The Bell Between Worlds

by Ian Johnstone

  “Good of you to come,” he said gruffly, between strokes of the shovel.

  Within an hour, the fire had been lit, the remains of the stew were bubbling on the fire and the travellers were gathered round the warming flames. Simia and Ash were quietly trying to outdo one another’s knowledge of the Circle of Salsimaine: a battle that Simia seemed quite certain she would win even though she knew far less than Ash. Espen was half listening, seeming amused but distracted. By far the hungriest of the group, Bayleon had occupied himself with the stewpot, leaning over it as if hoping that the aroma alone might fill his stomach.

  Sylas lay back and watched the firelight dancing across the nearest of the dark stones. He could hardly believe that these slabs of rock had the power to take him back – back to everything he knew: Gabblety Row, his uncle, even his mother.

  He felt a pang of hurt and guilt. It felt so wrong not to be returning to her, especially now that he knew a way. But try as he might, he found Espen’s logic hard to deny. Everything he had discovered told him that this journey and the journey to his mother were one and the same. And yet here in this strange place, somewhere in the confounding blackness of the Barrens, he seemed further away from her than ever.

  He tried to control his thoughts, to think back over the past few days, to make some kind of sense of them. For some time he stared into the flickering flames, lost in his thoughts.

  Suddenly he remembered his final conversation with Fathray... the Scribe’s final words about the Samarok:

  “It may explain everything.”

  Why hadn’t he thought of it before?

  He rolled on to his front, searched through his bag and brought out the Samarok. He opened it to the page that was still marked by the piece of paper, which he tucked under his thumb. He focused his eyes on Merisu’s poem and slowly the Ravel Runes wound about each other, forming shapes that he recognised. He began to read.

  “Reach for the silvered glimmer on the lake…”

  He mouthed the words to himself, savouring each one, trying to draw out its meaning.

  “Turn to the sun-streaked shadow…”

  As he reached the end of the second line, he had to shift Mr Zhi’s piece of paper out of the way and suddenly his eyes flicked to it. There was something about it – something that he was supposed to remember. Fathray… in the Den of Scribes, at Meander Mill – he had said that it was important – that Paiscion had to see it. He cast his eyes over Mr Zhi’s smudged handwriting, whispering the words under his breath. He came to the end of the passage, frowned and started again. Still it made no sense – nothing seemed relevant. He read it three times, laid his head back and turned the words over in his mind.

  Bayleon came over and handed him a bowl of stew, which was quite enough to distract him. He laid the Samarok at his side and ate ravenously, taking up big chunks of meat with the broth. They all feasted greedily, restoring their faded energy, gradually feeling new warmth flowing to their tired limbs.

  When they had finished, they lay back against the earthen ring, basking in the heat from the flames. Prompted by Sylas’s interest in the Samarok, Simia produced her treasured notebook from her bag and began scribbling down her experiences of the journey so far, then reading them to the group as though they were the memoirs of some great and esteemed adventurer, or the writings of a seasoned journalist. This amused them all for some time, but soon her muse left her and they again fell silent.

  “I think we could all do with something warming to carry us through the night,” said Espen suddenly, producing a large leather bottle from his bag. “I have some Plume if anyone would like some.”

  Simia looked up excitedly. “What kind?”

  “Cider fudge.”

  She screwed up her nose. “No, thanks,” she said. “I don’t like apples and I don’t like cider and I don’t like fudge.”

  Sylas smiled. “I’ll try,” he said, leaning over to take the bottle.

  He raised it to his lips and took a swig. Instantly his mouth was filled with a deliciously fudgy, tangy flavour that drifted smokily down his throat and into his chest. The taste of tart, just-ripe apples mixed with a sweet creaminess that was quite intoxicating.

  “Wow,” he said, breathing out a yellowy-green cloud.

