That could only mean one thing. The wyloth swished around the bend, its eyes shining with the mysticism of a pair of dying suns. Tyler noticed another type of light was glinting up ahead. Could it be …?
“Tyler, watch out!”
Varkon dropped his torch, and Tyler stepped over the raging flame. Soon afterwards there was a terrible scream. The wyloth must have slipped over the oily blaze, caressing its long body with heat.
With a shout Varkon burst from the tunnel into the daylight. Tyler did the same, but something collided with his jaw, causing his feet to wrench out ahead of him. From where he lay on his back, he saw a ghatu silhouetted against the blue.
“Vavo kru—”
The wyloth blasted through the tunnel and took the ghatu in mid-sentence. It was moving so quickly that it propelled entirely over Tyler’s flattened body, passing inches from his upturned face. It then whipped itself about while swallowing the ghatu with a single bite, armour, spear, and all, before ploughing back into the side of the mountain, thrashing like a worm until only a cloud of disturbed dust remained.
Tyler raised himself to his elbow, his eyes watering. He put a tentative hand to his jaw. The sun was in the middle of the sky, and after the long ages spent peering continuously into gloom, it seemed painfully bright. He rose a hand to shield his face from the glare.
A hand touched his shoulder. “Are you all right?” Varkon was kneeling over him.
Tyler blinked, lizard-like. “I’ll be fine.”
Haranio hobbled from behind. “Tyler, are you hurt?”
Tyler scrambled to his feet quickly, legs straddling unsteadily apart. “Varkon, Haranio’s a traitor!” he said, pointing at the shamif.
It was as if the floor was suddenly paved with hot coal. Varkon sprang to his feet and twisted to face Haranio. “I knew it. I could tell you were scum from the moment we met.”
Haranio remained relaxed. “The lad is not thinking straight, Varkon,” he said. “Before you mindlessly attack me, I would ask Tyler exactly why he thinks that I betrayed him.”
Varkon paused, waiting for an answer.
“Well, I saw someone in my dream a few nights ago,” bumbled Tyler, the words not coming as easily to him as he had hoped. “They wanted to kill me, but I couldn’t tell who it was. It can’t be you, because you’ve saved my life so many times …”
Varkon frowned and risked a glance towards him. “What do you mean, in your dream?”
“I think my dreams are more than dreams. The visions, the emotions I share are too real to be fiction.”
There was another pause as Varkon processed this. Haranio shook his head and turned his earnest eyes towards Tyler.
“Do you really think that it is my intention to murder you, Tyler?” The shamif’s old face softened. “Perhaps this shows us that your dreams are not glimpses of the real world. We know too little about them to jump to conclusions.”
Varkon’s guard was relaxing as Tyler said, “How can I trust you, Haranio? How can I trust—” Tyler’s eyes watered with a sudden despair. He didn’t know what to do.
“My dear boy, I will never be able to prove myself to you beyond all doubt. Sometimes you just need to have a little faith.”
“You’re right. In one day I have accused both you and Varkon of betrayal. I do not deserve your companionship.”
Varkon shook his head. “I think that but for a dream, there is no reason for any of us to be labelled a traitor. It would serve us better to stick together, to trust.”
“To trust,” repeated Tyler.
Haranio smiled. “May this be the true beginning of our companionship.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
SMOKE ON THE BEACH
Varkon distributed the clothing that he had scavenged from his short time in the mountain. He had also stocked up on food, so at lunch they feasted on dry rat meat. Tyler’s initial disgust was soon overcome by his grumbling stomach, and once he had gained the courage to sample a shred of the unfortunate rodent, he was cured of his doubts. The meat was actually salted and rather tasty. Varkon called it umha.
His new clothes, on the other hand, were a different story. They itched, bit, and rubbed at his skin whenever he moved, but with the freezing wind forever against their faces, the clothes’ warmth was reason enough to suffer the occasional rash.
They travelled east, and as they did so bold islands of grass began to pop up from the snow. Flowers raised their lonely stalks from the frost, and as the sharp cliffs below the Klinha Mountains unravelled into long, undulating knolls, they multiplied to fill the landscape.
The sun shone for that first full day of travel, but it was a cold light, with the wind blowing so hard that the companions clutched at their garments, and their teeth chattered as they strode. Despite this, it was good to breathe in the fresh air after being consumed so recently by the foul stench of the mountain, and a warm internal energy seemed to ignite in them so that not even nightfall impeded their excellent progress.
