by Andy Roberts
The driver took a nut from his coat pocket and hit the hard shell smartly on the metal frame of his seat. ‘Where?’ he asked picking at the broken pieces with a pair of dirty thumbnails.
Doss wet his lips and checked over both shoulders. ‘Parondor Keep.’ This time his voice came only a little louder. ‘A double fare,’ he added as enticement. The driver blew on his cold hands and declined immediately. ‘I won’t ask a second time,’ Doss warned with a tone as sharp as the blade held at the man’s groin.
The driver moved aside and made room. ‘I’ll be turning back if nightfall beats us.’ The custodian settled onto the squeaking seat and didn’t answer. There simply wasn’t a need.
The open-carriage was without frills and rattled like an old lock as it travelled along the polished cobbles. Little more than a wooden sub-frame set upon two stout axles and four wheels, it hit every jagged pothole and dirty puddle it could find—Main Street doing all it could to shake the thing to pieces before it reached Jerrals’ Bridge. The driver gave Doss a furtive look and slapped at the draught horse, clucking for the animal to make haste while the last hour of daylight remained. Doss clutched the book tightly as they passed beneath the Bell of Randor, horse and carriage racing forth onto the windswept bridge. The custodian gripped at the metal side-rail with his other hand, white knuckled as he fought against a hard fall to the unforgiving road.
Once beyond the city limits, the carriage swung right, two of its wheels spinning freely in midair as it cornered onto the little-used side-road leading to the mountain track. The driver fought heroically to regain control, his vehicle slewing about beneath him as though it were on ice.
‘Are you trying to kill us?’ Doss shouted above the clatter of shod hooves and loose waggon parts. He gave the man a serious look.
The driver stood on the narrow foot-board, extracting every last drop of horse-power from the tiring nag. ‘I’m going nowhere near that place after dark.’ He watched the distant sky and the hills that were just beneath it. There had been talk recently of wind-riders—demons cloaked in orange silk—soldiers of the Dragon Lord. He’d never set eyes on them himself and wasn’t entirely convinced that they were anything other than folklore. He gave the reins some slack and turned his head to say something that he didn’t quite manage. Doss raised the underside of his boot and pushed, the driver crying out in surprise, grabbing at anything he could to stop his fall. He landed between horse and carriage, a wayward hoof shattering his jaw instantly. His broken body thudded against the underside of the vehicle and reappeared again at the rear posed most peculiarly. Elba Doss grabbed the flailing reins and belly-laughed as he lowered himself onto the empty seat.
Philly gripped her abdomen and vomited for the third time in five minutes, then cleared her throat and belched.
‘Can’t you make her drink more of that healin’ juice?’
Tamulan shook his head. ‘She has to sweat it out.’
Philly straightened and excused herself. ‘I’ll have you know that I don’t sweat.’ The innkeeper rolled his eyes.
‘What’s the shortest route home?’ Tamulan asked speaking over them. ‘One that wouldn’t involve using a road?’
‘He wouldn’t?’ Griff said with a firm tug of his beard. ‘Not the forest of Tal-Ghundi?’
The driver lay motionless, his eyes wide and questioning as the carriage made off without him. He tried to move, attempted to get up and run when he saw the first of them crawl out of the ditch. His head shook from side to side but the rest of his body refused to move a muscle. The stench of human excrement was strong in the air—his excrement—urine too. He screamed as they climbed upon him, his broken body unable to offer any other form of resistance against the hungry creatures. He used the back of his head to dig at the road and pull away from them but the gravel was as sharp as a crown of thorns that bit him hard. The smell of blood drew more of them from the ditch, a curious sound of metallic clicking brought with them. He closed his eyes and waited for it to begin. But the creatures hadn’t waited for polite invitation, they chewed at his feet, tore his flesh open and crunched on splintering bone. He tried to ignore the terrible sounds and searched out one final chorus of bird-song. A ripping sound had the driver lift his head and open his eyes. He wasn’t prepared for what he saw—no man could ever be. One of the creatures emerged from a gaping hole in his abdomen, bloodied and dragging with it a length of small bowel. He let his head fall to one side and stayed a short while longer—there was no other option. He saw them disappear into the ditch, pulling on his entrails like the fishermen had their nets. Above him, a length of orange silk floated on the breeze, an odd splash of colour set against such a harsh backdrop. The driver tried to blink … but found that he couldn’t.
