by Peter
The boar was on him before he could right himself. Its head ducked and dove, seeking an opening where it could thrust a tusk in his belly. He grabbed a tusk in each hand and held the beast at bay, but it took all his strength, and he knew he would not be able to hold it off for long.
“To me,” he shouted. “Help me.”
He did not know if any of the tribe even knew his language, and indeed had little hope that they would come to his aid if they did.
The boar’s head lowed inexorably towards his chest despite all his efforts. The stench of its hot breath stung in his nostrils and at the back of his throat. Soon he was eye to eye with the beast, pinned by its weight. It tugged its head back, breaking his hold, and then lunged forward.
Hentra watched his fate come for him.
A yell came from his left and a spear took the beast full in the snout, sending a wash of hot blood over the Saxon. The boar fell back with a yelp and Hentra looked up to see a red-haired boy standing over him, bloodied spear in his hand and a determined look on his face. It was the same boy who had watched him so intently earlier.
Hentra got slowly to his feet and retrieved the axe. He stood beside the boy as they both watched the boar. But it had lost interest in them. It was already barrelling towards the entrance.
The men guarding the spot fell before it. Bodies flew. Bones broke and blood spilled. The beast stopped in its rush just long enough to stomp one man into a bloody mush then it was gone.
The only sound in the room was the groans of the dying.
“THANK YOU,” HENTRA said to the boy at his side, but the lad only looked at him quizzically, then shook his head.
He does not understand me. Yet he came to my aid. I owe this boy my life.
They made their way to the doorway. Screams rose from somewhere in the city. The beast was still rampaging.
Hentra started to walk in the direction opposite to the commotion.
The boy tugged at his sleeve to get his attention then made stabbing motions with the spear towards the screams.
He means to hunt the beast down.
Hentra took a look along the path he had been on and sighed.
I owe the lad my life. The least I can do is prevent him from getting himself killed.
He motioned with the axe towards the screams.
“Lead on,” he said.
The boy’s face broke into a wide smile.
He will charm many women when he is grown … if he gets that far.
The boy led and Hentra followed. They would not need any hunting skill to find the beast – the sound of screams was evidence of its whereabouts.
Several townspeople balked at Hentra’s presence among them, but the boy, calm at all times, spoke on the Saxon’s behalf, and no one stopped them.
Not only a charmer, but also a born leader.
The screams were louder now, women and children’s voices raised alongside those of the men. The boy led Hentra through a courtyard to a more open area where the tribe had pitched a small village of wooden huts. Most of the huts were now trampled ruins and the boar ran amok among them, throwing wattle and thatch aside like kindling, goring anybody too slow to get out of its path and snorting happily every time it found fresh meat.
The boy did not hesitate. He stepped forward into the beast’s path.
I cannot allow this. I owe this lad my life.
Hentra jumped ahead of the boy, raising the axe above his head. He knew he would only have time for one stroke.
I have to make it a killing blow.
He timed the blow and brought the axe down, intending to cleave the beast’s head, but it made a lunging move at the last. The left-side tusk went clean through Hentra’s thigh and the axe only succeeded in cutting a deep gouge above the boar’s ear.
The wound only served to enrage the beast further. With a flick of the head it once again sent Hentra sprawling. He landed, face first, in the wreckage of a hut, feeling twigs and broken wood lash against his face. His leg felt warm where blood poured from the thigh wound, but it was not a spout.
I will live. For now.
He got to his feet and turned, just in time to see the boy step between him and the boar, spear raised high.
“No!” he shouted, and broke into a stumbling run. He knew he was going to be too late. The beast had already girded itself for an attack. It was about to bear down on the lad when it stopped, seemingly confused.
It sniffed at the air, three times, head rocking from side to side.
The boy raised the spear higher.
The boar walked towards him, slowly, never taking its eyes from his. When it was six feet from the boy it stopped and sniffed again. Then, to Hentra’s astonishment, it lowered its head and sank to the ground on its knees.
It kneels to him. It pays obedience to the lad.
Hentra limped forward, axe raised for a killing blow, but the boy stopped him, putting a hand on his arm.
He could see the same confusion in the lad’s eyes as he himself felt, but there was something else there.
It is as if the boy almost expected this to happen.
A crowd was starting to gather. At first they merely gaped in astonishment at the spectacle in front of them, before starting to remember the carnage that had occurred from this very beast.
“Kill it,” one cried, and made a move to step forward.
The red-haired boy looked pleadingly at Hentra.
The Saxon stood between the crowd and the spot where the boar knelt at the boy’s feet. They might not understand his tongue, but when he hefted the double-headed axe, no one was in any doubt about his intentions.
The mob stared sullenly at him. He stared back, smiling.
“There is nothing I would like better than for some of you to attack.”
No one showed any desire to take him up on the offer.
He became aware of movement behind him. The boar got slowly to its feet. Hentra turned, axe raised, but the beast merely nuzzled at the boy’s hand then walked away, looking back. When the boy did not move it repeated the movement.
