by Angus Wells
Only Yssym retained his optimism—and that a source of some irritation, for it seemed the halfling shrugged off their losses—urging them steadily onward with promises that soon they should encounter his people and find food, shelter and welcome. Their sole consolation was that no more died: they learned from the mistakes of others and all avoided contact with the poisonous flowers and the lethal insects, and when they crossed the paths of dragons they went slowly, and with infinite caution. They de-toured around the stands of leprous trees Yssym said ate all living flesh that came within reach of the tentacular limbs, and in time the mangroves thinned. The lily-filled water meadows became smaller and less frequent, gradually giving way to reeds and rushes, the islands growing larger and more numerous, spreading before them until they must abandon the boats and move on foot, the surface shifting alarmingly beneath their feet.
“No more dragons,” Yssym promised. “Worst over now … Soon find Syfalheen.”
They grunted dubious acceptance, shouldering what little was left to carry as the halfling led them through a monotonous landscape of high reeds that rustled softly in the slight, hot breeze, the path a winding thing of uncertain footing, awash with brackish water for most of its length, the realization that they finally trod land almost dry startling them.
Calandryll had simply plodded, miserable, not noticing that the path climbed slightly until he found the reeds no longer at eye level, but below him. He halted, staring around, and saw Yssym point ahead, to where a low ridge of greyish brown traversed the landscape.
“Syfalheen there,” the halfling declared confidently. “Come.”
They followed him down off the rise, losing sight of the ridge, then finding it again, suddenly before them, a bank of muddy earth, not natural in origin, but shaped, a barrier against the all-encroaching swamp. It was a dike, they saw, when they climbed it, a long, low hummock that stretched between the reed beds and the dry land beyond. Strange, stunted trees grew there, with avenues between suggesting organization, a measure of order that prompted Calandryll to think of the orchards of his homeland, that impression confirmed by the fruit Yssym plucked, handing them each a purplish globe that, when peeled, offered a succulent, sweet core. They ate greedily, the fruit the more delicious after the long days of raw fish and fibrous swamp plants, their spirits lifting.
“Come, we find clan now,” Yssym said. “Food there.”
He set off at a brisk pace between the trees, anxious, it seemed, to bring them swiftly to the promised comforts, and in a while the orchards gave way to fenced fields where animals such as none of the outlanders had seen before grazed on viridescent grass. Water was still much in evidence, but channeled here, directed along conduits of ancient stone to pools and troughs, spanned by small, arched bridges of antique design. The track became a roadway, paved with great slabs, and Calandryll lengthened his stride to catch the halfling.
“This road,” he asked, “the channels—who built them?”
“Old Ones,” Yssym said. “Long, long ago Old Ones build.”
Calandryll studied their surroundings, eyes opened by Yssym’s casual words, seeing now evidence of some forgotten civilization. The stone beside the road was no random boulder, but a megalith, time-worn and mossy, but dressed for all it tilted, and set there for some forgotten purpose; the hummock in the field beyond was a dolmen; and beyond—did the walls of some tumbled hall jut from the grass? He was not sure, but he saw around him antiquities beyond the dreams of such historians as Medith or Sarnium, the remnants of a lost civilization. He trod, he realized, a road forgotten by time, hidden by Gessyth’s swamps. He touched the halfling’s arm.
“Is this Tezin-dar?”
Yssym barked his harsh laughter and shook his head.
“This Syfalheen place, my clan home … not Tezin-dar. This my home … You meet syfaba … elders … they show you way to Tezin-dar.”
“How far?” Calandryll asked.
“We find by dark.” Yssym glanced up, gesturing at the lowering sun. “Sun go down, we there.”
“And face the elders’ test,” said Bracht.
“Face test, yes,” Yssym agreed. “But rest first… Eat, bathe … dry clothes.”
“Luxury,” the Kern smiled. “And ale, Yssym? Shall there be ale?”
“Not ale,” the halfling replied, “Drink chrysse … You like, I think.”
