by Andy Remic
"You never bite the hand that feeds."
The current caught the raft, and with a rapid acceleration they were slammed along the cavern and disappeared rapidly into a narrow, blackened tunnel. To Saark, it felt as though they were being sucked down into the Chaos Halls themselves…
Cold air hit them. They were plunged into total darkness. The raft moved forward swiftly, rocking occasionally, and Saark found himself sitting very, very still. Fear of water was not something that had ever really occurred to him; he had only ever really been on the Royal Barge on Lake Katashinka, and even then he'd always been drunk. Now, however, a cold sobriety had him in its fist and every little rock, or shift, every turn and dip and rise made his stomach flip over, and injected him with a sudden nausea and need to be sick. A white pallor invaded his face, but because of the gloom nobody realised his fear.
They seemed to slow for a while, travelling down narrow tunnels, and then emerged into a huge cavern. Fluorescent lodes glinted in the walls, lighting their way, and ice gleamed on rocks and stalagmites.
They plunged into darkness again.
"Does anybody feel sick?" said Saark in a small voice.
"You big girl," snapped Kell. He was concentrating hard, attempting to feel the flow of the river, to anticipate – in the Stygian black – whether they were being pulled toward the rows of harsh, jagged rocks, like gnashing teeth, which lined the way.
"No, no, really, I feel incredibly queasy."
"It'll be your wound," said Myriam, not unkindly. She crossed to Saark, and took his hands. "Here. Let me soothe you."
"Yeah, I bet you will," said Nienna, voice small.
"No, honestly, I feel really…" Saark scrambled to the edge of the raft, and threw up noisily over the side. He vomited for a while, and there was an embarrassed silence, and finally Saark sat up.
"How you feeling?" growled Kell.
"That was your fault."
" My fault? How, in the name of Bhu Vanesh's bollocks, did you come to that conclusion?"
"It's your boat control, isn't it? You're all over the place, man!" He turned to Nienna and Myriam, little more than ethereal white blobs in the dark. "I'm sorry, ladies, to lose my equilibrium in such a way. I'm sure you must feel queasy as well."
"Not I," said Myriam.
"Nor I," said Nienna, eyes flashing daggers. "Maybe you've been sucking on something you shouldn't?" She flashed a glance to Myriam, but it was lost in the gloom, in the surge and sway of the raft.
"Something's coming," said Kell.
"What do you mean, 'something's coming'? What can possibly 'be coming' out here?" But even as Saark was spouting his vomit-stinking words, they hit a sudden dip and the raft fell several feet, splashing with a slap onto a swirl of churning water; Kell fought with the makeshift tiller, which gave a crack and came off in his hands. He stared at Myriam.
"That's not good," she said.
"You idiot!" screamed Saark. "You're supposed to be steering the damn thing! Now you've broken it! You bloody idiot! What the hell are you doing?"
"I'm not doing anything," snapped Kell. "This whole game is out of my damn control. But I'll tell you what I will do if you keep blaming me for freaks of nature, you freak of nature, I'll be steering your big fat stupid face into the current of my fucking fist."
"No need to be like that," said Saark primly – as they hit another sudden dip, and the raft tipped madly and Saark rolled towards the edge, squawking like an infant. "Wah!" he screamed, and Myriam launched after him, grabbing hold and dragging him back without ceremony.
"Get hold of something!" she hissed, and retracted her claws. Then the pain hit Saark, as he realised her vachine claws had saved him by hooking into his thigh muscle.
He screamed again. "You punctured me! You grabbed my bloody muscle! Are you addled on Fisher's Weed? Devoid of your better judgement? Are you insane? Look, I'm bleeding, I've got blood all over my pants, there's blood everywhere, on my pants, and everything!"
"There'll be more soon," muttered Kell. But they hit another drop, and as water washed over them and they clung to the raft for dear life, so it began to turn and rock, and drop into choppy troughs flecked white with foam. A roaring came to their senses. It was loud, and vicious sounding.
"That sounds like a waterfall," said Saark, carefully.
"So it does, lad," snapped Kell.
"You know that shack back there? You remember how it was never used?"
"I suppose I understand, now," said Kell.
Saark turned his moaning on Myriam. "I thought you said you knew this path?"
