by Angus Wells
“We would not rob you of your last wine,” Calandryll protested. “And the purchase of a boat seems hardly to merit your loss.”
The Kand smiled, filling goblets. “How many of you venture inland?” he asked.
“We three,” Calandryll indicated himself, Katya, and Bracht, “and eight archers. As many more are heeded to handle the boat.”
“A single boat will carry no more than twelve,” ek’Salar said, “and should you purchase two, that leaves a goodly crew still on board your vessel. Who commands there?”
“I command,” said Tekkan.
“And you will wait for their return? For how long?”
Tekkan shrugged.
“No matter.” Ek’Salar stroked his beard, his voice casual as he said, “They will not come back and in time you will accept that and depart. If the Tyrant seizes merchantmen in his war with the Fayne, few will venture north—but you will be here. You can carry hides south. And while you wait for them, we can amuse ourselves negotiating a price—let us drink a toast to that.”
“I drink to their return,” Tekkan said.
The Kand shrugged and raised his goblet. “No matter—you will learn. The lesson will be sad, but you will learn.”
“To a safe return,” said Tekkan.
“To profit for us all,” said ek’Salar; and lower, “Who live.”
The toast was inauspicious and Calandryll said a silent prayer to Dera as he drank, savoring the wine, for he thought it likely the last he would taste in some time. It seemed ek’Salar took their deaths for granted and that set a gloomy note until the halfling woman and two others appeared with laden platters and the Kand bade them be seated and eat.
The food, to his surprise, was good, ek’Salar explaining that the halflings furnished the settlement with vegetables from the swamps and fish from the sea in return for trade goods. The meat they ate, he told them, was dragon flesh, the hunters’ staple diet, and that, Calandryll found, was palatable as good beef. The Kand talked throughout the meal, clearly delighted by the change of company, and while much of his conversation seemed designed to deter them, he furnished them with knowledge of the forbidding territory they must soon enter. It was alarming, his talk of burrowing worms and lethal insects, of the swamp dragons and flesh-eating trees, no less so the changeling creatures of the deep swamp, but he promised to furnish them with transport and gear suitable to their venture, and the night was old before they left his home.
None spoke much as they rowed out to the warboat, nor as they prepared to sleep. There seemed little to say: they were committed.
DAWN found them ready. They went ashore, greeted by ek’Salar, who brought them to yet another building, where he kitted them with high boots of dragon hide—waterproof and able to withstand the lesser creatures that inhabited the swamps, he explained—and tunics of greenish fiber, loose woven and light, that would, he said, resist the decay afflicting cotton and similar materials. He sold them foodstuffs and waterbags; ointments to deter insects, and salves for those undeterred; harpoons to use against the dragons. Then he brought them to a jetty, where several boats were moored.
They had decided to distribute their party over two boats. Calandryll, with Bracht and Katya, in the first, accompanied by Quara and three of her archers, with four of the sturdy Vanu oarsmen; four archers and four oarsmen in the other, which would bear the bulk of their supplies. The boats were wide-beamed and of shallow draught, with low gunwales, more raft than dinghy and propelled with long poles, but suited to the negotiation of lily meadows and reeds. Tekkan examined them both, minutely, and declared himself satisfied: Calandryll gave ek’Salar the price he asked and the Kand ordered a group of watching halflings to load the craft.
The strange creatures obeyed in silence, shuffling back and forth from the storehouse to the jetty, four of them dropping into the water, impervious, it seemed, to the swimming things there. With ek’Salar shouting instructions, they loaded the boats and clambered back to dry land, standing indifferent to the insects as they watched the Vanu folk descend.
Calandryll, Bracht, and Katya stood with Tekkan and ek’Salar, anxious to be gone now.
“You have farewells to say,” the Kand declared, “and I shall leave you to that. I wish you well.”
He bowed formally: a man convinced they went to their deaths, and walked to the inn. Tekkan sighed, looking them each in the eye, his face grave.
“May your gods be with you,” he said, his voice husky. “Find the Arcanum and bring it out. I await you here.”
