by Oisin McGann
Rak Ek Namen had described a different world to him. The Prime Ministrate had big plans for Noran and the lands around it. He had said the war with the Kartharic Peaks would soon be fought and won, and that with that victory would come a time of peace. Science would take its rightful place over the traditions of old. Used wisely, it would put an end to hunger; farms would produce more food than the world could eat. Machines would change life forever, speeding up work and carrying loads no animal could bear.
The Prime Ministrate’s face had a fervent expression as he spoke of his dreams. He had laboratories and workshops all over Noran, where scientists and inventors were at work, creating things that would change the world, devices that would allow people to talk over vast distances, and flames that burned ice cold to keep food fresh. Rumours came from across the world of wood that was stronger than steel, steel that was lighter than silk, even seashells that could capture music and play it again and again. He envisioned crops that grew in any season, fields that could be rolled up and turned over instead of having to plough them and weather birds that could carry bags of chemicals into the clouds to make it rain, or make it stop raining.
All of this spun through Groach’s thoughts, dazzling him as he tried to remember what it was he had meant to ask the Prime Ministrate. It did not matter. He sank back into the deep-red cushions and let the dreams of the future wash over him. Noran would be a wonderful, enlightened, exciting place, and he was going to be part of it.
The rocking of the coach had been lulling him into a sleep, sleep that he welcomed as it weighed him down with its covers. Rak Ek Namen had opened a hamper while he had talked, and they had eaten crusty sandwiches, crisp salads and an assortment of pies, all of which were followed by honey and almond cake with fresh cream and sugared wafers. The food had been accompanied by a bottle of wine, and the whole lot had left him feeling like a very round stomach with some small limbs and a heavy head attached.
He was just on the point of falling asleep when the coach made a tight turn and rumbled to a halt. The engine cut out, and he was startled by the sudden silence. The chill night air flooded in when the door was opened, and the Prime Ministrate climbed down and beckoned him out, standing aside as he clambered sleepily down the steps. It was cold out, and he was sorry to leave the warmth of the cabin, longing now for the sleep that had just been taken from him. He saw a massive gate being swung shut behind them. They were within the walls of some kind of fortress. A small party of servants stood waiting.
Namen waved to one of the aides, a smartly uniformed man with bright eyes and a warm smile.
‘This is Shessil Groach. He is a very special young man. I want him shown every hospitality.’
Namen turned to Groach:
‘I have to leave you now. Bertley here will show you to your room and make sure you have everything you need. Good night, Shessil. Sleep well. We have a long journey ahead of us tomorrow.’
With that, he strode away, pursued by a small crowd of advisors and officials. Left suddenly among complete strangers, Groach sank into dismay. Bertley took his bag and gestured towards a nearby building that illuminated the night’s gloom with the warm yellow light from its windows and open doorway.
‘Welcome to Tabanark, Mr Groach.’
They were in the grounds of a keep, the yard around him encircled by high walls. The keep itself loomed over them, five floors high not including the battlements. But it was warm inside and he was led up a flight of stairs along a luxuriously carpeted corridor to a door where Bertley stopped. He opened it and ushered Groach inside.
To someone who had spent all his life in humble, simple, living quarters, the room was a place fit for the gods. A polished, hardwood floor was almost completely covered by a thick rug, paintings hung from the stone walls, and the narrow latticed windows had panes of coloured glass in patterns of dancing figures. The furniture was dark, varnished and exquisitely carved. The bed was a huge four-poster affair, with curtains and richly woven blankets. He pulled the covers back to reveal silk sheets. It was all slightly overwhelming. He took off his shoes and stood wiggling his toes in the deep rug.
‘Is there anything you need, sir?’ Bertley enquired.
Groach shook his head.
‘Then I’ll wish you good night.’ Bertley laid his bag on one of the chairs and retreated from the room with a bow.