"No. I said I could guide us out."
"What, and dropping us off an underground waterfall is getting us out, is it? Am I truly surrounded by idiots?"
Myriam gripped him. Her vachine fangs flashed. "Listen, Saark, I never said I'd been this way before. Only that I knew of tunnels which led out from the Black Pike Mountains. If you're so damn perfect, you paddle us back up the fucking river!"
"Wait," said Nienna, and her voice was soft. She held up a hand. "Listen."
They listened, and heard the roar of fast-approaching falls.
"I hear my imminent death approaching," whimpered Saark, eventually.
"Can't you hear the cracking?"
"Great! A rock-fall as well! Wonders will never cease!"
"No. It's ice," said Nienna.
"Well," beamed Saark, "that's just fine and dandy. Helps us out of our predicament nicely, and with all manner of- HOLY JANGIR FIELDS LOOK AT THAT BASTARD!" It was a black band of nothing and it was scrolling swiftly towards the adventurers on the raft, rimed with an edge of sparkling white ice and dropping dropping into a cold vast nothingness filled with blackness and steam…
CHAPTER 4
Wildlands
Kell fell, air rushed past him, and he prayed the hefty raft didn't hit him in the back of the skull. Rocks smashed to his left and right, and clutching Ilanna to his chest he managed to angle his body into a dive. He dreaded the impact with ice-chill water, dreaded that harsh impact slam to face and body and soul. He knew it was enough to kill a man, and he knew armour and weapons could drag a man to his death – he'd seen it before, several times, watched warships settle into the ocean like dying dragons, watched men flail and scream, panic invading them as quickly as any ice waters, only to be sucked under heaving green waves and never return. But Kell would never give up Ilanna. He would never give up the Sister of his Soul. Not even if his life depended on it…
Saark screamed like a woman, flapped like a chicken, and did not care that the world could and would mock him. He hit the water with a gasp, went under deep and surfaced flailing like a man on the end of a swinging noose – only to see something huge and black and terribly ominous tumbling toward him – and he realised in the blink of an eye it was the raft the fucking raft and he leapt back and twisted, swimming down, down, and something made a deep sonic thump above and Saark knew the bastard would hit him, push him down, drown him without any emotion and he swam, bitterly, secure in the knowledge that he was cursed and he was a pawn and the whole bloody world was an evil gameboard designed just for him. Bubbles scattered around like black petals, and eventually, as pain lacerated his lungs and bright lights danced like flitting fish, he struck for the surface, gasping as he emerged in a burst. He bobbed there for a while, in the gloom, listening to the roar of the waterfall, and then his eyes adjusted and he saw Kell, Myriam and Nienna on the raft, dripping, frowning, and staring at him. He scowled.
"Come on, lad," urged Kell. "What you waiting for?"
"What happened, did you all nail yourselves to the bastard thing?" spat Saark, and struck out through the undulating water.
"No," said Kell, taking Saark's wrist and hauling the man onto the raft, which bobbed violently. " You simply spent too much time paddling down there with the fairies. What were you doing, man? We thought you'd drowned!"
"Hah. I was simply counting my money." Saark looked up. They'd fallen a considerable way,
and behind them the base of the waterfall churned. Steam rose, and ice crackled on rocks. Saark shivered, and then realised he wasn't dying from the cold. "Wait. Something's wrong," he said.
"It's a geyser," said Myriam. "The water here is heated from thermal springs deep below Skaringa Dak."
Saark scowled. "It smells odd."
"Sulphur," said Kell. "You should be thankful for the bath, mate. You were beginning to stink."
"Amusing, Kell. If you didn't have that big axe I'd put you across my knee and spank you. And we all know how you'd enjoy that!"
Kell stared at him. Hard.
"I take it back," said Saark, and watched Kell deflate. "Was only a little joke. At least we're not dead." He brightened. "So many women! And so few days left on this world!"
Kell handed him a broken plank. Saark stared at it.
"What's this?"
"I meant to say. Don't get too happy. It's time to paddle."
"You want me to paddle?"
"Yes, Saark. Paddle. Before we get sucked back into the waterfall's undertow, and dragged down to a real watery grave."
Swallowing, Saark began to paddle. His efforts did not draw comment, although they probably should have.
