by Simon Kewin
“All good points, Fer, all good points. OK, cool. I'm in. But this spooky thing here, can we trust it? How do we know it won't cast us into outer darkness when we unleash it?”
“It can't. All it can do is open a door for us.”
“And since you're obviously leaving I'd have to share this place with it if I stayed, yes?”
“Yes.”
“Then what are we waiting for? We've gotta get out of this place.”
Fer faced the aethernal.
Tell it we accept, she said to the archaeon. Tell it we wish to travel on to the other world. Ran and Johnny are to go through the door first. I will then free it and follow them.
Another long, slow conversation. She began to fear it had changed its mind, or wanted more from them. But then the archaeon spoke.
It understands. It will open the doorway now.
A circle of blackness appeared in the air near to the ruined oak tree. The aethernal appeared to expend no effort its creation.
Without a word, Ran strode toward it. Johnny followed, shouting to Ran to put his sword away before they reached the other world. Ran ignored him and, stepping into the disc, disappeared. Johnny turned, shrugged and followed.
Fer walked backward until she stood by the doorway. She watched the aethernal for a moment longer, trying to sense its next move, whether it had some ulterior motive. But she could feel nothing. Perhaps it was even a mistake to think of it in such terms. This was not a person but a being of infinite voids, its mind unfathomable. Where would it have learned duplicity?
Still, she was uneasy at what she had done. She thought about stepping through the doorway without unleashing the creature. Was it good to do the wrong thing for the right reasons? Just now, she had no time to consider the dilemma.
She said the words that unsealed the summoning circle.
The voracious longing in the aethernal swelled. The creature grew in size rapidly, expanding to fill the clearing, the grey mists of its body billowing toward her. How long had it been out here, craving sensation? It was as if it intended to consume the entire Tanglewood and everything within it.
With a shudder, Fer followed Ran and Johnny into the other world.
18. Witch-Marks
Manchester, England
Fer stepped into a large, dimly lit room. It resembled a cave but was clearly unnatural, the stones of its walls cut into squares. Johnny walked beside her. In front of them, Ran stood within a ring of bodies. Each of the dead was dressed in strange, black armour. Sword wounds punctured each of them: thin, clean cuts like little mouths dribbling blood.
“Only four,” said Ran. “I expected more.” He wiped his blade clean on one of the bodies. He wasn't even out of breath.
“More will come now,” said Johnny. “Count on it. They aren't gonna mess around.”
“Are these creatures magical, then?” asked Fer. “Would they have summoned their comrades before they died?” Under their armour they looked like normal people. Nearest to her, the lower face of a woman was visible beneath her helmet, her lip bleeding where she'd bitten it.
“No need,” said Johnny. He pointed at the ceiling. “CCTV. They'll already be on their way.”
“I don't understand,” said Fer.
“No time to explain. Just trust me, OK? We have to leave right now.”
Fer cast her gaze around, trying to decide what to do. Books littered the floor: books wrenched apart and set on fire. Were the remains of the Grimoire among them? She doubted it. Scorch marks stained the walls. There was death here, recent death, but she couldn't tell who or what had died. It was hard to concentrate. Distant but incessant, the buzz of a great many people filled her mind. How big was this city?
“We must find steps to the surface,” she said.
“Or a lift?” said Johnny.
“A lift?”
Johnny sighed. “Never mind. Good job I'm here to translate for you. Come on, the sign says the exit is this way.” He pointed to a green square on the wall that showed someone walking toward a doorway.
“They will come that way,” said Ran.
“OK, so zap us up to street-level with magic,” said Johnny. “Use some of those weird words and spirit us outta here.”
They both looked at her. Was this how some people became leaders and some followers? Was this what created covens and priests and rulers? To Islagray and then, eventually, to Angere and the Witch King? The trivial matter of one person making the decisions, other people becoming used to following them? The whole thing made her uncomfortable; she had no desire to lead just as she had no desire to be led. But she could see no alternative.
“You've spent too much time in the north with those mancers,” she said.
He looked genuinely disappointed. “You mean you can't do it?”
She ignored him and walked over to the green sign. There were more marks on the wall below it. They'd moved, she was sure of it, but when she looked directly at them they weren't there. She tilted her head. She saw them again, a flick of movement in the corner of her eye. She could discern four or five lines drawn in a great hurry. They suggested a hare running at full speed across a field, all ears and powerful haunches. It was stylised, almost like runes: the mere idea of a hare. But there were words too, hard for the ear to catch.
It was a witch-mark, no doubt about it. She breathed deeply to relax, touching the wall and coaxing the marks to life. The leaping hare became clearer, bucking and running away from the exit. She thought she could understand the voice, too. The accent was strange, a speaker not used to the language, but there was a single word there, repeated several times. Follow, it said. Follow, follow.
Could the undain have crafted such a thing? She doubted it. This was too weak and insignificant a piece of magic. It would work death and fire, not harmless charms. It probably wouldn't even have noticed the mark. The undain lost much by gaining their terrible power.
“This way,” she said.
“That way?” said Johnny. “Why that way?”
