Just a few feet from where Gemini grappled to her knees, a dark, reed-choked quagmire lay before her, clouds of insects swarming lazily over its black, bubbling surface. It stretched out through a mangrove in all directions: an impassable barrier to the south, and a death-trap to anything that might have wandered unwittingly into its embrace. This was the bog she had smelt not far from where she had discovered the dead dryads, and the perfect place for predators of all kinds to congregate. Including her mysterious attacker, who Gemini couldn’t immediately see as she turned her attention from the swamp and across the shore.
Until, that was, she heard a voice to her right.
“You’re out of luck, I’m afraid.”
Despite the warning, Gemini immediately slung a hand around to snatch hold of her pulse rifle—only to find what her attacker had meant. It was gone. The strap had either snapped or been dragged loose during her fall, and now she realised where it had ended up. It was pointing right at her.
“Too bad,” said that strange voice—an accent Gemini recognised but couldn’t quite place. “You put up quite a fight.”
Gemini squinted. A silhouette stood against the watery sunlight. Nevertheless, she realised that his hood had fallen away and as he took a step to his left, finally, Gemini was able to get the measure of the kind of creature she was dealing with. It was a surprise too.
A dark elf!
Gemini had traversed pretty much most of the star system as a Sweeper, but she had only ever encountered a dark elf once before—and that when she had visited Icefall Prison in her early days at the Academy. That elf had been ravaged by time and the poisonous effects of the Terevellian northlands, but she’d never forgotten those white eyes. This one was just the same. Dead eyes. Like a rotten fish.
“You can’t kill me with that, you know,” Gemini nodded to the pulse rifle.
“Don’t be so sure,” said the dark elf, briefly examining the rifle’s settings. “Crank it up high enough and I’m fairly certain I could paralyse you for good. You’d die in just a few hours out here. Alternatively, I could simply stun you and slit your throat.” Gemini noticed the dark elf had retrieved his knife. It was jammed in his belt. “It’s a tantalising dilemma.”
“Who are you?” Gemini demanded. Her mind working frantically, trying to find some escape from the situation. Keep him talking, she thought. Get yourself into a position to rush him. Maybe get hold of the rifle or the knife.
“I’m a messenger,” the dark elf replied. “You should’ve stayed away from this place like you were warned.”
A faint frown flickered across Gemini’s face. “Warned? By whom?”
“I’m not sure that matters anymore. Not for you. Now… perhaps you’d care to use these…” Keeping the pulse rifle trained on Gemini with one hand, the dark elf grabbed hold of cable-tie hanging on his belt. He unhooked it and tossed it in the mud next to Gemini. “Make it nice and tight.”
“So you’re with the hunting party?” Gemini had already dismissed this idea, but she needed to buy as much time as possible.
“I’m a hunter, but not with the party. And you’re wasting your time. If you think keeping me talking is going to make any difference, you’re sadly mistaken.”
Gemini gritted her teeth. Damn it.
“Now quickly.” The dark elf nodded at the ties. “I have places to be.”
Reluctantly, Gemini reached out and took the cable tie, slowly looping it around her wrists. She cinched it, grimacing at the pain in her shoulder, and held out her wrists to show the elf.
“Good. Now, are there any final words you’d like to convey before we get this over with? Preferably something short and to the point.”
Gemini swallowed. This looked like it was it. Although she hardly imagined her life ending in this way.
“Well?”
Tensing, Gemini opened her mouth to speak.
And then she noticed a slithering movement behind the dark elf, and she snapped her mouth shut again.
“Alright,” said the elf. “Suit yourself…”
He angled the pulse rifle, cranking up the setting, only to be distracted by a shadow himself when it fell across Gemini’s face. But by that time, it was too late.
