The Bell Between Worlds

by Ian Johnstone

  But one of his companions caused Bowe more concern than the others, for in him there was no glow, no purple sharpness, no greys or blues. Galfinch sat huddled in a corner, his knees drawn up to his chest, his eyes fixed ahead of him. He was chanting something to himself, rocking backwards and forwards in time with his murmurings. His voice was sing-song, almost carefree, though Bowe knew that to be far from the truth. The Scribe’s voice became louder and as it did so the words became more distinct.

  Bowe flinched.

  “What rule is there, what law, but gnashing teeth and grasping claw–” muttered Galfinch– “what rule is there, what law...”

  “Silence!”

  The hoarse, almost-human bark made everyone start. One of the Ghor rose from its haunches to its full horrifying height. No one could see its face in the darkness, but they knew that its halfhuman eyes were fixed on Galfinch.

  “... what law, but gnashing teeth and grasping claw,” continued the Scribe. “What rule is there...”

  “I said SILENCE!” roared the guard, travelling the length of the carriage in a single bound. It reached down, grasped Galfinch round the neck and heaved him up against the wall.

  “Try this grasping claw, old man,” snarled the guard. The prisoners recoiled as they heard him choking.

  There was a struggle, then just coughs and spluttering, finally a gentle whimper.

  Bowe could bear it no longer and started to push himself up, but just then a figure rose ahead of him. The face was shrouded in shadow and yet Bowe saw in him a remarkable light, a diffuse yellow glow that became brighter even as he watched. It was warm, gentle, compassionate.

  “Guard, please don’t hurt him. He is overwrought. He doesn’t know what he’s saying.”

  As he moved forward, the light from the window played across his kindly, wizened face, his white beard and his muddied clothes.

  “What is it to you?” growled the guard. “Sit down!”

  “He is a good man,” said the old man firmly. “And he is my friend.”

  The guard turned towards him and a gurgling growl rose from its throat.

  “Then perhaps you’d like to join him?” it barked.

  Bowe saw distinct orange stabs of irritation flickering in the darkness. He rose to his feet, preparing himself for trouble.

  The old man raised his hands. “Please, just let him go. I promise I’ll keep him quiet.”

  Bowe’s eyes moved quickly to the other end of the carriage, for there he saw fast, sharp stabs of rage. The second guard had already risen to its feet and was starting to move along the carriage, a low growl on its lips.

  Bowe stepped forward. “Come, Fathray, let’s not quarrel with them.” The old Scribe turned. “But I must!” he insisted. “Galfinch is my friend...”

  “And you are mine, my dear Fathray,” said Bowe, placing an arm round his shoulders. He lowered his voice. “You’ve done all you can.”

  Fathray tried to protest again, but Bowe pressed him close and led him away.

  “I’ll not see two friends die today,” he whispered.

  The guards paused for a moment, then barked a scornful laugh and lost interest.

  As Fathray and Bowe sat down, they heard Galfinch’s last faint whimpers in the darkness, then the sound of his body slumping lifelessly to the floor.

  25

  The Chasm

  “Into the dark chasm of despair and plight

  Let these bright pages cast their learned light.”

  BAYLEON AND ASH LIFTED their hands and braced themselves, shouting at Sylas and Simia to get back. They strode out to meet the attacker, Bayleon seeming to swell beneath his leather armour while Ash moved lithe and catlike, his quick eyes taking in all around him. In response the dark figure raised itself up, drawing up its broad powerful shoulders and lifting its head until its face became visible for the first time. The features were blackened with mud and disfigured by a savage wound that ran from the forehead over the nose and cheek and ended somewhere far below the jaw. It was not a canine, but a human face; it was not monstrous, but one that had once been youthful and handsome. The hood fell away entirely to reveal tight-cropped black hair.

  “Espen!” gasped Sylas.

  Bayleon and Ash looked around in confusion.

