by Sam Bowring
It had been the top book in the pile. Perhaps, she thought, if not for the prophecy, I would have awoken and started reading, as I often do on these lazy mornings. Perhaps her curiosity would have been piqued, inspiring her to go and poke around the nearby place that she had just visited in her mind’s eye.
Should she go?
‘Breakfast time?’ asked Grimra hopefully.
‘Certainly,’ said Lalenda. It would give her a chance to mull things over.
The castle was emptier than usual, not only because of the purging, but also because Tyrellan and Roma had taken with them most of the guards and sundry others. As she walked the quiet corridors to the kitchens accompanied by Grimra, Lalenda wondered whom she could ask for permission to leave the castle . . . and realised that she didn’t really answer to anyone any more. A joy came upon her like tiny stars exploding in her heart.
She decided to go. If Losara could take off on a whim to creep around Kainordas, why should she be restricted by mere force of habit?
She arrived at the castle kitchens, where Greys used to putting out food for an entire castle were, maybe for the first time in their lives, taking their ease on the job, sitting around chatting in front of the iceplace. Saray noticed her enter and nodded to her as he rose. She took her usual place at a bench while he fixed her a breakfast of soft bread and cheese, and a haunch of meat for Grimra.
‘There we go, mistress,’ he said, sliding a plate in front of her. He put down the meat more gingerly.
‘Thank you,’ she replied, as Grimra began to worry noisily at his food.
Was it significant, then, this prophecy? Had it come to her for a reason? Hard to say, for sometimes she dreamed things of little consequence. Not every prophecy had to be ground-shaking. Still, she wondered about it, for it seemed odd that fate would pre-emptively reinforce a notion that she may have had anyway.
Well, she thought, chewing absently, I’ll go. What does it matter where the idea came from?
‘Grimra?’
The ghost somehow managed to sound as though he had his insubstantial mouth full. ‘Yes?’
‘I’m taking a little trip down to Duskwood.’
Grimra moaned, and a strip of half-eaten meat fell to the floor. ‘Why, flutterbug?’
‘Because,’ she said, and paused for a moment, ‘I’m bored.’
Grimra sighed. ‘You be dreaming of a place, now you wants to go there.’
‘Something like that.’
He swirled around her. ‘Not a nice place. Not safe.’
‘But you will come?’
‘Grimra promises to protect flutterbug,’ the ghost said resignedly.
•
One way to reach the wood was to leave via the front door and circle around to the back of the castle . . . another was to go up to the aviary and simply drop down, a fall of over a league. This seemed by far the more exciting route, and so it was that Lalenda found herself standing at the edge of the gaping cavern mouth high in the castle.
Looking down into the great shadow in the lee of Skygrip where the reaches of Duskwood lay, the reality of what she was about to do began to sink in. She felt ill-prepared, for she had nothing with her save a little bread, in case they were gone a while, but what else did she need? She had no use for weapons, for she was better with her retractable claws than with any sword or dagger – and besides, Grimra was with her.
‘Flutterbug is sure she wants to do this?’ he asked.
‘No,’ said Lalenda, and stepped off the edge.
She spread her wings to slow her fall, but found the winds worryingly strong. Feeling herself being pulled about, she changed her mind and dived, an exhilarating freefall, cutting through the currents breaking against the castle like a stone sinking in a choppy sea. Usually there would be Graka patrols circling, but on this occasion she did not see any. How bare had Tyrellan stripped the land of its defences?
The wind rushed in her ears and, despite his misgivings about their destination, Grimra hooted as he followed her downwards. Floors of the castle whipped by in a blur, and Lalenda lifted her wings a little to guide herself out over the wood. As they passed the base the wind eased, and she was able to take more control of her plummet. Soon she could make out individual trees beneath her, and started searching for a good place to land. She spied a path zigzagging haphazardly and took aim at it. Landing more heavily that she’d intended, she sent up a cloud of dust that stung her eyes and made her sneeze.
Around her the wood was as she remembered from her vision – dry, dusty and dead. From somewhere off the path, she heard movement. That thing she had seen? Or something else?