It wants the lad to follow it.
The boy understood and, taking hold of the bristly hair at the beast’s shoulder, he walked alongside it. Hentra followed just behind, making sure to keep himself between the mob and the beast.
His leg flared in white-hot pain with every step. Blood still seeped from the wound, his breeches on that leg soaked through. Each pace brought a damp squelch from where the blood had pooled in his boot.
But I do not have far to walk.
He knew already where the boar would take the lad. Even if the Wyrd had not shown it to him, he would have known.
Five minutes later they descended the steps from the Roman temple and entered the rough-hewn chamber.
The crone lay dead on the floor. The boar moved the body to one side with its head then raised its snout and roared.
The black spider-web spell slowly appeared in the centre of the room. A large rent in the fabric showed where the boar had come through. The hole widened as the beast approached. Once again Hentra’s fingers tingled, but when the boar led the boy into the spell he followed, amused to note that the mob behind them stayed well back, ready to flee the chamber at the slightest provocation.
THE WYRD WAS strong here.
They stood in an open courtyard surrounded on all four sides by thick stone walls that towered high above. There was no obvious sign of egress, merely a shadowy patch on one of the walls where Hentra saw the ghostly faces of the tribesmen peering in awe into the spell.
In the centre of the courtyard, beams of sunlight played on a great cauldron, a black iron pot nearly four feet in diameter. Rock moulded itself all along the left-hand side, a length of stone that might almost seem man-shaped. Just below this stone the marble plinth on which the cauldron sat had buckled and bent. The hilt of a sword showed proud from a ragged piece of rock. As the boy approached, the sun caught a gem at the very heel of the sword, sending dazzling light danci
ng all across the yard.
The boy stepped up and dipped a hand in the cauldron, raising clear glistening water to his lips.
Only the chosen may drink.
The boar nuzzled at the sword then looked the boy in the eye.
The lad needed no second telling.
He put a hand on the hilt and with one smooth pull raised the whole length of the sword from the stone, raising it high overhead where it shone silver like the brightest star.
And at the same moment the Wyrd gripped at Hentra as it had never done before, laying the future out before him as clear and bright as one of the Roman mosaics
The boy, grown to a man but still with the same wide grin sits at the head of a table as he is crowned. The hall is full of hard-eyed warriors, all swearing allegiance.
The boy turned the sword in the air. Each time it caught the sun, another vision seared into Hentra’s mind.
With the sword raised high the new king drives the Saxon before him, all the way to the sea where they are forced into ignominious retreat.
Another turn of the sword brought a new picture.
The man sits at a round table where the best and the wisest are gathered. Outside the land is tilled and fertile and the people give praise to their king and their prosperity while the Saxon skulk in their boats, afraid to make any attack on this mighty warrior.
The boy gave the sword a final flourish.
The man, greying at the temples and stooped with age, drinks from the great cauldron and stands up, straight and young again, the fire once more in his eyes as he lifts the sword and declares that the land and the king are one again.
Hentra stumbled, almost fell, the power of the Wyrd overwhelming him. He staggered back, leaning against the marble.
The boy stepped off the plinth. The spell fell apart around them. It left behind a black flurry of dust as the only sign it had been there. The boar was gone.
But the great cauldron remained behind, sitting in the centre of the rough-hewn chamber on its bed of marble.
THE BOY SHOWED the sword to his people.
Not all were happy to see it. Hentra did not understand the arguments that were thrown around, but he understood the gist.
They will not follow a boy. Never mind that all of Wyrd itself has shown them the truth of it.
He tried to stand, to go to the boy’s side but found himself too weak. His wounded leg would no longer hold his weight. He stumbled and fell back against the marble. He put out a hand to steady himself. It sunk into the rock, the stone itself sucking at him.
He was held tight in the rock’s embrace and could only watch, as the mob grew uglier.
The boy’s face was set in grim concentration. Two men tried to take the sword from him. He ducked away, but was in danger of being cornered. Rather than give up the sword to the men he dodged between a sea of arms and ran for the cauldron. Without a pause he slammed the sword back into the stone. It sat there, vibrating, sending off a deep hum as it settled.
The mob was in uproar. A tall heavily built man strode forward, almost knocking the boy to the ground. He tugged at the sword, but it was held tight. He put both hands to the task, muscles bunching under his tunic. The sword held to its place, even as the man went red in the face. He stayed there, tugging and pulling, until he was spent.
Man after man, almost every one present took his turn. None were able to shift the sword by as much as an inch.
Finally, when all others had taken their turn, the boy strode forward again. He played the crowd, pausing for effect before, one handed, sliding the sword from the stone with no effort. He showed the crowd the sword and stood in front of them, that wide, impish grin painted across his face.
The boy turned back to Hentra, dismayed to see where the Saxon’s hand was embedded in the rock. Try as they might, neither of them could shift it. The boy even tried to pour water from the cauldron around the stone, in the vain hope that it might soften.
And that is when Hentra knew what must be done.
This boy will be king. He has the sword, and my people will not be able to stand against him.
