Legends: Stories in Honor of David Gemmell

by Various Authors

  “Touch the tree!” she urged again. “You must touch the tree.”

  I wanted to say I don’t believe in dryads – for surely that’s what she must be: one of the mythical wood nymphs said to assist the Treemeisters in their appointed work – but not even my voice would obey me. I was disappointed at myself for falling back on such superstitious nonsense in my hour of need and resolved to ignore the intrusion.

  Castor’s incantation had grown in volume, individual words now becoming clear: “Blood that claimed your blood…” I watched transfixed as his words took shape in the air between us, each letter etched in flame. “Muscle that powered the steel that untethered your spirit…”

  “Ignore him!” the annoying girl said. “You must reach out to the tree. It’s only a little way, but we can’t help you otherwise.”

  Help me? How could a figment of my own imagining possibly help me?

  “Don’t give up! You can beat him. The strength of the forest is close, a power as ancient as the world and rooted in the very land itself; yours to call upon, but to summon it you must touch the tree.”

  The world continued to grow stranger. Castor’s outline was shifting, blurring. He became squatter, uglier, his forehead more pronounced. Horns sprouted from his temples and his eyes had become smouldering coals, while flames licked out from their corners to form eyebrows. Beside him, Tryst was transformed into a weasel in truth: a slender furry animal wearing a jerkin and a sword belt.

  The transformations accelerated, and even this shadow realm started to fade.

  Castor, Tryst, the dryad, all were deserting me, yet I wasn’t alone, though I dearly wished I had been. A dark oppressive presence hung above me. Powerful, malevolent, dreadful.

  “Yes, oh mighty Malik.” I saw/heard the demon that had been Castor’s voice say as if from a great distance. “Enter this, your vessel; fill his mortal form and live again!”

  Malik, come to claim me after all these years.

  Touch the tree.

  I’m not sure if I heard or merely remembered the dryad’s insistent imploring, but it fanned an ember within me, a lingering spark of defiance that refused to be extinguished without at least trying. Figment she might be, but my options here were limited. There was something I had to do. Oh yes, touch the tree. I couldn’t see it but I knew it was there; the only presence still with me aside from the cloying company of Rot-in-Hell Malik.

  I concentrated on that slender thread of hope, focusing on this solitary relief from my intended nemesis, who had begun to press down as if a great weight were settling on me. It wasn’t so much my arm I moved then, as a lifeless rod attached to my left elbow. With some last vestige of will, I flopped that rod outward, so that my arm lay extended and an unfeeling knuckle brushed an exposed root.

  Suddenly, everything changed.

  The only way I can describe it is to picture a shutter being abruptly opened on a pitch dark room, so that sunlight bursts in to banish darkness into oblivion.

  The suffocating presence of Malik was cast aside, flung violently away, and the numbness was flushed from my system. I could move again, feeling more energised and more alive than I ever had before.

  I was on my feet in an instant, facing a stunned Tryst and a horrified Castor – both in human form once more. A tortured wail of “Nooo!” from the latter seemed to stir Weasel-face into action, but he was far too slow. I’m a blades man, always have been. They might have removed my sword but they’d left me my knives; big mistake. As Tryst’s hand fell to the hilt of his own steel I reached quickly to the back of both my shoulders, where my throwing knives waited. I whipped my arms down and threw in one double-handed movement. Before Tryst could draw his blade more than halfway a knife had embedded in his chest, another in his left eye.

  Castor regained enough presence of mind to flee, so rather than admiring my handiwork I drew another knife, which I flung with unerring accuracy even as Tryst’s lifeless form hit the ground.

  I missed.

  Impossible. I could never miss at this range… unless my target was employing sorcery, of course.

  I threw another knife, and this time watched as it veered away at the last instant, to sail out past the lip of the land and drop towards the waters below. Castor paused then, at the edge of the cliff, turning to face me and smiling. The cockiness he’d shown earlier was back. “Don’t think this is over. You will pay for what you did and my brother will live again. This I swear.”

