by Oisin McGann
‘Yes, I suppose so.’
‘You’re a strange one and no mistake.’
Evening was setting in and the light was failing. The wind picked up and brought rain with it, a lazy fall of hazy damp that slowly but surely wet them through. Taya and Lorkrin were starting to feel the cold, worn out by the last couple of days. They shivered as they trudged through the wet, the grey clouds visible through the trees turning their moods sombre and their thoughts to their parents. Rug had said little all day, content to be led along, but disturbed by a growing unease. The talk of Old Man’s Cave had stirred something in him. He was sure that if he had ever possessed memories of that place, then not all of them had been pleasant ones.
The trail brought them to the foot of a rocky hill. It was a steep climb, and they had to use their hands to clamber up in places. The rocks were slippery with the rain and their fingers cold and numb. Draegar reached the top first and grunted with satisfaction. The rest of them struggled up the last stretch of levelling ground and came up beside him.
There below them, in a sheltered glade, surrounded by apple trees, was a wood-and-hide building with warm, glowing windows and a chimney that gave off the welcome smell of wood smoke and baking bread. There were three wagons parked around the side, as well as a row of stables that no doubt housed horses and other mounts.
‘Is it safe?’ Taya asked uncertainly.
‘Only one way to find out,’ Draegar told them. ‘That Reisenick at the mill said the Maggitch clan have no love for the Ludditches; they have been feuding for years. There could be others there who might give us away, but this is our best chance of hitching a ride to catch up with Emos.’
‘We could disguise ourselves,’ Lorkrin offered, looking up at Draegar. ‘But there’s no way to hide what you are. You’re going to stand out like a third ear. Maybe you should stay outside.’
‘Not likely,’ Draegar snorted, and started striding down the slope. ‘Let us make the Maggitchs’ acquaintance and see what kind of storyhouse they’re running here. We take this risk now or wander through this forest for days, maybe weeks. We have a cave to get to.’
They each descended with that tentative scramble that steep slopes force on two-legged creatures and reached the bottom in a last, shuffling run. Draegar strode up the road to the terrace and swung open the double doors of the storyhouse. Everyone in that rough, dark, smoky room looked up as he entered.
‘My name is Draegar, of the Aknaradh Tribe,’ he announced. ‘And I have travelled further than any man here and seen more strange things then most men will see in ten lifetimes. I have stories to tell to a kind host with a tankard of mead and some hot food for myself and my friends. Lend me your ears, friends, and I promise you tales that will warm your hearts, chill your blood and stand your hair on end!’
* * * *
The colour of the walls of the passageway seemed to have changed; they were paler, more mottled and there was a dampness in the air. Paternasse ran his finger down the stone and put the tip of it in his mouth, and then spat out the dust.
‘Limestone,’ he said. ‘I don’t think we’re under the mountain any more.’
‘What makes you say that?’ Nayalla asked.
‘That mountain’s laced with iron. I’ve never seen anything like it myself. It’s the richest source of iron I’ve ever heard of. You can’t tell me you didn’t know?’
‘We’ve always known there was iron in Absaleth,’ Mirkrin told him. ‘Amorite, the metal we use for our tools, comes from the ground high up on the mountain. You can’t get it anywhere else in this land. But we’ve never mined the mountain for iron.’
‘Oh, right. I forgot,’ Paternasse sniffed. ‘You’re all against mining. Except for making your tools, of course.’
‘We’re not against mining. Just your kind of mining. The kind that leaves great holes in our territory and poisons the ground,’ Nayalla retorted. ‘And we don’t mine iron on Absaleth, because any fool can see that it’s important to the land around it. You can feel it when you stand in its shadow. Absaleth’s iron is special. Or at least it was.’
Paternasse would have laughed at the idea a few months before, but he just nodded now. Even without the strange world they had found beneath its skin, there was something special about the mountain.
‘Well, anyway,’ he said. ‘You just don’t find pure iron in large quantities. You find patches of the metal around, but only in small deposits. Some say it falls from the sky, but I’ve no time for such fables myself. Normally, if you want to find iron, you have to dig it out of the ground as ore, hematite or magnetite or the like. Then you smelt it – you heat it all with charcoal in a furnace to separate the metal from the slag.’
