by Tad Williams
“No.” A look of concern flitted across Simon’s haggard face. “It wasn’t him. It was someone else.”
Binabik darted a look at the figure lying nearby. “I know, Simon. It is elsewhere that Fengbald is being dead—a horrible death, and for many others than him only. But come. You are needing a fire, and food, and some attending to your wounds.”
Simon let out a deep groan as he let the little man urge him to his feet, a hollow noise that drew another worried look from Binabik. Simon limped a few steps, then stopped and caught at Homefinder’s reins. “I can’t get into the saddle,” he murmured sadly.
“Walk, then, if you can,” Binabik said. “With slowness. Sisqi and I will be walking with you.”
With Qantaqa in the lead once more, they turned and trudged toward the Stone, whose summit was painted with rosy light from the dying sun. Thickening mist hung over the icy lake, and all around the ravens hopped and scuttled from body to body like tiny black demons.
“Oh, God,” Simon said. “I want to go home.”
Binabik only shook his head.
16
Torches in the Mud
“Stop.” Cadrach’s voice was nearly a whisper, but the straining tone was evident. “Stop now.”
Isgrimnur pushed the pole down until it touched the muddy bottom of the watercourse, arresting their progress. The boat floated gently back into the reeds once more. “What is it, man?” he said irritably. “We have gone over everything a dozen times. Now it’s time to move.”
In the bow of the boat, ancient Camaris fingered a long spear Isgrimnur had made from a stiff swamp reed. It was thin and light, and the point had been scraped against a stone until it was sharp as an assassin’s dirk. The old knight, as usual, seemed oblivious to the conversation of his fellows. He hefted the spear and made a slow, mock stab, slipping the point into the still water.
Cadrach took a deep, shaky breath. Miriamele thought he looked as though he were on the brink of tears. “I cannot go.”
“Cannot?” Isgrimnur almost shouted. “What do you mean, cannot? It was your idea we wait for morning before going into the nest! What are you talking about now!?”
The monk shook his head, unable to meet the duke’s eyes. “I tried to nerve myself all night. I have been saying prayers all the morning—me!” He turned to Miriamele with a look of bleak irony. “Me! But I still cannot do it. I am a coward, and I cannot go into ... that place.”
Miriamele reached out a hand and touched his shoulder. “Even to save Tiamak?” She let the hand rest gently, as though the monk had turned to fragile glass. “And as you said, even to save ourselves? For without Tiamak, we may never get out of this place at all.”
Cadrach buried his face in his hands. Miriamele felt a hint of her old distrust come sneaking back. Could the monk be play-acting? What else could he have in mind?
“God forgive me, Lady,” he moaned, “but I simply cannot go down into that hole with those creatures. I cannot .” He shuddered, a convulsive movement so uncontrolled that Miriamele doubted it could be trickery. “I have given over my right to be called a man long ago,” Cadrach said through his splayed fingers. “I do not even care for my life, believe me. But—1—cannot—go.”
Isgrimnur grumbled his frustration. “Well, damn you, that is the end. I should have broken your skull when we met, as I wanted to.” The duke turned to Miriamele. “I should never have let you talk me out of it.” He shifted his scornful gaze back to Cadrach. “A kidnapper, a drunkard, and a coward.”
“Yes, you probably should have killed me when you first had the chance,” Cadrach agreed tonelessly. “But I promise you would still be better off doing it now than dragging me down into that mud nest. I will not go in there.”
“But why, Cadrach?” Miriamele asked. “Why won’t you?”
He looked at her. His sunken eyes and sun-reddened face seemed to plead for understanding, but his grim smile suggested he expected none. “I simply cannot, Lady. It ... it reminds me of a place I was in before.” Again he shuddered.
“What place?” she prodded, but Cadrach would not answer.
“Aedon on the Holy Tree,” Isgrimnur swore. “So what do we do now?”
Miriamele stared at the waving reeds, which at this moment hid them from the sight of the ghant nest a few hundred ells up the waterway. The muddy bank nearby had a low-tide smell. She wrinkled her nose and sighed. What could they do, indeed?