  I had another knife out, one of my final pair, but I wasn’t going to waste this one by throwing it – I’d learned that lesson. Instead I stalked forward, the strange energy still pumping through my veins, dulling any pain and fuelling my determination to end this here and now, whatever Castor might wish.

  The murder on my mind must have shown in my eyes because, for all his bravado, Castor took an involuntary step backwards… and caught his heel on something. For a protracted moment he stood suspended, arms flailing and eyes bulging as he fought for balance, teetering on the edge. Then gravity won out and he toppled backwards, vanishing from view with a forlorn scream.

  I rushed forward, peering down to where his broken body lay splayed on the rocks close to the water. I then looked to see what had caused him to trip, finding an exposed tree root.

  The energy that had sustained me throughout the confrontation chose this moment to drain away, evaporating as rapidly as it had arrived. I staggered back from the edge, lest I collapse and join Castor in his rocky fate.

  The injured arm commenced to throb in agony now that the eldritch force had deserted me. I watched as blood ran freely down my hand to drip from outstretched fingertips, the wound having been given no chance to close with all the knife throwing I’d indulged in. I felt faint, disorientated, and wondered how much blood had already been lost.

  My head throbbed too; in fact my whole body felt as if a troop of performing pixies were using it as a stage to dance upon. Standing upright suddenly required more effort than I could muster. The stony ground struck my knees, and I winced as the hand of my injured arm instinctively tried to take some of the weight.

  Sitting, that would be good… or maybe lying down again.

  She was there in an instant: the dryad, and beside her a man, looking old, wise, and benevolent, not to mention familiar. I recognised him at once as the old fellow I’d helped back from the falls the previous evening, though now he looked just as green-tinged as the girl.

  I seemed to be slipping back into the hallucinatory state Castor had thrown me into during the aborted resurrection, which couldn’t be good. If I were destined to die here there was something I had to be sure of first.

  “Castor…?” I asked.

  “Is dead,” the old man said, his rich, deep voice promising all the wisdom of time itself. “His mad scheming will trouble the world no more, and the spirit of Malik the Magnificent is so weakened by today’s failed attempt that it will be decades before he can try again, if ever. You did well.”

  If this was what doing well felt like, I never wanted to try the alternative.

  “Now rest.”

  Soothing fingers touched my brow, but I wasn’t done yet, and stubbornly fought to stay conscious. “You’re a Treemeister, aren’t you?”

  “Am I?”

  Riddles were the last thing I needed. “I don’t believe in you,” I said.

  “Has anyone asked you to?”

  “Am I going to die?”

  “Not if we can help it. We tended to you once before and you’re still here.”

  Suddenly I remembered. Intense pain, and this same man leaning over me, his face looming large as he lifted my battered body clear of tangled limbs and armour, of mud and blood and the dead… The girl/dryad was there too, tending me, caring for me, healing me. How had I forgotten all this until now?

  “So many deaths, so few we could help, but we did what we could,” the Meister’s voice seemed to say. Consciousness was slipping rapidly away. The last thing I recall was his saying, “Y
ou’re not going to die, not today. You have too much still to do.”

  I came round in a bed. Not the softest of beds, perhaps, but it beat many of the places I’d woken up in. My right arm was bandaged and felt heavy, weak, while my head throbbed. Something sat on my forehead. Exploring with my left hand I found a poultice. It felt vaguely damp against my skin.

  There came a gentle knock at the door. Lisa, the maid, entered bearing a cup. “I thought I heard you stirring, sir,” she said. “Welcome back.”

  She had a winning smile, I’ll grant her that. I wanted to respond but my mouth was unaccountably dry, causing me to swallow instead and lick my lips. I wondered how long I’d been unconscious.

  “It’s been a little over a day,” she said, as if reading my mind. “I brought you some water.”

  I drank greedily. “What happened?” I managed to croak.

  “They found you at the top of the falls, sir. They say you somehow cut yourself with your own sword. Do you remember that?”

  I stared at her, seeing for an instant the dryad’s face overlaying the maid’s. Only then did the resemblance strike me: the fey creature from the falls had been an idealised version of Lisa. Doubtless that was where my addled imagination had dragged the image from. The realisation caused me to wonder just how far I could trust my own recollection of the previous day’s bizarre events.

