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What Cause So Great?
“When nations fall, when day is done,
When all is lost, when naught is won,
What nobler charge, what cause so great,
As brother’s plight and kindred’s fate?”
IT WAS AS THOUGH she was aflame. Her lungs burned in her chest, her muscles screamed and hot tears scorched her cheeks. She fled on to the open plains, away from the horrifying baying of the Ghor, out into the night.
For some time she stumbled and ran, unsure where she was headed, just desperate to get away, to keep moving, to stop thinking. She gasped and sobbed in equal measure, struggling to breathe. But, as the noise faded behind her, as the night wrapped her in its cool blanket, her mind began to clear. She thought of Bayleon’s last words.
She reached into her pocket and felt the smooth, cold ball of glass that he had given her. Without slowing, she brought it out and held it in front of her, straining to see it in her hand. It caught the dim moonlight and, for a moment, she saw a gleam of silver somewhere in its heart. Then blackness. She shook it, her steps starting to falter, but still there was nothing.
Then Simia saw something in the corner of her eye. A trace of silver light on the plain, so faint that she almost doubted that it was there.
She changed direction, heading towards it, her eyes scouring the darkness. She saw it again: a thin, shimmering line of silver on the ground, somewhere to her left.
As she drew nearer, it seemed to grow brighter and more distinct. She looked at the black orb and closed her hand about it. The line disappeared. She opened her hand wide and it glowed once more, just a few paces away. She saw that it was not so much a line, but a muddle of silver markings in the dust.
She slowed to a stop, gasping for air, and stooped down over them. They were large silver footprints heading back towards the dry riverbed. Between them, she saw a collection of smaller ones: less regular than the others, one foot turned slightly inwards.
She gathered her coat about her, sucked in a lungful of air and set out along the silver tracks.
He watched her as she walked silently down the verdant bank, her long train of fair hair feathered by the wind, her gown billowing and her elfin frame moving effortlessly towards the lake. He let his eyes pass over her thick glossy hair, her narrow shoulders, her small fragile figure. He caught a glimpse of her rosy cheek, her smooth skin. Something stirred in him: an impossible mix of despair and hope.
“Wait for me!” he cried.
She whirled about, her hair flying up in the breeze, partly shrouding her lively features.
There, looking back at him, was a face that he knew. She was shouting now, her face panicked, afraid. There was no sound, but suddenly he heard her in his head.
“Wake up! They’re coming!”
“They’re coming!”
Simia’s face was contorted with fear, her eyes bleary and bloodshot.
“They’re coming!” she screamed again.
Sylas felt a surge of adrenalin as he was wrenched from sleep.
She had her hands on his shoulders and was shaking him violently.
“Espen’s betrayed us!” she sobbed.
He rubbed his eyes, still confused from a deep sleep. “What do you mean?”
“He was leading us into a trap! He was taking you in... taking you to Thoth!”
“Espen?” repeated Ash, sitting bolt upright. “That doesn’t make any sense…”
Simia closed her eyes and let out a slow sigh. “I know it doesn’t add up, I know it doesn’t make any sense! I just saw him with a whole company of Ghor and… and I saw Scarpia too.”
“Scarpia?”
“Yes. They’ve got Bayleon – he gave himself up to save me. I only just got away.”
Sylas felt a surge of panic, but he could see that Simia was far worse: her face was pale and streaked with tears and her hands trembled as she tucked them under the arms of her coat. She seemed haunted, staring wide-eyed at the last red glow of the fire, rocking slightly backwards and forwards.
“He did it because of me. It was my fault…”
“Come on,” he said, taking her arm. “Let’s get out of here.”
He helped her to stand up. He and Ash quickly gathered their things and stuffed them into their bags. They hesitated over Bayleon’s and Espen’s belongings, but quickly decided to leave everything where it lay. Ash kicked over what remained of the fire and they were plunged into a blue-black darkness.
“Which way should we go?” asked Sylas, pulling his bag over his shoulder.
“Follow me,” said Simia. “I know the way.”
