They told him everything that had happened. When Simia described the earth cracking in two and the deafening thunder as the chasm closed up, even Ash seemed impressed. He looked Sylas up and down.
“I knew there was something about you,” he said.
Sylas smiled, dropping his eyes.
At that moment they heard muffled voices somewhere out in the blackness. They all fell silent, instinctively lowering themselves to the ground. They soon made out two male voices talking rather loudly a short distance away in the direction of the river.
“Espen and Bayleon,” Sylas said, relieved.
They heard Espen’s words first: “… And so I followed the boy to the mill, and then here.”
“Yes, I understand,” replied Bayleon. “But why didn’t you just come and tell us when you reached the mill?”
“You know I can’t show myself in public, Bayleon. It’s not time for that. There are spies everywhere – even in the mill.”
“Not in the mill,” grunted Bayleon. “I’d stake my life on it.”
“Well, after all I have seen in the past few years I wouldn’t stake mine. It was a risk I couldn’t take.”
“So instead you risk our lives by having a Slithen spy on us!”
“I couldn’t have known it would betray me,” protested Espen. “I had worked with it before without problems and I was paying it well. Anyway, I had to be able to protect the boy while keeping myself a secret. Surely you understand that?”
“No. I don’t understand at all,” Bayleon replied gruffly.
Both men fell silent and all Sylas could hear was the thud of footsteps in the dirt. Finally the two huge black silhouettes emerged through the gloom, striding directly towards the camp. They clambered into the circle, dropped their loads of firewood and looked about them.
“That’s a very fine fire pit,” said Espen, his voice betraying his surprise. He looked at Simia. “You’ve done this before.”
She grinned, her white teeth glowing in the darkness. “Told you,” she said, patting the earthen bank. “I know my way around this place.”
A fire was laid and before long they were all gathered around, sitting back against the bank, the trace of an orange flicker playing across their faces. Bayleon had prepared a pot of meat and potatoes and laid it among the embers, and the first warming aromas were rising in trails of steam. Everything was silent except for an occasional crackle or hiss from the fire and all were lost in their thoughts, staring into the fire, watching the dancing flames as they licked the sides of the pit and occasionally leapt into the blackness.
Simia was sitting next to Espen and was trying to draw him into conversation. She searched his face with such interest and attentiveness that it was as if they were engaged in the most fascinating debate, but in truth Espen seemed hardly aware of her: his eyes darting around the group, his expression solemn and distracted. Occasionally his lips seemed to move as though murmuring something under his breath, playing out his own secret conversation in the confines of his mind.
Bayleon sat silent and alone on one side of the fire, his face dark and serious, only occasionally raising his eyes to glance at Sylas or Espen. He had not spoken to anyone since his return.
Ash looked bored. He tapped a spoon on his knee absentmindedly and looked about for some kind of amusement. His eyes moved from Bayleon’s face and then to Espen’s, but they didn’t acknowledge him. He tugged at his great mop of hair in frustration, then placed his spoon at his side. Quietly, he rested his hands on his knees and straightened his fingers. They danced lightly as though he was playing on a piano, shifting from side to side, up and down according to some strange and inaudible rhythm. Above him, the many sparks that rose from the fire began to perform a silent ballet in the darkness, leaving a trail of incandescence in their wake. The pinpricks of fire swayed and whirled, leapt and fell, tracing impossible pathways through the air. His display soon drew the eyes of the group and they watched in amusement as the sparks began to form patterns in the night sky, gliding between, above and below one another until they seemed to settle in one place.
“There you are,” said Ash triumphantly. “What need of the night sky when we can make our very own!”
Simia looked at the sparks more closely and then frowned. She cocked her head on one side.
“It is!” she gasped, pointing up at the glowing lights. “It’s the stars! That’s the Southern Star! And there – look! That’s the Panhandle!”
She reached into her bag, pulled out her notebook and flicked to a page towards the back. “Yes! I thought so! And that’s the Bear!” she cried, jabbing her finger at a collection of sparks and then pointing at the page in her notebook. “And there – there’s the Ewe!”