  “No matter,” she continued in the face of my silence, “I’m sure it’ll all come back to you in time, sir. We’ve some broth on the go, if you feel up to a bowl.”

  “Please,” I said automatically, without stopping to consider if I actually wanted any.

  She paused at the doorway and hesitated, as though debating whether or not to say something.

  “Yes?” I prompted.

  “I just… Well, I’m sorry about your friend, sir.”

  “My friend?”

  “The man you arrived with. He fell from the top of the falls. Broke his neck, or so I’m told.”

  “Oh. That’s…” What exactly: a blessing, a relief, a cause for celebration? “…a shame,” I finished.

  She gave a quick smile, nodded in acknowledgement and then left. And if, as she turned away, her hair seemed for an instant to be limned in green as the sunlight from the window fell upon it, what of that? I was still woozy after all, and still recovering from the terrible ordeal so recently survived.

  Whatever that might have entailed.

  The Drake Lords of Kyla

  Storm Constantine

  The City in the Mists is reached via ten thousand shallow steps, which rise from the verdant farming valleys of the province of Tusk, up into the clouds and the land beyond. It is like venturing into the afterlife, or the secret country at the top of an enchanted ladder of vines: Kyla.

  Halfway up the steps, where by now your lungs are hot with pain from trying to breathe the rarefied air and your limbs like the jelly-stars that cluster in the warm waters of the distant south coast, you will see a fairytale edifice looming out of the mists, taking on form, with its many floors, wooden struts and protective serpent carvings. Clouds of incense hang around it, unable to rise or fall in the thick air. This is The Last Inn Before the Mountains, the name of which is not entirely accurate, but for travellers conjures a delicious frisson of inevitability and danger. Beyond here – nothing of the world you know.

  The mists of this land are clouds because here the land touches the sky. The clouds are not always there and when they are absent you might feel that the aching blue you gaze upon is truly Paradise. You will see things in the sky you have never seen before; creatures that fly without wings, daytime stars and birds the size of lions.

  There is no entry into Kyla but for this one path. To the north it faces the cold ocean with cliffs thousands of feet high. The Black Mountains surround it on all other sides, but for this narrow passageway, the steps and then, beyond the inn, the throat through the mountains by water, the Old Path.

  At the Last Inn, and the small village of Semum that straggles around it, you will first encounter the Lighurd. You will no doubt have been greatly anticipating this meeting, and your mind will be full of fancies about it. Then you will see your first two or three, squatting in the frozen dust outside the inn, the ground imprinted with the pattern of their hot, webbed feet. They might be playing knuckle-bone dice with a gang of guides, flaring their quills at one another, uttering the strange yet surprisingly lively croak that is their laughter. They were once dragons, this race. This is why you’re here; you want to listen to them hiss of greater times.

  It is not far to the ruins of Gyth, the City in the Mists, from the Last Inn; just a boat ride through the mountain tunnel and then on foot for less than two days. Guides there are aplenty, all eager for you to fill their purses – and they are not difficult to fill, this being a poor land, and you, of course, rich. Swarthy Sarks, black-and-yellow-skinned Meronnes, fey Fards; each of these native races are exotic and intriguing to travel with. But there are Lighurds too for hire, and who better to lead you into the whispering mists than the most ancient inhabitants of this lost realm? No, it was never really lost, merely forgotten, neglected. But that aside, your eyes might light upon a lone Lighurd, squatting apart from his companions, quills lowered and hanging long down his back, snake visage tattooed with mystic curls. You will glance at the gracefully long-fingered, clawed hands, the muscled thighs that might be scaled in turquoise, cobalt or deepest emerald. Never will you have seen a creature at once so primitive yet so magnificent. He might sense your interest and turn his long face towards you, gaze back with those golden snake eyes, nod once to indicate ‘yes, I am for hire’. Your heart might pause then, as if you have won a great and unimaginable prize; a treasure from the past.