“The weird words told me,” she called over her shoulder.
Ran said nothing, but overtook her to lead the way, sword held forward, glancing warily from side-to-side.
At a crossroads ahead there was another mark. Her senses were settling down. She made out the second mark quite clearly, even from a distance. This one was rougher, drawn in more of a hurry, as if the witch who wrote it were being chased. Who could it have been? Jaiin? Had she fled with the book?
“This way,” she said, not stopping to allow any discussion. Johnny sighed, muttering something about women. Ran, as ever, said nothing.
As they walked, she felt the archaeon drift into her thoughts. Urgency, even anger, was clear in its voice.
What are you doing? The books! Leave me here in the books!
She felt its desperation to explore the universe of new worlds the library represented. In its desperation it appeared to have forgotten its arrogance.
Can't you see? said Fer, angry. She had enough other things to worry about. Can't you see what has happened to your books?
See little witch? Of course I can't see. Didn't Hellen explain it to you? I don't live in your dull little world. I exist in a world of ideas, not things. Mere pieces of paper do not concern me.
But you can talk to me. Can't you read in my mind what has happened?
A little. I am out of practice with people. I can see … shreds of paper. Mountains of them. It is hard to make out through your fear and worry. But I do understand that you are leaving.
The books here have been destroyed, she said, more kindly. She hadn't thought about the loss it would represent to the bookwyrm. Haughty as it was she should be more considerate. Torn to shreds and burned. The thoughts held in them have gone. I'm sorry.
Then let us find another part of the library.
No. We must escape now or everything will be lost. Whatever happens if they capture us, it won't involve a large book collection.
But you promised me
little witch! New books; new ideas uncounted!
And I'll keep my promise. But there is no time now. When we are safe we will talk again.
Witches' promises. When were they ever to be trusted? Hellen Meggenwar taught you well.
It withdrew from her mind, full of burning indignation. She nearly shouted, raged at the unfairness of its accusations. What was she supposed to do? How was any of it her fault? Instead she made herself put the creature out of her mind. They had more pressing problems.
They came to a metal grille in the ground. The nearest mark showed they should go that way. But a great padlock held it fast to the ground. Whoever had chased the witch down here had made sure she couldn't come back up.
“Can you open this?” she said to Ran.
“I could help too, you know,” said Johnny.
She sighed to herself. “Of course. Can anyone think of a way of opening it? We have to go this way.”
Ran tried to lever up the grille with the pommel of his sword but the padlock held. Johnny took out a small set of knives from a pocket, all cleverly folded together for carrying, and tried to saw through one of the clasps.
“That will take too long,” said Fer. “They're coming for us, from above.” She could feel them, a large number of them, all moving together. “They are travelling quickly; they must be in this lift you mentioned.”
“Then our only hope is some magic after all,” said Johnny. Ran dropped the instrument-case he carried and walked a short way down the corridor to protect them if attack came. He held his sword forward, ready to strike.
“Then I'll see what I can do,” said Fer.
She kneeled down at the grille, looking for a weak point, some way to crack the metal or the stone surrounding it. The hinges opposite the lock were a little rusty; she might be able to do something with those.
She closed her eyes, steeling herself against the pain. She reached for the burning flame within her. This was how she visualised her magical power. Sometimes it raged like a pyre in a gale, sometimes it flickered like a candle. Either way, it could burn her badly if she wasn't careful.
She began to work on the hinges. She tried to spread the rust by drawing on the dampness in the surrounding stone and pushing it into veins of weakness within the metal. A sharp stitch shot through her side, hot as if someone had pressed a brand to her. She tried to hold her body so it didn't tug too much and pressed on. She had no time for subtlety.
Soon one of the hinges snapped. Metal flaked off like tiny autumn leaves. She told Johnny to finish the job of breaking it while she set to work on the other. Distantly, she heard bangs and clangs. The sound of soldiers arriving.
She had two stitches now, one on each side. They spread a band of scalding pain across her lower back. She gritted her teeth and continued. This was such a small piece of craft. She hated being so weak, so useless. She refused to fail.
In a few more moments, she was spent, gasping for air as she kneeled on the floor next to the grille. It would have to do.
“Ran!” she called. “It will break now!”
The dragonrider hustled to her side and levered the trapdoor again with his sword. With a crisp clang it came free. The padlock stopped it from opening fully, but there was enough of a gap for them to squeeze through.
“You first,” she said to Johnny.
He grinned, then lowered himself through the gap.
“There's a ladder,” he said. “I can feel it with my feet. And it's dark.”
“Go down,” said Fer, trying not to breathe too heavily against the pains in her back. “I will follow and work a light.”
After the burning heat of the magic she welcomed the cold metal of the rungs on her hands. She descended as quickly as she could, each step pulling at her sides. Ran came last. He waited until she and Johnny were some way down the ladder then slid through after them. Footsteps toward them. They had only moments.
She lit a small werelight, pale and wavering, and sent it floating upward to the grille. The light was so dim it was hard to see much, the shadows it cast jumping around. She tried to concentrate on the light, keep it steady. She could see the red stone of the walls and the ironwork of the grille above Ran's head as he descended.
