Gabrielle was suddenly beside him, and Bevn saw her gather motes to her hand. She slowed as they entered an alleyway. “Keep running!” she shouted at him. “My spell will call the wildfire again!”
She threw a net of darkness behind them, across the end of the street, a fabric of shadow that wouldn’t hide them very well. It didn’t have to. Already a second strike of silver fire streaked down at Slipper, triggered by the movement of the essence. The eerie whistle filled the air. The tail of Chaos plunged into the buildings. A great light swelled from within the structure and burst through the suddenly transparent walls. For a moment everything was clear—the boxes and barrels, the tables and chairs, the people outlined brightly in the gambling den. Then the vivid moment was past, and a cloud surrounded the building, obscuring it within a roiling, hungry billow of ash. Thunder clapped like a stroke of iron in Bevn’s ears. His bones shook. His vision blurred.
They ran.
_____
Garyll Glavenor reached down slowly and picked up the two white pebbles. They were smooth and warm as if they still contained some life, but Garyll knew that Mulrano was dead. Mulrano, who had run with him and the Lûk escort all the way to Firro, Mulrano who had hauled on the oars the hardest as they swept downriver. The two Lûk windrunners who led the search, Jek and Kal, had done what they could with the sails of the sleek korakli, but it was Mulrano who had got them to Slipper so quickly, refusing to wait for the whims of a fickle wind.
Only to find his end. It was like a spear through his heart. Garyll closed his fist upon the pebbles, and turned to pursue the fleeing prince and the Shadowcaster, only to see the wildfire streaking down again. Terror clutched at his guts. He could not fight this magic with his blunt rod. All he could do was run, away from the Chaos blooming in the street ahead. A short fork split from the main strike and cut across the space ahead of Garyll, terminating on the restrained wizard. It whipped around him like an angry vine.
“Go for the princeling, we will this wizard guard!” Jek shouted to him, backing away from the roiling mass of silver that was the wizard. “We will words with him have, if he survives this sosisshon.”
The Lûk windrunners had their spears ready to throw. They had history with the man they called Black Saladon. Within the Chaos, the wizard still seemed to be restrained, but his fingers jerked and twitched as if he cast hurried invocations. His eyes were wide. Garyll had heard something of what Black Saladon was capable of, and he wasn’t a man one wanted to try stop. He suspected that a mage who had survived for so long in Oldenworld would have some defence against the wildfire. Garyll wished the Lûk luck as he ran after the prince and Gabrielle. The prince was just a youth, and Garyll understood something of the Shadowcaster Gabrielle’s power. He had the easier task.
The people of Slipper had no defences against the wildfire. He passed the building which had been hit. A screaming man stumbled from the wreckage, and yet it was not a man. His face was altered. His bald head had become a smooth and sightless dome. Only the howling orifice of his mouth remained. He staggered blindly into a silvered wooden upright. The upright shivered, but stood firm and the man recoiled, clutching his head with grossly deformed hands. Too many fingers clustered together like a clutch of swollen sausages. Silver threads ran from his hands over his body like worms, writhing in searching patterns. Wherever the threads touched, the man changed. His clothes smoked away, exposing purpling skin. He shrieked and beat at his body, but he lost his balance, and toppled headlong into the bright ash. As the silver dust spilled over him he arched his back in a violent spasm. His skin seemed to swell. He issued a hollow moan then split down the middle, like a caterpillar that had been trodden upon, his innards spilling strangely yellow over the ground.
Someone emptied their stomach behind Garyll. He ran on. People emerged from buildings ahead of him. Most of them were armed, their weapons drawn. They looked at him warily, but dismissed him soon enough when they recognised that he hadn’t been altered by the wildfire. He passed them where they stood—they were resolute, holding a stern vigil, waiting to cut down anything unnatural trying to escape the wildfire. There was no escape from the Chaos once it touched flesh—either the wildfire was fatal, or friends finished one off.
Garyll threw a parting glance at the site of the second strike. Even the building had been affected; those parts of it that were still standing writhed as if they were no longer made of treated timbers. One pillar spread dark, sickly branches over the ghostly glow of the ash. Ahead in the street Garyll caught a fleeting glimpse of what he thought was the prince, but when he reached the end of the street he found a mob scattering through the three divergent ways—Lûk, Hunters, all manner of Slipperfolk. He moved with them, scanning every alleyway, but there was no sign of the Eyrians again. They could be anywhere.