  He savoured this brief moment of colour in the midst of so much greyness. He handed the bottle to Ash who took a long swig and then lay back, blowing yellowy-green smoke rings into the air. As he raised a single finger, every other one broke to form long, snaking lines of smoke, which writhed through the darkness, coiling and twisting until they passed through the remaining rings. Soon he had formed another of his wonderful displays: at once playful and beautiful.

  Sylas watched for a while and then turned back to the piece of paper and the Samarok. This time he turned to the first full page, then laid the piece of paper next to the second paragraph as Fathray had instructed. He turned his eyes from one to the other, checking that they matched, and sure enough, each and every word of the paragraph appeared to be the same. He frowned. That told him nothing except how to read the Ravel Runes. He thought for a moment, then let his eyes drift up the page to the very top, settled back and started to read.

  “Here are recorded the chronicles of the Merisi, begun by our hand in this year of Our Lord one thousand two hundred and twenty-nine. Know that we, followers of Merisu, Master of the Sacred Arts, do set down is History willingly, in good faith and with out evil disposition. In His name, we hereby give witness of the nature of these two worlds, of the history of our peoples, and our account of the evil and cruel infamy of the Priests of Souls, who have ought suffering and misery to the people of all the world such that they are, forever more, the enemy of Mankind. “They came from the cool of the sand-scented temples: from the long dark of the coiling passages and the oily flicker of many-columned halls...”

  He paused. So that was the meaning of the paragraph on Mr Zhi’s piece of paper: it was about the Priests of Souls… Thoth, and others.

  He glanced around the fire. Bayleon and Ash had already settled down to sleep and Simia was sitting with Espen as he told her more about the Circle of Salsimaine. She sat enthralled at his feet, her arms thrown round her knees, and her face bearing an expression that Sylas had not seen before: engaged, almost admiring.

  Yawning and rubbing his eyes, he continued from where he had left off.

  “In the beginning there were twelve: one from each of the great Kemetian temples, devout priests, worthy priests, each and all. So they were until one day summoned by their king to a valley between the cataracts, to a secret place, not known to common men, but hidden deep within the rock...”

  His chin fell on to his chest and the Samarok fell closed. With the taste of apples on his lips, Sylas fell into unconsciousness.

  When Simia woke, the fire had already burned down to a dull red glow. Even in that faint light, she saw the large dark figure striding silently away from the camp. Bayleon. She looked quickly to where the others lay and saw Sylas and Ash sleeping close to the fire, breathing loudly over the deathly silence of the Barrens. But there was something wrong. There was a space next to them, and one of the packs was missing.

  Espen had gone.

  Simia pushed back her blanket, gathered her father’s coat close about her and set off after Bayleon.

  As soon as she was clear of the camp, she began to run: she knew that Bayleon would move quickly and that her only hope of following in this darkness was to keep him in sight. By some stroke of luck the cloud seemed thinner tonight and there was just enough moonlight to show the way. She slipped quickly between the massive stones, brushing them with her shoulders as she darted from side to side, trying to catch her first glimpse of Bayleon somewhere ahead. Her head was clear now and questions flew through her mind. Where was Espen? Why had he and Bayleon left the camp in the middle of the night? And was she really trying to chase a Spoorrunner?

  She ducked beneath a slanting stone, turned sharply round another and sudden
ly she was out on the open plain. A chilling breeze caressed her face, drifting out of the vast black void. She stumbled on some loose rubble and as she steadied herself she saw a movement somewhere out on the flats. It was Bayleon, stooping low to the ground and then starting forward again into the darkness.

  Dropping her head and shoulders, she sprinted, determined to keep up. Her heavy coat made it difficult to run, but it enclosed her in its folds and protected her from the penetrating chill of the open plains. She heard the crunch of charred earth beneath her feet and almost by instinct caught up some of the blackened dirt and rubbed it over her face and hands. The perfect camouflage for a night on the Barrens.

  She sped on, keeping Bayleon just in sight as he loped on through the darkness. At one point he suddenly stopped and lowered himself to the ground. She did the same, pressing herself into the dust. She scoured the darkness for whatever he had seen or heard or felt, but whatever it was eluded her. Moments later they were off again, Bayleon jogging at a careful, measured pace, Simia at a full run.