Varkon’s eagerness to push on was driven by his concern at finding a ghatu sentry at the tunnel exit. “The Sa-Tsu must have spread his troops finely to cover every possible gap. It makes me realise how desperately my people want to capture you, Tyler.”
After they had eaten some umha, Tyler and Varkon slept. Haranio insisted on keeping watch; it was anyone’s guess as to whether a search party would be sent to look for them.
He reached out a disbelieving hand to touch her silky cheek. From there he dropped a cautious finger down her white neck until he found that small nook at its base. “I love you,” he said. “I love you.” But it would never bring her back.
Early morning saw the companions huddled together, gnawing at their breakfast like a dray of squirrels. The world around them was still loose with shadows. A mist hung about, as if a cloud had crashed to the earth during the night. Because of this, and because none of them had fully woken, there was a feeling that they had wandered into a place between the real world and that of dreams. The feeling was only too familiar to Tyler.
“So,” said Haranio, breaking the silence. “With the Klinha Mountains at our backs, I would imagine it is time to consider what lies ahead.” His hands cupped his chin as he talked so that his mouth could not be seen.
“The sea is now all that lies between us and our goal,” said Varkon, turning his eyes away from the mountains. “What other way is there to Ithrim but to follow the bays and shoals along the coast? The beach must now serve as our road to the end.”
“And yet won’t every road be watched?” asked Tyler.
“Well said. But these empty plains …” said Haranio, shaking his head. “We are taking a great risk, remaining so clearly in the open.”
“We must make our way to the sea,” said Varkon firmly. “Haranio is right, we are currently extremely exposed. We must keep our wits about us, duck into the long grass quickly at first sight of danger.”
“And the distance to be walked? The time it will take?” asked Tyler, hardly daring to hope for good news.
“Child,” said Haranio slowly, “at best we have another year before our feet.”
For a few more days they continued, always towards the rising sun. Varkon kept his eyes to the sky, scanning for the gliders his kind often deployed on the strong winds this side of the mountains, but the gliders never once appeared.
The Klinha Mountains eventually faded into the distance, leaving the landscape devoid of any feature but the grass and waving flowers. The distant horizon seemed to inspire reflection, and so Tyler would often catch himself wishing for his cosy village, his scented forest, his family, his home – his previous peace from all of this madness.
They spotted the four thin trails of smoke one afternoon, rising from behind a hill to the south. It was lucky the wind had stilled, allowing the smoke to collect like trailing cotton.
“A settlement?�
�� Tyler wondered. The smoke was too controlled to be a wild fire.
“It would seem so,” agreed Haranio, in this thoughtful way. “But who would set camp in this barren place?”
“I’ll scout ahead,” said Varkon. “It’ll do no good to have the three of us barging over the top of that hill together.”
“And it will do no good having a seven-foot giant barging over the top, either,” said Haranio. “There is no need for you to take such a risk, Varkon. You forget who I am.”
And at that Haranio began one of his transformations. After many clicks and snaps, a white dog stood panting before them, complete with a fluffed-up tail and floppy ears. Varkon snorted and turned on his heel to sit.
“Right, we’ll wait—” He stopped mid-sentence, staring west towards the Klinha Mountains. Smoke rose from the western horizon, too, but it was black and unnatural. It crawled across the sky as though it were alive.
“What is it?” breathed Tyler. There was no reply. “Varkon?”
A single drum-beat thundered across the folded hills. Another followed quickly. Memories came to Tyler then: the night his whole village was burnt to cinders to the sound of those drums.
DOOM, DOOM, their message spelt, and the smoke edged more quickly across the sky. All three companions watched as though hypnotised. The light that bathed the golden hills stained to a sickly red hue. Varkon turned his head towards Tyler, black eyes burning with fear.
“His army marches.”
A dark mass crept over a hill not too far to the west, directly beneath the smoke. At first it looked like the peaks of a wavering forest, but the mass moved too quickly, and the edges seemed uncertain. Soon the mirage gave way to cold reality: it was a vast and terrible army. Thousands marched towards them. Ghatu lurched in their ranks, and strange creatures the size of dogs with sharp, protruding teeth darted nimbly between their strides. Pacing before them all was the Dhimori, swathed in billowing midnight, sword cradled in both hands, razor spikes gleaming in the dead light.