Then the air tensed, and a flash came from the west. The Shadowcaster had used her magic again and triggered the wildfire. He ran against the flow of humanity, along a soiled street, and encountered another ruin. A figure emerged from the ash, a delicate serving girl in a red dress. She was crying hysterically. Searching silver tentacles gripped her legs. The girl leapt as if dancing on hot coals, but the tentacles only spread further up her thighs. She ran, but she could not escape the wildfire. When she had reached the edge of the ash she was stained to her waist by shimmering coils. Her dress began to smoke. Her shins glistened blackly, as if the skin had hardened and grown bristles.
The victim of the wildfire lurched straight toward Garyll. “Help mee, help mee, gerrit off!” cried the girl. She reached for Garyll, but he sidestepped her clumsy grasp, letting the girl stumble to her knees. He hated himself for doing so, but the wildfire was too deadly to touch.
An elderly woman staggered past him. “Oh Maryna, my Maryna!” she called out.
“Daan toucher, Debaleen!” someone shouted from within the crowd, but the warning came too late.
Wildfire snaked up the girl’s body, over her darkening arms, and onto the old woman who held her. The woman jumped back in alarm, but she did not succeed in breaking free. The girl’s swarthy hands were clasped upon her wrists.
“Muthr forgive mee! Muthr!”
Wildfire crossed the link between them, and the flesh where they were joined seemed to melt and ripple. The old woman cried out. She heaved on her trapped arms, but only succeeded in pulling the panicked girl upon her. They fell to the street, and a web of silver wove around them both. Garyll backed away, wanting to howl against the torture he was forced to witness, the torture he could do nothing to avert.
“Rleez mee, Maryna!”
“I kaan stop it, I kaan stop it!” the girl cried, kicking at the ground with legs that seemed too long, too thin and too black to be her own.
“Rleez mee! Letter ga! Letga!”
The two women rolled over and over in the street, like two wrestlers locked in combat. The silver threads burnt their clothes away: they weren’t women anymore, their bodies were joined at the chest, the elderly woman absorbed into the growing shape as she was infected with the blackening disease. Her limbs grew long and thin too, and she scrabbled ineffectually at the dirt. The silver threads danced with frenetic activity, and a new form took shape: one low black body, a swollen glistening abdomen between tall jointed legs. Only the misshapen faces of the women remained at the front of a hideous body. Their cries became unintelligible, more animal-like, until they ceased.
Nothing of the two women remained, only a row of mean little black eyes—a horrible creature. If Garyll were to give it a name, he would have called it a spider, but it was bigger than a big dog—a hungry hideous thing. It scuttled toward him. A rock whistled over his head, striking the creature a glancing blow. The creature jumped back.
“Stones on it!” someone cried behind him. “Before it away! Dorrakaan! Stones on it!”
When the creature rushed forward again, stones struck its head, raining upon its body. A burly Hunter man swung his club as the spider passed and caught its grizzly l
eg. The limb snapped with a sickly sound, but the creature had seven other legs to use. It jumped over its attacker and jumped again toward the safety beyond the crowd. A tumbling knife followed it and struck its abdomen. Black fluid oozed from the wound, but the spider ran fast, and escaped toward the north, leaving only a stain upon the wall to mark its passing. North, thought Garyll, toward the lowlands and others of its kind. The Lûk had told him about the dangers of the wilds north of Slipper, where the influence of the Sorcerer had ravaged the ordered civilisations that had once graced Oldenworld.
The prince and his companions had brought wildfire upon Slipper. They must pay for their crime. He saw them then, running on a lower level, heading for the river, to the boats. Garyll jumped down a wall to a lower roof, jumped again to the street, and ran.
_____
Bevn scrabbled into the small boat as Gabrielle pushed it out. They had to get away! Saladon could find them later, but for now, they had to escape from Garyll Glavenor. Bevn still couldn’t believe it. The Swordmaster of Eyri had tracked them. How had he crossed the wastes? How had he made it through the shield? That was enough to make Bevn scared of him. If he was strong enough to endure that pain, he could endure anything. He would have no mercy when he caught them.