  “It’s Espen! The one who saved me from the Ghorhund!” He tried to take a step forward, but Ash held him back, looking frantically between the boy and the stranger.

  Espen strode up to Bayleon and fixed him with a cool gaze.

  “Find a way out!” he commanded.

  Bayleon eyed him carefully.

  “Who are y—”

  “There’s no time!” growled Espen. “Just get the boy away!”

  He lowered his eyes, looked Sylas up and down for a moment and then turned with a sweep of his black cloak.

  The Ghorhund were already clear of the trees and were advancing in a wide circle. Their baying had stopped and they now moved silently, stealthily through the undergrowth, barely disturbing the leaves beneath their claws. Their ragged, angular heads had fallen low to the ground, throwing their weight forward, preparing for a final charge. Trails of drool fell from their jaws and their black lips were drawn back, revealing glistening yellow teeth.

  Espen was still in motion, striding back down the slope. As he reached the centre of the clearing, he raised his arms towards the prowling figures. They seemed to hesitate, glancing at one another uncertainly, and then there was a sudden groan from somewhere in the deathly forest, followed by a creak of straining wood and a sound like bark scraping against bark. The trees were swaying, as though caught up in a gust of wind. It was a strange and unnatural motion, as the air around him was entirely still. As Espen brought his hands to his chest, the entire forest seemed to let out a wail of protest, which grew into a chorus of screeching limbs and creaking boughs so loud that Sylas and Simia had to cover their ears.

  Then it moved. Its great grey branches fell from the sky, arching as one down into the clearing. Thick boughs bent at impossible angles, branches twisted as though straining under a great wind and twigs reached out like fine fingers, clutching and clawing at the air. The trees became vast gnarled hands feeling blindly for whatever they could find.

  The Ghorhund wheeled about and saw the approach of the tangled limbs. With vicious snarls, they lashed out at them with their claws, sending twigs and shards of wood flying across the clearing, tearing through bark and mauling all that drew near. But still the trees came on, sliding their sinews round legs, haunches and necks. The beasts flailed about them, wrenching at writhing branches, biting at twigs and kicking at boughs.

  But it was too late. Soon their limbs were bound, their movements confined to vain thrashings. For a few seconds they stayed pinned down like snared animals until, all at once, Espen raised his hands and they flew up into the air, carried aloft by the great confusion of branches: entangled like black flies in a web. As they ascended, they let out snarls so savage that Sylas and Simia found themselves shrinking away, but then they heard another chorus of growls behind them. They whirled around to see more of the beasts being wrenched up into the air just a few paces from where they were standing.

  Bayleon ran to Sylas and Simia.

  “Come! Now!” he cried, reaching out and pulling them towards the edge of the clearing.

  As they ran into the gloom of the forest, Sylas felt the sting of falling twigs and splinters on his face and looked up to see the struggling forms of the Ghorhund suspended in the canopy above, ripping at the limbs that held them. As he scrambled beneath, he thought he saw one wrench itself free and ease its great weight down to a lower branch, but thankfully he lost sight of it as he sped on.

  They careered down the hill, running for their lives, struggling to keep up with Bayleon’s giant figure as he bounded with surprising ease over the treacherous forest floor: between trunks, over branches, across ditches and drops.

  The forest became darker and more sombre and the familiar grey mist hung ev
er more thickly about its canopy. The trees thinned and the smothering greyness of the Barrens opened up in front of Sylas: grey cloud in the sky, grey earth below, grey air and mist ahead; nothing but a desperate continuum of grey.

  Finally they charged between the last remaining stumps of the forest, past the final few clumps of grass and gatherings of moss, out into the sombre plains.

  Clear of the trees, Sylas saw Bayleon slow to a stop. He drew up to him and slid to a halt, his chest heaving. Simia arrived moments later.

