by Adrian Cole
'Failed?’
'In Ternannoc, our world. His power, his understanding of us, and other creatures, could have been better shared. But he is reclusive, jealous. Many men of power were like this. There were those who tried to draw them together.’
'Like the Hierarchs?’
'Yes, but they overreached themselves and abused their powers. It was an accident, not an evil act, but the consequences were dire. After it, no one would work together to put matters right. Distrust and suspicion ruled. Ratillic is very bitter.’
'Why does he hate Korbillian?’
Ratillic leapt up, his arms flapping wildly. ‘I know what's happening!’ he cried. ‘Kirrikree, you shame me! Why have you turned against me?’
'You know why,’ Sisipher heard the bird reply.
'Come with us,’ Korbillian said suddenly.
Ratillic's face contorted. ‘I will not!’
'We don't need him,’ snapped Wolgren.
'For once I agree with you,’ Ratillic retorted. He stared at Wolgren, but then marched away and out of sight.
Guile turned to Korbillian. ‘Must we have his maps? We have no idea what lies beyond the mountains.’
'Forests,’ said Sisipher. ‘We will have to go carefully, though. Kirrikree says there are strange events taking place east of the mountains. Immediately beyond are the forests of the kingdom of Strangarth. He is a bellicose king, and his lands are full of tribes that he can barely control. Any strangers there are liable to be put to the sword.’
'And where is the Direkeep?’ said Korbillian.
'South of our easterly path. A hundred miles or more,’ Sisipher went on as Kirrikree supplied the information. ‘If we travel east and keep to the north of the way we need to go, we should be able to avoid both the main lands of Strangarth, and the Direkeep. After that we will need to turn south east.’
'Can we not turn south and pass south of the Direkeep on an easterly course?’ asked Korbillian.
'An invading army has come to the lands there, thought to have landed in ships beyond the great estuaries of the Three Rivers.’
'Does the geography mean anything?’ Korbillian asked Guile.
'I've heard vague reports of the Emperor's ships landing on the eastern continent, but only in isolated instances. I seem to recall word of these Three Rivers. Doubtless they are easily navigable, and some adventuresome captain has gone searching for glory.’
Sisipher was frowning. ‘That's odd,’ she said. ‘Kirrikree seems to think there are many of these men, and they are equipped for war. And they are from over the sea.’
'From the Chain?’ said Guile, mildly surprised.
'Kirrikree recognises the name of Quanar Remoon.’
'But why are they here?’ said Guile, looking puzzled.
'Perhaps,’ said Korbillian, and for once there was more than a hint of a smile on his face, ‘the mad Emperor has at last decided to make war. He has found someone to fight.’
'Yes,’ nodded Sisipher, ‘but these men have been here for over a year, steadily growing in number.’
'You read some purpose in that? What does the bird say?’ grinned Guile.
'During your audience with Quanar Remoon, did he not mention these troops to you?’ Sisipher asked him.
Guile snorted. ‘He would have absolutely no reason to tell me anything about them. Or any of his other armies. Besides, whatever order he gave that posted them here, you can be sure he has forgotten!’
Korbillian nodded. ‘Yet it is interesting that the men still come.’
'Well,’ went on Guile, ‘it can have nothing to do with us.’
Sisipher's eyes fixed him in a strange way, and for once Guile did not enjoy them upon him. ‘Do you have reason to think it should?’ she asked.
'None at all. We didn't escape from Quanar: we were cast out. If he'd wanted our heads, he could have plucked them from us quite easily.’
'Guile is right,’ agreed Korbillian. ‘Even so, I would rather avoid his men.’
Sisipher said nothing, but they all knew that she gave the matter deep thought. Whatever powers she had, set her apart from them, even Korbillian, but strangely both Wolgren and Guile found them compelling.