‘See?’ said Grimra. ‘Me be telling you it ain’t pretty.’
There came a low, bone-tingling moan. From out of the trees swooped a spectral creature with trailing edges, like a torn cloak wrapped round the torso of a man, so faded that it was hard to make out the details beyond its void-like mouth stretched into an ‘O’. It reached for Lalenda with ghostly fingers, and sharp tips shot out of her own, though the creature had no flesh for her to slash. Grimra gusted in front of her, and the thing was caught up in a whirlwind of flashing claws and gnashing fangs. It was shredded to pieces under the onslaught, wisps of it floating away until all was gone.
Slowly Lalenda’s claws retracted. ‘What was that?’ she whispered, her heart beating furiously.
‘Wraith,’ said Grimra. ‘Freeze you with its touch if it can, thinks it be sating its hunger that way. Mage once, body with magic, now magic without body.’
‘And is it . . . gone?’
‘Yes. Cannot be harmed by mortal weapon, but Grimra be no mortal.’
Not for the first time Lalenda wondered what Grimra had been in his earthly life, but it was not a subject easily broached with him. In fact, the only time she’d tried, it had made him angry.
‘Grimra be staying on top of Lalenda,’ came his voice right in her ear. For a moment his fangs appeared again, this time before her eyes, as if he was on the verge of swallowing her and she was looking out from his maw. He had covered her like a protective cloud, and she felt better for it.
‘What next?’ he asked.
‘Not sure,’ she said. ‘Let us walk.’
Moving as one, they set off into Duskwood. Frequently there were other sounds from off the path, but only once or twice did Lalenda catch sight of distant figures in the shadows. They spotted another wraith coasting along just above the trees, but Grimra made noise at it. It trailed them for a while but eventually drifted out of sight.
Then the moment from her vision came upon her. A ghoul stirred in the dust as she passed by, and rose to its feet. It was a desiccated thing, its remaining skin like leather, traces of old rags embedded here and there. Its grey eyes were dull and blank, and while Grimra hissed at it, the ghoul simply stood watching.
She dared to take a step towards it. ‘Can you understand me?’
It turned its head slightly, but gave no further indication.
‘Asleep in the dust too long,’ said Grimra.
The ghoul made a low rattling sound in its throat and turned to shuffle off.
Again Lalenda wondered if there was a reason for her coming here? If there was, she hadn’t the slightest notion what it could be.
Ahead the path sloped downwards, and the trees on either side grew thicker, crisscrossing each other to form a dark tunnel. She paused on the cusp, hesitant to enter such a foreboding place.
‘Something is near,’ murmured Grimra.
Before she could ask what he meant, further down the path sticks exploded outwards under a flash of metal. Quickly Lalenda dived behind a rock, her wings tense, ready to fly. There came the sound of wood breaking, footfalls, a thudding . . . then silence. She thought, after a few moments, that she could hear a slight creaking.
‘Who is down there, Grimra?’ she whispered.
‘Big ’un,’ he said.
She edged her gaze around the rock.
Standing on the path,
next to a gap it had apparently rent in the tunnel of trees, was a hulking figure. It was bent over, leaning heavily on a huge square-ended sword. It wore heavy armour that may once have been lustrous but was now dull and rusted. A spiked helm on its head tipped to the side, almost precarious. From under the armour trailed rotten rags, forming a kind of skirt around its thick legs, which were like tree trunks of twisted tendons. It shifted its weight on the sword, swung its head around to face her with eye sockets hollow and deep. Lalenda gasped and drew back behind the stone.
‘Trespasser,’ came its sepulchral voice.
‘Grimra?’ she whispered.
‘I be here,’ came the ghost’s voice. ‘But . . . me cannot be fighting that one, flutterbug. Should be leaving.’
She summoned her courage. The thing, male by the sound of it, did not seem like a fast mover. Slowly she rose out of hiding to face him. He simply stood regarding her.
‘Who are you,’ she said, trying to sound confident, ‘to call me trespasser?’
The thing stirred, his bones creaking. ‘Who are you, to ask?’
