The Bell Between Worlds

by Ian Johnstone

  “What they always do,” said Ash, pulling his ragged hair away from his face and tying it into a ponytail. “They’d use them to find us: our hideouts, our meeting places – the few sanctuaries we have left. And then they’d find our friends, and those who’ve helped us.”

  Sylas stared at him in disbelief. “Why?”

  Ash shrugged. “Because that’s the will of Thoth,” he said icily. “That’s the Undoing.”

  Sylas heard a squeal to his right and turned to see Galfinch in the rear of his boat, jabbing at the water with a paddle while Bowe strained at the oars, heaving it through the river at an impossible speed. A short distance behind, a single grey form slid through the water, sometimes dipping out of view, sometimes rising to the surface and extending a single long arm towards the boat, grasping with slippery fingers. As Sylas watched, Galfinch brought the paddle down with a crack somewhere among the waves and the hand fell away, leaving the boat to surge onwards.

  “Look sharp!” cried Bayleon. “They’re gaining!”

  Sylas looked up at the river and saw to his horror that the entire surface was boiling with snaking bodies. He could just make out the pale skin of the Slithen, their strange inhuman legs sweeping through the water, their long, narrow torsos twisting, turning, carving towards the fleeing boats. They seemed to be coming not only from Meander Mill, but also from the other side of the river. He glanced towards the bank and watched with revulsion as an endless stream of Slithen clawed and slid through the mud towards the water, joining an ever-swelling army of tangled bodies in the waves.

  Something drew his eyes to the top of the bank where houses lined the riverside and he felt a new chill pass over him. In the shadows, standing just a few paces in front of the houses, were the Ghor. There were hundreds of them, each standing an equal distance from the next, facing the river. None of them moved, but they leaned towards the river as though poised for action, their weird canine heads hanging low between their shoulders. He looked back at the mill and saw another long line of them, some standing sentinel on the garden wall, the rest lining the riverbank. They seemed to be waiting for something, their eyes fixed on a point further up the river.

  Sylas followed their gaze, dreading what he would see. On a high promontory of rock stood a chariot of crimson, black and gold, its many ornate designs flashing bright in the sunlight, its giant barbed wheels rocking as if readying to charge. Straining at its harnesses were two gigantic Ghorhund rearing on their powerful haunches and gnashing at the air, their massive heads arching back to reveal thick collars of solid silver. But it was the occupant of the chariot that most caught Sylas’s eye. Even at such a distance, Scarpia’s elegant figure made a dramatic impression. She stood with poise and confidence at the reins, her proud head held high, a crimson train snapping behind her as the wind whipped from the river. Her perfect features were creased in a broad smile of triumph. She pulled sharply on the reins and almost at once both Ghorhund arched their spines and let out a chilling howl.

  The assembled horde quickly gave their answer, their howls random and wild, building to a new crescendo. They showed their teeth and clawed at the ground; they thrashed their chains and snapped at the air; and, as they answered Scarpia’s command, their deafening wail urged the Slithen on, telling them that they were near, that they would soon reach their quarry.

  “Come on!” shouted Ash, snatching up a spare paddle with an anxious grin. “Let’s give them a bloody nose!”

  Sylas drew his eyes away from Scarpia, took the paddle and stood up. He looked out and saw that the massed Slithen were now only a few boat-lengths away. Those in the lead were breaking the surface, rising into the air and then arching dolphinlike back into the water, showing a ridge of small fin-like scales running along their spines. As they dived over the waves, he saw their eyes peering blackly out of the foam.

  “They’re sizing us up,” shouted Ash, tightening his grip on the paddle and raising it above his head. “They’ll come any minute! Look down – they’ll come from below!”

  Some of the leading Slithen disappeared from view, diving deep into the dark waters. There was a moment of eerie calm when only the sound of the oars and the baying Ghor could be heard, then the river erupted, exploding into a shower of foam and water. From the centre of the deluge two large grey figures flew high above the river, arching towards the stern of the boat, their three-fingered claws outstretched. Ash was looking the other way, distracted by another Slithen swimming alongside the boat.