8
THE EARTHWROUGHT
It was evening by the time Brannog had managed to climb any distance up the mountainside and already he wondered if his actions were really wise. He would have to shelter overnight otherwise he would risk falling off the mountain. He felt a great urgency not to stop, but had to content himself in the knowledge that the Deliverers would also need to rest. He now found that he had mixed feelings about leaving Sundhaven: there were certain regrets, but at the same time he felt again that kind of youthful madness that had spurred him on once before. It was this that lent vigour to him, and although he could not completely dampen his fears for his daughter, he felt an optimism, though for what he was not sure.
When the wind began to reach down from the high passes, bringing with it the whipping flurries of snow, he began to realise that he was in trouble. He would have to shelter quickly. Like a sheep, he struggled to find a place out of the cold. Already the darkness closed in, shutting his world down to nothing. He seemed to be scrambling about for hours, his limbs growing heavier, his ears ringing to the shouts of the angry storm. He found his way between two faces of exposed rock, where snow was already plastering itself in great speckled blotches. The constant freeze and thaw of frost had made huge incisions in the rock slopes, like the cuts of a massive axe, and Brannog wriggled his way into one of these gashes. Mercifully it seemed to reach far into the rock wall.
He forced his body as far in as he could go, now in near total darkness. The sounds of the storm were muted by a turn in the rock. He could see nothing above, but the snow could not reach him here, although the wind raced through the crevice. He would have to avoid its cutting edge soon, for all his thick clothes. It was not possible to guess how much further he could go inward, but he forced himself on, his back flat to the slippery rock and with the naked face inches before him, now sloping back over his head. Panic glared at him from the darkness.
As he wormed his way inward, he felt the ground beneath him crumble abruptly, his feet kicking for purchase. There was none. His hands slapped at bare rock, but melting snow had lubricated it so that he could not prevent himself slipping downward. The rock face narrowed as he slithered deeper, unable to halt his fall, and something caught his head. He thought he heard a crash of sound, thunder possibly, and the roar of the sea, but then there was nothing but the silent darkness.
The icy drip of water wakened him. It trickled down his face and he shook himself. His hand dabbed at the side of his head, which was tender, and he could feel the stickiness of clotted blood there. He had no idea whether he had been unconscious for minutes or for hours. Slowly he shifted his position to escape the trickle of melt water, and was relieved to find that he had not sustained any bad injuries. He was bruised, but apart from that and his throbbing head, unharmed.
There seemed to be no wind here, and he thought perhaps he had fallen through trapped rubble to the natural bottom of the frost shattering, though there was no light to see by. As he was hungry, he opened his provisions and tried to decide what to do. Rest, or attempt to climb to safety? He assumed it must now be night, and at least he had found suitable shelter. Perhaps daylight would penetrate this place and be his guide. If not, his quest was in danger of having reached its end before it was begun.
He laughed aloud at the thought, mainly to fortify himself, and as he did so, echoes ran away from him into the distance. He knew at once that the crack in the rock extended much further than he had expected. In fact, it sounded as though there could even be a cave beyond. As he was no longer tired, he decided to see if he could investigate, in spite of the darkness. Inactivity would drive him to madness. He knew that he would have to attempt to climb back out of the caves at some time, but until he could see, it would be impossible.
Slowly, with
a hand on the rock wall to guide him, he inched deeper into the rocks, now and then whistling or sending sounds ahead of him to point the way. The echoes persisted and seemed to tail off far into the distance. This distance puzzled him, as it seemed to him now to open out as if he had stumbled into a huge cavern, although he could not see how that could be possible. How could ice have made such an incision so high up in the mountains?
He listened to the reverberations of his own voice. When silence fell again, he listened to it like a man shouldering a tremendous burden. It would have been easy for him to have slipped into a deeper well of despair then, but there came another sound, not an echo. Possibly the sounds he had made had dislodged something far below, but whatever had made the sound came again, at regular intervals. It did not sound like rockfall. It began to sound more and more to Brannog as if a heavy weight was being dragged along, and that whoever or whatever was pulling it had to pause to gather strength every few yards.