They had not even been able to make a plan until late the afternoon before. There was a strong chance that Tiamak was already dead, which made any decision more difficult. Although no one had wanted to say it directly, there was some sentiment that the best thing to do would be to go on, hoping that the Wrannaman they had found floating in Tiamak’s boat might recover enough to guide them. Failing that, they might discover another swamp native who would help them find their way out of the Wran. No one had been comfortable with the idea of abandoning Tiamak, although it seemed by far the least risky course, but it was dreadful to think about what it would take to find out if he still lived, and to save him if he did.
Still, when Isgrimnur at last said that leaving Tiamak would not be the Aedonite thing to do, Miriamele had been relieved. She had not wanted to run away without at least trying to save the Wrannaman, however terrifying the idea of entering that nest. And, she reminded herself, she had faced at least as bad in the past months. In any case, how could she live with herself if she made it to safety and had to remember the shy little scholar left to those clicking monstrosities?
Cadrach—even then he had seemed more frightened of the nest than the rest of them—had argued strenuously for waiting until morning. His reasons had seemed good: there was little sense in trying such a foolhardy thing without a battle plan, and even less sense starting when it would soon be dark. As it was, Cadrach had said, they would need not just weapons but torches, because even though the nest seemed to have holes that let in the light, who knew what dark passages might run through the heart of the thing? So it had been agreed.
They found a rattling grove of heavy green reeds along the edge of the watercourse and made camp near it. The site was muddy and wet, but it was also a good distance from the nest, which was recommendation enough. Isgrimnur took his sword Kvalnir and cut a great bundle of the reeds, then he and Cadrach hardened them over the embers of the campfire. Some of the stalks they had cut and sharpened to make short stabbing spears; they split the ends of others and forced stones between the halves, then tied the stones in place with thin vines to make clubs. Isgrimnur lamented the lack of good wood and rope, but Miriamele admired the job. It was much more reassuring to go into the nest with even such primitive arms than to walk in empty-handed. Lastly, they sacrificed some of the clothes Miriamele had brought out of Village Grove, shredding them for rags which they wound tightly around the remaining reeds. Miriamele crushed one of the leaves of a tree which Tiamak had named as an oil palm during his botanical tour a few days before, then dabbed a rag in it and held the cloth to the campfire. It held a flame, she discovered, although nothing like true lamp oil; the scent of its burning was acrid and foul. Still, it would keep the torches blazing a little while longer, and she had a feeling that they would need all the time they could buy. She plucked an armful of fronds and rubbed crushed pulp on the torch rags until her hands were so coated with sap that her fingers stuck together.
When the night sky had at last begun to lighten, just before dawn, Isgrimnur had awakened the company. They had decided to leave the wounded Wrannaman in camp: there was little sense in bringing him into further danger, since he seemed already to be exhausted and starved nearly to death. If they survived their attempt to rescue Tiamak, they could always come back for him; if they did not, at least he would have a small chance to survive and make his own escape.
Isgrimnur lifted his pole to the surface of the water and swished off the mud that clung to the end. “So, then? What do we do? The monk is worthless.”
“There may stil
l be a way he can help.” Miriamele looked meaningfully at Cadrach. He kept his face averted. “In any case, we can certainly go on with the first part of what we planned, can’t we?”
“I suppose.” Isgrimnur stared at the Hernystirman as though he would have liked to test one of the reed clubs on him. He thrust the pole into the monk’s hands. “Let’s get to it. You can damn well make yourself useful.”
Cadrach poled the boat out of the waving forest of reeds and onto the wide part of the watercourse. The morning sun was not very bright today, hidden behind a smudgy sheet of clouds, but the air was even hotter than it had been the day before. Miriamele felt a sheen of sweat on her forehead and wished that she dared to flout the crocodiles by taking off her boots and dangling her feet in the murky water.
They slipped along the waterway until they finally came into view of their objective, then moved close to the bank and slowly and cautiously up the canal, trying to use the cover of reeds and trees to stay out of direct sight. The nest looked just as sinister as it had the day before, although there seemed to be fewer ghants scuttling about outside. When they had gotten as close as they dared, Isgrimnur let the boat drift toward the outer edge of the waterway until a tree-lined bend in its course blocked them completely from view of the nest.