They sailed through more darkness, a deep and velvet black that brought back childhood nightmares of vulnerability and despair; and the tunnels soon turned chill again, making all four shiver and regret leaving the warmth of the underground spring. After more peaks and troughs, the sailing started to become rough.
"We're vibrating," said Saark. "What's that supposed to mean?"
There was ambient light again from mineral deposits, and it outlined Saark in stark silver making him appear as a ghost. He was shivering uncontrollably, thin clothing sticking to him like a second skin.
"It means we're in for a rough ride," said Kell. "Get a good hold onto something. And for your own sake, Saark, do not let go."
In the eerie silver light, the river became more and more choppy. Occasionally, they saw rocks appear like shark fins and glide past. Another roaring came to their ears, a gradual escalation of chattering sound as of a thousand insects, and the raft started to rock wildly. Kell clung on grimly, and Saark, with a start, ejected brass claws and stared at them in horror.
"Welcome to the world of the vachine," said Myriam, with a smile, and dug her own claws into the lashed timber planks. Saark stuck his claws into the wood, and hung on grimly, looking sick, looking miserable.
The raft slammed onwards… and the river suddenly dipped, into a vast slope with twists and turns, and Saark was screaming and Nienna clung to Kell whose face was grim and scowling, and they flowed past rocks, and chunks of ice, and the river suddenly widened and hit wild swirling pools, gulleys and troughs, and they were pulled first one way, then another, water splashing over them, drenching them to the bone with freezing ice needles and Nienna screamed. They were spun around again, almost capsized, then accelerated down a wide tunnel past sharp rocks and Saark felt as if he was falling, falling down an endless tunnel of vertical water streams and he knew he would die there, knew he would die after all the pain and suffering he'd been through and it felt bitter on his tongue, wildfire in his mind and he was scowling and shouting and clinging on for life and then -
Then it was calm.
They flowed out into cold winter light. The river swirled through a forest of towering conifers, hundreds of feet high and suffocated by snow. An icy wind bit their cold wet bodies.
Kell laughed, a deep rolling rumble. "We're out!" he breathed, and hugged Nienna, and gazed around, a man filled with wonder, a man seeing daylight for the very first time. He glanced at Myriam. "Well done, girl. You were right! You did well."
Myriam seemed to glow under the praise, and Saark looked down at his damp clothing, ragged, torn, mud- and blood-stained, and then he looked up at the sun. "Are we… safe, in the sunlight?"
"Hardly sunlight, Saark."
"I thought vachine…"
Myriam shook her head. "No. A fiction. The brightest of sunlight might cause you pain in your transformed state, but that is all." Myriam leant closer. "What you have to worry about, Saark, my sweetness, is the fact that you have blood-oil flushing round your veins, but no real clockwork to control it."
Saark gave a swift nod, and wary glance at Kell. "The Big Man said as much. Said I would need to bind with clockwork, although I do not know how such a thing will be achieved. Or, even if I'd want such a thing." He shuddered, and flexed his brass claws.
"You have no choice," said Myriam. "Without clockwork integration, without the skills of the Engineers, you will die."
"Thanks for that," scowled Saark.
The raft swept downriver, and Kell ripped free a plank from the edge of the ragged platform and used it to guide them to the shore, huge neck and shoulder muscles bulging as he fought the heavy flow.
Saark grinned, breathing deep the fresh cold air. After what felt like an eternity in the tunnels under Skaringa Dak, it was good to be free of them again; good to be free of the Black Pike Mountains. Good to be back in Falanor. Good to be alive.
" 'Kell stared melancholy into great rolling waves of a Dark Green World, and knew he could blame no other but himself for The long Days of Blood…' " Kell turned sharply, scowling at Saark.
Myriam tilted her head. "The poem?"
"Aye," said Saark, and as the raft grounded on a bank of snow, he leapt from it and stared back, as if it was some great sea beast recently slaughtered. "Thank the Halls I'm on stable land!" He placed hands on hips, and watched Kell step from the raft with Nienna clinging to one arm. She looked frail and weak, and his heart went out to her at that moment.
"We need a fire. Food. Shelter," said Kell, matter-offactly. His eyes were burning. "Or we will die."
"I like a man who doesn't mince his words," said Saark.