It was impossible to guess how far away it was. There was yet no light and Brannog's eyes ached under the complete darkness. The dragging sound came again, and seemed to be approaching. He decided to go back and his fingers brushed along the wall behind him, only for the precious contact to be broken. He felt a lurch of panic. Where was the wall? He swung his hand anxiously, but could not find it. Only a moment before he had had it close to his back, but now there was nothing. He stepped back, but even now could find no walls; his hands went out before and behind him but he might as well have been standing in the middle of an empty room. He tried stepping in different directions and waving his arms, cursing aloud as he again failed to find a rock wall.
Again the sliding sound reached him, and he felt sure that it had come closer. He tried to look through the wall of darkness in the direction from which the sounds seemed to come and wondered if his eyes had started to deceive him, for there appeared to be a glow there in the distance. Or was it closer? He had no sense of scale.
He kept absolutely still; now he could smell something. It was earthy but unclean, and it confirmed an idea that had been forming in his mind, an idea that he did not want to face, namely that whatever was approaching was alive. The glow seemed to spread, not far away at all, but coming much nearer, a strange green and yellow suffusion. Brannog was transfixed, realising at that moment that he was shivering with fear. Whatever this thing was, it meant harm. Yet where could he run? The peculiar glow showed him no exits from his predicament. The walls had receded, almost as though pulled aside like curtains.
At last he was able to look properly at the creature and immediately wished he had not been granted so clear a view. Am I dreaming this horror? his shocked mind cried. It was three times the thickness of a man's waist, and had two arm-like appendages at the front of its body which it used to drag itself along in a crippled fashion, for below its waist there were no legs, just a gradually thinning body like the tapering segments of an enormous worm. Brannog would have considered this incomplete body a distortion of nature in itself, but it was the creature's head that stunned him the most. In a deformed way it could have been considered human, although far too large. It had dish-like, white eyes, which seemed to be blind, for there was no iris, but which were obviously not. The creature suffused its own light, the glow seeping like vapour from the pores of its body. It had no nose that Brannog could see, and a wide, fleshy mouth that reminded him of the mouth of a fish. As it pulled itself laboriously towards him—for he was its definite goal—he shuddered at the sight of its spatulate fingers.
He wanted to run, but had still not decided where to run to. For certain he would back himself inadvertently into a corner, and that may not be to his advantage. How fast was this creature? He guessed not fast at all, judging by its difficult exertions. Already he had slipped his one weapon, a short axe, from his pack, and now he dodged to one side. The head of the creature turned with him and from its slack mouth slipped a tongue, though it seemed no threat in itself.
Brannog moved further away, those vast eyes still moving with him. There was no expression on that huge face, but a kind of oafish resolve. A curled hand reached out for him, but he was quickly away from it. He swung the axe in an arc that made the air whistle. At once the creature hissed, the sound ricocheting around the cavern, and it spat as if annoyed. It moved closer and Brannog zigzagged backwards, trying to confuse it. As he did so, the creature gathered itself as if for a rush. Watching carefully, Brannog held his axe in readiness. As he had surmised, the thing launched itself, and although it now proved deceptively fast, he sidestepped it and struck at its arm with the axe. It felt as though he had glanced a blow from a solid pillar of stone, and his arm felt momentarily stunned.
The creature hissed hideously, its mouth working frantically as though the beast was in pain. Before it could move again, Brannog dealt it another savage blow, this time chopping into its flesh. It let out a demented roar that filled the place with sound, and smashed about it with flailing arms. Brannog leapt away. By the poor light, he could see that he had drawn blood, but he was careful not to be reckless. Enraged, the creature swung round and again launched itself, using its lower body as a kind of spring. Brannog barely avoided it as its hand brushed him and sent him stumbling. He rolled over quickly and cut once more with his axe at the hand that groped for him. His weapon chopped between two fingers and as the hand tore away from the agony of that contact, the axe was wrenched from Brannog's grip and sent tumbling away into the dark.
