by C F Welburn
“Ratkins must not be harmed!” he snapped.
“Ratkins?”
“Aye. Best rat catcher I’ve had. Saved me no end of strife with weevils too. Been here four years and is more welcome than you’ll ever be. Have your coin and be on your way if you’re not capable of one eve’s coexistence.” Balagir looked back to the canine-sized arachnid and then to the door, where the distant baying seemed to encircle them.
“Now that I’ve had a moment to come to terms with him, Ratkins appears to be every bit the ideal bedfellow.”
“Good. Now, no fires, and be gone by dawn. This is a working farm if you hadn’t noticed. No room for idle hands.” With that he was gone, swift as an arrow, light as a feather across the yard. Balagir shook his head at the man’s agility, then bolted the door behind him.
He sank down onto the soft straw, but in spite of the long day, sleep would not come. He held the star-wand aloft, and his eyes were fixed on that dark bundle up in the rafters; whose eight, in turn, regarded him.
Eventually the wand drooped from his fingers, and he slept a fitful, nightmarish sleep. At some point he woke to a tugging at his leg, a giant shape scuttling over his midriff and away past his head. He thrashed about until his hand found the wand and brought the barn into dazzling view. The spider was back in its corner, entwining a lifeless rat in its web. His heart slowed, and he felt the glistening of sweat at his brow.
Then he noticed his boots were gone. He looked back to the web to recognise the entwined leather rats.
“I’m disappointed in you, Ratkins.” Ratkins stared and blinked eight times.
Just then, Balagir’s eyes were drawn to another pair, and he saw that the black bundles were not rats at all, but stolen boots, one pair of which shimmered dully on the soles.
“Ratkins,” he called softly, in an attempt to coax the creature down so that he might reach the boots. The boot thief did not move. He stood and crossed the room, and the spider hunched back until only its teeth and eyes peered from the web’s funnel. “Ratkins,” he beckoned again, but still the arachnid would not obey. Annoyed, he positioned a bale to pluck at the wrapped boots with the tip of his dagger. He picked away at threads as thick as fingers until they fell loose. They weren’t the only thing that fell. Without warning, Ratkins dropped upon him, brandishing long, glistening fangs. He fell backwards from the bale, his blade pointed upwards as he hit the floor. It slid through Ratkins’ belly with the popping of crisp carapace. The spider hissed and recoiled; the blade, wedged into its hilt, went with it. It scurried back to its web, which began to grow dark with blood as it frothed and hissed. His frustration at losing his blade was assuaged as he examined the boots. They were well crafted; the small talismans he had seen shimmering had been welded expertly into each sole. They fit perfectly, but he could discern no other irregularity.
He was about to address the issue of his missing blade when a shout from across the yard caught his attention. Sliding the bar back, he peered across the yard. Farmer Gristle stood by his door, beckoning frantically. Concerned at his urgency, Balagir rushed out across the broken glass and nails into the centre of the yard. The farmer, aghast at Balagir’s ease of movement, blinked at the boots which had protected him from the trap. With a roar, he leapt almost as high as the farmhouse’s eaves and descended upon the startled ashen with unexpected wrath. Balagir barely evaded the sickle that struck the earth. Gristle was irate. His hoard had been plundered, and sounds of Ratkins’ distress came clearly from the dark barn.
Torn between revenge and saving the spider, he hesitated, spat a foul curse, and sped towards the barn. Bereft of blade, Balagir took off into the night before the farmer realised poor Ratkins had spun his last. Even when the farm was out of sight, he continued to run, recalling the potency of the farmer’s boots. To what unfortunate traveller they had once belonged and why his own failed to show any special ability were questions for another time; for now he ran until the air burned his lungs and his mouth tasted of iron.