Dalegin and Noogan listened quietly with the Myunans. Unlike the old miner, they knew little about the ground they worked; they just dug where they were told to dig.
‘Now, that mountain, it’s mainly hematite on the outside,’ Paternasse continued. ‘With some magnetite and that red jasper. But the lads who did the surveys a couple of years ago said that the core of the mountain could be pure iron. And that’s unheard of. That’s why the Noranians are so keen to mine it, ’cause their armies use iron like it’s goin’ out of fashion, for everything from weapons to medals.’
‘And the fact that the mountain doesn’t belong to them doesn’t bother them in the slightest,’ Nayalla said bitterly.
‘Not a chance,’ Paternasse shrugged. ‘The way they look at it, their iron’s stuck under your mountain, and tough luck to anyone who thinks different.’
‘Why do you work for the Noranians,’ Nayalla asked, ‘if you think so little of them?’
‘Because I’m a miner; I’ve got seven mouths to feed and I have to put food on the table. The mines near our town closed down a couple of years back. Now I go where the work is.’
They emerged from the even, chiselled walls of the passageway into a cavern whose walls glistened with moisture, the ceiling and floor lined with stalagmites and stalactites.
‘You were right,’ Mirkrin said. ‘Limestone. I wonder where we are?’
‘I lost my sense of direction long ago,’ Nayalla admitted.
‘Still headed north of the mountain,’ Paternasse grunted.
‘How do you know?’ Nayalla frowned.
‘He just does,’ Noogan answered her. ‘He’s like a mole, old Jussek.’
Mirkrin was kneeling down, studying the floor.
‘It might be the end of the passageway, but this floor is well travelled. It’s worn smooth, and there’s recent wear on this step here.’
‘Those little terrors, probably,’ Dalegin sniffed.
‘No, they climbed walls as easily as walking along the floor, and this is a scuff, from a hard, heavy foot …’
‘Does anybody else hear a noise?’ Nayalla interrupted him.
They all went quiet.
‘I hear it,’ Mirkrin nodded. ‘A rumbling, or grinding or something.’
‘Don’t hear a thing,’ Paternasse said. ‘Your kind must have good ears. Is it a tremor?’
‘No, it’s constant,’ said Nayalla. ‘Like a machine, or a waterfall. I can’t place it.’
‘Water would be a good thing about now.’
‘Can we get a move on?’ Dalegin urged them, switching his torch to his other hand and putting the free one in his pocket. ‘I’m getting cold. And I’m bloody starving.’
‘I’m thirsty too,’ Noogan spoke up. ‘Has anybody got any water left?’
Mirkrin handed him his canteen.
‘I’ll have some too, if you don’t mind,’ Dalegin said, moving up beside Noogan.
‘That’ll be the end of it, then,’ Mirkrin told them.
‘Aye, the same for the rest of us, I think,’ Paternasse added. ‘We need to find water soon. Maybe that sound you’re hearing?’
‘Let’s see if we can follow it. It’s as good a chance as any,’ Nayalla suggested.
‘What was that?’ Dalegin whispered, squinting into t
he darkness ahead of them.
‘What?’ Noogan asked.
‘Don’t you see it? There!’
‘By the gods, yes!’
Far back in the gloom, the swaying light of a lantern could be seen. Dalegin suddenly took off, scrambling up the path through the stalagmites after it.
‘Wait, lad!’ Paternasse yelled.
They rushed after him, getting in each other’s way, the limestone spikes forcing them to file one by one along the path. The shadows from their torches played on the limestone pillars, casting sharp-toothed shapes on the walls of the cave. In their hurry to catch Dalegin, they failed to notice that the path branched and were confounded when they lost sight of his torch in the labyrinth of stone columns. Noogan was out in front. He stumbled to a halt as he came to a place where the path petered out and could have led in any direction.
‘Where did he go?’ he snarled in frustration.
‘The damned fool!’ Paternasse swore. ‘The damned, blind fool!’
‘Well, we’d better just wait here for him to come back and find us,’ Mirkrin breathed. ‘No point running off all over the place. We’d just end up getting split up.’