Chapter
— 11 —
Brae pulled himself closer to the storm drain, reached and heaved on its heavy grille. The metal felt rough and cold. But metal was his life, he and Watty working it almost every day. They could get it to do most things they wanted, though the drain refused steadfastly to relinquish its tight grip on the ground. He saw the overturned pie-cart, its pastries trodden flat, spiced wine staining the clay like the lifeblood of Prince Robut of Thresk. Several of the pie-man’s tools remained attached to hooks on the side of the cart, while others had been taken and used as makeshift weapons in the violent melee. Brae found what he was looking for: a chisel-like scraper that was flat and wide-bodied. The pie-man swiped at him with a heavy poker, missed and caught the knee of a crazed-looking man, who then set about exacting a vicious revenge. Brae took his opportunity as briskly he had the scraper, wedging the tool into the narrow gap between the grille and its surrounding frame. He prised and saw it relent, just a fraction but enough to offer the slightest glimmer of hope. A boot caught his wrist, the scraper tossed several yards ahead, though thankfully still in sight. He stretched and grasped at its cold handle, gripped it tight and tried again. The grille gave just enough for him to slip his fingers under and pull it away from its surround. He dropped into the cramped ante-chamber and pulled the cover back into place beneath a barrage of stamping feet. His reading had told of a long-forgotten escape route from the city, one commissioned by the nobles of yesteryear and built during an age of treachery and treason. The dirty effluent hadn’t read as widely as the young scholar and dog-legged its way in ignorance before making an escape through a narrow pipe that dripped cold water. The lead conduit was no wider than a man’s forearm and consequently of no use to him whatsoever. Brae crouched and took the scraper to the clay wall, stabbing at it with a level of effort that would have caught the eye of many a lanista.
The outdoor markets and fine, civic buildings provided a visual demarcation line between the city’s main districts. The south was the more prosperous of the two, benefiting from sea trade, tourism and the influx of wealthy retirees. The north, home to students and lower paid workers—those who swept the streets, worked the bars and fronted the stores. But from whichever side of the line they came, there was a sudden urgency in people’s egress home. Night-dwellers had not been common in the city since the introduction of the greensleeves more than a decade previously, the creatures keeping mostly to the other side of the boundary wall. Whores, thieves and murderers were the more predictable visitors to the bustling metropolis, the women working the taverns in the dockland area, while the thieves preferred the cover and surprise of an empty doorway. The murderers didn’t own a spot as such and perfected their craft wherever chance presented itself—evil prospering wherever opportunity existed.
‘Gendrick’s men?’ Griff saw two figures that were all but hidden in shadows thrown by the overhead street lamps. The yellowed, glass domes painted soft halos against the sudden onset of darkness—an ordered queue of saintly beings watching dutifully over the vulnerable streets of Randor.
Tamulan assessed the potential danger and shook his head almost immediately. ‘Thieves at worst.’ He trod light and relaxed his throwing arm as one of the men stepped ou
t into the road to make room for what he presumably believed to be a trio of unsuspecting tourists. Both men exaggerated their feigned lack of intent, each making the same error of judgement. With only an arm’s-length of time remaining, Tamulan dropped to a rotating squat position and felled the nearest would-be attacker with an outstretched leg.
The man on the road held his empty hands at shoulder height. ‘On our way,’ he said in an accent that was unfamiliar to the druid. Griff righted himself and watched them make off into the cold night.
‘Good looking and a badass to-boot,’ Philly said between bouts of cramping pain. ‘Two heroes in one day,’ she added sarcastically. ‘Things must be looking up.’
The book was right, Brae knew that it would be. He peered into the dark void, hoping that no-one would notice the mound of broken earth and climb down after him. He squeezed through the narrow hole in the clay wall, a cold draught blowing along the tunnel towards him like the spirits of long-dead fighters racing to the ring for one final contest. He buttoned his collar and faded like a ghost into the impenetrable gloom.