Bracht chuckled and slapped him companionably on the shoulder. “After that stinking swamp, my friend, I’d like anything.” His humor was restored by the prospect and he turned, smiling, to Katya. “Food, do you hear? And something to drink; dry clothes. Could we ask for more?”
“I’d have others share those things,” she said, moodily.
Bracht fell into step beside her, studying her face, his own solicitous. “Leave the dead behind,” he said gently. “You’ve mourned them, but you cannot bring them back. Let them go—we go on, and our success shall be their monument.”
Katya glanced at him, dour for a moment, as though his pragmatism irked her, then her smile returned, broader as he grinned, and she ducked her head.
“I think I learn from you, Bracht of Cuan na’For. You are right—we go on to Tezin-dar.”
“If we pass whatever test the elders set us,” Calandryll murmured.
“We shall,” Bracht declared confidently. “We must! We’ve come too far to fail now.”
His good humor was difficult to resist and Calandryll found himself grinning. Bracht was right—Reba’s augury, Ellhyn’s scrying, even Varent’s treacherous machinations, all led them to this place; the mysterious Old Ones had sent Yssym to await their coming and now they were close: how could they fail? They would pass this test and go on to Tezin-dar; and if the Old Ones had anticipated their arrival, then surely they must give up the Arcanum to be destroyed—why else send watchers? He laughed, staring up at a sky no longer hung with moss and vines, but blue, bright as hope, the air, for all it carried a memory of the encircling swamp, clean. They would succeed! It was, now, only a matter of time.
They marched on, past fields and ponds, the sun sinking in the west, and came, as the disk touched the horizon, to Yssym’s home.
A wall of tumbled stones, suggestive of ramparts, stood in their way, the road passing between the columns of a long-fallen arch, beyond a wide swath of the bright grass and bushes heavy with brilliant blossoms, scarlet and azure and purple mingling in cheerful profusion, filling the air with pleasant perfumes that masked the odors of the swamp. On the far side of that garden stood buildings, ramshackle as the hide hunters’ miserable settlement, but here blending with the surroundings in harmonious confusion, one with the land. Calandryll guessed, from the outlines of the place, that some keep had once stood sentinel over the vale, its walls mostly collapsed now, though some still remained, hung with climbing vines, those thick with flowers, the buildings that replaced those once-great halls smaller, stone and wood and hides following the contours of the ruins, the floors streets now, those filling with halfling folk come out to greet their visitors.
They were no less strange than Yssym, but his odd physiognomy was familiar now and consequently his people were less shocking to eyes grown accustomed to half-ling form. And they seemed a gentle folk, staring shyly from doorways, holding children up to observe the newcomers—and they, Calandryll thought, likely as strange to these inhabitants of the deep swamp as the halflings had at first been to him. He smiled as they passed, following Yssym down a narrow street of sumptuous tiles toward a circular structure larger than the rest, a rotunda of wood and hides hung with gay blossoms, set at the center of what had once been a vast courtyard.
Five halflings awaited them there. Old as best he could judge, their green-hued skin darker than Yssym’s and seemingly drier, exhibiting hint of wrinkles, their yellow eyes expressionless as they examined the visitors. They were dressed in long robes of white and crimson, and each held a tall staff of dark wood, tipped at both ends with silver. These, he decided, were the elders—the syfa
ba. Yssym halted before them, bowing his head, and spoke in his own language, gesturing at his companions.
The elders listened in silence, the other folk of that strange place gathering in a half-circle, some little distance off, all quiet, as if all were anxious to hear what hews the watcher brought. When he was done the elders spoke, briefly, and Yssym bowed again, and turned to speak.
“I show you place to rest now … Then you eat, sleep. Syfaba say you be strong for test … Tomorrow you face test.”
Weary as he was, Calandryll would as soon have undergone the trial immediately, but he bowed to the elders’ decision, allowing Yssym to lead him away as the five aged halflings stood watching, their gaze impassive. The crowd parted to let the visitors through and Yssym brought them to a structure set between huge slabs of fallen stone, its roof a mass of flowering creepers, filling the interior with a pleasant scent, its floor an exotic mosaic of colorful tiles. A small fire, unnecessary but nonetheless welcome, burned in a pit at the center, the smoke escaping through a hole in the arboreal roof, and cushions and fleeces were set about the walls.