  They went on like this until her chest was heaving. Finally Bayleon slowed and she glanced about her, trying to guess what he had sensed, unnerved by the thought of what might be out there, unseen, watching. When she looked back, she froze: Bayleon had stopped. She threw herself on to the ground, struggling not to splutter as she breathed in a cloud of acrid dust.

  He too lowered himself on to all fours and then on to his stomach. For a moment he was still. The silence settled around them: a complete absence of sound that made Simia all too aware of the pounding of her heart and the rushing of blood in her ears. They were still for what seemed like minutes until finally he began clawing forward, hand over fist, dragging himself over the cracked earth.

  Hardly daring to breathe, Simia inched her way forward, pushing with the tips of her toes. Every turn of a stone, every scrape, every movement seemed enough to give her away, but she kept moving. She could still see him not far ahead of her, his great bulk pressed so close to the earth that he looked almost like a shadow.

  She stopped. Just a few paces ahead of her was a dark gash – a deep riverbed that swept round her and continued ahead until it passed near to Bayleon. Holding her breath, she began to move towards it: slowly, carefully, trying to peer over the edge. She halted. A flicker of firelight played across the far bank of the river and at the same moment she heard voices. Deep, growling, guttural voices: voices that hacked at the night air and rumbled in the sand.

  They were not human sounds, but the sounds of the Ghor.

  Fear closed her throat and drew the air from her lungs. They were only paces away. She pressed her face down into the dirt, too terrified to move, her mind racing. She tried to slow her breathing, to calm herself, to gather her thoughts. At this distance they would surely smell her at any moment. She would have no chance – Bayleon would have no chance – there was nowhere to hide.

  But then she was struck by a thought. Surely Bayleon would not just stumble into a camp of the Ghor as she had – he must have known what he was doing. She slowly lifted her face and, as she did so, she felt the gentle breeze on her forehead. It was blowing directly towards her, across the dried river. Of course, they were downwind. If she was quiet, they might not know that she was there.

  She dared to lift her knee and slowly, painfully, she eased herself forward, her chin grazing the dirt as she edged towards the bank. Her heart thumped against her ribs, seeming too loud, and she found herself holding her breath as if to slow it down.

  The final push seemed to take an age, but finally Simia was there: the ground dropped away in front of her and she found herself squinting into bright firelight. She felt the same heave of panic that she had felt just moments before.

  There, gathered in circles round three large campfires, was an entire regiment of Ghor.

  Most were leaning in towards the fire, concealed beneath cloaks as defence against the cold, but some had drawn back their hoods. The red light from the fire gave their grisly features an even more hideous complexion, highlighting the patches of skin on their dark, hairy snouts and making their almost-human eyes gleam lividly as they flicked around the circle. Their tattered, pale ears shifted beneath their thick manes as they exchanged harsh growls and barked out words, and occasionally one would raise its fearsome jaws and a hoarse, snarling cackle would issue from deep in its throat. One of them tore raw meat from an unrecognisable carcass and handed scraps to those around the nearest circle. In a motion almost too quick to be seen, they devoured it with a single gnash of their cruel teeth.

  Only one small group seemed disinterested in the meal: three tall figures that stood to one side, not far from where Simia now lay. She focused on them, pulling herself forward just a little more to try to get a better look. One was of immense build, with shoulders far broader and more muscular than any of its brethren, and it was wearing a cloak of finer material, hemmed at the bottom with crimson thread and embossed at one side with the symbol of Thoth. It was nodding and speaking animatedly to its two hooded companions, who were leaner but taller in build. Perhaps to emphasise its point, the mighty Ghor shifted to one side and raised a burly arm into the air and, as it did so, the light from the fires fell upon the furthest of the group.

  Her heart missed a beat.

  It was Espen.

  He was speaking now, grim-faced, pointing back towards the Circle of Salsimaine, directing their attention towards his sleeping friends.