  As he caught his breath, he became aware of the silence. It was even deeper than before: no birdsong, no rustling of leaves, no hiss of wind through grass – nothing. He raised his head and looked about him. He was standing on a flat expanse of cracked grey earth, the surface crazed with fissures, parched of water and devoid of life. The Barrens were just as they had seemed from afar: a deathly, empty, hollow place without the slightest hint of life or trace of colour.

  Bayleon adjusted the bag on his back. “Get ready to move!”

  “I’m not sure... I’ll ever move again,” murmured Simia, still gasping for breath.

  They heard another set of footsteps and turned to see Espen thundering towards them with Ash’s limp body slung over his shoulder. The younger man’s face was drained of all colour.

  “What happened?” asked Bayleon, leaning down to examine his friend.

  “One of the Ghorhund took him,” said Espen as he adjusted Ash’s body over his shoulder. “I managed to get him back, but he fell from some height.”

  Bayleon moved Ash’s hair aside, revealing a gaping wound on his temple. “He’s bleeding,” he said with alarm. “We need to bandage him – let me…”

  “No,” said Espen firmly. “Not now. They’re already free of the trees – we must go.”

  “But where will we hide?” protested Simia, desperately casting her eyes across the wide plain. “There’s nothing for miles.”

  Espen seemed to notice her for the first time. He raised a scarred eyebrow and ran his dark eyes quickly over her ruddy face, dishevelled hair and dripping, oversized coat.

  “Then you had better run fast, little one,” he murmured gruffly, and strode out past her into the nothingness of the Barrens.

  “But there’s nothing there!” cried Simia, beginning to run nevertheless. “I know the Barrens!”

  Despite the weight of Ash over his shoulder, Espen’s movements were so fluid and effortless that Sylas could see how they had thought him one of the Ghor. He sprang lightly from his toes, sending up a cloud of grey dust as he sped away from the forest.

  At the rear of the group Bayleon too carried his bulk with surprising ease, seeming within his element: his great limbs spanned huge distances with each stride. His Spoorrunner’s light armour left his arms to swing freely at his sides, giving him even greater balance and poise. His eyes were in constant motion, searching for tracks or signs of danger, shifting quickly from the treeline behind them to the horizon ahead; from the shadows of the weird landscape to the dry earth beneath their feet.

  Sylas found that the crust of dry soil gave way under his feet, making it hard to keep his balance and wrenching at his calves, but his strong legs carried him forward more swiftly than Simia, who struggled to regain the ground she had lost.

  “I see you run… faster… when you know... what’s chasing you!” she panted from behind.

  Sylas slowed to run at her side. “Do you think Ash is all right?”

  “Think so,” she wheezed. “I think… Bayleon’s got some of Filimaya’s balm. They can use it once the bleeding has stopped.”

  They glanced ahead at Ash’s lifeless body, hanging all too limply over Espen’s shoulder.

  Still they ran, spurred on by the thought of how much faster his hunters were.

  The landscape changed little as they fled further and further from the hills. Sometimes it rose a little, sometimes it fell, but any change was so slight that it might have been a trick of the feeble light. The greyness neither brightened nor dimmed, but lay close about them, making them feel peculiarly claustrophobic, even in such a vast expanse.

  Finally, after some minutes of scrambling across the featureless terrain, they came across something that broke that monotony. A dried riverbed. The plain was fractured by low banks that fell away to an ancient sandy bed, the markings of water long since disappeared.

  Espen slowed as he reached the near bank, looked quickly both ways along its length, then jumped down, took three long strides and leapt up on the far side. Sylas and Simia followed at a rather slower pace, having to clamber carefully down the crumbling bank and help each other to climb up a few paces on.

  Espen had stopped only a short distance ahead and lowered Ash to the ground. They slowed to regain their breath and Bayleon quickly overtook them. He ran up to Espen and they began an animated conversation, which the two children heard as they approached.

  “Why?” asked Bayleon. “Before you seemed to think we had a better chance if we kept running!”

  Espen did not raise his eyes, still tending to Ash. “They move much faster than us. The girl’s right, there’s nowhere to hide. Our best chance is to make a stand right here.”