“You sleep here,” Yssym explained. “Come, I show you baths. Then you eat.”
They followed him through the village to what had once been a covered bathhouse, its roof gone now, leaving the great tubs open to a sky transformed to velvet with the coming of night, the crescent of a hew moon bright silver above, shining on the fresh water that spilled from channels in the wrecked walls. The women were directed to a pool modestly hidden from that to which the men were taken by a divide of stone and wicker, rough soap and soft towels set out in readiness, and soon the night was loud with their laughter as they luxuriated in the near-forgotten comfort of clean water, scrubbing industriously at sweaty skin and filthy hair.
Their clothing was taken as they bathed and when they emerged they found short robes and sandals left in place, dark blue for the men, white for the women. Their weapons, too, were gone, occasioning momentary alarm, until Yssym explained none in the village bore arms and that theirs were stored in the sleeping quarters. He took them then back to the central court, where fires burned, meat roasting on spits, and all the village gathered, men and women and children in a curious mass, eager to observe the strangers at close quarters.
They were given mugs of the drink Yssym called chrysse, a pale distillation akin to wine, but stronger, and platters of clay onto which the halflings piled generous helpings of meat and vegetables. After the poor fare of the past weeks it was a banquet, the better for the cheerful hospitality of their strange hosts, and they relaxed, grateful to be dry and able to eat without fear of dragons or insects or predatory fish. The halfling folk plied Yssym with questions, though Calandryll noticed that the elders, who sat across the circle, said nothing, merely listened, their yellow eyes intent on the strangers. This was perhaps, he thought, a part of the judging; but only a part: tomorrow they would face the test that, passed, should bring them to Tezin-dar.
For that, allied with the effects of the chrysse and a belly that felt filled for the first time in weeks, he was thankful when the elders rose and the gathering dispersed. Yssym and several others took torches, escorting the visitors to their quarters.
“Sleep now,” he advised them. “Elders call you tomorrow.”
Calandryll nodded, yawning, and the halfling barked laughter. “Better than island in swamp,” he said cheerfully. “You sleep safe here.”
“Far better,” Calandryll agreed, aware that his eyes grew heavy. “You’ve our thanks, Yssym.”
The halfling ducked his head and backed out, letting the hide curtain fall into place across the entrance. Calandryll yawned again, hugely, and found a place on the cushions as the rest composed themselves for sleep. Bracht went to the weapons laid out by the door, extricating his falchion.
“Shall you heed that?” The cushions were mightily comfortable and Calandryll felt no desire to rise. “Surely these folk intend us no harm.”
The freesword shrugged, tossing Calandryll’s blade to him. “I sleep the better for sharing my bed—with this if no softer company should offer.”
He grinned at Katya as he said it, and she blushed, prettily now that hair and face were clean, murmuring, “You gave your word … bring my own sword if you would.”
The Kern nodded, still smiling, and delivered her blade with a flourish.
“And that word I shall keep. Until Vanu is reached.”
She took the sword and set it on the tiles at her side. “Until Vanu, Bracht.”
He sighed, shaking his head, and flung himself down, the sheathed falchion cradled in his arms. “Oh, Calandryll,” he whispered, deliberately loud, “know you that women can be harder than steel?”
Calandryll heard Katya chuckle and smiled into the shadows, seeking some witty response. None came, his thoughts too soon overtaken by sleep, and he found himself drifting in mellow darkness, dreamless.
He woke not certain where he was, confused by the absence of swamp stench and sound, no longer used to waking dry, on soft cushions. No insects buzzed about him nor dragons bellowed, and he experienced momentary alarm as he sat up, eyes opening on a chamber harlequin-patterned with the sunlight that filtered through the viny roof. Bracht was already awake, stroking a whetstone lovingly over the edges of his sword, and as he stirred Katya yawned and stretched. Outside he heard the sounds of the village, children rattling laughter and the sibilant language or the Syfalheen, he looked to Bracht, who shook his head in answer to the unspoken question.