Groach twirled slowly, his hands by his sides, taking in all the details in a daze. He had never been in a room like it. With heavy eyelids, he undressed, pulled on his nightshirt and flopped onto the enormous bed, burying himself under the covers. He felt half-dead with tiredness, but found he could not settle. The strangeness of the room was part of it, he supposed, as he lay awake, staring up at the drapes above him. But it was also his thoughts – things he could not work out in his head.
He gave a start when he felt the bed shudder, and a rumble sounded deep below him. As he leapt out of bed, the floor continued to tremble beneath his feet. He ran to the door and looked out. A servant boy was passing, carrying a pile of laundry that he could barely see over.
‘You there!’ Groach called. ‘Do you hear that?’
The boy stopped, and regarded him with a look of scorn.
‘Of course I do,’ he snorted and carried on his way with his washing.
Taking this as a sign that tremors and rumbling were a part of life in this keep, Groach peered up and down the corridor to see if anyone else was panicking, and turned to go inside. He paused, then crept tentatively out into the hallway to a table at the end. On it stood a rubber plant. Picking it up, he walked back to his room and shut the door. He set the rubber plant on his bedside table and got back into bed.
‘You’re not going to believe what’s happened to me over the last few days,’ he murmured to it. Then he began telling the plant all about it. Before long, he was fast asleep.
10 THE MARK OF THE SCURG
Hilspeth awoke to the chirping of birds in the tree above her. She was lying on a bed of moss, under her cloak. Rolling onto her back, she gazed up at the shelter of thin branches, woven with twigs and broad leaves, that stood over her. Draegar had made her this lean-to last night with a quick, practised ease. He did not need shelter himself. On lying down to sleep, he had simply curled up to form a protective dome around himself with his armour. From the shade of her lean-to, Hilspeth could see that the Parsinor was already awake. Sitting on a rock in the morning sunlight, he appeared to be drawing something.
The scentonomist stretched and sat up, putting on her shoes and brushing her long, thick, red hair with her fingers, before tying it back in a ponytail with a piece of string. She got to her feet and walked over to Draegar, enjoying a jaw-stretching yawn on the way. He was working on a piece of vellum, a fine, smooth bit of leather, which he had pinned onto a small board that sat on his knees. Hilspeth came around beside him, head tilted to one side to get a better look, and was surprised to see that he was working on a map. It was beautiful, with fine line drawings to indicate the terrain; trees, hills and valleys with rivers drawn in blue ink, and black lines to describe the banks on either side. Names were labelled in a flowing script and, in some places, he had drawn examples of animals to be found in the area, a few with warnings about their fierceness.
Hilspeth was taken aback by the grace and precision with which he drew. His big fingers made the quill look little more than a hair, yet he guided it across the page with an artistic skill that belied the size of his club-like hands.
‘It’s wonderful,’ she said.
He looked up at her, but said nothing. On the map, she could see the road they had been travelling along and the grove of trees where they had stopped. There was a well in the grove behind her and that too was clearly marked.
‘So,’ she chirped, trying to make conversation, ‘you’re a cartographer.’
‘I am not,’ he grunted. ‘Are you blind? I’m a map-maker.’
Hilspeth saw no point in arguing. She tried a different tack.
‘Yes.’
Hilspeth waited, but he did not say any more.
‘Would you care to share them?’ she pressed, smiling tightly.
‘In time,’ he replied.
‘Well, aren’t we in a hurry?’
‘Yes, but first we must wait.’
Hilspeth bridled at his curt tone, but she held her peace.
‘I’m going to make some breakfast, then. Would you like some?’
‘I’ve already eaten, thank you.’
Hilspeth turned on her heel and strode off. It did not take her long to find some barl root, potatoes, basil and some sausage beans. She lit a fire, and while the flames built up, she grated the potatoes, ground up the barl root and chopped the basil. She emptied the floury root powder and the basil, with the beans, into a pot she borrowed from Draegar. That all got mixed with water from the well, and would make a nice soup. The grated potatoes she made into hash browns, frying them on a pan with some more of the sausage beans. A few drops from a couple of the bottles from her waistcoat and the food was starting to smell delicious. Even Draegar was glancing over at the fire.