He took Calandryll’s hand, and then Bracht’s; Katya he embraced, murmuring something in their own language too soft to hear. Katya nodded and went swiftly to the ladder. Bracht followed on her heels. Calandryll moved after, then halted as a hand touched tentatively at his sleeve. He turned to find a halfling standing close, a hairless man with yellow eyes set too wide apart, and overhung with a ridge of bone, his nostrils flared and flat, the mouth a lipless slit tugged down by the near-absence of a chin. Calandryll thought instinctively of a fish, and indeed there was a hint of scales on the pale green skin, and the fingers that touched his sleeve were joined by webbing, tipped with sharp, curved nails, like claws. The creature—it was difficult to think of him as a man—wore a loose tunic of the woven fiber, sleeveless, exposing powerful arms, kilted with a belt of rope, the legs muscular. He let go Calandryll’s sleeve as though afraid of reprimand, but his strange eyes remained fixed on Calandryll’s face, intense.
“You go swamp.” The words came sibilant, said slowly, as if with effort in a hard-learned tongue. “You look for guide … I hear you talk … with ek’Salar … He say no … No guide … but I take you … show you way.”
Calandryll’s face reflected his uncertainty: ek’Salar had told them the halflings served the hunters; they cleaned and cooked, acted as porters, flensed the dragon carcasses. Nothing had been said of their use as guides.
“I am called Yssym.” It sounded like Yssym: he was not sure. “I guide you … I know swamp.”
A hand pointed to the boats, to the swamps.
“Can you trust him?” Tekkan asked.
“Trust me … Yssym guide you,” said the creature. “Yssym know swamp … Trust Yssym.”
Calandryll studied his face. It was impossible to read, the shape, the color of the eyes, too alien; it was not made to express human emotion. He stared into the yellow orbs, uncertain.
Then the halfling said, “I bring you to Tezin-dar … Yssym know how … Bring you to Tezin-dar … Yssym promise.”
Calandryll turned to the raftlike boats, looking down to where Bracht and Katya waited. “A halfling—Yssym—offers his services as guide. Do we accept?”
The two exchanged glances; Katya shrugged, Bracht said, “He may well know the swamp, and we’ve no other guide—bring him.”
“Come then,” Calandryll said, hoping he did the right thing.
Yssym swung fluidly into the foremost boat, Calandryll close behind, and the husky Vanu men took up the poles, propelling the flat-bottomed craft smoothly along the slender ribbon of reed-free water that wound inland toward the distant line of mangroves. The halfling crouched at the prow, touching the harpoons with a nod of approval. Calandryll realized he gave off a faintly piscine odor: it was no worse than the stink of the hunters and he settled beside the creature, taking his copy of Orwen’s chart from the satchel.
“This was drawn by a man who came here long ago,” he said, speaking slowly in the Kand tongue, touching the map, “We are here; Tezin-dar is here. You know the swamp between?”
Yssym stared at the map and ducked his strange head, that affirmative accompanied by a clicking sound.
“Old Ones help Orwen,” it sounded like Awhenn, “make map … No hunters then … Swamp belong …” the name was a whistling sound, Syfalheen, as best Calandryll could tell. “Swamp change … But Tezin-dar there.”
He tapped a clawed finger to the chart and raised it to point ahead, indicating a place invisible beyond
the mangrove forest.
“You—the Syfalheen—knew Orwen?” Calandryll was surprised, turning to glance at his companions.
“Old Ones know, yes,” Yssym said, “Syfalheen know all swamp.”
“The Syfalheen,” Bracht spoke over Calandryll’s shoulder, “Are they what ek’Salar warned us against?”
Yssym’s smooth-skinned head swung ponderously to face the Kern, his features immobile. “I am Syfalheen,” he hissed, “all swamp people Syfalheen … Sometimes hunters kill Syfalheen and Syfalheen fight hunters. But Yssym bring you to clan elders … They help you reach Tezin-dar it you the ones Yssym wait for. Old Ones say men come seeking Tezin-dar … to find book … Syfalheen watch for them.”
“You were waiting for us?” Calandryll stared, shocked, at the halfling. “How could you—how could the Old Ones—know?”
“Old Ones know.” Yssym shrugged, an oddly human gesture. “Old Ones good, wise … Send watchers.”
Calandryll heard the plural and asked, “You were not the first?”
Yssym’s mouth moved in what might have been a smile: he shook his head.
“Always watcher. Old Ones say must always be watcher.”
“These Old Ones?” Calandryll asked. “Who are they? Are they Syfalheen?”