They had lost Glavenor in the crowds, but it didn’t make the shock any better. Just having the Swordmaster near made him feel like a thief. He knew Glavenor knew the truth—that Bevn had stolen the crown.
As Gabrielle dipped the oars into the water, Bevn saw him, running down through the storage sheds.
“Gabrielle! Gabrielle! He’s coming!”
She pulled hard at the oars, but the boat was a sluggish craft. They’d only chosen it because it had been left on the water’s edge. Now it was letting them down. Glavenor reached the tilted slime-covered slipway, but instead of tripping as Bevn had hoped, he just ran faster. He hit the water in a dive.
“Cast a spell! Cast a spell! Do something, Gabrielle!”
Glavenor stroked out toward them. He only had one hand, his left arm ending in a stump. Bevn hadn’t seen that before, but it didn’t matter, Glavenor could still swim fast enough to close the gap on them.
“I can’t use my magic out here!” Gabrielle answered. “Where would we run to? We’ll be sitting ducks for the wildfire.” She heaved on the oars, faster and faster, but it was not going to be enough. Glavenor was too close. She lifted one of the oars out of its rowlock and braced herself as Glavenor neared the transom.
Bevn clambered further into the bows and the movement tipped Gabrielle off-balance. Her first strike went wide and slapped the water and Glavenor caught hold of the oar.
“Sink him, sink him, sink him!” Bevn cried, but Gabrielle couldn’t dislodge Glavenor from the end of her oar and he yanked hard and pulled himself at the boat. She stamped down on his hand as he gripped the rail, but he grimaced and hauled himself in nonetheless, blocking her attempts to strike him with his blunt arm.
Then he was inside their boat, right there, dripping, deadly and furious. Bevn edged right to the very point of the boat. He wanted to jump out but he couldn’t swim well enough to get back to shore. They were drifting with the current already. There was nowhere to go.
“Shadowcaster,” said Garyll.
Bevn could almost feel the hackles rise on Gabrielle’s neck.
“And so were you, our dear failed Swordmaster,” Gabrielle retorted.
His expression hardened. “Nevermore,” he asserted, looming over Gabrielle.
She took her seat, acting casual. “Once you have tasted the dark, you know its pleasures,” said Gabrielle, reclining against the rail.
Garyll didn’t respond to her; he turned upon the prince instead. “You have a debt to Eyri. You have betrayed your father.” He was determined not to whimper, because Gabrielle was watching.
“You are no better, you betrayed him as well!” Bevn accused.
Glavenor flinched, as if stung. “I was not myself! I was under the grip of an evil spell. You have a choice. You do not have to seek out the Sorcerer and bring ruin upon Eyri.”
“But I am not myself,” mocked Bevn, pretending a faint with an affected wrist pressed to his brow. “I am under the grip of an evil spell.” He had got Glavenor. He tittered. “You can’t prove I’m not.”
A bone cracked in Garyll’s clenched fist.
“You will turn this boat around and take it to the shore,” he commanded Gabrielle. “The prince will return with me to Eyri, to face his justice there and to pass the crown back to his father.”
“I don’t have the crown! It was stolen, you big lump-head! Why do you think I’m not wearing it?”
Glavenor looked at him hard. “You’re just lying to try and earn some respite.”
“No, it is gone! The hag took it last night! Where do you think I could hide it, in these clothes?” A wonderfully clever idea formed in Bevn’s mind. Being caught by Glavenor might be useful after all. “There’s no point taking me back to Eyri without the crown. It’s the crown my father needs. He’ll not think much of you if you come back without it. You must help us to find the crown again!”
Once they’d found the crown, Bevn could worry about how to escape from the Swordmaster. He was certain Gabrielle could be helpful in that regard.
“You lie!” Glavenor lunged at him and caught him by the front of his tunic then pushed him back over the rail.
“Gabrielle! Help me!” Bevn wailed, but Gabrielle didn’t even get a chance to rise from her seat. Glavenor threw Bevn down, pulled his baton from his belt and angled it to meet the underside of Gabrielle’s chin in one fluid move. “You will tell me where he has hidden it,” Garyll warned her.