‘Sure you won’t have some?’ she called.
‘No, thank you.’ He turned his attention back to his map.
Hilspeth shrugged, and tucked into her food. When she was finished, she cleared up and went back to watching Draegar draw. He had almost finished. The vellum was filled with a clear description of the lands around them, some of which they had passed through, some that he must have been drawing from earlier memories.
‘Is that where the children’s uncle lives?’ she asked, nodding at a point marked ‘Farm of Emos Harprag’.
‘Yes.’
‘He must be so worried. Where do you think he is now?’
The Parsinor dipped his quill in a small jar of water by his side and wiped it clean with a cloth.
‘I don’t know. But he will not rest until he finds them. Those two mean everything to him, not just because he loves them … and he does, despite the chaos they cause, but also because their parents are the only Myunans whom he can still count as friends. He was exiled from his tribe years ago.’
‘What do you mean? Is he a criminal or something? Why was he cast out?’
Draegar studied her for a moment, as if deciding what to tell her, then put the board with the map on the ground.
‘It is a tragic story. Have you ever heard of the Scurg?’ he asked.
‘I think so. It’s some kind of Myunan disease, isn’t it?’ Hilspeth frowned as she tried to remember where she had heard the term before.
‘It was the worst plague to hit the Myunan race in generations,’ Draegar rasped. ‘The disease killed thousands. It would probably have killed many more, if the people were not nomads by nature. If they had lived in towns and cities, the entire race might have been wiped out.
‘It is a horrible sickness, only affecting Myunans. It causes them to lose control of their bodies, the way they transform. It is an ugly, painful death. The victim starts to change shape. They stretch and swell and twist until they are distorted into a tortured wreck of what they once were. Myunans can take almost any kind of form, but they still have to drink and eat and breathe. Eventually, the disease contorts them into a shape that blocks their mouth and nose, and they die. There is no known cure. All you can do is comfort them and watch them pass away.
‘The plague was already in its second year when Emos’s wife, Wyla, became sick. She was standing outside their lodge one day, when she went to step forward. Her foot caught on something and she fell over. When she looked to see what she had tripped on, she discovered that her foot had grown roots. She was stuck to the ground. She called Emos, but she already feared the worst.
‘They had to listen, crying in each other’s arms, as the tribe’s healer told them what they did not want to hear – she had caught the Scurg. The whole tribe had to be moved away at once, lest the disease spread to others. She was branded with the mark of the plague – a tattoo on her face, and Emos took their lodge down and rebuilt it around her. I could not catch the disease as I was not a shape-changer, and Wyla and I begged Emos to get away, telling him that I would tend to her. But he would not leave his wife.
‘It was around the fourth or fifth day that he went away, and came back with scrolls on transmorphing. This is a kind of magic once practised among the Myunans, where they direct their shape-shifting abilities outwards, changing things around them. Transmorphing is forbidden among the Myunans, and his attempts to learn it did not go down well with the tribe. They thought Wyla should be left to die with dignity. Emos did not accept this. He practised day and night, at the same time struggling to keep Wyla comfortable as her condition got worse. But he did not discover a cure. It lasted over three weeks, and in her last days, there was nothing left of Wyla – she was unrecognisable. Even her voice had changed into something strange and horrible.
‘I stayed with him all that time. He made me promise that if he showed any signs of the disease, I was to leave them both. But he never did. And when the elders of the tribe came to tell him that he had exposed himself to the plague for too long, that he was sure to have caught it as well, he was too distraught to argue. Wyla was almost dead. They branded him, too, with the mark of the plague.