“Now we wait,” he said quietly.
They sat in silence for no little time. The insects were a misery. Miriamele, afraid to slap at them because of the noise, tried to pick them off with her fingers as they landed, but they were too numerous and too persistent: she was bitten many times. Her skin itched and throbbed so completely that she felt she would go mad, and the idea of leaping into the river and drowning all the bugs at once grew stronger and stronger, until it seemed that any moment she would be able to hold it off no longer. Her fingers clutched the wales of the boat. It would be cool. It would stop the stinging. Let the crocodiles come, damn them....
“There,” Isgrimnur whispered. Miriamele looked up.
Not twenty cubits from where they sat, a lone ghant was coming down a long tree branch that snaked out over the water. Because of its jointed legs, its movements seemed strangely awkward, but it traveled swiftly and confidently on the thin, swaying branch. From time to time it would stop suddenly, becoming so utterly motionless that, gray and lichen-streaked as it was, it seemed part of the bark, just a particularly large tree gall.
“Push,” Isgrimnur mouthed, gesturing at Cadrach. The monk prodded the boat away from the bank and sent it idling down the watercourse toward the branch. Miriamele and all the company remained as still as they could.
The ghant did not seem to notice them at first. As they drew closer, it continued to creep out along the bough, moving patiently toward a trio of small birds that had lit at the end. Like the thing that hunted them, the birds seemed oblivious to the presence of danger.
Isgrimnur replaced Camaris in the prow of the boat, then leaned forward, steadying himself as well as he could. The ghant finally seemed to see the boat floating toward it; black eyes glittered as it swayed in place, trying to decide whether the approaching object was a menace or a potential meal. As Isgrimnur raised the reed spear, the ghant seemed to come to a conclusion: it turned and began to shinny back toward the tree trunk.
“Now, Isgrimnur!” cried Miriamele. The Rimmersman flung the spear as hard as he could; the boat rocked treacherously with the force of his throw. The birds lifted from the branch, squawking and flapping. The spear hissed through the air, a length of Tiamak’s precious rope falling away behind it, and struck the ghant but did not pierce its shell; the spear bounced away and fell to the water, but the force of the blow was enough to knock the animal from the bough. It splashed into the green water and surfaced a moment later with legs flexing wildly, then righted itself and began a strange, jerky swim toward the bank.
Cadrach swiftly poled the boat forward until they were beside the creature. Isgrimnur leaned low and struck it hard twice with the flat of his sword. When it floated back up, clearly beyond struggling, he looped a bit of Tiamak’s rope around one clawed leg so they could tow it back to shore.
“Don’t want to put the thing in the boat,” he said. Miriamele could not have agreed more.
The ghant seemed dead—the carapace of its lumpish head was cracked, oozing gray and blue fluids—but no one stood too near as they used the steering pole to turn it onto its back on the sandy bank. Camaris remained in the boat, although he seemed to be watching as curiously as the rest of the company.
Isgrimnur scowled. “God help us. They are ugly bastards, aren’t they?”
“Your spear couldn’t kill it.” Miriamele’s feelings about their chances had sunk even lower.
Isgrimnur waved his hand reassuringly. “Got thick armor, these things. Have to make the spears a little heavier. A stone spliced in the end should do it. Don’t worry yourself more than you need, Princess. We’ll be able to do what we need to.”
Strangely, she believed him and felt better. Isgrimnur had always treated her like a favorite niece, even when his relations with her father had become strained, and she in turn treated him with the loving, mocking familiarity she had never been able to use on Elias. She knew he would do his best to keep them all safe—and the Duke of Elvritshalla’s best was usually very good. Although he allowed his comrades and even his house-carls to make fun of his fierce but short-lived temper and his underlying softheartedness, the duke was a tremendously capable man. Miriamele was again grateful that Isgrimnur was with her.
“I hope you’re right.” She reached out and squeezed his broad paw.
