“Obban tesh,” swore Sianadh, quickening his pace, “I could not tell for sure, but it looked as if that sliding thing were headless and carrying its noggin under its arm.”
Imrhien limped after him, lugging her ruined boot in one hand, her ashen staff in the other. The moon rose a little higher. Far below, the river gushed. Then the terrible sound began.
Thud, thud. A rhythmic pounding shook the ground like a giant hammer, then stopped, giving way to an empty silence. From somewhere behind, in the darkness, it had come. Abruptly it started up again: thud, thud, getting nearer. Once more the sound ceased.
A strange lisping sound was emanating from Sianadh’s mouth. He was trying to whistle, but his lips were too dry. Beads of sweat stood out on his brow. Nausea gripped the pit of the girl’s belly like a squeezing fist. Thud, thud; it came again, remorselessly, the vibrations running up through the travelers’ feet. The Ertishman began to run, the girl hard on his heels.
The moon vanished behind a cloud, and Sianadh stumbled; a cry escaped his lips, and his head jerked up toward the greenish light that appeared, bobbing, several yards in front of them. An obscure figure held up a lantern. Long, dagged sleeves draped from its arm.
“Follow me, quickly!” Low and pleasant, the voice was slightly cracked, like that of a youth entering manhood. “Come! There is no time to lose.”
“Who are ye?”
“Have you forgotten so soon your friend and guide of the rowan-wood? Hasten. If you do not, the Direath will get you. The lantern shows the path.”
Thud, thud.
Sianadh opened his mouth to speak, but the lantern bobbed away. He grabbed Imrhien’s hand and scrambled after the light, his breath grating in great shredded gasps, but she pulled her hand free. Something was wrong. She wanted to scream out a warning but could only tug at the receding knapsack. The left shoulder-strap broke and hung trailing. She could hear nothing but the voice calling, see nothing but the lantern dancing away, away, and out over where the cliff edge must surely lie, and Sianadh being lured to it, like a moth to his doom, heedless of her tuggings. She flung herself at his back, managing to catch the trailing strap in the same moment that he lunged forward and, with a shout, dropped out of sight. The sickening crunch of sliding gravel came to her ears and the brief clatter of Sianadh’s staff spinning into the void.
He was gone.
The light went out.
Flat on her belly the girl lay blindly in the dark somewhere on the airy rim of nothing. Blood walloped in her ears. A small wind soughed in the gorse, and the Greayte Star’s light struck through thin altostratus cloud. Peering over the precipice, she spied Sianadh’s brown, stubby fingers clinging to clumps of clay, his shaggy head pressed hard against the rock face. Immediately she twisted the trailing pack-strap around the nearest firm-rooted bush, for the knapsack still hung from his shoulder.
Sianadh looked up, blinking dirt from his eyes.
“The ledge beneath my toes be crumbling. I do not want to die. O Ceileinh, Mother of Warriors, save me!”
His companion leaned over, pulled on the knapsack from above. At that moment, Sianadh’s footing gave way. He reached for the strap and with a jerk was brought up short, his full weight depending from it. The little bush bent sharply. Faithfully, it did not break. Screwing up his face, Sianadh heaved himself up with the strength of his knotty arms—his head, then shoulders appeared over the brink. The girl helped him up by his sleeves and hair. The leather strap snapped apart as he grabbed the little bush. Thus anchored, the man paused for breath, still halfway over the cliff, before levering the rest of his bulk up to safety. The battered pack dropped from his shoulder. Unable to stand, he crawled away from the edge. Something small and wicked shot out of nowhere, kicked the knapsack over the cliff, and fled, repeating, “Tear, tear,” as it went.
Imrhien wiped the filth from the man’s face. He was very pale beneath the grime.
Thud, thud, thud.
The thumping thing was coming after them yet. Sianadh struggled to his feet.
“Ye be the leader,” he gasped. “I am a fool—he only speaks to children, the Gailledu. I should have known that light-man was but a treacherous hobby-lanthorn. ’Tis too late—we have already shown fear. Give me your staff. I shall take on whatever comes thumping at our backs.”
