him strength, had enabled him to repair the damage inflicted by all those decades of pain and torture. It had held out the promise of improving him, of making him more than human. Of turning him into a god. More than a god.

  But then he was deceived. His three spikes tricked him, working together somehow to fool him, drawing him in, then seeking—ah, such a shock!—to kill themselves. Oh, how clever they had been!

  How could Husk have guessed? All three of them leaping at once from a high place, somehow coordinating themselves without their thoughts giving them away. His power was stretched—overstretched—as he instinctively tried to save them. Such a fool! His pride would not let him release them, would not let him admit they had outsmarted him, so he held on, trying to slow their fall, strengthen their skin and bones, cushion their landing, remove the rocks towards which they plummeted; so many things all at once that even the beautiful conduit to his god-power was stretched to its limit and beyond. It did not break, for that he is thankful, but he had to let one of his spikes go. The priest. The other two, the more valuable, he believed he could save and still keep his conduit safe.

  Conal had hit the rocks with such a crushing impact it had knocked the wind out of Husk. He had staggered, fallen to his knees, and the glamour keeping him invisible had vanished, gone like a startled bird. Those sharing the corridor with him had cried out in fear at the man-monster appearing from nowhere. He paid them no attention.

  The next few moments had been the very worst of a pain-drenched life. Realising what Conal’s death might do, he tried to sever his contact to the priest’s spike—but
something kept the connection wide open. Such a dreadful surprise! It could have been one of only two things: one or both of the remaining two spikes; or one of the two gods. No one else could exploit his magic like that. The priest had died in an instant, his back broken, his brain pierced by bone fragments, his heart shocked into failure, and the man’s death had flowed back along the connection like a black tide. One fearful breath, that was all Husk had time for, and the tide slammed into him.

  It stabbed, it tore, it crushed.

  For a moment he’d thought he could limit the damage. Perhaps, he thought, if he severed the two remaining spikes and ceased his magical interference in the running of the keep, he might only lose his most recent gains. He did this, losing his spikes forever, but those gains were nevertheless sluiced away in the first instant of the black tide, and within moments he was reduced to the slug-like animal he had been before. His beautiful new limbs burned away. His lips melted. His skin excoriated, bubbling in the magical heat. He screamed, a piteous sound, and people ran.

  But the tide of death continued to crash over him. He thought he would die, he thought everything had been lost. Godhood gone, humanity destroyed, even the pitiful, tortured existence he had led in the dungeon leached away. The black tide reached its peak, then slowly drained away, taking most of him with it.

  He was blind, he was burned, he was broken.

  Calling on everything available to him through his conduit—which had mercifully remained intact, oh render praise!—Husk summoned enough power to enable him to slither along the corridor, leaving bits and pieces of himself behind, force open a door and slip into the nearest room. The girl there had screamed at the sight of him, his whole body a weeping sore, but he had silenced her. In the extremity of his need he had drawn her to him, compelling her with the magic remaining to him, then absorbed her body into his. This had kept him alive barely long enough for more power to arrive from his connection to the void. Had the room been untenanted he would have died.

  He was forced to shut himself down; he could do nothing else. He placed a spell on the door, then let every bodily function remaining to him slowly trickle to a halt. Blood cooled, lungs deflated, skin dried. The magical conduit alone sustained him.

  Husk relives the memories, neck-deep in a pool of horror. He wishes to stop them playing and replaying in his mind, but cannot. He is wretched.

  He is alive. That is enough for now.

  But it will not suffice, not in the long run. What so nearly killed him is no more than a setback, albeit severe, despite how painful it seems. He has endured pain before; the point of such endurance is to have his revenge. If he must endure more, how more fulfilling will his ultimate revenge be! At present, however, he must restore himself to full functionality, so his survival, while pleasing, does not satisfy him. He is not grateful.

  He is angry.

  He is angry that he has been outwitted. The death of one of the conspirators is nowhere near enough to assuage his mortification; the other two must die. But that will have to wait, because he is angry for a far more important reason: he now has no way of ensuring the Undying Man and his evil consort come to Andratan. Has no way even of knowing where they are and what they are doing. His possession of the three spikes has drawn everything he needs so close, but now the group is in danger of breaking up again, distracted by their need to destroy the gods.

  Don’t worry about the gods, he wants to tell them. I will deal with the gods. Just worry about coming to Andratan. See how I will reward you then.

  Hubris, that is what those thoughts are. He can do nothing about the gods now. He is vulnerable to them, which is why he is frightened. His conduit may well be visible to anyone who cares to inspect the hole in the world; and, once discovered, he is sure it will be severed. He must walk small for a time, while rebuilding his strength. Now he no longer has eyes watching Stella and Kannwar, he must hope they journey to Andratan soon. He must rely on the fisherman’s desire for vengeance, and hope his children do not tell him that the object of his anger sleeps nearby every night. He must rely on Stella’s lust, her desire to find someone to share herself with. He must rely on Kannwar himself and whatever scheme he is currently running. And, despite all this, it may still not be enough. He must formulate plans of his own while he is recuperating. Husk hates relying on anyone.