Bayleon and Espen tilted their heads and shifted to get a better look.
“Clever,” grunted Bayleon with a smile, returning his eyes to the fire. “Just don’t be long about it – the whole point of a fire pit is to avoid being seen...”
“I agree,” murmured Espen, breaking his silence for the first time. He gave Ash a nod of appreciation. “But you are good. You control them well.”
Ash shrugged. “Nothing exciting,” he said, watching as the patterns slowly rose into the night and faded away, “just Essenfayle.”
Espen raised an eyebrow and a look of amusement passed over his face.
“Just Essenfayle indeed,” he murmured. “When you have Essenfayle, what need of anything else?”
Ash gave no answer, but he shook his head and smiled to himself.
Sylas sat alone on the far side of the fire. He had been only distantly aware of the astonishing lights above his head: his body was tired and his mind was full. He was aware that he ought to be amazed by this new wonder, that he ought to be excited about all that had happened in that impossible, magical, overwhelming day, but above all else, he wanted to clear his head and sleep. He wanted quiet, a brief solace from all these marvels – some time to rest, that was all.
He shifted position, trying to get comfortable, hoping that the flames would soothe him and the darkness would ease him into slumber. But, as the little camp fell silent and the fire offered its lullaby of crackles and hisses, the world of miracles rushed back in. His mind filled with the astonishing sights and sounds of his journey.
So many things to be understood. So many questions.
He puffed out his cheeks and turned over. There was no way he was going to sleep. He looked over at Espen as he lay back with his cloak arranged about him, occasionally nodding or shaking his head as Simia spoke. Surely, if anyone could answer his questions, it was Espen. He had been there at the beginning, in Gabblety Row; he had helped him to reach the Passing Bell; and now he had suddenly reappeared out of nowhere, to save them all.
Sylas pushed himself up on one elbow and opened his mouth to speak, but before he made a sound, Espen lifted his eyes.
“It would seem a good time to talk, Sylas, would it not?” he asked.
Sylas drew breath. How did he—?
“No vicious beasts snapping at your heels, no mystic bells ringing in your ears... We must take what few opportunities we have, don’t you think?” An enigmatic smile traced his lips.
Sylas smiled. “I was... I was just thinking the same thing. I wanted to ask you—”
“There are three pressing questions,” interrupted Espen, raising his hand by way of apology. He pushed himself up into a sitting position and rested his elbows on his knees. “The first is who I am. The second is why I am here. The third – and I must say that this is far more interesting – is who the devil are you?” There was a gruff bark, the slap of a bolt and suddenly the large timber door fell away. A cool blue-grey light flooded the interior of the carriage. The prisoners shielded their eyes and retreated to the furthest corners, drawing closer to one another in fear.
One of the Ghor guards vaulted down on to the riverbank and heaved a crude wooden ladder into place while the other bounded back into the crowd of prisoners and bega
n hauling them to their feet.
“Get up, vermin!” it growled, pushing them towards the ladder. “Time for a boat ride!”
The terrified captives filed down the ladder, squinting to see what new torment awaited them. They found themselves on a riverbank, in the dank remains of a wooded glade. The trees had lost all of their leaves, which had long since rotted away, and the silver trunks were hung about with decaying bark, which gave them a ragged, unnatural appearance. Large pendulous clouds rolled above them, cutting out the sunlight and cloaking the scene in a cool grey. Most of the Suhl lowered their eyes, knowing all too well what place this was, not wishing to see any more of it than they had to. To them, the borderlands of the Barrens were a reminder of their defeat, of the abominations of the Reckoning, and worse, a promise of what lay at the end of their journey.
But while most trudged despairingly between the armoured Ghor guards, trailing towards the barge, two of their number were different. Fellfith and Hinksaff had slowed to the rear of the group, their eyes casting about anxiously, their gait certain and purposeful, their faces lively and focused. They counted the guards in the glade, spied the Slithen harnessed to the barge, peered into the deathly woods beyond, looking for signs of others.