It was midnight. The fishing-boat moon with its one sail rode a fathomless sea, casting star-nets to catch comets. In the vast landscape below, two tiny figures ran along a cliff top pursued by the footstep of some fierce and gloomy specter from a madman’s dream. The land fell sharply, the river’s walls diminishing and the roar of the water becoming louder, until the hunted ones found themselves beside a sluicing torrent in a channel not ten feet below. Loud as it was, it could not dull the approach of the predator, a hunter that seemed to sport with its quarry, now speeding up, now dropping back, driving them on to the limit of endurance.
“If ye can swim, we should try to get over the water. They cannot cross it, especially southward-running. But I fear ye should be swept away.”
It was then that they caught sight of the bridge.
Massive river redgums lined the opposite banks. One had fallen across the river. Half its roots were still buried, and it lived, its green branches spilled in a cluster on the ground on the near side. Spurred on by the prospect, the companions raced for this thicket, but too late. The heavy pounding increased its pace, and with a roar, the Direath was upon them. They turned, at bay.
A monstrosity.
It loomed over them, taller by at least two feet, clad in a close-fitting mantle of dark blue feathers. A single hard and hairy hand grew out of its breast-bone, and a single veiny, thick-soled leg grew from its haunch. Its one eye glared from the center of the forehead. In its bony hand it held a thick club. It poised motionless, as if waiting.
Without taking his eyes off the apparition, Sianadh drew out his knife and dropped it behind him.
“Take the skian, lass,” he said steadily, “it is not much use with this one. I need both hands to wield the staff, and if I get close enough to use the blade, that will be close enough for Lord Handsome to grab me by the throat. Take the knife and get over the water, quick-like.”
She shook her head, although he could not see her. She would not leave now, would not desert her friend.
Then with a bellow, the man lunged forward. Mortal and wight joined in battle.
The Ertishman was quick on his feet, ducking under the swinging club or spinning away from it. The staff’s six-foot length was an advantage, and the monster seemed to hate the touch of the ash wood. But there was no doubt that it was the stronger adversary. On its single foot corded with sinews and bulging veins, it hopped forward, forcing the man to give ground. The eye above the cavernous nose and thick lips rolled from side to side, fixed on Sianadh. Curiously, or it may have been a trick of the moonlight, the monster seemed to move not by swinging through space in the normal manner, but rather by metamorphosing rapidly from one position to the next—a confusing trick that hampered anticipation of its actions.
Giving it a wide berth, the girl dodged around its back and darted in, striking with the skian. Uttering a scream of outrage it turned on her, and Sianadh was able to thwack it a mighty blow across the ear while its attention was diverted.
The heavy club narrowly missed her, but she had drawn blood—black blood; the knife-blade smoked with it. Never could she get close enough to wound it with the knife after that, for it was wary of her. But she did not stop hounding and harrying it, and each time it came morphing after her, Sianadh would attack it and it would turn to assail him afresh.
On into the long hours of night they fought, until the ground was bare dust all around. The river dashed past inexorably; the fishing-boat in the sky sailed away. Now the Ertishman moved more slowly. His adversary carelessly allowed him leeway, as if savoring the drawn-out conflict. Sianadh’s aim had deteriorated. The next time he struck, his staff hit the ground and broke in two.
“I be
done for. Run!” he grunted, staggering.
The Direath came thumping at him. In a flash of inspiration Imrhien hurled her boot at its eye—the creature lurched off balance.
In that same instant a light wind ruffled the leaves of the fallen tree, and somewhere in the distance a magpie warbled.
The Direath froze.
The magpie called again, exultantly heralding the dawn. The eastern sky paled to a dishwater taupe; the Direath let its club slump. At the third crow it took one last eldritch swipe at Sianadh, who had lowered his guard; the blow caught him in the ribs. Then it bounded away, thump, thump, toward the forest.
The Ertishman collapsed, clutching his side. Crouching, Imrhien supported his head, helped him to his feet; together they half crawled to the fallen tree and picked a way among the branches to the broad trunk.
Bent double, arms pressed to his flanks, Sianadh edged across the river in front of her. When they had gained the opposite bank he lurched forward a pace or two, crumpled beneath a river redgum, and did not rise. She cradled his unconscious head in her lap, keeping watch while the first light of dawn opened the world’s doors anew.
