The Bell Between Worlds

by Ian Johnstone

  There was a long silence.

  Paiscion had been looking out on to the estuary, lost in thought, but suddenly he sat forward.

  “Most would say it is impossible,” he said, picking up a glass of water from the table. “But there may just be a way.”

  He stood and motioned for them all to follow.

  He led them just a few paces to a part of the deck that still lay in shadow, shrouded by one of the Windrush’s torn sails. They looked at one another expectantly. Paiscion held out the glass until it caught one of the passing beams of light and instantly it glowed with the sun’s reds and oranges. It scattered the light, casting it on to the deck at their feet so that it danced over the timbers as the water lapped in the glass. He flicked the side of the glass with his finger, making it ring with a long, resonant note that seemed to hang in the air. Inside, the surface of the water also began to vibrate and, as it did so, strange patterns formed over its surface: tiny ripples like the whorls and curves of a fingerprint.

  “Behold the Dirgheon,” said the Magruman, pointing out over the shaded deck.

  They turned and gasped, for there, depicted in the bronze light of dawn, was a perfect image of the Dirgheon, its harsh angles and jagged lines blazing out in the darkness. Around it there were streets and buildings, pathways and squares, even the river – all of them marked out in shimmering light: their outlines rippling and undulating as though made of liquid fire. The scene was viewed from somewhere high above such that the great mass of the Dirgheon looked almost square, with each of its four triangular sides clearly visible, dominating the huddling rows of buildings at its base. As the light from the glass moved, they saw the jagged rows of stone from which it was constructed and, towards the peak, the few dark openings: ominous windows, like dark eyes presiding over the cowering city below.

  Paiscion turned the glass slightly and in the same instant the entire scene turned as though they were flying in a wide arc over the city. The vivid lines of the map warped and contorted as the water undulated in the glass, but then settled and once again became distinct.

  “How do you do that?” whispered Ash, full of wonder.

  Paiscion smiled. “Just Essenfayle,” he said crisply.

  Ash looked down and made a face.

  “Now, all of you, look carefully,” commanded Paiscion. “Look there, where the river passes closest to the Dirgheon – an inlet – do you see?”

  Sure enough, they saw a place where the river met a stream or perhaps a canal, its narrow sides straight and regular. It passed between a series of low buildings, then seemed to disappear beneath one of them.

  “It’s a canal,” continued the Magruman, “a waterway that passes deep below the city and into the heart of the Dirgheon itself.”

  Simia leaned in to get a better look. “What’s it for?”

  “It serves two purposes. It forms a private route between the Dirgheon and the Temple of Isia, and it is also a gateway – a concealed entrance to the Dirgheon for those whom Thoth wishes to keep out of sight.”

  “Like who?”

  “Like us,” said Ash under his breath.

  Paiscion nodded. “That tiny canal was the last many of our sisters and brothers saw of the world.”

  Sylas shifted uneasily. “And that’s the way I have to go in?”

  “As Ash said, the main entrance is watched over day and night by Thoth’s personal guard. I’m afraid this is the only option.”

  “But surely there are still guards there?” said Simia, far from convinced.

  “There are, but a much smaller garrison. Its reputation is such that they hardly expect anyone to try to enter it.”

  “Ending’s Gate...” murmured Ash.

  “Indeed,” said Paiscion reluctantly, “some do call it that. But, as I say, the garrison that guards it is small. Small enough to be distracted, I would have thought. That will be my task.”

  “And if we get through this... this Ending’s Gate...?” asked Sylas with increasing scepticism. “How will we find her?”

  “You will find her, Sylas. Espasian has seen to that, whether he intended to or not.”

  Sylas looked confused. “How do you mean?”

  Paiscion’s eyes travelled to the bracelet on his wrist.

  Sylas gasped. “Of course! The Merisi Band!” he said, turning it in his fingers. “It’ll tell me when I’m near Naeo!”

  He gazed down at the perfectly smooth band of silver and gold: it too was there for a reason.