Dawn found him exhausted, trudging eastwards with the great hills looming over him as though he were lost in the folds of a rumpled blanket. Three days to Wormford, one traveller had told him the first day. The idea of spending another night on the road was distressing. It seemed that one horror followed another. What awaited him around each bend promised to be more terrible than the last. He thought of Ginike and understood why the ashen were so keen to feed off one another. Considering what he had seen since waking at Warinkel, he grimly concluded that reaching Wormford would not be a miraculous solution to all of his problems.
It was about midday when he heard hooves on the road behind him. The hills were so sparse he had no cover in which to hide. Exposed and defenceless, he gathered several large stones and wandered up the hill to have the advantage of height. If it were Finster, he would at least put up a fight.
He recognised the rider as soon as he rounded the bend, but it was Ginike not Finster that galloped into view with a spare horse in tow. Curiously, Balagir descended the slope, though he did not loose the stones coiled in his palms.
“Need a horse?” Ginike called up cheerfully. His face was all the more hideous for the light of day, and his dark eyes swam with a milky film.
“Not from you,” Balagir answered and continued walking. The cursed man trotted behind.
“I see you’ve acquired some new boots. May I?”
“You may not.”
“As you will. I assume you’re not capable of using them, and still in need of a mount.” Balagir continued in silence. “Do you know through which hills you walk? Soaksoil hills, that’s which. You know, so much blood soaked through these hills that the worms drank deeply. It’s said they gained an insatiable thirst for the stuff. Can smell it on the surface. If you intend to spend the night out here, be good enough not to waste such fine boots.”
“You’re spoiling my walk,” Balagir said, shunning the bait.
“Come now, you know as well as I that Finster will not be bringing your horse. And as such, I find myself in a quandary.”
“The world is a quandary.”
“You see, Finster and I were indebted one to the other. Since you saved me the trouble, I am liberated of it. But Finster’s absence leaves me lacking. A lack you might wish to consider resolving, for this here horse.” Balagir looked the mount over, a chestnut mare, no doubt pilfered. Then he looked at the hills and thought of what slithered beneath them. The sun was already scraping the horizon.
“I see no harm in hearing your proposal,” he said offhandedly. “But speak candidly. Any shred of deceit, and I’ll suffer you no further.”
“I see you’re a sensible man, mayhap I misjudged you. I’ll speak swift and frank, for the shadows grow long. As is clear, I have upon me an unfortunate condition.”
“A curse.”
“Quite so. A wretched thing that is eating me away. I wish simply for the curse to be lifted.”
“Simply?” he repeated with an arched brow.
“Clearly I cannot do such a thing myself. That’s not how this curse works.”
“Naturally.”
“I need a man of courage and wit.”
“Do not seek to flatter me. My patience is waning as rapidly as the light.”
“There’s a gully lined with rock not far from here where we may safely pass the night. At dawn I’ll take you to the place where the curse was laid upon me.”
“And what will we find there?”
“The Tree of Ages. Or so it is called. There are some that believe it is the first tree, though that is mere fancy. I need you to return something I took so that my transgressions may be pardoned.”
“Why not do it yourself? Surely an apology carries twice the weight from the offender’s mouth.”
“Alas, the curse repels me at the threshold.”
“Threshold?”
“Indeed. The tree is hollow, a passage leads downwards.”
“And what is it you stole?”
“S
ap. A vial’s worth. I was made a generous offer to retrieve it.”
“So you didn’t deliver it?”
“Of course I did. Being breaker is worse than being cursed. I had to steal it again, mind. It’s my only salvation.”
“May I see it?”
Ginike shrugged and withdrew a thin glass tube from his pouch. Within, a thick amber liquid caught the sun’s dying rays.
He pulled back when Balagir reached for it.
“Not until you’ve accepted. I trust no man enough to risk losing it.”
Balagir pondered. “On the surface it seems simple enough, yet I wonder why Finster did not oblige. Or anyone else for that matter.”
“You saw Finster. Obsessed he was with that woman; distracted to the point of ineptitude. Other ashen have simply been too burdened, or were headed in different directions. When I learned you were on your way to Wormford and in need of a horse, you became the ideal candidate. Particularly in light of your recent successes.”