She set out towards the far side of the circle of stones and Sylas turned to follow.
Ash took a few steps, then hesitated and stopped. “Wait,” he said.
The others turned and looked at him questioningly.
“I’m going to stay. They’ll probably guess that you’re heading to the city. If we all run, they’ll find us before sun-up. If I stay behind, I can buy you some time.”
“No,” said Sylas flatly. “We can’t just leave you – we’ve already lost Bayleon.”
Simia stepped back into the circle. “Ash is right,” she said reluctantly. “We’ve got almost no chance on the Barrens unless one of us stays behind.”
Ash nodded. “Good then.”
“I’ll do it,” said Simia.
“You will not!” cried Ash. “What we need is confusion, mayhem, chaos! This is my kind of job!” He grinned broadly, though his eyes betrayed his anxiety. “Besides, you know your way across the Barrens far better than I do.”
Simia hesitated: there was no doubting that Ash’s magic would be the perfect foil for the Ghor or that she knew the Barrens far better than he.
“Let me do something,” said Sylas suddenly. “Something like I did before – at the river...”
“This time you’re not only facing the Ghor,” said Ash, putting a hand on his shoulder. “There are probably two Magrumen out there as well.” He drew himself up. “I’m staying and that’s final. Don’t worry, I’ll catch up with you in the city – at Paiscion’s place.”
Sylas hesitated, looking first at Ash, then at Simia, certain that this was wrong. Too many people were risking themselves for him, for this strange, unfathomable journey he was on.
“I can’t let you do this… not for me.”
“Listen,” said Ash firmly. “I’m not doing this for you – I’m doing it for Bayleon, for Fathray – for all of them. You once asked why I couldn’t help them on the river. Well, I couldn’t without doing more harm than good. But I can do this – I really can – and this may just help everyone. Go,” he said imploringly. “If you hang about much longer, it won’t matter which of us stays behind!”
Ash held out his hand. Sylas looked at it for a moment, then extended his own.
“Thank you, Ash,” he said earnestly.
Ash winked. “I’ll be right behind you.”
“We’ll be waiting for you, Ash,” said Simia. She held his gaze for a moment, then turned her back.
They walked quickly to the other side of the circle, between the standing stones and out into the night.
Ash stood in silence at the centre of the clearing and watched them go.
“Good luck, young man,” he muttered under his breath. He sucked air through his teeth.
“Now, what am I doing?”
He swallowed hard, turned on his heel and started to survey the camp. His eyes moved slowly from the fire pit to Espen’s blanket, to Bayleon’s bag, to the great stone table, then back to the fire pit. He stared at it for a moment and smiled.
He walked over to Bayleon’s bag and rummaged through it, discarding ropes and strange objects until he found the shovel, which he pulled out and examined closely. Then he took a small jar from his own bag and stuffed it in his pocket. He gazed round the circle of stones and then walked decisively across the clearing towards a large arch. He stepped up to the stone on the left
, which had been sheared from its top corner, leaving a ragged, sloping surface. His eyes traced a path up the rough, broken stone to the flat platform at its top.
He patted the rock. “Good,” he said, and set off into the darkness, swinging the shovel at his side.
The Circle of Salsimaine still loomed some distance behind them when Simia finally slowed her pace. She turned to check that Sylas was with her and found him right at her shoulder.
“How could Espen do this?” she panted, shaking her head.
“I don’t know,” he replied. “He seemed to be helping, right from the start.”
“But did he, really? Or was he just pretending?”
“He did help me. He saved me from the Ghorhund – that’s how he got the scar on his face.”
“I know…” said Simia thoughtfully. “But when he spoke to Scarpia, he made it sound like he’d only done what he had to – you know – to make us trust him.”
Sylas searched his mind. Could he really have been pretending all along?
“No. I don’t believe it,” he said firmly. “Even Mr Zhi trusted him.”
“So Espen told you,” said Simia doubtfully. “You never actually saw them together. Maybe nothing he said is true. Maybe he’s been working with Thoth all along.”