On reviving, Sianadh propped himself on an elbow and drank greedily of the riverwater Imrhien had brought. He fell back with a sigh and a wince.
“That were like wine to me, even though it tasted of old boots.”
It was, in fact, his own boot in which she had fetched the water, there being no other container available. Her remaining piece of footwear had gone to pieces like its mate, and she had flung it in the river. No boots, no ashen staff, no knapsack with its supplies and tinderbox, no leather bottle.
“The map, the map!” The man fumbled in his pockets. “Aagh, a red-hot knife works between my ribs. The uraguhne has bruised them mightily, or cracked them.”
She drew out the map to show him, then replaced it in his pocket. Reassured, he slept again, and she went to the river to bathe.
On this side, the banks were lower and more gently inclined. After rinsing her ragged garments, the girl spread them on the grass to dry. It swirled fast, the current—too fast to risk immersion. Holding on to a branch that leaned out, she scooped up water in Sianadh’s boot and poured it over herself, gasping at its cold touch. Grethet had told her she was disfigured, but that had been part of the lie. There was no fault, no stigma. White and slender, her limbs, like the smooth-barked boughs of the river trees, clean and hard. Like them, she was tall and elegant, cool to the touch. How lovely were the trees …
She dressed in damp clothes and returned to keep watch over the sleeper.
Sianadh twitched and groaned in his sleep, waking in pain when the sun had scaled its ladder halfway. With difficulty he stood up, rubbed his eyes, and looked around.
“A fair land, this side of the river. It looks to be cuinocco country. May as well be walking, even if my foot be drowned in this soggy boot.”
Equipped with redgum staffs, they set off along the riverbank, still heading upstream, toward the escarpment that bulked ever nearer, rearing its blunt bank against the clouds.
The skyscape, as if under the hand of a dissatisfied sculptor, kept re-creating its cauliflower fields, snowy mountains, foamy forests, and lakes of mist. The free airs of open country, rich and invigorating as green-apple cider, rippled across acres of short-cropped grasses dotted with stands of peppercorns, bay trees, and flowering jacarandas whose piercingly blue blooms mocked the sky.
They rested often. Sianadh spoke rarely and did not complain of pain or hunger, but it was clear that he was suffering. At every halt Imrhien brought him water, her brow creased with concern, and made him as comfortable as possible.
That night they rested under a tree. What would happen in the dark hours the girl could not guess. She tried to stay awake to keep watch but could not prevent herself from dozing in snatches. Nothing assailed the travelers but a dream of a silver-white horse in the trees, impaled on a shaft of moonlight. Then again, the girl never dreamed.
The next day and the one after it were much the same. Tormented by hunger and the desire for sleep, ridden with anxiety for Sianadh, the girl trudged on beside him with bleeding feet, hardly noticing their surroundings. There seemed no hope and no choice but to go on until they fell at last, or were felled.
Jacarandas crowded close in the shade near the base of the escarpment, their petals carpeting the ground with luminous azure. The travelers followed the river’s twistings and turnings; here it ran under overhanging banks dripping with flowers and into clear pools and backwaters; here it chuckled over shallow ledges; there it glided like polished pewter into dark leaf-tunnels.
Dense and secret became the woodlands. Foliage obscured the sky. All around, they could see nothing but trees, straightboled, narrow, or stout, crowding close or scattered thinly. Beyond the trees, more trees, on and on into a gray subfusc. Half-asleep, Imrhien stumbled onward, lending support to her companion’s arm. As dusk approached, thunder, which had been rumbling far off, grew louder. It was a sound that had been audible now for a long time, yet in her dulled state of awareness the girl had ignored it.
By now they had come right under the shadow of the mountain wall. As they rounded a bend in the river, the trees drew back. Pale sunlight poured down from open sky, a hissing roar assaulted their ears, and an awesome sight greeted them.
Filled with rainbows, its millions of droplets appearing to float slowly down from such a great height, a waterfall hung like a silver curtain. Its hem was lost in spray over a rocky pool. Sianadh leaned on his staff and laughed weakly.
“We have found it, chehrna, the sildron mine. We are come to Waterstair.”