“What awaits me in this bole, Ginike?” Balagir asked directly. “I want no surprises, or I’ll take the sap and sell it myself.” The rotting man smiled, but was clearly disturbed by the suggestion.
“In the depths of the bole you’ll find a face. Do not be alarmed, it is but carved from the wood. You will need to empty the vial into its throat.”
“A horse seems a small token for so vital a task.”
“You’re forgetting the smoke of course. You want to use those boots? You want to reach Wormford? Then start earning it. Weak ashen on the road alone do not last long.”
Balagir knew he would accept, but he made the cursed man suffer a while longer before consenting.
“Very well,” he sighed. “Show me this gully. I grow tired of these hills.”
As he mounted the horse, he did his best to ignore the faint rumble at his belt.
They rode into the night, and it was only Ginike’s knowledge that steered them safely down a ravine, away from the encircling howls.
“We’ll be safe here. The vagre won’t risk the incline for you alone, and my flesh revolts them. Rotting alive is not without its advantages.”
They kindled a small, ordinary fire. Lacking the aura of protection conjured up by the piper’s tune, they took turns at watch. The thin slither of wheeling stars above measured the long hours.
Ginike wasted little time striking camp, and before the sun had thawed the morning chill from the air, they arrived at the tree.
It was the largest living thing Balagir had seen; from horse-thick roots up to dizzying, misty heights. It seemed so steeped in age that his existence felt as of the blinking of an eye.
The hollow in its trunk gaped like a mouth, and it issued forth a bleak moan as wind whipped around the knotted lips.
“I’ve a change of heart. Here, keep your horse. I’ll be away.”
Ginike chuckled coldly. “Need I remind you of what you saw at Warinkel? I think not. Breakers drift joylessly, bereft of emotion. Drawn by the piper to burn.”
“His name was Erd.”
“Who he was is not important. It’s what he became that should concern you.” Balagir looked at his belt. Three discs now glowed, none were black. An unshakable burden.
Solemnly he extended his hand, and Ginike relinquished the vial.
“Every last drop,” he said, his filmy eyes holding Balagir’s. “I’ll await you here. Be swift, and we shall reach Wormford by dusk.”
Not best pleased, Balagir wordlessly placed the vial in his pouch and entered the ominous hollow.
The star-wand proved its worth and would be, he realised glumly, reason in itself for Finster to pursue him. The tunnel spiralled downwards, gnarled roots forming uneven steps beneath his feet, the smell of earth filling his nostrils.
He had descended some distance when he saw a figure approaching. He felt for his dagger but found only the empty space at his belt.
“Who goes there?” he called.
“A friend in unfriendly times,” the figure responded. He shone the wand at the stranger and flinched at the ghastliness of his face. Another cursed man. He pulled his cloak about his face, though whether to disguise the disfiguration or ward off the brightness of the wand, it was not clear. There was something odd about the figure; decidedly ashen.
“And what would a friend be doing down here?”
“Warning you against your oath.”
“You know I’ve no choice. Stand aside.”
“True enough. Yet spare me one draught of the sap, before you honour your agreement.”
“I think not. I promised to use every last drop.”
“And so you shall. I will take a sip, and then you will use every last drop remaining to complete your task.”
“You twist the words.”
“Don’t we all? Hasn’t the one who sent you?”
“What would I get in return?”
“A gift. A seed to the mirror of the past.” He extended his decomposing hand and revealed a small, oval object.
“That’s an acorn.”
“So it would seem. Yet it is no ordinary acorn.” Balagir regarded it curiously, then shook his head.
“No. I’ll fulfil my oath as promised and be led no further astray.”
“What could convince you? Name it and it shall be so.”
“My memory returned, and nothing short of that,” said Balagir.
“That I cannot give.” The stranger sighed and stood sadly aside. Balagir kept a wary eye on him, but passed without incident, continuing down into the deep bole.