  Bayleon shook his head and threw out his arms. “But then why did we run? Why didn’t we stay where we were?”

  Espen turned away and looked back towards the hills. “You’ll see,” he said quietly.

  Bayleon stared blankly at him for a moment, but then his face started to flush with colour.

  “What do you mean, ‘you’ll see’?” he growled, trying to control his temper. “This is our lives! If you have a plan, tell us what it is.”

  Espen gave no reply, but busied himself unfolding a blanket from his pack.

  “You’re not even one of us!” continued Bayleon, stepping closer. “You want us to trust you, but we don’t even know who you are!”

  His voice had become threatening, but Espen remained silent and calm. He placed the blanket gently under Ash’s head, and then looked up at the Spoorrunner.

  “You know me well enough.”

  Bayleon was exasperated. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he growled. “I’ve never seen you before in my—”

  “You know me.” Espen’s voice was firm, insistent.

  Bayleon began to bluster: “Well, if you mean what you did for Sylas then…”

  Suddenly his voice trailed away and a frown of puzzlement came over his face. His eyes traced Espen’s features: the thick-set jaw; the scarred, slightly hollow cheeks; the ebony skin and black eyes.

  He took a step back and his face paled. “You…” he whispered.

  Their eyes met and Espen gave him a slight smile before turning away to face the horizon.

  “But we… we thought you were…”

  “Dead. I know,” said Espen, standing and looking out across the plain. “Not yet... but I’m working on it.”

  He squinted and leaned forward, peering into the distance. Everyone followed his eyes.

  About halfway between where they stood and the sombre hills, shimmering in the haze of the Barrens, was a long black line. It looked almost still, but not quite: it rippled as they watched, undulating as it followed the contours of the plain. Then, very gradually, it broke into parts. The parts took the form of a snaking line of distant black figures, equally spaced, moving in a chillingly precise formation. The silhouettes took shape: some broad, bounding on all fours, swinging their low-slung heads; others higher with fluttering black robes, moving lithely, swiftly.

  For every one of the Ghorhund there was now one of the Ghor, spread out across the advancing line, swelling the already terrifying numbers. And, as the fugitives saw their hunters, so the hunters saw them. A single howl rose from their ranks, hanging eerily in the air. It was quickly joined by more until a horrifying battle cry filled the thick, still air.

  Simia looked at Espen. “What now?”

  “We wait,” he said, his eyes still fixed on the approaching Ghor.

/>   He crossed his arms in front of him and bit his bottom lip, seeming to be taken by a sudden thought, then he glanced down at Sylas.

  “You may be able to help,” he said.

  Sylas raised his eyebrows doubtfully. “Me? How?”

  Espen took his hand and led him a few paces away. They looked out across the plain, watching the black figures grow larger and larger, their devilish forms becoming more distinct. There were even more than Sylas had first realised.

  “Do you remember the Shop of Things?” asked Espen.

  “Yes, of course,” said Sylas, startled by the mention of the shop, which now seemed so far away.

  “And the Flight of Fancy?”

  Sylas looked up at Espen with a frown. “No – I…”

  “The mobile. Do you remember the mobile?”

  “Oh… yes.”

  “And Mr Zhi told you how it works?”

  Sylas struggled to think back, all the while watching the approaching Ghor with a thumping heart. “Yes… yes, he said I did it with my imagination.”

  “Good.” Espen fell silent for a few seconds and then said: “Sylas, they will not pass the dried river.”

  “Why?”

  “Because we shall imagine it so.”

  Sylas looked at him. “Imagine... what?”

  “When I tell you, you must imagine that the entire riverbed has fallen away – that it has crumbled into nothingness – that all that remains is a chasm.”

  Sylas peered incredulously at the huge solid banks of the ravine. “I can’t do that.”

  Espen squatted down and brought his scarred face close to Sylas’s. “Did any of this seem possible before you met Mr Zhi?”