It was this energy that had drawn the attention of the Scryer.
Bowe had also slowed to the rear of the column so he could watch them more closely, and he became anxious at what he saw. He looked past the world of sight and sound, past the steely visages of the two men, past the muddle of the crowd. He saw instead a rich tapestry of colour and form: the piercing blues of hope, the swirling steely greys of courage, the sharp, stabbing reds of rage. He knew the meaning of these things and it filled him with dread.
He drew alongside them, fell into step and took them both by the arm.
“Don’t!” he whispered urgently.
“Silence!”
One of the guards leapt forward and swiped at Bowe’s chest. Despite his size, Bowe was lifted bodily into the air and hurled backwards, landing some distance from the other prisoners. He slithered down the riverbank and came to rest just inches from the foul grey waters.
“Bowe!” cried Fathray, straining against one of the other guards.
Bowe groaned and looked up. He saw all too well what was about to happen. Fellfith and Hinksaff were already in motion, using the disturbance as a distraction to step clear of the column of prisoners, gather their thoughts and begin.
Hinksaff turned his freckled, youthful face to the skies, casting his arms up into the air as if praying to some god. And he seemed to receive an answer, for instantly the clouds began to boil and swirl, heave and shift. Some began to fall from the skies, others twisted and turned, while others still folded in upon themselves, exposing the blue sky above. Shafts of sunlight pierced the gloom, sending welcome beams on to the riverbank, over the watching crowd, into the eyes of the Ghor. They darted and wove, flashed and subsided, disappearing here only to reappear somewhere else, brighter and more intense. The effect was utter confusion, a bewildering muddle of light and dark, motion and form: an effect that was only compounded when the falling clouds swooped over the river, descended over the barge, the Slithen, the unsuspecting Ghor.
But that was not all: Fellfith was at his friend’s side, his arms extended towards the river, sweeping in wide arcs over its surface. As if answering his call, the waters began to swell and churn, the surface boiling and frothing as though heated by the sun’s rays. But it was not the sun that made the sickly waters bubble: it was what lay within. Suddenly a great surge of life erupted from the deep: great shoals of leaping, grey-flanked fish; writhing hordes of eels; troops of scampering crabs; armies of wriggling worms; and scurrying legions of insects all closed in upon the bank, filling the barge, clambering over the Slithen, scuttling between foot, fin and claw.
The Ghor were in utter confusion, looking for their commander, who was lost somewhere in the crowd, fogs and sunbeams, battling with great swarms of creatures that assailed it from all sides.
“Run!” cried Fellfith to his brethren as he marshalled the slithering hordes, backing towards the edge of the glade.
“Make for the trees!” bellowed Hinksaff as he wove clouds and sunbeams, retreating at his friend’s side.
Already they were entering the gloom of the woods, sensing that soon they would have some cover, hope of escape. They called again to the others, and some began to break from the crowd, running for the edge of the clearing.
Suddenly Bowe rose to his feet and waved his arms in the air. “No!” he cried. “No! No!” But it was too late.
The chariot crashed through rotting trunks, snapping them like twigs, its golden wheels shattering the timber and pressing it deep into the mud. A single figure stood tall behind the reins, her crimson gown billowing around her elegant form, her beautiful face set firm as she reared the Ghorhund to a halt. The two beasts clawed the filthy mud, baying and howling as they brought the great weight of the glittering chariot to a shuddering halt in the centre of the glade. Scarpia’s eyes flashed with rage as she took in the scene: the great swarm of beasts and insects, the muddled sunbeams, the shifting fogs, the confusion of her guards.
She let out an almighty shriek, a hideous scream of fury that rose to a shrill battle cry. She cast down the reins and threw her arms wide, her small hands grasping at thin air, clawing into fists. In the same moment there were screams from the crowd of prisoners as great sections of the riverbank buckled and broke, folding in upon themselves, trapping fish, eels and insects, uprooting trees, wrong-footing the Ghor commander until it too fell into the muddy morass. Then, as Thoth’s Magruman raised her fists and swept them towards the fleeing Suhl, the great writhing piles of mud and beasts were hoisted towards the heavens, arching across the glade, colliding with a thunderous boom, sending down a shower of filth and debris.