There were no stout props or construction materials to reassure him that the tunnel was supported by anything more substantial than its own self-confidence. Fifty steps in and the only sound came from the pounding of his heartbeat. After a thousand steps, he gave up counting altogether. One thousand, five thousand, what did it matter? Going back wasn’t an option. The custodian was waiting for him, though Brae wasn’t entirely sure why. His eyes refused to grow accustomed to the lack of light and his toe caught on a stone that rose from the ground like a hand from a grave. He reached for the floor and felt more just like it—rows of them jutting like broken teeth. His mind played cruel tricks and presented its own visual imagery. He’d been swallowed and was now making his way along the alimentary canal of a vicious sea creature. He’d never previously been swallowed by anything but decided that if he had, this is exactly how it would be.
‘You there.’ The greensleeve stepped from the empty market, his lantern hanging limply from one hand, lightning-staff gripped tight in the other. They stopped, though technically hadn’t yet been instructed to do so. The guard was slight in stature but quick with questions. ‘What’s your business here?’ he asked.
‘Takin’ my daughter back to Oxdon,’ the innkeeper explained. ‘Been celebratin’ the festival early, so she has.'
Philly swayed on her feet. Tamulan gripped her between the shoulder blades, warning her to stay quiet. ‘Will you stop that,’ she told him, and managed to wriggle free.
Griff glared at the girl. ‘Gets her big gob from her mother.’
Philly’s eyes screwed shut as the cramps came again and this time she vomited into the gutter. ‘Seafood doesn’t agree with me,’ she offered by way of an apology.
The guard’s demeanour changed in an instant. ‘You,’ he said turning to face the druid. ‘Lower your hood.’
Brae tried the thumb-wheel of his igniter one last time. Sparks but no flame—useless in his current predicament. He pocketed the birthday gift and made a mental note to refill it when he got home. If he got home. He longed for the warmth and company of a song around a roaring log fire, feeding his ale to Madoc’s dog when Griff wasn’t watching. ‘Fire.’ He shouted the word before he had time to stop himself. He rubbed his hands together, willing them to produce a glowing ember just like the one Tamulan had. He blew and rubbed again, then laid his palms open. Nothing. So he couldn’t conjure flame. ‘Wind, not fire it is then,’ he whispered.
It had all begun just a month previously, and then only after finding the amulet at the greystones. That night when he’d gone to bed, a shadow waited at the end of the landing—one that had no reason for being there. He’d pushed past without excusing himself and entered his room—checked again and found that it had gone. The next night, it caressed his cheeks with its icy-cold fingers. He’d brushed it away and hadn’t dared tell anyone. Next were the dreams—dark and disturbed—a voice telling him of a book that was to be found on the windowsill of the city library. He wasn’t to take it home under any circumstances and so copied the unfamiliar language in scrawls of black lead on folded parchment. He’d then sat alone in his room and read aloud, unknowing of the terrible chain of events he was setting in motion. His window rattled, their drapes shifting about in an eccentric dance. The parchment was snatched from his grasp and a new voice spoke to him, one that whispered in riddles and made promises he knew couldn’t be kept. He turned it away and told it never to return. He’d summoned the wind: had read of such things. But how could that be?
Brae knew from his reading that the tunnel took him north-west and beneath the outer wall. After that, it was the forest of Tal-Ghundi—a place he’d never dared enter by night. People disappeared in the forest, most never to be seen or heard from again. Those who survived to tell the tale spoke of beyroths: formless creatures that merged with their environment and hunted in packs of up to a dozen. They eviscerated their victims and liked nothing more than to feed on spilt bowel contents. He checked the darkness behind him one last time, and then, was gone.
‘If he dies, we hang,’ Griff said. ‘Hang us anyway, no doubt.’ After dealing with the inquisitive guard they’d hurried past the civic buildings and made their way north, climbing on a road that meandered through the student village.
‘He’ll survive.’ The druid raised a hand. ‘The boy went this way.’ He didn’t offer an explanation as to how it was he knew and crossed the road without waiting to see if they followed.
‘I just love his accent,’ Philly said, withdrawal bringing with it frequent episodes of delirium that fluctuated with only brief periods of lucidity. She looped her arm through Griff’s and pulled him close. The innkeeper freed himself from her clutches and concentrated his efforts on the steepening incline. ‘It leads to a dead-end,’ she called. ‘The boundary wall is higher than the trees.’