“What happened to your big blade?” Gabrielle asked, unruffled by the sudden challenge. She seemed to have taken strength from the conflict, from Garyll’s direct attention. “You weren’t shy to show it off before.”
“Don’t try me,” Garyll warned.
“I would love to, but I’ll wait until you’re in a better mood,” she answered. “You can put your piece away now. You’ve made your point, and the prince is telling the truth. He covets his crown more than his own head. He would be wearing it now if he had it. It really has been stolen.”
Garyll stared at her like a hawk.
“Just remember I will not hesitate to strike you.” He stowed the baton once more.
“That’s good to know,” she retorted. “I’m sure we’ll have a great time travelling in each other’s company.”
“Now start rowing,” he ordered. “We’ve already lost ground. Get moving!”
Bevn noticed how far they had travelled downriver already. The current was strong; they had been drawn away from the shore. Gabrielle would have to row hard to get them back to the same slipway. Slipperfolk clustered on the jetty, a rowdy bunch, gesticulating at them. They looked none too friendly. Someone nocked an arrow; a second later it hissed down at them and splooshed into the water.
A sudden gust of wind slapped Bevn. It pulled their bow skew. Gabrielle pulled hard on the oars to keep their heading. Another gust tore at the water, and threw spray in their faces. Two more arrows came at them, but the wind snatched the shafts in mid-flight and tossed them far downriver. Then a wall of wind came at them, tumbling down from the tiered city in streaks of mist, scraping the water into waves and making the air white.
“This wind is unnatural,” Glavenor cursed.
“You shouldn’t have angered my boyfriend,” Gabrielle said with a smirk, and then Bevn understood. It was the wizard helping them. Somehow Black Saladon had escaped from his confinement.
“Move over, give me the right oar,” Glavenor said. He sat down beside Gabrielle. “Now pull, on the left!”
He leant so hard away from his oar he lifted his body off the seat. His pull was much more powerful than Gabrielle’s and the bow slewed off across the current. The wind caught it and turned the boat even more, and they drifted faster downstream. “Pull! Pull!” Garyll shouted at Gab
rielle. “We can’t go down this river! We must make for the jetties.”
“Why would I do anything you want me to do?” Gabrielle asked him archly.
“Because you don’t want to die?” Glavenor hauled hard on his oar to force their nose to swing all the way around. “Row, you stupid woman! There are deadly rapids below here. The Lûk told me about the Knarles. Even the daredevils among the windrunners won’t risk this run.”
At that, Gabrielle began to row again, but they were losing ground nonetheless. Glavenor began to angle for the shore instead of the jetties. As it was, they would only make ground in the rough rocks at the edge of town. Bevn became suddenly nervous. Maybe it wasn’t Saladon helping them, maybe it was another wizard, and maybe that wizard wasn’t trying to help them at all. He looked downstream, where the river narrowed between the rising cliffs and the flow became swifter.
“There’s a cable across the river there,” he told them. “Maybe you can catch it.”
“Those ratlines,” said Glavenor. “We pass those and we’re done for.”
The ratlines came up quickly—great woven cables strung low over the river, like a bridge turned on its side. Bevn supposed it was a safety net for wayward watercraft. The bottom line skipped and tugged at the surface of the swollen flow.
A sullen roar echoed off the cliffs and the wind whipped at their backs, driving them downriver.
“Take my oar!” Glavenor shouted to Gabrielle. “Keep rowing upstream!”
But their speed increased without Glavenor pulling on the oars and the current swept them swiftly on. Glavenor hooked the line perfectly, but the force of the entire river dragged at the boat, and he was pulled to the bows, squashed hard against Bevn as he fought to keep hold on the cable. “Hey!” Bevn cried.
Glavenor strained against the river. He moved his hand along the cable, trying to pull them closer to the shore, but it was awkward for him with one hand, and he wouldn’t hold them for long. Gabrielle left her oars and jumped up to help him, but then the cable snapped. It writhed like a snake in Glavenor’s hand, and he lost it as he fell hard into the boat. Bevn ducked just in time. The ratline clipped the top of his head then it splashed into the river.
Second Sight: Second Tale of the Lifesong Page 64