“Yssym came early—it would appear the elders are in no great haste to judge us and await our rising.”
“I’d not delay,” Katya said. “We’ve been long in the swamp and still there’s Tezin-dar to reach—whatever waits us there—and Tekkan must grow anxious.”
“Aye.” Calandryll smoothed his robe, wondering if he should belt on his sword; deciding against it. “Do we go out to judgment?”
“I’d eat first,” Bracht said.
“And I’d bathe,” added Katya.
The other Vanu folk woke as they talked, and together they went out into the village, finding Yssym squatting nearby, deep in conversation with the elders.
All rose as they approached, the elders no more communicative, only nodding greeting, saying nothing as Yssym asked, “You eat now? Bathe?”
Bracht said, “Eat,” and Katya, “Bathe.” Calandryll asked when they should face the test.
“Soon,” said Yssym, “Elders make ready … First you bathe, eat … then time for test.”
They went to the bathhouse and then to the courtyard. It seemed all meals were taken communally, for halflings sat eating there and when the outlanders arrived they were given bowls of some sweetened porridge and clay mugs of a hot herbal infusion, loaves of something akin to bread, and wedges of sharptasting cheese. By day’s light Calandryll could better make out the details of their surroundings, convinced now that the halfling village was built among the ruins of some vast, and vastly ancient, hold.
“The Old Ones built this?” he asked.
“Old Ones, yes,” Yssym answered. “Long, long time gone. Old Ones build here.”
“When did they leave it?” He wondered how many ages had passed since the walls stood, and why they had fallen.
“Long, long ago.” Halfling and human concepts of time were different: Yssym’s shoulders rose helplessly.
“How did it come to ruin?”
“Old Ones say the gods fight.” Yssym’s webbed fingers shaped a design in the air. A warding gesture, Calandryll thought. “All bad then … Gods angry … Father, Mother of gods angry … They stop war … but this fallen then.”
“He speaks of the war between Tharn and Balatur,” Katya whispered. Calandryll nodded agreement and asked, “Did the Old Ones dwell here then?”
“Here, yes,” Yssym said. “Other places, too … Swamp not swamp then … No dragons, no grishas; no yennym or shivim … Gods make those when fight godwar. Old Ones here then … after, to
o, but this fallen … Old Ones say belong Syfalheen. They go to Tezin-dar … Say Syfalheen not come there … better Syfalheen not know men.”
“But they told you to watch.” Calandryll was intrigued. “They told you men would come seeking the Arcanum—the book.”
“They tell Syfalheen watch for men,” Yssym nodded. “Say one day men come for book … Perhaps evil men; perhaps good. They say good be three, like you … Show elders way to know. Say bring good men to Tezin-dar.”
“And the evil men?”
“They say test all … If evil men not die in swamp, they die in test … or die on road to Tezin-dar. Syfalheen guard Tezin-dar for Old Ones long time now.”
“Little wonder the city remains a legend.”
Calandryll spoke mostly to himself, bemused by the notion of such incredible antiquity. If Yssym’s account was true, these ruins had stood when the gods fought; and men had dwelt here. Here and across Gessyth, by the Syfalheen’s word. He touched the stone at his feet, staring round with reverent eyes: when this was done, when the Arcanum was destroyed, he would write all this down. By Dera’s love, Reba had spoken true when she said he should travel far!
A movement across the yard disturbed his musings and he saw the elders come out from the rotunda, two standing to either side of the entrance, the fifth beckoning.
“Elders say you come now,” Yssym informed him. “Three who go to Tezin-dar.”
Calandryll drained his mug as his mouth went dry and climbed to his feet. Bracht rose beside him, to his right; Katya stood on his left. The Vanu folk moved to join them, and Katya waved them back, speaking in their own language. They remained standing as the trio followed Yssym across the yard to the waiting elders.