‘I think there’s another path back here,’ Nayalla called from behind them. ‘He might have gone this way.’
‘We stay together. Wait where he can find us,’ Paternasse told them. ‘But if he’s not back soon, we’ll go looking for him.’
‘What was that light? Did you see it? It was a lantern, wasn’t it?’ Noogan panted, leaning on his knees.
‘I thought it looked like an old woman,’ Nayalla said. ‘They ran for it, whoever they were.’
‘Aye, well, you would too if some stranger came rushing at you, shouting and waving a torch,’ Paternasse grimaced. ‘If it is an old woman, he’s probably scared her halfway to Noran.’
He sat down and propped up his torch.
‘I’m tired, tired as a hard-worked dog.’
They all sat down to rest, miserably wishing they had some food and water and the means to make a fire. Nayalla shivered, huddling up to Mirkrin, and Paternasse gazed at them and brooded about how much he missed his own wife.
‘We’ve got to find some food,’ Mirkrin thought aloud. ‘I wonder if those Seneschal are edible.’
‘Anything’s edible if you’re hungry enough,’ the old miner assured him.
‘Well, at this point I’d eat sand if it smelled good.’
‘You’d probably manage some roasted Seneschal then, so …’
A ragged scream froze their blood. It echoed around the cave and slowly died away.
‘Gods,’ Noogan croaked. ‘That was Dal.’
‘It came from down that way,’ Paternasse pointed, his voice tight in his throat.
They hurried back down the path and took the branch that they had passed, wanting to rush, but wary of running headlong into the darkness and whatever it held. Their breathing came fast and shallow, and each was sure the beat of their heart must be resounding through the cave. A blue-white glow came into sight and they crept towards it. It was Dalegin’s torch, resting against the slope of the wall. On the very edge of its light, they could see a boot lying on its side, the laces torn open.
‘Oh no,’ Paternasse rasped. ‘Oh no, what’s happened to him?’
He edged further forwards, the torch in his hand stretched out ahead of him as far as he could reach. He was panting and the sweat was cold on his skin. In the stillness he felt a drop run down his back. The light picked out a piece of torn trouser leg and then Dalegin’s satchel. Wedged between the glistening columns of two stalagmites was what remained of Dalegin.
* * * *
Being on the run from the Ludditch clan had given the four fugitives a certain celebrity status in the storyhouse. Two outlandish stories from Draegar had cemented the Maggitchs’ good will and now Draegar and the Myunans were entertaining their hosts even further. Taya added the finishing touches to Lorkrin’s face, his head and shoulders now a striking resemblance to Learup Ludditch III, if slightly smaller than the original. Draegar, who had never seen the Reisenick chieftain, started to draw the likeness onto a sheet of vellum provided by the proprietor. The drawing was taken and pinned up on the wall, and used for a blowpipe contest. Any man who could land a dart in each of Ludditch’s eyes, with the allotted three shots, received a free pitcher of mead. Draegar had the honour of being the first to deface his own drawing, and the room cheered heartily.
Lorkrin slunched and let his face settle back so as to avoid any of the hostility that was being aimed at the picture. He and Taya sat back, feeling bloated and sleepy after their huge meal of wild hog and rice stew. Taya saw Rug stand up, make his way to the door and slip quietly outside.
‘Tell us another yarn, there, feller!’ a Sestinian with an acne-ravaged face called out to Draegar. ‘And make it a chiller!’
‘I have just the tale,’ the Parsinor announced. ‘And it’ll make you think twice about walking out on a dark night such as this! I’m going to tell you the story of the Lantern Lady!’
‘I’ve heard this one,’ Taya murmured to her brother. ‘I think I’ll go outside, I could do with some air.’
‘Me too,’ he replied. ‘But we’re bringing the doughnuts.’
He grabbed the plate of doughnuts and they squeezed out through the mass of bodies, keen for the clear forest air after the hot, smoky atmosphere of the storyhouse. Outside, they found Rug sitting in a chair on the terrace, looking out into the night.
‘You all right, Rug?’ Taya asked. ‘You didn’t eat anything.’