They all stared at the dead ghant. Miriamele could now see that it did have six legs, just like a beetle, not four as she had thought. The two she had missed on her first ghant were tiny, withered things tucked just below the place where the neckless head met the rounded body. The thing’s mouth was half-hidden behind an odd featherlike fringe and its shell was dull and leathery as a sea-turtle’s egg.
“Turn away, Princess,” Isgrimnur said as he lifted Kvalnir. “You won’t want to see this.”
Miriamele suppressed a smile. What did he think she had been doing the last half year? “Go ahead. I’m not squeamish.”
The duke lowered his sword and placed it against the creature’s abdomen, then pushed. The ghant slid across the mud a little way. Isgrimnur grunted, then held the carcass steady with his foot before pushing again. This time, after a moment of effort, he was able to push the blade through the shell, which gave with a faint popping noise. A salty, sour smell wafted up and Miriamele took a step back.
“The shells are tough,” Isgrimnur said thoughtfully, “but they can be pierced.” He tried to smile. “I was worried that we might have to besiege a castle of armored soldiers.”
Cadrach had gone quite pale, but continued to stare at the ghant, fascinated. “It is disturbingly manlike, as Tiamak said,” he murmured. “But I will not be too sorry about this one or any others we kill.”
“We kill?” Isgrimnur began angrily, but Miriamele gave him another hand-squeeze.
“What else can this tell us?” she asked.
“I don’t see any poison stingers or teeth, so I suppose they don’t bite like spiders do—that’s a relief.” The duke shrugged. “They can be killed. Their shells are not as hard as tortoise shells. That is enough, I think.”
“Then I suppose it’s time to go,” Miriamele said.
Cadrach poled the flatboat in to the bank. They were only a few hundred steps from the edge of the nest now. So far, they seemed to be unnoticed.
“But what about the boat?” Isgrimnur whispered. “Can we leave it so we can get back to it in a hurry?” His expression soured. “And what about this damnable monk?”
“That’s my idea,” Miriamele whispered back. “Cadrach, if you keep the boat in the middle of the waterway until we come out, you can land right at the front of the nest and get us. We’ll probably be in a hurry,” she added wryly.
“What!?” Isgrimnur struggled to k
eep his voice soft, with only partial success. “You’re going to leave this coward in our boat, free to paddle away if he wants to? Free to strand us here? No, by the Aedon, we will take him with us—bound and gagged if need be.”
Cadrach clutched the steering pole, his knuckles white. “You might as well kill me first,” he said hoarsely. “Because I will die if you drag me in there.”
“Stop it, Isgrimnur. He may not be able to go into the nest, but he would never leave us here. Not after all he and I have been through.” She turned and gave the monk a purposeful glance. “Would you, Cadrach?”
He looked at her carefully, as though he suspected a trick. A moment passed before he spoke. “No, my lady, I would not—whatever Duke Isgrimnur thinks.”
“And why should I let you make such a decision, Princess?” Isgrimnur was angry. “Whatever you think you know of this man, you also said yourself that he stole from you and sold you out to your enemies.”
Miriamele frowned. It was true, of course—and she had not told Isgrimnur everything. She had never mentioned Cadrach’s attempt to escape and leave her behind on Aspitis’ ship, which would certainly not argue in his favor. She found herself wondering why she was so certain that Cadrach could be trusted to wait for them, but it was no use: there was no answer. She just believed that he would be there when they got out ... if they got out.
“We really have very little choice,” she told the duke. “Unless we force him to go along—and it will be hard enough to find our way and do what we must without also dragging a prisoner with us—we would have to tie him up somewhere to prevent him taking the boat if he wanted to. Don’t you see, Isgrimnur, it’s just the best way! If we leave the boat untended, even if we try to hide it from the ghants ... well, who knows what could happen?”
Isgrimnur pondered for a long moment, his bearded jaws working as though he chewed on the various possibilities. “So,” he said at last. “I suppose that is true. Very well—but if you are not there when we need you,” he whirled on Cadrach menacingly, “I will find you some day and crush your bones. I will eat you like a game hen.”