Again the halfling’s head moved in a negative circle. “Old Ones like you, men … Friends to Syfalheen.”
“Where are they, the Old Ones?”
Calandryll was aware of Bracht and Katya pressing close, intent on this strange conversation.
“Deep swamp.” Yssym pointed ahead again and faced Calandryll. “Tezin-dar … Old Ones live in Tezin-dar … Guard book.”
“You have seen them? Spoken with them?”
“Syfalheen not go to Tezin-dar. That holy place … But Old Ones speak long, long time past … Say to my … father’s father, his father … Before him … Send watcher. Yssym watcher now.”
“How do you know we are the ones?” Calandryll demanded.
“Old Ones say three come.” A webbed hand rose to angle a claw at Calandryll, at Bracht, at Katya. “Old Ones say watch for three and bring them to swamp … Elders know … I think you the three … If not, you die in swamp.”
“A test,” Bracht murmured, “Varent said the book was guarded.”
Calandryll nodded, watching the line of grey trees loom larger, his mind racing. That they must communicate in the tongue of Kandahar was a curse: Yssym was able to make himself understood only with difficulty, his mouth, his tongue not formed to shape the words, his vocabulary limited, whilst what he said held both promise of aid and threat. “Were we not,” he asked, “Not the ones—why should we not force you to take us there?”
“You not know swamp,” Yssym answered flatly. “Not even hunters go into deep swamp where Syfalheen live … Men die there, like ek’Salar say. You not ones, you die.”
“But we have you,” Calandryll insisted.
“You not force me,” Yssym said simply. “You kill me, but not force me. Not matter if I die … You wrong ones, you die in swamp … Dragons eat you … Trees … I bring you to worms … No man,” Calandryll wondered if the flat, sibilant voice infused the word with a measure of contempt, “live in deep swamp … Not without Syfalheen help.”
“Then we are in your hands,” he said.
“Yes,” said Yssym; bluntly.
Calandryll smiled, accepting that finality—it seemed unavoidable—but still there was much to occupy his mind. Varent had anticipated guardians, but not of this kind. Magic, yes; but not that the inhabitants of the swamps should stand vigil over the Arcanum—he had said nothing of this test Yssym spoke of, nor that the mysterious Old Ones employed the Syfalheen as watchers. Who were they, these ancients who lived in Tezin-dar? For how long had Yssym’s people waited? The halfling had not been clear, his sense of time unlike a man’s—perhaps generations of the Syfalheen had gone to that miserable headland, awaiting the coming of the strangers. The Old Ones had, it now seemed obvious, foreseen that men should come seeking the Arcanum—and prepared the way. But why? If they guarded the book, why did they not simply close the approaches? To penetrate the swamps was difficult enough—did the inhabitants oppose such coming, few could hope to survive—yet it seemed a path to Tezin-dar was left deliberately open. A trap? He glanced sidelong at Yssym, the halfling crouching expressionless, offering no hint of treachery, and felt for reasons he could not define, that he should trust the creature. In that he had little choice; but even so, he did not think Yssym intended them harm. He had followed the strictures of the Old Ones—who were men, he had said, albeit he had never seen them—and he brought his charge to his clan, who would test them somehow.
A design existed here that he could not comprehend. It was a web, hung like the moss that festooned the trees, fragile as that gossamer drapery, but far harder to grasp. Three would come, Yssym had said, that suggesting their arrival was foreseen, though he could not understand how. A spaewife, an augur—all the necromancers and soothsayers of his father’s palace—could do no more than interpret the immediate future, and that usually only in terms of an individual’s future. Did the Old Ones then cast their net wider? Katya had said the holy men of Vanu had scried Varent’s attempt to raise the Mad God and sent her forth seeking the two men seen in that scrying—but that was of the present. Yssym spoke in terms of some ancient prophecy, a thing foreseen long ages past; prepared for—as if the Old Ones sought to bring the three they had foreseen to the Arcanum. He could not understand why that should be so.
“I cannot understand this,” he murmured.
“There is no heed.” Katya spoke for the first time, “We seek the Arcanum—Yssym brings us to it.”
He nodded, frowning. “But why? How could they know we should come? Why send us a guide?”
“We are players in a game,” she replied, echoing his own thoughts, “and the game is larger than we may understand. Our task is to bring the Arcanum to Vanu, that it be destroyed forever. We heed know no more than that.”