‘I don’t feel hungry,’ he answered, without taking his eyes of the gloom. ‘I don’t feel well at all, actually. I have a … pain, inside me. And sometimes I hurt all over.’
‘Uncle Emos knows a thing or two about healing,’ Lorkrin said to him. ‘When we catch up with him, he should be able to tell you what’s wrong. With all you’ve been through lately, it’s not surprising you’re feeling out of sorts.’
Rug didn’t answer, so the two Myunans decided to leave him to his thoughts, idly wondering what a person thought about when they didn’t remember anything about themselves. They probably thought about getting their memories back. Lorkrin swatted the gnats away from the doughnuts and they both sat down under the orange glow of one of the windows with their backs to the wall.
‘When are we going to get moving?’ Taya complained. ‘I mean, I’m glad for the meal and the rest, but we’re wasting time.’
‘Draegar knows what he’s doing – this is his thing,’ Lorkrin reassured her. ‘We don’t have any money to pay for a ride, so he says we need to make some friends and find someone who’s going our way.’
‘Well, I wish he’d hurry up. Here, stop hoggin’ those doughnuts.’
* * * *
Draegar knocked back some mead and belched, holding his hands up for silence. When the noise had died down, he began his story in a low, soft voice.
‘I was one of three travellers; the others a Noranian mercenary and a Braskhiam trader, and we had two Karthar guides.
‘We were making for the valleys deep in the Kartharic Peaks, where most of the Karthars live. We had to pass through the Axmantle, a stone jungle of latticed spars that is as complex as the growth of the cobrush trees here. The sun shines through in thin spears during the day, and at night, it is pitch black and the sounds of the animals that inhabit the place reverberate around the stone. Only a fool would try to travel through this maze without an experienced guide.
‘We had two oxen as pack animals, for the Karthars do not allow vehicles to pass through to their valleys. We stopped on the first night and made camp. It was as black as a cave, but the wind blew through that web of stone as through a mountain pass and it chilled us to the bone. The guides lit a bule-oil stove and set about making some supper, while the rest of us stood looking up through the network of stone in the hope of spotting a star or two.
‘I confess, I wanted to explore and I am not one to shy away fr
om a wander when I’m curious, but the guides insisted that we not leave the trail and that we stay in easy sight of the camp lanterns.
‘It was the Braskhiam who spotted it first – a light flitting through the shadows just within sight of us. He called out to the person holding the light, and strode out to see who they were. He was an ambitious man, always looking for a chance to sell his wares. The guides called him back, and the urgency in their voices persuaded him that he should do as he was told. We settled down to eat and saw no more of the light before we went to sleep.
‘I woke later to find the Braskhiam was gone. I looked up in time to see him carrying one of our lanterns into the darkness of the stone web. Cursing his stubbornness, I called after him and the others woke up. The Noranian and I wanted to go after him, but the guides would not have it. They jabbered something about a “Lantern Lady”, and their faces barely hid their fear. In the end, the Noranian and I took a lantern each and went by ourselves. Careful to keep the camp in sight, we crept out into the maze, calling the Braskhiam’s name. There was no answer. We heard a tearing sound out in the blackness and hurried after it. Surrounded by a mesh of rock that looked the same whichever way you turned, it was all too easy to imagine ourselves getting lost and we looked back constantly to check we could still see the lights of the camp.
‘We found the Braskhiam – or what was left of him – in a hollow out of sight of our guides’ light. The Noranian stayed where he could see the camp, and I walked down to examine the body. What I saw there will stay with me the rest of my life. The man’s body had been peeled like a piece of fruit and the bones removed. The meat lay where it had fallen, but there was no sign of a single bone – not one. To do such a thing would take a measure of power and ferocity that struck fear even into my stout heart. Drawing my sword and battleaxe, I backed out of that hollow and told the Noranian what I had seen. He loaded his crossbow and pulled down the visor on his helmet.
‘We were loath to leave the body unburied, but we were vulnerable out there in the darkness with a terrible predator nearby. The remains were in such a state as to make collecting them a difficult and messy business, so we decided to forego the task and make our way back to the camp as quickly as we could. It was then I looked to where the light of the camp was and something struck me as odd.