  Sylas was alone.

  He just had time to raise his paddle. It caught the first of the Slithen under its chin, smashing its teeth together. It faltered in mid-air and pitched forward, dropping head first into the bottom of the boat. But even as it landed the other came on, leaving Sylas no time. He felt a stinging slap against his neck and suddenly he was falling backwards, flailing in the air.

  He landed heavily in the bottom of the boat, hitting his head against something hard. For a moment he was stunned and disorientated, but then he felt something cold and wet tightening round his throat.

  When he opened his eyes, he was looking straight into the hideous, disfigured face of a Slithen.

  22

  The Wave

  “The Suhl are of Nature born, like the rising sun, or unfurling

  leaves, or a mounting ocean wave.”

  THE GRUESOME SCALY FACE was drawn back in a snarl, baring a mass of tiny, sharp brown teeth. A strange clucking noise rose from the back of its throat as it panted over him, smothering him with a horrible stench of rotten fish. Its slimy hands tightened round his neck and its black, glassy eyes widened gleefully, its pink tongue running over its pale upper lip.

  Sylas thrashed wildly, trying to push it away, but his hands slid off its slippery shoulders. It lowered its face towards his and tightened its grip still further.

  “Die!” it hissed. “Die like the res-s-s-st of them.”

  Sylas flicked his head up, catching the Slithen on its snout and making it rear backwards. It held on to his neck.

  He was starting to struggle for breath when a look of surprise came over the Slithen’s face and suddenly its grip loosened. Without warning, it was wrenched away and Sylas looked up to see Bayleon grasping it by its ankles. With a quick rotation of his massive shoulders, he swung it high into the air and over the side of the boat. The creature squealed until it was silenced by a distant splash.

  “That’s for Fathray!” roared Bayleon after it, wiping his sticky hands on his trousers.

  He turned to Sylas. “Anything broken?”

  “No, I don’t think so,” said Sylas hoarsely.

  He took Bayleon’s hand and drew himself upright, glancing about to see what was happening.

  Ash was busy beating another creature clear of the boat.

  “Back, you haddock! Eel spawn! Sea slug!” he yelled, punctuating each insult with a fresh crack of the paddle.

  Although his frame was small and lean, his gangly limbs were strong and he had soon fended off the latest assailant.

  There now seemed to be more Slithen than ever, but there was something strange about the way they moved. They were still arching out of the water as they snatched glances at the boats, but they appeared to be struggling to break the surface as if something was holding them back. The river around them was rising and swelling into a great wave, lifting them higher and higher on a wall of granite-grey water until Sylas could no longer see the mill or the townhouses far behind. He shot a questioning look at Bayleon who was once again sitting at the oars.

  “What’s happening?” cried Sylas.

  For the first time he saw Bayleon smile. His white teeth glimmered through his dark beard. He nodded towards the other boats.

  Sylas looked across the line of vessels and there he saw Filimaya standing tall in the prow of her boat, one hand held out in front of her. At her bidding, the water ahead of the boats had fallen away leaving a great trough the full width of the river, and the water behind had risen to
compensate, forming the towering wave. The boats were now tilted downwards and were surfing at increasing speed down the side of the wave. He felt the wind in his hair as their own boat gathered pace. Bayleon no longer rowed, but instead allowed the oars to scud over the surface of the foaming waters.

  The bow was soon bouncing over the surface and sending spray high into the air and Sylas crouched down to keep his balance. Looking behind, he saw a large white crest forming on the wave, then tumbling down towards them. But it never quite reached them, for as fast as the wave moved, the boats surfed ahead of it.

  The Slithen were not so fortunate. Sylas saw those that were closest drawn into the churning heart of the wave, until moments later they were catapulted out of its crest, their gangly limbs flipping over and over before they dropped out of sight behind the foam. His heart thumped in his chest and he turned and grinned at Bayleon, who was once again wielding the oars, breaking the surface of the water to steady and steer the boat.