  Ash peered at it over Sylas’s shoulder. “This could just work…”

  “Yes, it might,” said Paiscion soberly. “But the last challenge remains. Getting out… Anything I do to distract the guard will only raise the alarm – they’re likely to double or treble their number by the time you’re finding your way out. That needs some more thought…”

  “And there’s no way out other than the main entrance?” asked Ash.

  Paiscion shook his head. “Two ways in, two ways out.”

  “What about those?” Sylas pointed to the dark windows near the top of the Dirgheon.

  “Well, yes, they’re openings, but they’re no use. Once you’re out on the terraces you can be seen for miles around; you’d never reach the bottom. No, that part of the plan is a problem.”

  He drew a long breath and once again flicked the side of the glass. The lines of the map blurred and began to move and then, slowly, new shapes began to form on the deck. It was a new map, showing corridors instead of streets, rooms in place of buildings. “Now not very much is known about the inside of the Dirgheon, but from what we have been told—”

  “I know!” exclaimed Sylas suddenly. He was not watching this new display; he was staring straight past it and along the length of the Windrush.

  The Magruman searched his face. “You know... what?”

  “I know how to get out of the Dirgheon.”

  The sentry stood in the darkened hallway, guarding the ornate doors into the Apex Chamber. It had been bred for precisely this purpose, trained for it from birth. It held its gigantic frame perfectly still and to attention, even though there was no one to see it. Even its wolfish eyes were fixed and steady, staring down the long flight of stairs that led to the chamber, alert to the slightest movement. The only motion came from its ears, which turned slightly on the sides of its mongrel head, catching the faintest sounds from the chamber, listening, attentive.

  Even for its Master, this had been a long and vicious interrogation. For hours it had heard the sobbing and pleading of the human child, the cries of pain from her father, the torment, the refusals. More than once its Master had lost his temper, filling the Apex Chamber with a terrifying roar of anger, or a scream of rage that rattled the doors on their hinges.

  But now, and for some time, all had fallen quiet. Even the child had ceased her whimpering.

  “Guard!”

  Thoth’s pervasive voice pierced the silence. Instantly the guard turned and pulled the doors wide, squinting as it entered the relative light of the Apex Chamber. It stood proudly to attention, knowing that it made a splendid sight, its burnished armour glistening in the torchlight.

  “Take her to Scarpia. I have what I need.”

  The voices of many echoed round the walls, whispering into the corners.

  The guard strode forward and untied Naeo’s bonds. It lifted her tiny limp body from the chair and carried her to the doors. It turned and bowed deeply, then stepped backwards.

  In another moment, it was gone.

  Bowe lay on the slab, watching the door close. He blinked away a tear of sweat and blood.

  She was gone.

  38

  Magruman of the Suhl

  “A Magruman of the Suhl commands the very skies;

  the ocean laps at their feet and the earth rumbles their name.”

  THE WATER WAS BLACK and flawless, smooth and heavy, like oil. It stretched around them like a vast mirror to the night sky, reflecting its dark, empty face. There were no waves,
no ripples, just lazy undulations that licked the putrid banks. The surface never broke as it slid past the sides of the boat and rose in a silent wave behind the stern; instead it heaved and rolled reluctantly, making no sound.

  Paiscion’s black silhouette appeared briefly as they passed flickering lamps high on the shore and dimly lit windows in the eaves of buildings, but in moments it was gone, swallowed back into the night. The little boat glided unseen and unheard, borne forward on the silent wave.

  “Where are we?” asked Sylas, turning to Simia’s blackened face.

  “Don’t know,” she whispered, “but it can’t be far now.”

  “Unless he’s missed it and we’re on our way back to the mill,” mumbled Ash somewhere in the darkness. “Wouldn’t that be nice?”

  As he spoke, a pair of lamps came into view. They swung on the icy breeze high above the river, illuminating Paiscion’s figure in the prow of the boat. Gone was his neat, worn shirt and threadbare smoking jacket and in their place he wore a long, flowing black robe that fell to his ankles. The change suited him. This was his rightful dress, the clothing of a Magruman. He carried himself differently, seeming larger, more substantial.