“But Calandryll is a scholar,” Bracht said, grinning, “and he seeks the reasons for things.”
“You do not wonder?” Calandryll demanded.
“I wonder at this test,” the Kern shrugged. “I wonder at the dangers ahead, and that is enough for me.”
Calandryll sighed, absently swatting at a bright green flying thing that appeared intent on a detailed investigation of his face despite the layer of ek’Salar’s preventative cream smeared there.
“Likely we shall find your answers in Tezin-dar,” said Katya.
“Aye,” Bracht echoed, “and sufficient to occupy you along the way.”
He nodded, wishing he could share their pragmatism, disturbing thoughts buzzing like the insects that clouded round about his mind. He did his best to set them aside, thoughts and insects both, the one, thanks to ek’Salar’s ointments, easier to dismiss, the other less so. He stared at the approaching trees, closer now, and lit by the sun, massive trunks standing on widespread roots that thrust from the swamp like the legs of gigantic spiders, the boles all grey and green, wound with parasitic plants that displayed lurid flowers, the reek of the brackish water sweetened by their exotic scent. The moss that at a distance had seemed gossamer fine was now a thick curtain hung from the intertwining limbs, alive with crawling things, draping the gaps between the mangroves as if the inner swamp sought to curtain itself, to shut out the world.
“Small dragons here,” Yssym warned, hefting a harpoon. “We find big dragons later.”
The boats pushed through the mossy wall into a place of shifting, subdued light, all shadowy green and blue and gold like drifting smoke, ethereal as the panorama of a dream. The air was instantly thicker, warmer and moist, loud with the buzzing and chittering of insects. The sky was replaced with a canopy of moss and vines, the domes formed by the mangrove roots hued green, patches of open water viridescent, others a flickering blue, filigreed where the sun lanced occasional shafts of brilliance down through gap
s in the overlay of foliage, painting the turgid water with gold. Dark shapes moved among the shadows, floating logs at first, inexperienced, glance; revealed as dragons only when the great tails lashed, frothing the water as the beasts moved clear of the boats’ passage, roaring their disapproval.
“Small,” Yssym repeated with ominous confidence. “Hide from hunters … Big dragons not hide.”
Calandryll took up a harpoon, seeing Bracht do the same. The Vanu women held their bows ready, arrows nocked. A dragon swam close, cold green eyes bulging from gnarled ridges of reddish armor. Yssym motioned the others back, balancing on the prow, and thrust his lance at the beast, not seeking the pierce the hide, but tapping it firmly on the snout. The dragon snorted and submerged, the eddy rocking the boat. Yssym watched intently, pointing as the beast reemerged some distance off.
“Soft there.” He tapped his own flat nose, barking what Calandryll assumed was his version of laughter. “Hit there, small dragon go away. Rest hard … like armor. You leave dragons to Yssym.”
He nodded, squatting with the harpoon braced across his shoulder, reaching out to drive off the more curious of the saurians, guiding the boats steadily deeper into the shadowy interior.
It was as well he did, for soon it became apparent that the landscape was much changed since Orwen had mapped Gessyth. The chart Calandryll had so painstakingly copied showed the location of Tezin-dar, and described the coastline well enough, but the interior was a shifting thing, changed by fallen trees and the islands of matted debris that arose, indiscernible from the liquid surface save where sunlight penetrated to reveal a subtle alteration in the color of the water. Without the halfling they would have been lost before sunset, unable to distinguish the landmarks he recognized, or the hazards he steered around.
He named them in his own language as they passed. The thick clusters of oily blue flowers that grew on the reedy islands were feshyn and poisonous to the touch, he warned them; and where the water showed that leprous yellow color, flesh-eating worms, yennym, swam. The lianas were the habitat of stinging insects he called grishas, their bite often fatal; and the mangrove roots hid the things called estifas, that laid their eggs in human flesh, leaving the hatching grubs to eat the host. He pointed out a rippling in the water, telling them it was sign of a swarm of something he named shivim that, as best they could understand his explanation, were predatory fish, attracted by blood or movement, and able to reduce even a small dragon to bare bones in moments. Without his aid they would likely have died, just as ek’Salar had promised, poisoned, or stung, or eaten by one creature or another, for it seemed that very little in the swamp was friendly and the inexperienced went in constant danger of unpleasant death.