  “Sylas! Over here!” cried Ash, sitting on the stern, leaning forward to stop himself from falling. “We need to balance the boat, or we’ll flip over!”

  Sylas clambered backwards over the bags and boxes and carefully took a seat next to Ash. Instantly the bow lifted a little and it started to surf more lightly over the surface.

  From here he could see the whole dramatic scene: the long line of boats careering down the great wave, the vast mountain of water and foam behind them and the expanse of river ahead.

  But just as his spirits began to rise, he recoiled. Only a short distance ahead of them a huge stone bridge spanned the river, supported by five immense arches. Somehow the entire flotilla of boats would have to pass beneath it.

  Ash nudged him and pointed to the water’s edge. A column of dark figures approached the bank, their bodies thrown forward in a full sprint, their powerful canine legs moving in perfect unison. They bounded with impossible ease, taking quick, loping strides that carried them swiftly over the uneven ground and, despite their speed, their angular heads remained entirely steady as they watched the boats and scented their prey. Snapping at their heels came the two giant Ghorhund, straining at their leashes, baying in their frenzy. Despite their wild movements, Scarpia steered the chariot with effortless skill, steadying herself as she clasped the reins with one hand and directed the chase with the other. Still she smiled her triumphant smile, relishing the thrill of the charge, sweeping her hand across the ranks of Ghor, driving them forward as one. The long train of her crimson dress flew out behind her, catching the afternoon light, snapping and cracking in the wind like a standard of war. As she saw the bridge, she let out a shrill, chilling cry, and at once her troops lowered their shoulders and lengthened their stride to run even faster.

  The boats were now moving at an astonishing speed, but there seemed little doubt that the Ghor would reach the bridge first. Sylas glanced at the other bank and saw another troop tearing along the towpath, running further ahead of the wave.

  Filimaya saw them too and raised herself even further in her boat. It was a marvel that she did not fall. The wave grew with her until it was a deafening maelstrom of foam, lifting the boats high above the river. They surfed at such an angle that Sylas had to lean back over the spray to keep his balance, and Bayleon too struggled to stay in his seat as he carved the water with his oars, keeping the boat on course. The other oarsmen were also fighting to keep control and he heard yelps of surprise and a clash of wood against wood as two vessels struck each other. To his dismay, he saw that Simia was in the rear of one, being hurled this way and that, clinging desperately to the side. Both boats leaned over so far that it seemed certain that they would flip over, but as they started to pitch their cargo into the river, the oarsmen plunged their oars deep into the water and managed to steady their path.

  Simia clambered up and seated herself in the stern, peering ahead of the wave. For a moment she stared at the bridge, seeming to consider something, but suddenly she began shouting at the oarsman. Sylas could not make out her words, but then she started jabbing her finger towards the centre of the bridge. Suddenly he realised what she was saying.

  “Simia’s right!” he shouted to Ash. “We’re all going to have to go through the middle arch –the Ghor will reach the others before us!”

  Ash looked across to Simia and saw her wild gesticulations, then glanced at the banks, where the Ghor were already nearing the two entrances to the bridge. He nodded, waved to Bayleon and held his hand up in the direction of the arch. Bayleon lowered one of the oars so that it trailed through the water and immediately the boat changed direction, traversing the face of the wave towards the middle of the river. The hull rolled alarmingly as it ran against the flow of the water and Sylas and Ash braced themselves against the sides. They stayed as low as they could and watched as all of the boats started to converge ahead of the arch.

  It looked impossible – the archway would barely fit ten boats abreast in low water, let alone when they were riding high on a wave and travelling at speed. But there was no other way.

  Their boat crashed into the side of another, sending shards of wood into the air and almost snapping the oars trapped between, but somehow both stayed afloat, the occupants exchanging frightened looks as they sprang apart and then crashed into each other again.

  “Hold them together!” cried Sylas, stretching a hand out towards the other boat.