Sylas lowered his head and felt the sick, empty feeling returning to his stomach.
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
Simia scuffed the ground with her heel and drew a deep breath. “Well, if anyone will know what’s going on, it’s Paiscion,” she said. “He knows Espen better than anyone alive. Come on – we have to keep moving.”
Sylas sighed. “How far is it?”
“Five hours… I’d probably do it in three if I ran most of the way.”
“So let’s run.”
Simia looked at him doubtfully. “It’s not that easy – even for me. It’s dark and there are ravines and fall-aways and…”
“Go as fast as you like – I’ll keep up,” said Sylas, remembering the dingy passages of Gabblety Row.
She raised her eyebrows, smiled briefly and then set off at a jog, quickly disappearing into the night.
It was less Simia’s speed that made her difficult to follow than her curious sixth sense for spotting uneven ground, cracks in the earth, rises and drops. Even in the darkness she seemed to know where to turn, where to slow down and where it was safe to accelerate to a sprint. While she would dart nimbly to one side to avoid a ditch, rock or mound, Sylas would see the obstacle a moment too late and stumble into it, fall over it or drop into it. It was all he could do to keep her in sight and stay on his feet.
But soon he learned to follow her steps exactly, settling into a more manageable rhythm. They ran and ran, their feet thumping the dust until sweat poured from their brows, and their legs and chests burned.
Finally, to his very great relief, Simia slowed to a jog and suddenly came to a complete stop.
“Sun… will be up… soon,” she panted, resting her hands on her knees. “Best to get… out of sight.”
“How?”
Simia made no reply, but took a step forward and jumped into the darkness. He heard her coat flutter around her and her shoes scuff the earth and, in an instant, she was gone.
He peered into the darkness. “Simia?”
“Down here.”
He looked down and saw the pale glow of Simia’s face some distance below him, then the gleam of her broad grin.
He was standing on the very edge of another deep bank, so deep that Simia’s head was level with his feet. He looked around and saw the faint, dark outline of a narrow channel snaking off into the blackness. It was an old dried-up creek, so narrow that he had not even seen it. He blew out a long breath – if he had taken another step forward, he would have fallen headlong into it.
“Come on,” said Simia. “They won’t see us down here.”
He slithered down the bank, causing a small landslide of soil and dust.
“Nicely done,” she said sarcastically.
“Thanks,” muttered Sylas, dusting himself down.
“Now it’s going to be difficult to follow me down here...”
“Difficult down here?” retorted Sylas.
“Yes, well, it’s worse down here,” she said emphatically. “You’re going to have to do what I do. You need to feel your way a bit more.”
“Well, I felt that ditch I fell into back there,” he said ironically. “You mean like that?”
“Absolutely not like that. You’re only falling into things because you don’t feel them before you reach them. If you feel something with your hands, it’s too late. Feel with your mind.”
“My mind?”
“Remember the story I told you about Merimaat and the stepping stones – how she told me that they weren’t trying to trip me, that they—”
“… want to help.”
“Well, it’s just like that. You need to remember that everything’s connected – that you’re linked to everything: the air, the Barrens, the earth in these riverbanks. You need to feel them – know where they are just as they know where you are. See?”
Sylas reached out to the dark bank at his side. “You mean, even when I can’t see them?”
“Exactly,” said Simia. She squeezed his arm. “This is Essenfayle – real Essenfayle – much purer than what you did with the Ghor. You’ll have to concentrate. Come on – let’s give it a go.”
She turned and set out into the darkness. Sylas stood for some seconds pondering her words, then sprinted after her.
He struggled to make out her figure as she turned quickly left and then right. He threw his weight one way and then the other and, to his surprise, he brushed smoothly past two great banks of earth. He corrected his balance and looked ahead to see a shadow darting to one side, disappearing behind a wall of earth. He shortened his pace, heaved his weight to one side and ran headlong into the bank.