‘I hail from Skygrip,’ she said. ‘Close to the Shadowdreamer I am, and free to go wherever I choose. Nowhere, in the entirety of Fenvarrow, am I trespasser.’
The enormous ghoul tilted his head towards the castle, high in the distance behind her, tattered braids swinging from underneath his helm.
‘Times change,’ he muttered, seemingly to himself. Then, more loudly, ‘But nothing changes down here. I admire your courage, pixie, but you would be wise to leave this place. The living are not welcome here.’
‘Who are you?’ Lalenda repeated.
The undead grasped his sword with both hands in an effort to hoist himself up tall. He could not seem to unbend his back, however, and there was a distinct cracking as he tried. Eventually he gave up and slumped back to his bent posture.
‘Nobody,’ he said. ‘Though I carried the name Molluvial once.’
That sounded familiar, and she remembered seeing it in one of her books. Could it be the same . . . ?
‘Who was Shadowdreamer when you were alive?’ she said.
Molluvial tapped his bony fingers on the sword. ‘Telnuwind.’
She crept carefully towards him, into the tunnel, trying for a better look. As the trees enclosed her on either side, Grimra swirled past, growling.
‘Shush, Grimra,’ she said.
She came to stand a few paces from the ghoul, who remained motionless.
‘Molluvial was a great warrior,’ she said. ‘Tall and strong, spoken of in legends.’
‘I do not know of legend,’ he said. ‘Nor do I well remember my mortal years. Flashes and splashes only.’
‘But how did you become like this?’
A groan rattled from Molluvial’s throat. ‘Raised from my grave by Assidax.’
Lalenda was shocked. She did not know much of necromancy, but it was wrong to raise those who had long been put to rest, and Telnuwind had been several Shadowdreamers before Assidax.
‘She wanted me to serve in her war against the light,’ said Molluvial. ‘An experiment perhaps, pushing her own boundaries in her younger days. She found my grave, cast her spell. My soul was departed, had already broken down and dispersed in the Great Well.’ His tone grew angry. ‘Well I remember that pain, drawn from the collective in dribs and drabs, back into this wasted body. Some of my soul had already gone back into the world, beyond her grasping. Of the rest, bits and pieces, all that was left. I did not return whole.’
‘Violation,’ hissed Grimra.
‘Yes,’ said Molluvial, apparently unsurprised by Grimra’s presence. ‘She strove too hard, too meanly, did not think of others, only cared for her ambition.’
‘But,’ said Lalenda, ‘how did you come to be here?’
‘When the wars failed, Assidax did not put her hordes to sleep. Tried to control them, keep them, but no. She was powerful, but not so powerful as that. Many left, wandered, lost. Her last try, she set magic in Duskwood that would draw us, call to us – the illusion of belonging. She thought that if she could not control us constantly, at least she would know where to find us if ever she needed us, though she did not march again. Her magic killed the wood, keeps it dry to slow our rot, and to this day some still find their way here, though arrivals have slowed – who knows, years or decades now without one, I have lost care of time.’
Lalenda tried to make sense of what she was hearing. More importantly, why would Battu, with his orders from the gods, have let this place stand? Did he not know of it, despite it being right under his nose? Did he like having unwilling guardians to his rear? Or had he simply despised the order enough to ignore it?
‘Why do you remain?’ she asked.
‘Where else to go?’ said Molluvial. ‘Here, at least, I am amongst fellows. Though many have lost the power of speech, or even thought, it is still preferable to . . . to . . .’ He could not seem to sum up the idea.
‘How many of you are here?’ she said.
Molluvial went silent for a time, then nodded, and dust rained from his neck. ‘Curious creature, aren’t you? Yet I do not know what you are to me. Enemy has no meaning, for there is nothing that can be done to worsen my existence. Prey, not, for I do not eat, nor gain pleasure as I once did from killing. Friend, no, for no heart beats, and no confidences are left to betray.’ He tapped his bony fingers again on the sword. ‘I care not,’ he decided. ‘If you would see us, you may follow.’