‘Then we’ll go over it.’ Tamulan opened his cloak to reveal a coil of oily rope he’d taken from the harbour-master’s hut.
Griff rocked on his crutch. ‘Are you mad?’
‘Ssh,’ Philly warned as they passed the hillside cemetery. ‘Don’t want you waking the neighbours.’ She made claws with her hands and growled like a wildcat. The sweaty delirium had her tight by the throat and refused to let go without a good fight. She shook herself free of its clutches, shoved her hands in her pockets and spat another mouthful of bile into the middle of the road.
‘There has to be another way?’ Griff insisted.
Tamulan shook his head. ‘Can’t imagine we’d get very far using Jerrals’ Bridge.’
Brae slowed his pace as the way ahead funnelled ever-narrower, the rough walls of the tunnel tearing at the aged material of his cloak. He unbuttoned it and let it slip to the floor, cursing himself instantly for not having removed the pie-man’s scraper beforehand. He felt like a stopper in a bottle, trapped by a presence that was doing its utmost to not let him leave. He tried to crouch and pick it up but the walls gripped his shoulders and insisted that he remain upright. He reached behind him with the toe of his boot and dragged the soft material across the dirty floor. He raised his leg slowly and wedged the cloak between boot and wall, swearing loudly when it fell to the floor, then once more, just because it made him feel better. He held his breath and lifted his foot a second time, reaching carefully with the tips of his fingers, knowing that he risked spilling the scraper from the pocket at any moment. He patted his way until he could feel it and grabbed quickly before it broke free. He wasted not a second to congratulate himself, the fingers of claustrophobia trailing their way up his spine. He dug into the earth, dirt not clay meant that he had at last passed beyond the city boundary and was now presumably on the edge of the forest. Each step forward had him crouch that little bit more, grit raining down on him, finding its way under his shirt collar and beyond. Griff had told him once that dirt was worm-shit. Brae wasn’t sure if that was strictly true but spat it out all the same. He felt a breat
h of air and smelled wet pine: heard the rustling of trees and the hoot of an owl. He clawed at the hole and skinned more fingers—pushed his head through the opening and sucked in deep lungfuls of fresh air. He was free of the city, free of the custodian. He climbed out the tunnel, stood and arched his aching back. It was now the small matter of surviving the forest of Tal-Ghundi.
Chapter
— 12 —
The smoky veil cleared beneath the craquelure glaze to reveal an image of a city carriage climbing the narrow road towards Parondor Keep. The vehicle kept tight to the rock face, picking its way with a mounting level of unsurety, swaying violently as it caught each and every wayward stone. Vaspar Gendrick looked away momentarily and with an elaborate flourish, scratched his signature on the foot of the waiting document. He stoppered the porcelain inkwell and cleaned the nib of his goose quill as he waited for the silky sheen of the ink to dry a dull matte. He rolled the sheet of parchment carefully and applied a finger of red wax to a hot flame. The wax smoked and then dripped like spilt blood, drying hard beneath the pressed face of his signet ring. The document contained his all-important signature and was ready at last to be delivered to the appropriate department of the Senate House.
Gendrick returned his attention to the orbrilt and gave the glass globe a place on his desk that was out of reach of the bright sweep of his lantern. ‘Closer,’ he told it. The orbrilt zoomed. The carriage was now more than halfway up the mountain track, Elba Doss at the reins. ‘Alone?’ Gendrick whispered, his voice edged with irritation. ‘Next.’ The orbrilt switched to a grainy image of a man hiding in the shadows of the fighter’s wash area. The lanista held a short, stabbing sword in readiness for whoever came for him, his jewellery glinting in what little light existed, giving him away instantly to the very first person who entered. Belb lunged as the guard charged his lightning-staff, slicing effortlessly through the muscles and tendons of the man’s forearm. Another greensleeve appeared as the lanista dispatched the first with an upward stab beneath the ribs. The second guard had prepared his weapon before entering the washroom and discharged it without hesitation. Belb fell to the ground, chewing on his tongue and convulsing under the painful influence of white-energy. Two more guards entered and applied the pincers of their lightning-staffs to the lanista’s ankles, using them as shackles for the transfer to the city jail.