In the profound cavernous hollow was carved a large face; wooden, yet exuding a presence. Its eyes were closed, but mouth agape. Balagir made sure he was alone, unstoppered the vial, and poured it down the wooden throat. He stood back, expecting something magical to happen, but the face remained quite still. He shrugged, placed the empty vial in his pouch, and turned to leave. Then came a voice so deep the tree rumbled.
“Your sacrifice has been weighed. The curse transferred.” He spun to find the old eyes regarded him sleepily.
“You mean lifted?” But the face just yawned and closed its heavy eyes once more. “Wait! What do you mean transferred? Awake, tree, and answer!” But the tree slumbered once more, the deepest kind of slumber that only so ancient a being can attain. Even in these depths, the wisp of smoke found him, encircling and absorbing into his belt.
Unsettled, Balagir returned to the surface, ascending two roots at a time. He passed no one on that wooden stair. When he emerged into dappled daylight, his fears were confirmed. Ginike had gone, along with the horses. Balagir spat and cursed and thumped the tree until his knuckles bled.
How he found his way back to the gully and up the steep ravine, he would never know, but by early afternoon he was back on the eastern trail, afoot and alone. His rage kept his mind occupied, and he devoured the miles as a hungry man did bread. Ginike’s curse would come to seem pleasant compared to what he had in mind.
By the time his shadow stretched long and thin before him, his ire had faded to misery. Another night alone on the road was a disparaging thought. He longed for a friendly face, but since that felt increasingly more unlikely in this treacherous place, he would settle for a skin of wine.
Suddenly something snatched his ear, halting him in his tracks. A soft sound ebbing on the breeze. He tipped his head and caught it again. The piper’s tune. The very same as at Warinkel. For a moment he feared he had somehow backtracked and his journey had been for naught. He ascertained the source and took off at a run. It grew louder until he saw a faint illumination against the slopes of the hills. He climbed the verge and looked down into a small valley. Sure enough there burned a fire, the same tune, the same unnerving creature. He descended, never taking his eyes from the two ashen sat in silence; neither of whom he recognised.
“Salutations,” he called as he drew near. They glanced up and promptly gave him a wide berth. “What’s amiss?” he asked uneasily.
“The curse lies upon
you,” an axe-wielding ‘gnilo said. Balagir frowned and stretched his hand out to the fire. His skin was a mottled grey, flaking at the touch. He reached up and touched his face, clammy and rough. Ginike had done this, and worse still, he had not a drop of sap left to mimic the prank.
Despairing, he stumbled over to the piper and paid his smoke; the world bled as the flute flurried.
III
KALAQAI
It was some time before he could bring himself to speak, and he sat huddled and sullen beside the silent strangers. At last, and in a despondent voice, he asked:
“How far to Wormford?” They shared uncertain glances before the nearest answered.
“This is Wormford West. You’re a mile from town.” He was balding, plump, and sack-clad, and apart from his dark eyes, quite unremarkable.
Balagir’s heart lightened ephemerally at the name, but the game had changed; his current condition had become more pressing. True, paying the piper had left him rested, but the curse was upon him, and his mood was black. He stopped rubbing his hands when he noticed his fingernails were coming loose. His body was degenerating as swiftly as his spirits.
“Advice on lifting curses?” he hazarded, with little hope of gain.
“Tricky business that. Tricky business indeed. It would depend very much on its nature,” said the same unassuming ashen. His companion, the gruff ‘gnilo, carried an axe that was ridiculously unproportional to his stature. Like many of his kind he was thick-set and had a nose that suggested a detrimental drinking habit; his short hair likewise was copper red.
“Best not get involved,” he growled darkly. “Curses leap from one man to another like fleas for the soul.”
Balagir coughed, and the two ashen sidled away.
“What will convince you to help? An oath? Well ask and be done with it!”
Once more the two travellers exchanged looks, and at length the balding man spoke.
“Loath as I am to get involved, I do find myself in need. I may be able to point you in the right direction.”