"And I like a man who fucking pulls his weight! Now get out there and find us firewood, and find us a shelter, or I swear Saark, you'll be wearing another wide and gaping smile on your belly before the sun is down."
"Fine, fine, a simple 'please' would have sufficed." Saark turned to hunt for firewood, a dandy in rags, but the look on Kell's face halted him. He frowned, turning back. "Yes, old man? Is there something else? Maybe I should stick a brush up my arse and sweep the floor whilst I'm at it?"
"One more thing. No more poetry. Or I'll cut out your cursed tongue, and be glad I done it."
Saark snorted, and headed into the gloom-shadowed forest, muttering, "All these threats of violence are so low born, lacking in nobility, so uncouth and raw. Threats truly are the language of the peasant."
Moving into the forest, they found a natural shelter from the wind, and in a small alcove surrounded by holly trees and ancient, moss-covered rocks, built a fire. Myriam was gone for two hours, and returned with a dead fox brought down by a single arrow from her bow. As she went about skinning and gutting the creature, Saark stripped off his wet shirt and laid it on a rock by the fire to dry. He flexed his fast-repairing body, and Kell looked up from where he was sharpening Ilanna's blades with a small whetstone.
"You're repairing well, lad," he said, eyes fixed on the chest-wound cut from above Saark's heart by Kradekka on the plateau of Helltop. "I still find it hard to believe you carried that Soul Gem inside you for so long – and realised nothing."
"I was bewitched. Once. And only once." Saark sighed, and stretched out, like a cat in the sun, and ran his hands up and down his arms and flanks, checking himself. "It'll never happen again, I promise you that! And by all the gods, I've taken a battering since I met you." His eyes sparkled with good humour. His pain had obviously receded, and he was more his old self. "Look at all these new scars! Incredible. One would have thought keeping company with The Legend would have brought me nothing but women, fine honey-wine, rich meats and incredible fame. But now? Now, I'm stuck in a forest after the, quite frankly, most abominable adventures of my entire life, I'm riddled with bruises and scars, been beaten more times
than a whore's had hot fishermen, stabbed, burned, chastised and abused, and to top it all the only company I get is that of a grumpy old bastard who should be crossbow whipped in the face for his taste in clothes, whiskey and women." Saark sighed.
Kell looked up. "Shut up," he said.
"See? Where's the witty banter? The dazzling repartee? I wish to discuss literature, philosophy and women. Instead, I get to grub in the woods for mushrooms and onions, dirty my nails like the lowest working man instead of being ridden like a donkey by a buxom farm lass!"
Kell sighed. And looked to Myriam. "Is the meat ready? The stew's bubbling."
Myriam crossed to him carrying a thin metal plate, and scraped a pile of fox meat into the pan. "I'll dry the rest, roll it in salt. We can take it with us."
"Good girl," said Kell, nodding his approval. Saark scowled, and started to remove his trews. "And what are you doing?" snapped Kell.
Saark, half bent, glanced up. "I'm sick of wearing wet clothes."
"You're not removing your stinking trews here, lad. Get out into the forest."
"But it's cold in the forest."
"I am not staring at your hairy arse whilst I cook," said Kell, face like thunder. "I, also, have been through much recently. And it's bad enough seeing your homeland torn asunder and your friends murdered by ice-smoke magick and insect-born albino soldiers, without some tart wishing to dangle his tackle over my fox stew. So get out into the forest, and try not to sit in the pine needles. They sting, you know."
Saark stared hard at Kell. "Kell, you're worse than any old fish wife," he snapped, but pulled his trews up and sauntered away from their makeshift camp, swaying his hips provocatively, just to annoy the old warrior.
An hour later, with the winter sun dying in the sky and pink tendrils creeping over the horizon chased by sombre, snow-filled storm clouds, Kell sat back with hands on his belly, and closed his eyes.
Saark was mending his torn shirt with needle and thread supplied by Myriam's comprehensive pack; a woman used to living in the wilds for weeks at a time, the provisions she carried were lightweight but necessary. Salt, arrows, thread, various herbs, and several spare bowstrings. As she pointed out, her bow was her life. It was her means to a regular food supply, and with fox stew in their bellies, it was hard for anybody to disagree.