  Despite what you might see, close up, of this incredible creature – the length and sharpness of his claws, the wide maw that might contain too many teeth – there is no need to be afraid. Lighurd guides – all male, for their females are rarely seen - will neither rob nor damage you. To the very few, for some unfathomed reason, they might even sell one of their whelps to take home with you. The stories of these young ones sickening and pining away from the Black Mountains are untrue. They will outlive you, and have to be bequeathed to your descendents or gifted to someone who might fancy such an ornament in their home. Lighurdkind can never be servants – quite – and no, I have not heard of them being taken as lovers. There is no such familiarity between our species.

  So then, through me you know something of this land, its people, and you want to know what happened when I went to Kyla, how I came to acquire my companion.

  I had been advised to travel there in the month of Pearly Rains, this being the most clement time to broach the ten thousand steps. I wanted to see Gyth, as every young historian does; it is an initiation into the mysteries of our calling, this distant, haunted tumble of stones. Not many can make the journey, its prime obstacle being the cost of the expedition rather than any physical difficulty. Kyla lies at the centre of the distant continent of Oort. Merchant ships from Tasmagore will offer accommodation for passengers, but not cheaply. The way is hard, the ocean tumultuous. My Order had paid for my journey, and also for me to be instructed in the language of Oort for a year before I left the University at Tasmagore. My tutors had given me certain tasks to complete, such as people to meet and ingratiate myself with, relics to secure, stories to record. My itinerary was full and I’d been four months in Oort before I even had the time to turn my thoughts towards the Black Mountains. By then, I had made my way slowly to Tusk and the lush Valley Below the Steps. Here I had been greeted by the mayor of Valley’s Heart, become a guest in his sprawling wooden house. Foreigners visited these parts for only one reason; the desire to ascend. The inhabitants appeared amused by this. The mayor said to me, “Kyla lies upon our dreams. Yes, we go up there, but the Lighurd never come down here. The climb is long, the air thin, and there is not much left other than memories. If you seek memories, naturally the land will call to yo
u.”

  I dreamed of it every night before I finally made my climb; my sleep buffeted by the scream of gigantic birds and oppressed by images of cyclopean remains that were stone, that were flesh, that were stone.

  The journey too started like a dream. I was given a guide from Valley’s Heart who would take me to Semum, since she had business there at the Inn. In fact, most transactions between the Valley and Kyla took place at this inn, Heartfolk not having much desire to travel further than that. The trade was mainly in relics; the Heartfolk would buy them with their own produce, and then sell them on to merchants travelling to the coast and beyond, to lands where the antiquities of Kyla were much prized.

  My guide, Zharn, was a grand-daughter of the mayor. We set out just before dawn: Zharn, two grey goats with yard-long horns who would carry our belongings, and me. Zharn was short and stout; at sixteen years old a veteran of this journey. We were both dressed in the heavy, cream woollen tunic and trousers favoured by the Oorts, embellished with rich coloured scarves at the waist and with ornate embroidery at cuffs and hems. Our boots were of toughened goat leather, scored with spiritual symbols.

  The climb began at a huge stone archway cut into the cliffs, and the first few miles were completed in shadow. There were no mists yet, just the murk cast by the overhanging rocks and the grey predawn light that didn’t illuminate much at all. Zharn lit a torch, which she placed in a sconce conveniently attached to a horn of one of the goats.

  After only an hour my thighs were hurting greatly, although we had now emerged from the tunnel of rock and the steps were far wider. We no longer needed a torch. Zharn grinned at my weakness but let us pause while she made a fire to brew us breakfast tea. The goats, hung with bells, tinkled as they chewed the tough, yellow grasses beside the path. As I sat, gratefully, and sipped the scalding sweet tea, I gazed at my surroundings: this wide and shallow stair, worn by many feet; how ancient it was. I could feel history around me, as if time was but an illusion. The era of the dragons is long gone; it has become merely legend. Few people really believe the Lighurd are the debased descendents of dragons, but rather that the stories of a dragon race grew up around the lizard people, who had perhaps once been a greater civilisation and had somehow lost it all. I had then no idea if this was true, but what was undeniable was that Kyla was full of mighty ruins. Whoever had lived there had been a great and powerful race and they had been physically huge, if the size of the ruins was anything to go by.