  He lowered himself to a crouch and turned towards them.

  “Quiet,” he murmured. “We’re there.”

  The boat changed direction slightly and started to head in towards the shore a little beyond the lights. As they drew nearer and the lamplight faded behind them, they saw a low arch rising from the water. The stone was grimy, coated in filth, moss and lichen, giving the opening the appearance of a sewer. The stench of rank, stagnant water poured from the gaping blackness at its centre and the illusion would have been complete were it not for an overgrown carving in the keystone of the arch: two staring, empty eyes, framed by a skeletal face. The symbol of Thoth.

  “Ending’s Gate,” whispered Ash, his pale face glowing in the darkness.

  The boat surged on, towards the arch and the narrow inlet beyond. As they entered, a shudder ran down Sylas’s spine, partly from the cold, partly the hateful smell, and in part because he knew that this – this place of decay and filth and darkness – was the last so many of the Suhl had seen of the outside world. The last thing that Naeo had seen. He felt her creeping horror as he saw the rotten stones passing overhead; her despair as the walls of the canal closed in. He became aware of Simia shivering next to him and slipped his hand into hers. She held on.

  Paiscion guided the boat with such skill that it moved along the narrow channel without once striking the walls, making their passage almost silent. Soon the buildings of the city loomed around them and they looked nervously at the warren of brick, stone and timber for any sign of movement, but they quickly realised that there were no openings: no windows, no doors, no way for the occupants to witness what travelled on that narrow canal. It had been built to pass the city by.

  They heard a clatter in one of the upstairs rooms and a chilling howl somewhere far away, but then all was quiet. The world was sleeping, unaware of their passing.

  Paiscion turned. “Here,” he breathed.

  Ash reached out and caught hold of one of the grimy stones, drawing the boat into the side. It came to rest silently against a patch of moss. Paiscion picked his way carefully towards the stern.

  “This is it,” he whispered, tying the boat to a tangled root. “Here we must part. Simia, Ash – you must go there, between those two buildings.” He pointed over the top of the canal wall to a narrow passageway leading off into the city. “Get ready. Sylas, we’ll use the towpath.”

  Simia and Ash were already in motion, gathering large bundles from the bottom of the boat and heaving them up on to their shoulders. One by one they pulled themselves on to the towpath.

  For a moment the four companions hesitated, looking from one to the other, wondering what to say, but finally Ash leaned forward, shook Paiscion by the hand and wished him good luck.

  Sylas looked steadily at Simia, then pulled at one lapel of her oversized coat. “See you later,” he said.

  They embraced awkwardly. “Good luck,” said Simia, her white teeth showing in an uneven grin.

  “Not far now, my friend,” said Ash, grasping Sylas’s shoulder.

  Sylas gave him a brave smile. When he turned back to Simia, she had already set out towards the passageway, her huge bundle swaying on her back. Ash set out after her, stooping forward under the weight of his pack.

  Sylas watched them go, his hand sliding down to his belt where he had tucked his white feather. He slid his fingers over the silky fibres, drawing comfort from the sensation, from his memory of it. He looked up at Paiscion.

  “OK,” he said, in a voice that sounded stronger than he felt. “Let’s go.”

  They walked swiftly down the towpath, Paiscion ahead, his black robe billowing about him. They reached the point where the canal narrowed and they had to press themselves close to the wall, their shoulders trailing through undergrowth and scraping the rotten stone beneath. Rounding a slight bend, Sylas cast an anxious eye along the canal, but still it extended far into the night. There was no sign of the entrance and, looking up, neither was there any sign of the Dirgheon itself, for all was shrouded in blackness. Nevertheless he could sense it now, looming above them.

  Something made him look to his left, across to the buildings on the other side of the waterway and then up, over their roofs, to the sky above. It took him a moment for his eyes to adjust, but then he saw a towering white pillar; a massive structure that soared towards the heavens, so huge that they had been beneath it for some time without seeing it. The Temple of Isia. He steadied himself against the wall and gazed up at the smooth, tapering sides, his eyes following them until they disappeared into the darkness. But something else captured his attention. It was a feeling, a presence, the proximity of something.