The commander slowed to a halt in mid-stride, its massive shoulders heaving slowly from the exertion of the sprint. It lifted its snout and took a long, deep breath of the night air. Its faded yellow eyes blinked and it drew its broad glistening brow into a frown. It was silent for a moment, then it released a growl from deep in its throat, which summoned two of the company to its side.
When it spoke, it was with a deep, inhuman voice: a collection of hacking and rasping sounds that hissed through its teeth. “Two tracks,” it said. “You – take that one; and you…”
It stopped.
A pinprick of light had broken the darkness somewhere on the horizon. It flickered and flared, then burst into life.
“Fools,” it rasped. “We’ll have them before dawn.”
It lurched forward, taking long, athletic strides towards the light, lowering its great upper body as it ran. The others fell in behind, mimicking its step, moving perfectly in time. As they gathered speed, there was hardly a sound: only the wind about their cloaks and the deep, almost inaudible thump, thump, thump of their clawed feet in the dust.
Before they had travelled any distance, they suddenly reared up behind their leader.
Another pinprick of light had flared out of the darkness, far off to their right.
The commander let out a low growl, turned and called gutturally to the nearest of its lieutenants, then barked a series of orders. The lieutenant sped off, leading a small group of Ghor in the direction of the new fire, while the rest of the company continued on their original path.
No sooner had they settled into a pace than another fire erupted out of the blackness, this time off to their left. Then another flared in the distance. Once again the commander paused, sniffing the air, trying to pick up a scent. After a long pause it snarled in frustration and motioned for the company to divide again. Soon there were four groups prowling silently through the darkness, nearing the four sources of light.
The commander lowered itself still further, its foul tufted jaws sweeping just a few inches from the ground, its cloak brushing the surfac
e of the plain. The fire cast a halo of bright light that was difficult to look at after the blackness of the Barrens, and it drew its hood low over its eyes.
As they took their final agile steps, its black, drooling gums twisted upwards and back, baring its long yellow teeth, still bloody from the earlier feast. Raising its great head, it issued a wild howl from deep in its chest, rolled back on its haunches and threw itself forward as the death cries of its brethren pierced the night. The other groups were also attacking.
The commander bore down on the fire, crashing into the light with a vicious gnash of its jaws, searching for its prey. It roared at the light, snapped at the air and raged at the dust.
There was no one there.
The other Ghor loped about the fringe of the light, searching for any sign of life, but they found nothing.
“It’s a trick!” the commander roared, turning its fierce eyes towards the fire. “This is no camp!”
It turned its mighty frame towards the flames and jabbed at them with one of its claws. The fire went out in an instant, as though it had been smothered. It snarled contemptuously, lowered its snout to the small pile of sand that was left behind and sniffed. It retreated, its ears pressed back against its head, then it sniffed again.
It tilted its head to one side.
“Mustard…” it growled.
Sylas’s heart hammered in his chest as he sped through the low riverbed, a grin of excitement growing across his face. He charged into the darkness, sometimes sprinting ahead, sometimes darting inexplicably to one side. He could feel them: he could sense the walls of the riverbed around him, feel their approach as he slid between them. He could smell the dry earth in his nostrils, feel its weight pressing on his chest, see it through the gloom: black upon black, grey upon grey. Occasionally a wall of the creek grazed his shoulder as he took a turn too sharply, but otherwise he ran, ran as though he had passed this way countless times before, as though he knew these twists and turns as he knew those of Gabblety Row.
But it was more than that: he felt as though he belonged there, like the water that had once boiled and churned and flowed between its walls. He felt part of it, connected to it, as though it was welcoming him, opening itself to him and showing him the way. In his mind’s eye he could see the creek zigzagging across the plain, imagine its contours and its deep, dark banks, as though his imagination had taken the place of sight. And the further he ran, the surer he became that this was not a new feeling. He had felt this before – not often, but sometimes: in the deranged corridors of Gabblety Row, in the darkened streets of the town, in the forested hills. He had felt what he had not even known. It was within him – natural to him.
The Bell Between Worlds Page 32