  He wonders if the gods might be of some use to him. He wonders if they can be persuaded to help him recover. Failing that, he wonders if he can draw them to Andratan. Does he have anything the gods want? Or, more likely, can he fool them into thinking he does? Such a risk, contacting the gods, but they have already interfered on his behalf at least once that he is aware of. Do they view him as a potential ally, or with tolerant amusement? Just how much more powerful are they than he is—or was? What might they do to him if he offends them? He doubts they are capable of destroying him, as Andratan is hedged about with powerful spells. Husk himself cannot leave, and strong magic cannot in turn penetrate. The black tide of Conal’s death—he rages again as he remembers it—was effective only because it bypassed the magical barriers, the spike having been set in place when the priest was in Andratan itself.

  So, perhaps he is safe here, yes indeed. And if he is safe, he just needs to find a lure large enough to make the gods snap at it. Then he can befriend them if they are powerful or enslave them if they are not. Either way, they in turn could draw or drive his enemies, the objects of his dark desires, north to Andratan.

  As he thinks of this, Husk finds he needs to breathe, needs to pant. The hoarse sound fills the room, rattles the few wet bones lying on the bed, slaps off the dripping walls.

  His day of revenge may be postponed, but it is not cancelled. It cannot come soon enough.

  FISHERMAN

  CHAPTER 9

  CYLENE

  NOETOS GLANCED UP WHEN he heard someone emerge from the hatch—the woman Moralye. He returned his attention to the cabin. Kidson had shouted something a moment earlier; the fisherman half-suspected it was a prelude to some foolish dash for freedom and eased his sword an inch or so from its scabbard. Cyclamere took a step towards the cabin, his blade in his hand. But a flash of sunlight on honey-blonde hair caught the corner of Noetos’s eye and his head snapped back even before his brain made sense of what he’d seen.

  “Cylene!” he cried, and she smiled.

  Her hair was bedraggled, her skin pale, cheeks hollow and eyes ringed with weariness, but none of that mattered to Noetos. He saw only the golden halo surrounding her caring features and the bright intensity of her smile. A moment later she was in his arms, repeating his name as he did hers, her tears beginning to flow. There were other noises, sudden movement around them, but he was robbed of the capacity to notice them. His heart had returned to him.

  “I didn’t realise I’d given myself to you when I told you my story,” she said to him. “But I have.”

  He held her fiercely. “And I you,” he replied. “I have missed you.”

  “I can see,” she said, amusement in her voice. “Thank you for coming back for me.”

  “Was it terrible, the storm?” he asked. At her nod, he continued: “It was beyond description on the land. I can only imagine how frightening it must have been on the sea. It was a god-storm, you know.”

  She kissed him on his cheek. “I was a stone in a basket. Apparently we lost a mast at the beginning of the storm, and many of the crew were dragged overboard in the rigging, but I never saw it. Kidson locked me in his cabin, said I was the only cargo on the vessel worth saving.”

  “The man got something right.”

  “What, locking me in his cabin? How could that be right?”

  For a moment he thought she was serious, that he’d offended her; but her merriment played around her eyes and on her lips.

  “No, you foolish girl,” he growled, assuming a mock-ferocious grimace. “Saying you were the only cargo worth saving.”

  He was rewarded with a smile, which changed into a frown.

/>   “Kidson left the passengers to fend for themselves,” she said. “Those who stayed below decks were battered, many to death. Others ventured topside during a lull in the storm, only to be swept away when the wind returned. Eventually even Kidson gave up trying to sail the ship and joined me in his cabin.”

  “Did he—”

  She put a finger on his lips. “I am his property,” she said, an answer of sorts. “But his thought was to get as drunk as he could so he would not be aware of his own passing. He barely spoke to me.”

  “How did you survive?”

  “Noetos, I will tell you all of my story, but not now. We are not safe here. Perhaps you could introduce me to your friends and we could exchange stories later? That is, if you aren’t just going to leave me on this beach?”

  “Leave you? Of course not!”

  Something thudded into his back. Cylene gasped.

  “After him!” someone cried.

  Noetos turned his head. Anomer had dropped onto the cabin wall and he and Cyclamere were leaning over and staring down at a broken section of the lower rail. Noetos could not make any sense of what had just happened.

  Arathé was trying to say something, but she had forgotten to signal, so urgent were her words. She came towards Noetos as quickly as she could.

  “You have been hit,” Duon said, his eyes wide.

  It took a moment for Noetos to realise the man was talking to him. He let go of Cylene. “Hit? What with?”

  The coldness spreading across his lower back answered his question; he knew what he would find even before his hand touched the knife handle.