Gemini scrambled backwards and out of the hollow. The dark elf swung around then and shouted out in alarm as he pulled up the nose of the pulse rifle. He managed to fire off one pulse blast, which elicited a piercing screech from the huge, dripping spider-like monster that had crept out from the edge of the mire. But one of its grasping, claw-like arms immediately snatched out and grabbed its prey before he could pull the trigger again. The dark elf screamed. Those bony, finger-like claws encircled his body, crushing him so tightly he was forced to drop the pulse rifle at the water’s edge. He managed to reach for his knife, however, and, dragging it free from his belt, he immediately began stabbing desperately down at the creature’s arm in the hope it might drop him. It didn’t. And Gemini watched in horror as the dark elf was lifted toward the bubbling surface of the lake where the monster’s pale, unblinking eyes were already submerging. He shrieked again, still trying to impotently use his knife to force his release, until he was lowered into the stinking, bubbling lake, gurgling and crying for help, and the many-clawed beast disappeared with him entirely.
3
It took a long moment before Gemini had to the courage to move. There were hardly any ripples where the creature and its victim had disappeared. The black surface simply trembled with a bubbling scum.
“A Marsh Prowler,” Gemini muttered to herself. Now she remembered. They were said to inhabit many bogs like this in the Deep Forest. Opportunistic predators that had probably been watching them the whole time. Another reason to be wary. And it had saved her. At least, for now. Who knew how many more of them were lurking in the depths? So, she clambered to her feet and hastened to the water’s edge, picking up her pulse rifle. Then, knowing it would be a risk to linger, she started the long and difficult climb back up the slope and away.
TWENTY-TWO
1
They had left Skreet a bowl of sweet vegetable soup with flowers floating in it, and a cup of water with a wooden jug. The water was alright. After the sickening effects of whatever drug the eagle rider had given him to make him fall asleep, it had a soothing effect. The vegetable soup, on the other hand, was disgusting and as soon as he slurped it, he spat it out again. To alleviate his hunger, therefore, Skreet had had to rely on a couple of fat woodlice the size of his hand that had unwittingly wandered into his cell. They were enough to quell his rumbling stomach, even if they tasted a bit chalky. Not that he had any idea how long he was expected to remain in this cell. Which was an unnerving prospect. For he had never quite been in a place like this before.
He couldn’t quite put his finger on why his cell was so disquieting. It wasn’t so much that it was especially unusual in its structure, although with its bars made up of interwoven roots, and thick, knotted wooden walls it was hardly normal. Rather, it was the sounds and the smells that were so disquieting: those deep, distant rumblings and creakings, and those earthy, mealy odours, quite different to the damp, cold, mineral scents of the kinds of cells goblins often employed. For Skreet knew a lot about prisons. He had found himself in quite a few at one time or another in his youth. Usually for petty crimes: jacking viper bikes, or a spot of smuggling, or even selling elven antiques on the black market on Uturo. That was all behind him now. After he managed to obtain his pilot’s licence, he had never looked back. Especially once he had met Blake. That’s when he had finally achieved the kind of stability he craved.
Of course, goblins, by their very nature, were rather unsentimental creatures. As soon as they were old enough to walk, they were usually expelled from the family nest and expected to make their way in the world. Most ended up in the great, choking grease-worm tanning factories, or out on the lightning fields, or even the gourd plantations, refining chemical beads for the elite pleasure barges off Thirimal. That hadn’t in
terested Skreet. He had wanted to make a difference in his life. He had no desire to rot in the depths of some gimlet mine on the edge of the Karshk Mountains or suffer the chemical madness that came with working in the tanning factories. He wanted to see space, to have adventures, to do something worthwhile.
Needless to say, this was looked on by other goblin-folk as ridiculous. Why waste a life travelling into the cold reaches of space, when there was everything right there on Morgh? There wouldn’t be black spider eggs to eat on Miria, would there? Or good, strong grub juice to quaff on Terevell. Leave it to pixies or kobolds or orcs to range through the galaxy, staking their claims or making their wars. Goblins were cannier. They saw no value in leaving.