  And then, just briefly, he smiled. He raised his hand, placed it on the shoulder of the Ghor commander and smiled.

  Simia covered her mouth. She felt sick to the pit of her stomach. How could he smile? The world seemed to have turned upside down. She clamped her hand over her mouth in an attempt to stop herself from crying out, or from being sick. Unable to watch any longer she rolled on to her back, staring up at the empty black sky. Espen? How could it be? Their own Magruman!

  She tried to calm herself, to control her breathing, to clear her mind. Perhaps she was wrong. Perhaps he had been captured and he was negotiating, or misleading them, or… something. She had to know what he was saying. She had to get closer.

  Turning on to her front, she pulled herself as slowly as she could along the edge of the bank, bringing herself a little nearer the group. She longed to reach a point where she could hear him, find out that she was wrong – that all this was a misunderstanding. A few moments later she was crawling out of the part of the bank that was nearest to Espen.

  She heard his voice: serious, insistent.

  “That wasn’t the deal. I’ll bring the boy. That’s what we arranged.”

  A chill ran down her spine.

  “The deal?” It was a woman’s voice: a silky, feminine, playful voice. “My dear Espasian, the deal was struck before you annihilated an entire company of Ghor.”

  “There was no alternative,” said Espen coolly. “And anyway, that was the boy. I had no idea he had that kind of power.”

  “All the more reason to take him in hand now,” purred the woman menacingly. “While we still can.”

  Breathless, Simia raised her head over the bank and looked down.

  The woman was clearly visible now. She was almost as tall as Espen, though her figure was slighter and more elegant. The feminine lines of her body were visible even beneath the folds of her long black gown. Her dark complexion made her face barely visible in the shadow of her hood, but her features seemed delicate, even feline, and the whites of her large narrow eyes glowed brightly in the flames.

  “Scarpia,” whispered Simia contemptuously.

  Espen leaned towards Scarpia threateningly. “You know that would be a mistake. We can’t control him out here. He knows now. He knows what he can do.”

  “Just how much does he know?” asked Scarpia calmly. “Has he used a Glimmer Glass?”

  Suddenly Simia stopped breathing.

  She could feel something on her ankle. Something was creeping up her calf, grasping her leg.

 
She whipped her head round in terror and saw a white hand clasped round her ankle. She felt a cry of horror rising in her chest, but somehow she kept it in, pressing her lips together.

  Then she saw Bayleon’s face in the darkness. His finger was at his lips and a frown creased his sweating brow.

  He did not speak, but mouthed his words silently: “Quiet! Come, now!”

  Simia felt a great wave of relief. Relief to see Bayleon’s face, and also because, had he not found her just then, she really had no idea what she would have done next. The world seemed to be coming to an end. Espen had betrayed them. It all seemed so wrong, so unreal.

  She dipped below the edge of the bank and began shifting backwards, away from the light. Her mind was still a flurry of thoughts as she slithered over the dry earth and when she felt a resistance against her shoulder she pushed without thinking.

  Suddenly a seam tore open, threads gave way.

  She froze, holding her breath, daring to hope that the wind might have carried the sound away. But as she listened her heart fell. The noisy chatter had stopped. Everything was still.

  She looked desperately towards Bayleon and he met her eyes.

  In that moment his face showed an agony of fear, self-reproach and then despair. In the next his features were set and he seemed resolved.

  “Take this!” he hissed, wrenching something from his bag. “It’ll show you the way. Now run, Simsi! Run like you’ve never run before! Get Sylas to Paiscion!”

  And then, as if to pre-empt her reply, he swung his feet beneath him, gave her a brief, bold smile and stood up.

  Simia cried out despite herself. What was he doing?

  But her voice was drowned by a hideous chorus of howls that erupted from below. As Bayleon stepped forward into the light, they became wild, rising to a fever pitch.

  With an expression of scorn and defiance, the great Spoorrunner climbed down the bank. His shoulders were back, his head was held high and his eyes were fixed on Espen’s face.