But he does not yet have the cauldron.
Hentra put his free hand against the cold black iron and called on the Wyrd.
Almost immediately the tribes-people in the room became shadowy figures, as if seen through a thick fog. Hentra wove a hiding spell, using all the strength he had in him and moulding reality to his will.
The marble flowed and shifted, taking first his legs then his torso. But Hentra kept his hand on the cauldron, moving it, and him, to the furthest corner of the Wyrd, to a place where no one could find it. He bound it with cryptic puzzles and glamour, and hid it among stories from other places, other times.
At the end, just as the stone finally took him, the Wyrd showed him one last vision. It was of an aged king, bent and worn by many cares, searching in vain for a cauldron to renew him, even as the Saxon armies once more arrived on his shores – this time to stay.
The boy might have won the sword.
But Hentra had won the war.
Time and the City by John Howard
THE CITY BEARS no name, or at least they have never been able to discover it. So it is the City. There is a map, but there are no names inscribed on it. The precise material the map is made from remains uncertain. And it is not even possible to determine how it was produced: whether it was drawn, or printed by a process long since lost – and lost so long ago that the loss itself is not remembered.
From the start they are able to make out the course of the river, together with the surrounding hills and valleys, and the barest skeletal outline of the City. The lattice of its plan reveals itself: twining and intersecting threads of varying widths laid down over the charted landscape, the many forums, squares, arenas, and other spaces marked only by the absence of lines. Many of the City’s streets and ways clearly take the natural paths of contour lines; others are part of a formal geometry imposed on the land, lines knotted together in an encompassing net that could catch anyone who chances to come upon it. That is all.
Kayler decides to dedicate himself to exploring the map and seeking the city it reveals. He experiences the icy exhilaration of gazing down into deep time – as he stares at the ancient city, contemplating it, he feels as if he is standing at the edge of an abyss. Layer upon layer of strata fall away before him, as if tumbling with him into the millennia. At other times, as he concentrates on a particular area of the City, or a certain feature, it is like staring into a yawning shaft, a wondrous vertigo seizing him as the depths rush up to meet him, inexorably coming into resolution around him. To Kayler the nameless city becomes truly the only City. He sinks into the pit of time; he embraces and returns its chill grip.
HE STANDS AT what was once the centre of a world. Sunlight slants over roofs covered with golden tiles. Shadows grow long as the sun goes down behind the temples piled up against the City’s low hills. Ahead of him, on both sides of Triumphal Way, rows of marble columns march towards infinity, striking into the empty sky. If the pillars were ever capped by statues, there are none left now. As Kayler strolls towards the Central Forum the procession of topless columns sow in him a sense of incompleteness and jeopardy: as if a gigantic knife has sliced a layer off the top of the City, and might sweep back again at any time.
Soaring above the Central Forum and crowning the City’s highest hill is the Verdigris Dome. The metal flashes and glints in the setting sun. He starts to walk across the patterned red and black marble slabs towards the mighty staircase that mounts the hillside rising towards the Dome. Space opens out on all sides of him. During all of his time in the City he has met no-one, seen no-one. There is no sign of any life. The City seems deserted, as if scoured clean by the winds that gust in from the surrounding plains.
KAYLER SNAPS OUT of his reverie as the train clatters into the station. From memories of wandering across the vast open space of the Central Forum, the Verdigris Dome swelling into the sky in the distance, K
ayler recalls himself to the swaying carriage. Advertisements flash past on the tunnel walls. Soon he is standing on the platform gazing at grimy tiles. A fresh blast of warm wind pushes its way into the tunnel as another train roars towards the station.
Outside at street level Kayler smells the fumes and hears the rumble of traffic and the endless subdued muttering of the people crowding the pavements. He is jostled; he looks around him for the row of columns, but lamp posts are no substitute. Litter frolics around his feet. He hesitates, thinking that next time he will walk to a quay and get into one of the empty boats, but a train is crawling slowly over the first bridge he comes to, and the river is the wrong one. He shakes his head, trying to fully return himself to the present.
He thinks of the map of the City and how the River Mercuriel meanders through the grid of streets. So far he has crossed the river once, on the Segmental Bridge; he saw the ranks of boats tied up at the empty quays, and vowed to follow the slow and drowsy flow of the river from one side of the City to the other. He sits on a bench, feeling the solid wood pushing up in reaction against his weight. This time in the City he knelt on the terracotta paving of Three Fountains Square and had been able to feel the gritty material as he rubbed his palm over its surface. For the first time it was as if the City had declared something of itself to him. It isn’t far to Melas’ office.
He tells Melas that he is beginning to hear the sound of the wind and to smell the grass. “The resolution of the Bistre Quarter has improved significantly, then?” Melas says.
Kayler nods. “Yes. Triumphal Way is forming out well. It will be interesting to see if statues do grow on top of the pillars.”
Melas smiles. “Couldn’t you choose more evocative names? Maybe I should be more careful how I put you under, try and influence you while you’re … away. Back there.”