“Ran, your sword. Use it to hold the grille,” she called, her voice echoing through the shaft.
Ran pulled the grille into place over his head. An iron hoop on the underside fitted through a latch attached to the wall. He wedged the quillion of his sword - the outstretched neck and roaring head of a dragon - through the hoop, locking the grille into place.
Booms reverberated through the air as the soldiers above tried to force their way after them. They would get through sooner or later. Fer frowned in the darkness as they climbed down the shaft. They said a dragonrider's sword took a year and a day to craft. Yet on an instruction from her he had given it up. She would have felt better if he'd objected.
They stood together at the bottom for a few moments. She kept the tiny werelight bobbing around them. It showed a round, stone tunnel leading into the darkness, a trickle of icy water flowing down it. The air smelled foul.
“I'll lead the way,” she said. She had to duck in the confined space as she walked. In truth, she didn't really need the flame. She sensed the line of witch-marks on the wall ahead like a string of lights. She didn't even need to stop as she came to each one. Follow, they said again and again. Follow! Follow!
Before too long, and with no further sounds of pursuit, they reached a metal grid. The marks told her this was the way out. Fer crouched in a low tunnel, square rather than round. Sounds echoed from the surface: great rumbling and booming noises. What was above their heads? What terrible creatures walked the streets of this place?
The grid was heavy as she set her shoulders against it and heaved. It budged a little. Ran, sidling awkwardly, came to help and they lifted together. The grid hinged around and onto the ground with a dull clang.
The three of them climbed into the fresh air of the city. It was late afternoon or early evening, warm still, with a light but persistent rain making every surface gleam. Late summer, she thought, slightly behind the turn of the seasons in Andar. Although it was difficult to be sure; she could feel little tree or animal-life.
She saw no terrible monsters. But there were people: many people. A few glanced over as Fer, Ran and Johnny hauled themselves up from the darkness of the shallow tunnel. But no one said anything or seemed particularly surprised.
The city around them rose huge into the sky. Hellen had said it was by no means the biggest city in this world, but it looked vast to Fer. Great towers reached upward, all stone and glass, crowding around them like walls. She'd never been as far up the An as Guilden, although she'd heard many stories. But this city was built on a different scale.
Metal machines moved around on wheels. None of the people seemed alarmed. Instead they sauntered off and on as the machines stopped. The people looked, apart from their unusual clothes, like people from Andar. Yet, she had to remind herself, Angere was here. No great river kept the undain at bay. She still couldn't understand how such a thing was possible.
Sheets of paper blew around their feet, sticking to the stone floor where they landed. The sheets were large, white and covered in black writing and pictures.
Johnny snagged one. “It's the Manchester Evening News. Hey, says here there was a terrorist incident at the library yesterday. Police called, bombs suspected. Interesting.”
Fer examined the words but they meant nothing to her, of course. She thought about telling the archaeon what they'd found, but decided against it. She had promised it a great library and it might be more than a little upset if she offered it this scrap of paper.
“What's interesting?” she asked.
“It also says they're looking for some people who were there. A woman and a girl. What do you think? Could they be with us?”
“Maybe.” She thought for a moment, trying to decide what to do. “I don't understand everythin
g you say, but if they are being chased these two must have something Angere needs. The book, perhaps. Maybe there is hope yet.”
She spotted one final witch-mark, bigger, made in less of a hurry, drawn on the nearest wall among some colourful writing. She'd felt its presence as soon as they'd emerged from the tunnels. She stepped up to the wall, a great stretch of smooth, brown-grey stone that towered above them. She touched the mark, stroking it, coaxing it into life. This one didn't move but there were several words there. It depicted some sort of scuttling creature, an insect or reptile perhaps. Words coiled around the line of its body. The Lizard King, she heard. And then, The Golden Palace. The sign faded as she caught the words.
“Johnny,” she said, turning away from the wall. “Do you know who the Lizard King might be? In a Golden Palace?”
“Huh? Why?”
“It's where we have to go.”
“You're sure?”
“You'll have to trust me.”
“OK, well, things may have changed since I was last here, but the Golden Palace I know. We need to get to Rusholme.”
“Is that far?”
“An hour's walk, max. Or we could take a bus,” said Johnny, indicating one of the large wheeled machines. “Be there in a few minutes, then.”
“Let's walk,” she said.
“Can we spare the time?” asked Ran.
“A walk will help me find my feet.” She didn't say it, but she was afraid of entering one of the rumbling, thrumming machines. There was something alarming in the way they waited, doors open like jaws.
Johnny shrugged and set off. A silent line of people stood blocking his way, presumably waiting for one of the machines. Johnny pushed through them, then turned to call back.
“Come on then! I could do with a curry.”
The walk took over an hour. Fer moved slowly, the burning pains in her body taking time to subside. She hated being so weak. Still, it felt good to be outside, even though there was so much stone and metal, so little green. Occasional trees in the hard path along which they walked looked stranded and forlorn. Once she saw a wood by the side of the road, dark and quiet, into which she longed to walk.