Except, Skreet saw things a lot differently. To his mind, goblin-folk had always been exploited by the more quarrelsome and belligerent races who shared the world of Morgh. The orcs were the worst of them. They had long waged war on Skreet’s home world, colonising, and enslaving, and claiming the richest lands for themselves, pushing goblin-kind into the least productive and bleakest regions. They treated most other races with disdain, were rarely challenged, and now ruled the world of Morgh with an iron fist, under a far-reaching orcish dictatorship presided over by Emperor Lorg.
It was a sad joke in a way. To most other species in the System, Lorg was generally considered a greedy if brutal fool in a long line of fools, who had all been largely unsuccessful in attempts to expand the empire. Wars with the dwarfs in the distant past, when the emperors finally managed to build space-faring ships (bolted together from rusting hulks they had pirated from unwary expeditions to the surface) had all been unsuccessful. Attempts to invade Terevell were easily repelled, although stories of what the orcs and their allies did to their captives lived long in elvish memory. And yet, for the goblins and all other lesser goblin-folk who scraped by on Morgh, they were never free of the tyranny. Unless, of course, like him, they were lucky enough to leave the tyranny behind.
And that’s precisely what Skreet had done. A rare refugee from his home planet, who had first managed to stow away on an orcish merchant vessel packed with second-hand sun stones re-energised on the dangerous lightning fields, and then to Uturo, where he had lived hand to mouth and on his wits for a few years. Skreet hadn’t minded it though. He was free of the gloom and wastefulness of his own planet, and could make his own way, even if it meant spending a few weeks in the odd cell here and there. At least, those that could hold him, for he wasn’t too bad at picking locks either.
Well, in a normal cell. Not like this place, Skreet reflected as he stared up to a spectral shaft of light, signalling the onset of dusk, dropping from a barred aperture in a high corner. This cell was entirely different.
Yeah, but at least it ain’t Icefall Prison, Skreet, is it? he reminded himself as he tried to ignore another odd groaning in the depths of the darkness beyond his bars. Which is where you’re likely to end up now, ain’t ye? Elves have no time for goblin-kind. They’ll prolly torture ye to make ye give up where the others have got to, then it’s on the first ship out to Zaam. You’ll be missing this place afore too long, Skreet. This’ll seem like a holiday, ye mark ye own words.
And he drew up his skinny legs and hugged at his knees, letting out a morose sigh.
He wondered how Blake was faring out there in the forest then. He’d have a shock when he finally returned from the hunt to find him gone. Yep. It was a bad deal all ‘round. And he had no chance to warn Blake or the others either. Which was the reason, more than the drugs the elves had given him, that Skreet was feeling so wretched. For it was the first time since he was young and looking down the barrel of a life of hard work and servitude on his home planet, Skreet realised he was entirely helpless. What’s more, there was no orcish ship he could steal away on and no lock he could pick to set himself free.
2
The hunting party followed high above the river until dusk set in, climbing up an escarpment shadowed by trees. And while the going was tough, at least they were steering clear of the forest where eerie cries could still be heard echoing in its depths. There was also far less chatter amongst the companions, which was a relief to Blake. It may have been due to the exertion, for everyone was tired by the time the sun began to set, or it was most likely due to the gradual sense that they were moving closer to the goal. Blake began to feel a familiar grimness settle over him. It was an unwelcome reminder of his old hunting days, a period of his life where he didn’t care whether he lived or died.
3
“Blake? Do you see it?”
He was shaken from his thoughts by Nyara as they came close to the top of the ridge. By now they had climbed their way high above the Shilita River, sparkling below them in the dying light. It gave a remarkable view of the Great Eastern Forest, too, spreading out to the north behind them: an endless canopy undulating into the far distance. Ahead and beyond the snaking river, the shining white peaks of the Lekeyer Mountain Range, (known also as the Shoulders of Lekeyer) beckoned. This was the gateway to Sigroell, the lands of the southern elves, presided over by King Osirian. Blake had hunted there many times, trekking for Blue King Wyrms in the Vorlap Passes and across the Doljan Crags. Until the Purges. Until he was forced to leave…
“Blake?”