  The other passengers scrambled to the side of their boat and, as they came together again, they reached over, grasped Sylas’s boat, and pulled it tightly against their own. He clamped his arm over the side and held on as best he could. The other boats were doing the same and, as they drew nearer and nearer to the archway, he could hear the loud crack of timber on timber and the cries of the passengers as they tried to take hold of each other’s boats.

  He dared not look around – his eyes were on the bridge, which the Ghor were already beginning to cross. Some leapt up on to the stone balustrades and started bounding along them at impossible speed, while others charged through the pedestrians in the middle, brushing them aside with the cruel sweep of a claw.

  The precarious raft of boats spanned the middle of the river, twisting and buckling as it surged towards the archway. Somehow it held, bound by the straining limbs of its passengers. Yet, as they drew close, the archway seemed ever smaller and their own strange craft all too large. Sylas was thankful that he, Simia and Filimaya were in boats near the centre, but even there the archways seemed too low. Too close.

  Suddenly a cry from somewhere on the raft caught his attention and he glanced across to a disturbance in one of the other boats. For a moment all he could make out was a struggle and raised voices, but then he saw a distinctive flash of red hair and a tiny figure in an oversized coat, scrambling from boat to boat, ducking under flailing arms and jumping over limbs and oars, staggering at one moment and leaping at the next. Already she had crossed two boats, then three, and suddenly she was in the neighbouring vessel. She sidestepped an attempt to pull her back and launched herself into the air. With the great folds of her coat fluttering about her, she landed lightly in the bottom of Sylas’s boat.

  “I told you I’d find a way!” shrieked Simia gleefully.

  Sylas shook his head in disbelief, then grinned.

  “Fool!” growled Bayleon.

  She opened her mouth to reply, but suddenly her face fell. She looked past him to the bridge, and shrank back into the bottom of the boat. Sylas turned and instinctively did the same, falling back on his hands. The bridge reared above them, blocking out the sky, bearing down on them, seeming now like an impassable wall of stone. Suddenly they were there, plunging into shadow, the central arch passing just an arm’s reach above their heads.

  Their ears were hit by a deafening boom as the great wave hit the bridge, striking with such force that the entire structure seemed to shake and a terrifying blast of air rushed between the boats.

  “Hold on!” Bayleon cried.

  And then, as
they were pummelled by a vortex of water and foam, Sylas felt the next boat being wrenched free. He was about to be dragged into the tempest as his hands flailed over the water, but he felt Bayleon’s arm across his chest, drawing him back to safety. He saw the other boat disappear behind a dark wall of water, rising high into the air as it turned almost to the vertical. The bow of their own boat seemed to be dragged deep and the stern was whipped around, starting a vicious, gut-wrenching spin. He was thrown so hard against the hull that the wind was knocked out of him and he lay stunned against a discarded oar.

  He looked up with wild eyes to see a shadowy wave looming over them, its foamy fingers turning inwards as though to drag them down, but just as it threatened to consume the boat, there was a loud crunch that echoed on the inside of the archway. The flimsy vessel shuddered as though it would break apart but, to his surprise, the timbers held firm. The spinning seemed to stop. A moment later they were thrown back out into the daylight.

  Still gasping for breath, he glanced about him and saw that, miraculously, Bayleon, Ash and Simia were still inside the boat. They too had been thrown to the floor and were just starting to push themselves up on to their knees, reaching out for stray oars and paddles.

  They were surrounded by mountainous waves, but Sylas could already see other boats, some unharmed, some splintered and damaged. Five, six, seven boats appeared from beneath the bridge. He did not have time to see who was safe and who was not, for he heard a shriek of rage and defiance above, and his eyes travelled up to the vast grey arches of stone, then the baying ranks of the Ghor glaring at them from the bridge, and then to Scarpia, rearing back in her chariot, heaving at the reins as she raised her hands to conjure some new horror.

  But then she hesitated and looked up.

  He followed her fearful gaze upwards to the skies.

  He saw no sunlight and no pendulous clouds; instead he saw a mighty overhang of granite grey: a sheer face of water that towered over Scarpia, the Ghor, the bridge and the town.