‘But I can tell you now, whether it was a quirk of nature, or all the transmorphing he had experimented with in the weeks of Wyla’s sickness, that he did not catch that disease. But the tribe would not believe that he was safe. They thought that, even if he was immune to the Scurg, he might still carry it. He was exiled from the tribe, driven away out of fear. Only Taya and Lorkrin’s parents still trusted him; their mother is his sister and Wyla was her best friend. After the years Emos spent wandering the land, sometimes with me, sometimes on his own, Taya and Lorkrin’s parents helped him set up the farm where he lives now. They secretly bring the two little terrors to visit whenever they can. But he still bears that brand, the mark of the plague, and it was put there by Myunans, so he can’t hide it by changing shape or colour – it always shows through. And that brand terrifies Myunans still.’
‘His whole life taken away.’ Hilspeth shook her head. ‘I can’t imagine what that would do to a person.’
‘It’s almost time to go,’ Draegar told her, packing his things into his satchel.
Hilspeth followed him over to the well, where he peered down into the inky depths. She didn’t like the look of this. He seemed to be gauging the distance.
‘We’re not going down there, are we?’
‘Yes.’
‘How is the well going to help us catch up on Taya and Lorkrin?’ she enquired.
‘The wells in this area are known for the purity of the water,’ Draegar informed her. ‘Very few people ask why. If they should, they would find the answer fascinating.’
‘I’m sure I would as well.’ Hilspeth laughed nervously. ‘But as long as the answer lies down at the bottom of a well, I could stand not knowing.’
‘Are you scared of small, enclosed spaces?’
‘Well, actually, petrified would be closer to the truth.’
‘It is the only way I know that we can catch up with your friend.’
‘Couldn’t we just walk very fast? Isn’t there a short cut we could take?’
‘Yes, there is. We’re taking it. We haven’t much time. Either you come with me now, or you stay here and find your friend in Noran, if you can.’
The well was a mud-brick structure about waist high, with the bucket tied to a post beside it. Draegar undid the knot and tied it around a nearby tree instead. Then he lowered himself over the side and disappeared inside, barely fitting down the narrow sinkhole. Hilspeth looked in after him, saw him sliding down the rope into the darkness and shut her eyes. How badly did she want to help Shessil? He didn’t seem too unhappy with his life – a life spent imprisoned doing work that amounted to slavery. T
he memory of his face, his smile, gave her courage. She wanted to see his face again.
Taking out a handkerchief, Hilspeth threw her cloak over her shoulders, and climbed onto the wall of the well. She wrapped the hankie around the rope and gripped it firmly, then let herself down into the well, eyes tightly closed once more. With her feet against the wall, she half slid, half walked her way down. As she got further down, her hands began to cramp, and she had to hang from one and then the other to unclasp them and stretch them until the pain eased off. Even with the handkerchief, they were starting to burn.
Further down, her feet slipped and she hit the wall. Without meaning too, she looked down, but found that opening her eyes made no difference. She could not see a thing. The top was a bright white circle far above her. There was not enough space. She felt trapped and she began to panic. Struggling to get her feet back up against the wall, she lost her grip on the rope and fell.
She hit water with an almighty splash, and thrashed upwards even as she went under. Her head broke the surface and she screamed before drawing breath. A strong hand caught hold of her and held her up. She hugged the Parsinor until her panic had died down, and then pushed herself away, much to his relief. Looking around, she could see they were in an underground cavern, a deep stream disappearing in both directions. Draegar was holding a glass jar with a glowing liquid in it. It gave off a yellow-green light that showed Hilspeth just enough to know that she should not be here. She was trembling and she could not think. She had enough of her wits about her to be embarrassed by this. She prided herself on being able to handle most things, but she did not want Draegar to know that she was close to tears.
‘Wh— wh— what do we do now?’ she hissed through gritted teeth.
‘We wait to be cleaned up,’ came the answer.
Hilspeth wondered if Draegar had suddenly developed a sense of humour, but the odds were against it. He saw her trembling, and realised that she needed something to think about.