  “Sylas, come,” hissed Paiscion. He had stopped some way ahead and was beckoning.

  Sylas set out again, trailing his hand over the slimy wall to keep his balance, straining his eyes to see the narrowing ledge that was now all that remained of the towpath.

  They hurried along it, struggling to keep their balance as they leapt over decayed, broken stones and forced their way through the succession of creeping vines and sprawling bushes that grew from every crack and fissure.

  Suddenly Paiscion slowed his pace and pointed ahead.

  There, not far ahead of them in the gloom, was a new pitch of blackness, a dark oblong of night that seemed deeper, emptier than all around it. It was an opening. A building rose above it giving the impression of a dead end, but there was no doubting the dark emptiness beneath its foundations. It led the canal underneath the sleeping city to the Dirgheon, which was now so near that Sylas could sense its colossal mass towering above him. He looked up and saw it at once: a vast pyramid, blacker than the deepest darkness of night, brooding over the sleeping city.

  Paiscion drew him into a small alcove formed by two crooked, intersecting walls. “We must be careful. There’s no telling what is in the shadows.”

  Sylas ventured a look round the corner, over the smooth, reflective surface of the waterway to the thick darkness of the opening. He wondered if, even now, something lurked within, watching them, waiting for them. He saw only blackness, but he felt a stirring of fear in the pit of his stomach.

  Paiscion leaned down. “Don’t be frightened,” he said. He drew Sylas’s chin up with his other hand so that their eyes met. “You are far more prepared for them than they are for you.”

  Sylas nodded.

  “Good,” said the Magruman, his eyes sparkling in the darkness. “So you’re ready?”

  Sylas pushed back his shoulders. “As I’ll ever be.”

  “Of course you’re ready,” said Paiscion, smiling broadly and holding out his hand.

  Sylas reached out and shook it, holding his gaze. The Magruman’s black eyes twinkled with excitement. “Now let us have a reckoning of our own.”

  With that, he stepped for
ward on to the towpath and raised his arms, opening his palms to the heavens. Sylas looked up at him from behind, his eyes tracing the powerful shoulders, the graceful stance, the long black robe, and he sensed Paiscion becoming one with everything around him: the water in the canal, the still air, the stones, the blackness. He seemed to become larger and yet at the same time less distinct, as though he was somehow folding into the night. His robe became more like a shadow, his outstretched arms like a trick of the half-light. Everything about them grew quieter, as if the night had become more intense.

  Sylas looked about him, felt the change and knew that he was about to witness something miraculous.

  Paiscion twisted his hands, then very slowly drew them together. At the same moment there was something like the rumble of distant thunder high above them, followed by a low, almost inaudible howl. Then, as his palms met, there was the briefest silence, before he drew a deep lungful of air and brought his arms swiftly down towards the ground.

  There was a great explosion in the skies, like a clap of thunder, but louder, deeper. It made walls tremble, slates fall from roofs, timbers shift and creak. Even the stagnant waters danced and slapped the sides of the canal, as though trying to escape the deafening boom.

  But it was too late, for no sooner had the explosion died away than a new, more terrifying sound pierced the night: a raging, devilish howl that seemed to descend from the bosom of the sky. A cry of doom. It echoed through every street, square and lane, rattling windows, flinging shutters wide, rousing the bleary-eyed occupants, chilling them to the bone. And as they staggered in nightgowns to their windows, as they peered fearfully into the night, half expecting to see some beast of legend devouring their city, they saw the unthinkable.

  The skies were in motion towards a single point, the dark clouds rolling and churning as they converged. Their destination was a vast column of light and darkness that lay over the temple, shrouding it in a great downdraught of cloud, wind, rain, hail and lightning. It was as if the skies were draining away: being consumed by a gaping chasm in the earth, a breach in the world.