5
WATERSTAIR
Candlebutter and Spiderweb
Soft intaglio of light, glinting like a frosty morn;
Armèd with a stalactite—silver white the single horn.
Mirror’d in a forest mere, strangely fleeting, ever wild,
Seen by night when skies are clear, never near, fancy’s child.
Legend that the minstrels spun, sorrow never touched your kind—
Free as air, elusive one. Lightly run—outrace the wind.
Strange and rare, to mankind lost; fairer than the moon above;
Diamonds from your mane are toss’d. Beast of frost, yet warm as love—unicorn.
MADE BY LLEWELL, SONGMAKER OR AURALONDE
Sheets of jade water plunged, hurtling from the heights in a torrent of raw energy. Rainbows bridged its quivering mists. A haze of droplets hung in the air, pearling every leaf and grass blade that fringed the pool, beading hair and eyelashes, collecting in miniature crystals on the skin. The continuous roar pressed around Imrhien’s head, drummed and threshed in her ears like the sound of battle.
The rocky basin receiving the waterfall was cradled in the heart of a dell whose gently sloping sides were clothed with tall, spindly trees. There was no sign of a mine-shaft—no broken ground, no weedy tumescences indicating overgrown mullock heaps. Beyond the basin’s granite lip the grasses grew smooth and green among the trees, dappled with the tiniest flowers.
Hunger must have curdled Sianadh’s brain, thought the girl—until he led her into the core of the water’s tumult, around a slippery path of stone, behind the powerful curve of the cataract’s glassy screen. There reared the great, vaulted hollow of a cave, its rough ceiling reaching high into shadow. And to the rear of the cavern, an outline of something not defined by nature.
Had they not gleamed with a faint light of their own, they would have been barely visible in the misted gloom, but they stood displayed to their full height of about sixty feet—double doors of cast green-gold metal set in an archway, magnificently decorated and uncompromisingly sealed.
In here, between stone and water, the shout of the falling river deafened the intruders. The Ertishman did not even attempt to speak but laboriously led the girl across the slippery floor of the cave’s mouth and out by a path on the other side of the cataract. Pastel daylight greeted
them as they exited the cavern. Sinking to a water-polished stone beside the boiling basin he had already named “the porridge pot,” the Ertishman panted heavily.
“Up there,” he shouted, waving a hand at the cliff rising at his back, “is a small tunnel into the mines hidden behind those doors.”
When he had recovered his breath they walked back along the riverbank. A short distance downstream they found a suitable camping place, beside a quiet pool where ancient trees with tangled roots hung over the banks. Here they rested, while he explained further.
“The bloke with the map described the doors to me. I think I can crack them. The old tales tell of such wizardly barriers, which open not to a key such as ye can put in your pocket, but to a rhyme or a riddle’s answer. The clue is written on them, for those who can read it.
“My friend with the map, he and his comrades discovered this place by accident. They had a trained capuchin with them. They could not open the doors, so they delved with sticks and made the little tunnel in the cliff. The creature wormed its way in, bringing out lump after lump of andalum-foiled king’s-biscuit—as well as some of the stuff that was not protected, which flew up into the skies and was lost. The tunnel was too tight for a man’s girth, but they met with stones in its walls and had no picks or shovels to dislodge them and make the passage wider. They departed to fetch equipment from Gilvaris Tarv but met with ill chance. The map-maker’s comrades were surprised by wights of unseelie odor—he himself escaped, only to be later waylaid, and his sildron was stolen. He ended up in a cell, sick with some disease borne by the rats there or possibly by Culicidae’s poisonous tongues. That was where I found him. He spoke truth, it seems, but I had to see for myself. I need proof of this mine. With evidence of its wealth, I can get a secret expedition of trusty stalwarts to return here with me and load up ore by the barrowful. I could not bring a pick and shovel on the black brig, nor a capuchin—the boyos would have eaten it, like as not, and the shovel as well. But if I can crack those doors, we will not need any of that. Doors were made to open—there must be some way.” He sighed and scratched his chin. “By the fires, there stands a portal! Such gates could have been fashioned only by the greatest masters of wizardry!”
The Bitterbynde Trilogy Page 20