He refocused, irritated. “What?”
“Do you see it?”
Nyara was pointing eastward to where they stood, just below the high ridge that would eventually begin the long ascent back down and into the Gimrill Basin.
“What am I looking for?”
“At the edge of the forest. Quite remarkable.” Without waiting for Blake to finally notice what she had been indicating, Nyara left his side and began to pick her way off the trail. She climbed lightly and quickly toward a cluster of silvery trees that clung to the higher outcroppings.
“Where in the name of the gods is the elf going now?” Uldo griped from behind.
“I don’t know.” Blake frowned. Was that a building half-hidden in the trees up there? It looked like it: a yellow-stoned ruin, perched precariously on the edge of the bluff, one of its walls spilling down the hill and the beams of its roof exposed to the elements.
“It looks like an observatory,” Maddox said as he joined Blake at the top of the rise.
“An observatory?” Uldo muttered. “Well, I’ve done enough climbing without any detours to gaze at the stars. I’m not going up there.”
“You don’t have to,” said Blake. “I’ll go.” Pulling off his pack, he slipped his rifle from its holster and began to climb up toward the trees into which Nyara had disappeared.
4
He found the elf standing at a half open doorway, vines choking the opening and gripping the woodwork. Most of one side of the building had been reclaimed by the forest with moss covering most of the tumbled stones, suckling plants, and brambles growing up the walls. Once again, in entering the trees, even at its brink, Blake was aware of that cloying presence, as if all the good will he had gained over the course of the last day or so was forgotten and he was a foreigner again, not to be trusted.
“What is this place?” Blake came to stand behind Nyara. She looked hesitant, as if she wasn’t sure whether to investigate the building or not.
“It’s a temple,” she replied quietly. “An old temple from an ancient time.”
Blake looked the building up and down. “I thought the World Tree was your god.”
“Not a god exactly. Although it is to be worshipped. For it offers us all we need. It is our mother and our father at once. The Great Provider of All Things.”
“But if this is a temple, does it mean you have priests?”
“Not any longer. All the priests are gone.”
“Why? What happened to them?”
A pause. Then Nyara said: “It was the Philosopher King—Karathus—who came up with the idea. Zerian is a great adherent to his beliefs; taken from the ancient discs found in the Broken City, in the far northern reaches of Ilmaris. Karathus feared
the priests had too much power, so he suggested that many of the priests told lies about the needs of the World Tree, and that they corrupted the land for their own ends, swaying the people against him. So, he had his soldiers root them out and bring them to the World Tree for judgement. They were tried as false prophets and sentenced to burn by dragon fire.”
“Christ…”
Nyara looked around again, her brow furrowed. “That name. I’ve heard you say that before. Is that your god?”
“One of them. Mostly it’s just a habit. Many people lost a lot of religion when we opened the Thresholds. There’s some, though, who keep up appearances, back on Earth. Faithful despite the desert they live in.”
“But not you?”
“Me and God had something of a falling out a while back. But who knows? We might become friends again in time.” Blake regarded the carvings of the World Tree in the doors, now silvered by the elements. “You know, we persecuted priests on Earth as well. Burned them just like you.”
“By dragon fire?”
“No dragons on earth, remember?”
“Oh. Of course.”
“But that was a very long time ago now.” Blake looked across to Nyara. “So were they?”
“Were they what?”
“False prophets?”
A ghost of a smile touched Nyara’s face. “They were peaceful, and they loved Terevell and all the World Tree told them. They had the Wiles of the Wood, as we call it. Bewitchery that spoke to all the World Tree had made. Or so my mother told me.” Nyara’s smile faded. “Now, much of that knowledge has been lost. And there is only Crosas, Zerian’s Elder Wizard who remains. Next to the High King, he is perhaps the most powerful elf on Terevell. But he is kept on a short leash. Zerian, like Karathus, fears those with the power to manipulate the Tree. He believes it is like a weed that might strangle him in the night. So he cuts the weed back as often as he can.”
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