Slowly, calmly, she opened her fists and dropped her hands.
Bowe sank to his knees and tears fell down his cheeks. He watched the massive weight of trees, mud and beasts fall from the sky, crushing what remained of the wood at the edge of the glade, engulfing Fellfith, Hinksaff and two other fleeing prisoners as they ran.
The fogs dispersed, rising back to the darkening sky. The remaining creatures writhed and squirmed their way back to the river or flapped and gasped on a muddy grave.
As the surviving prisoners wept, the sunbeams faltered and died.
27
The Glimmer Myth
“Reach for the silvered glimmer on the lake…”
ASH STIRRED, DRAWING HIS knees up and leaning forward so that he could hear a little better. Bayleon continued to stare into the fire, but his shifting eyes betrayed his interest. Simia shuffled so far forward that she was rather too close to the flames, but in her excitement she seemed entirely unaware of them. Her eyes sparkled expectantly.
“Let’s begin with the easier of the questions,” said Espen, patting his chest. “As Bayleon will tell you, I have not always gone by the name Espen. Like many of our kind, I have had to change my name since the war.” His eyes moved from face to face. “I was once called Espasian.”
Ash sat bolt upright and glanced over at Bayleon, who nodded without raising his eyes from the fire.
Simia’s jaw fell open and for a moment even she seemed lost for words. “Espasian? The Magruman?” she blurted.
Espen nodded.
“But… you were killed,” blurted Ash, squinting a little as he scrutinised the stranger’s face more closely. “I mean... we thought you died at the Reckoning.”
“As did I,” said Espen, arching a scarred eyebrow. “And I should have died. But this brings me to the question of why I am here, and for this you must allow me to tell a little of my story.”
He settled back against the bank and the others leaned in even further.
“After the battle I woke half buried in earth with my shoulder torn open. I lay there, amid the fire and devastation, wondering if this was some terrible perv
ersion of an afterlife, some punishment for Merimaat’s death – for all that we had allowed to happen.” His eyes flicked briefly to Bayleon’s face. “But I should have known better: such abominations are things of this world and not of that. The Ghor soon appeared, picking through the dying and dead, their voices oiled with pride at their victory. And to heap shame upon shame, they found me. Drooling at the glory of it, they gathered me up and hurled me into a cart with a few other unfortunate souls.”
Ash’s eyes narrowed eagerly. “Did you recognise any of them?”
Espen shook his head. “I didn’t see them – we were kept apart.”
Bayleon grunted and poked the fire violently, which sent a shower of sparks crackling and hissing into the air.
“What I do remember is that the Ghor carried Thoth’s standard, so they were almost certainly taking us to the Dirgheon. But I, for one, never reached it. On the second night I escaped from their camp and took to the Barrens.”
“And the others?” asked Ash.
Espen dropped his eyes to the fire. “I don’t know. I only just managed to get myself out before…”
“You’re a Magruman!” interrupted Bayleon, heaving his bulky frame forward so that the flames lit his broad features. “How could you leave your own people in the hands of those animals?”
Espen was silent for some moments, then picked up a dry, rotten stick and tossed it into the fire.
“I was injured and exhausted, Bayleon,” he said. “But it wasn’t just that. It was defeat. The legions, the Spoorrunners, the Scryers, the Casters, the Sea People, the Magrumen, Merimaat herself – all of us – we had all seen the end, watched everything fall. It was all I could do to keep myself alive let alone others. You remember what it was like – we had nothing left. Nothing.”
Bayleon’s brow furrowed and he clenched his hands into fists. He eased himself back into the shadows to rest on the bank. “But we’re not Magrumen,” he growled quietly, sliding his hands behind his head.
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