He turned to the gap in the tree tunnel and hobbled towards it, using his sword for support. Lalenda followed at some distance, while Grimra muttered worriedly. As Molluvial led them through the wood, every now and then he would grasp a tree to steady himself or hack at something in his way. The speed and strength of his blows was impressive enough to make her think she had been too bold when she’d stood so near to him.
After a while they came to an outcropping of rock that looked down upon a wooded bowl in the land. Populating it were many figures, skeletons and ghouls and things in between. Some moved, others were like statues crusted with dust. Above them wraiths wafted.
She had the sense that Grimra was hovering over her again, covering her from any attack. A wraith issued up before her and he snarled.
‘Back, you,’ said Molluvial, waving an ashen hand, and the wraith receded.
‘They obey you?’ asked Lalenda.
‘Not the right word,’ said Molluvial, though he added nothing more.
How many undead were here, she wondered? Maybe a hundred, maybe more. And there were others elsewhere too, spread throughout the wood.
‘Why do they gather like this?’
‘I do not know,’ said Molluvial. ‘Perhaps there is some spark of comfort in commonality, when all else is gone.’
Suddenly Lalenda knew what she must do, knew the reason why her prophecy had been important.
‘Perhaps,’ she said, ‘I am a friend after all?’
Molluvial creaked his eyeless gaze towards her.
‘With one last confidence to betray?’
He stared at her for a long time, finally nodding slowly.
‘Come, Grimra,’ she said. ‘Let us depart.’
She beat her wings, lifting from the ground and sending up dust in her wake. Grimra swirled beneath her, buoying her up. As she rose, the ancient warrior watched her go, the mighty in a cage, and she felt great sadness. Tears pricked the back of her eyes, but she blinked them away. If she had not cried upon learning of her mother’s death, there was nothing left to cry about, ever again.
Well, she thought, perhaps it will not win us the war, but there is good to be done in mercy here.
•
The way up was not as easy as down, though she wasn’t trying to get back to the aviary, just the top of the sheer black cliff. Grimra gave her a bit of extra lift, but the almost-vertical ascent was still slow going.
‘What be we doing now?’ asked the ghost.
‘Let’s just get to the top,’ she puf
fed. ‘When I have breath again, I will tell you.’
Soon she crested the cliff and made the last flutter over the wall that ran around Skygrip. She landed on the other side with a sigh of relief and slumped down for a moment of rest. Two goblin guards noticed her arrival and came striding towards her. She met their gazes steadily from under her tousled black mane, not bothering to rise.
‘Mistress Lalenda,’ said one, ‘are you all right?’
‘Fine, thank you,’ she said, still panting.
The older guard seemed a bit coarser. ‘By whose leave are you outside the castle?’ he demanded.
‘By my own,’ she replied. ‘Only Battu sought to keep me confined – though if you continue to uphold his orders, perhaps you are still loyal to him, something my lord Losara should know about?’
The goblin glared. ‘I am loyal to the Shadowdreamer.’
‘Well then,’ she said, ‘you’d better cease your impertinent questions.’
After a moment’s deliberation the goblin made an effort to remove his scowl, and gave a curt nod. ‘Forgiveness, my lady,’ he said.
Grimra’s grinning skull materialised above her head, and both the goblins took a step back.
‘Do these be irking you, flutterbug?’ asked the ghost. ‘Want me to vent their spleens?’
‘No, Grimra,’ she snapped, finding her irritation now directed at him. She had been handling the situation well enough.
‘If we may take our leave, mistress?’ said the first goblin hurriedly.
‘Wait,’ she commanded, and they drew up short in their eagerness to retreat.
‘Yes, my lady?’
‘I have heard it said that when Battu attacked the Shining Mines he used fire.’
The subject made the goblins instantly more uncomfortable than they already were. Fire was ever something feared by the shadow, so hot and horrible it was. It had uses, of course – some kinds of cooking, weapon-making and warfare – but it was rarely seen in general use.
‘Yes,’ said the older goblin, who perhaps had even been part of that campaign. ‘There were catapults, which hurled balls of tar that had been set alight.’