For the next few moments, Brannog and the creature weaved, Brannog trying to keep clear of the hands that would throttle him if they got hold of him, the creature remorseless in its determination to reach its prey. Brannog avoided several lunges by timing his leaps precisely, but his strength and speed could not last. Again he was caught a glancing blow, and this time he crashed clumsily to the floor. A hand fastened on his leg, tightening. He could feel his leg going numb as the hand dragged him towards the creature. Looking down he saw blood between the fingers of his assailant's hand where his axe had struck. Quickly he drew back his free leg and kicked ferociously at that injured hand. Something cracked and the grip on his leg relaxed instantly. Again the creature bellowed in pain, now drawing its hand to it and nursing it.
Brannog rolled away and grunted as he landed on the axe. Snatching at it, he watched the wounded creature. He may never get a better chance to finish the battle. Without deliberating further, Brannog rushed in, and let out a shout, almost a scream, that rang back from the rocks. The creature saw his attack far too late to defend itself: Brannog's axe crashed down between its eyes, where he took it to be vulnerable. The effect was immediate—the creature went slack, dropping to the ground. Its good hand flung up and knocked Brannog aside, and as he tried to get away, he found himself pinned. Turning, he saw the mouth inches from his body, but there was no movement. Then came a spasm, but that was all. The strange light from the creature dimmed, and he perceived that he had killed it. He wanted to cry out crazily, but suddenly found himself drained.
It took him a while to pull himself clear and he wrenched at the axe, which resisted him. As he fought to free it, he heard new sounds, and to his fresh dismay knew that they had come not from one direction, but from all around him. He disengaged the axe and whirled, expecting to see more of the creatures. The glow coalesced in a circle and he made out several dozen shapes, though none of them were as large as the creature he had just killed. They seemed to be smaller than he was.
A number of them came forward silently, and Brannog held his axe before him. If he were to die, he would give them a fight. As he marshaled his physical and mental strengths and pushed back the terror that the force confronting him drew out of him, he was undone by a sudden mental image of his daughter. His quest to find and help her was about to disintegrate, and he felt his eyes filling with tears for the things he had lost and the frustration of knowing he could do nothing for her.
An unexpectedly deep voice growled from the shadows before him. ‘Why do you
weep, overman?’ Brannog thought he must have imagined it, but again the voice spoke. ‘You cannot weep at the death of the fleshworm. There is only joy in its death.’
Brannog understood now that these new creatures were little taller than children, though extraordinarily broad for their height. One of them was addressing him in a guttural, half-intelligible voice. Brannog wiped at his eyes and partially lowered the axe. Perhaps he would not have to fight them after all. They seemed pleased at the death of the creature beside him.
'Who are you?’ he asked.
They pressed in, but cautiously. He could see no weapons, save rough stones that they clutched, ready either to cast them or use them as crude cudgels. Their spokesman straightened and tapped his broad chest. ‘I am named Ygromm. We are the Earthwrought.’ The strange half-man uttered this with distinct pride and as though it would answer all questions, whereas it only served to raise many more in Brannog's mind. A race of beings who lived beneath the mountains? How narrow his view of the world was, he now saw.
Ygromm pointed at the dead fleshworm. ‘You have slain it,’ he said with awe. ‘And thus you are some great power-master. But you will be hunted by its masters for this.’
'I don't understand,’ replied Brannog.
'Are you an enemy? But you must be if you come to slay the Children of the Mound.’
'I mean you no harm, as far as I know,’ said Brannog. ‘I came here by chance. This creature sought to kill me, for food I suppose, so I defended myself.’
'For food?’ said Ygromm, taken aback, and his many companions gasped uniformly, so that a ripple ran back among their ranks, leaving Brannog amazed at the number that must have gathered here. ‘You know nothing about fleshworms?’