“Run for the smoke. Run to the south!” roared Varkon, snapping out of his trance.
Without a word Tyler turned and accelerated towards the four white columns of smoke, knowing that what lay ahead of them was now their only hope. The trio hurtled over the top of the hill.
It was a village perched on the edge of the sea. Oh, the sea! Tyler gasped as he looked over the ocean, the whirling gulls, and the white beach. Then he was charging down the slope, his throat burning with exhaustion and his legs hot with pain. Village folk could be seen, looking outwards with surprise from the rims of their huts.
“Run! Run!” bellowed Varkon to the wind.
They plunged on towards the village. Some of the men raised their weapons. Tyler raced onward regardless. What choice did he have? “He is coming! The Dhimori!” he cried, uncertain as to whether these people were friend or foe – or could even understand him. He held up palms in peace. Most of the villagers now had their weapons naked in their hands, countenances set to kill.
Tyler glanced behind him. The Dhimori’s army surged over the top of the hill, and like a wave breaking against the shoals, a hail of black arrows splashed out, threading the sky and clouds. There was a still before the storm. Then the arrows slashed down all around in a deadly rain. Several village men fell, feathered sheaths protruding from their bodies.
“Run!” cried Tyler hoarsely, although he could not be heard for all the shouting and screaming that took place. “The Dhimori is here!”
“The ships, lads! To the ships!” a voice called from the crowd.
Ships? Tyler’s hope at hearing that word was immediately snuffed as a horrible thought suddenly occurred to him. “Varkon, cover your face! People will not understand!” Tyler glanced at his companion to find that he had already disguised himself with Haranio’s spare clothes. His most obvious features were cloaked, but he still looked awfully suspicious, a hooded stranger towering head and shoulders above everyone else.
They ran with the people of the village, tearing through streets towards the sea, towards the ships. Tyler could see them now, their masts silhouetted above the rooftops. He counted five in all.
A man cried out and fell not far ahead, an arrow wedged between his shoulder blades. There was no time to help. The clash of weapons signalled the arrival of the Dhimori, and as Tyler turned, he saw the ghatu crash through a weak line of village men who had remained, perhaps to serve as a distraction. Tyler burnt with guilt.
One last row of houses, and then they were pushing along a rickety pier that stuck like a rude tongue across the water. An enormous crowd thronged around them, pouring into the moored ships like rats scuttling the shore.
The drums beat ceaselessly. Tyler pressed along the pier with the rest, fighting for a ship and to keep in sight of his companions. It was hopeless. First Haranio and then Varkon disappeared. He found himself alone, struggling against the crush of the mob, all hurrying to flee the madness. He pushed past the first two ships – they seemed too full. As Tyler ran beside the third one, he abruptly turned and shouldered his way up the ramp and onto the safety of the ship.
“Varkon!” he yelled. “Haranio!”
Foreign faces and strange looks were all that surrounded him as he made his way through the people crowding the deck. An odd sensation started at the pit of his stomach, and as he broke through the last cluster of people so that he could see the shore, he realised why: the ship was gliding away from land. Beside him the sailors secured the dripping anchor.
Ahead, the village roared with flames. The drums boomed. On the water nearby, a ship burned, its bow bathed with fire. The choppy sea about it dipped and boiled, each pointed wave glinting orange with flame. The village receded, seemingly gliding away. By the time the ghatu archers gathered, Tyler and his ship were well past striking range, and the hail of arrows flung after them slapped against the water. The shoreline was now smothered with the writhing army, their murderous cries launching far further than their floundering arrows.
A hand grabbed a fistful of Tyler’s long hair and yanked it uncaringly downwards. Tyler winced and bent over to relieve the pressure. A sightless eye, coated with a milky glaze, was thrust about two inches from his face. It gazed at him, through him, like a piece of glass. The man’s thin lips quivered as he spoke, and yet he managed to keep almost every other muscle in his face absolutely still. “What’s this that we have here, eh?” His smaller eye darted madly, and the man’s mouth flashed open, to reveal a crooked quarry of yellowed teeth. “Foreigner,” the mouth spat. “You don’t belong here. Where’s ya from?” Tyler’s hair was jerked even further back with another unkind pull, so that his pained face pointed to the sky. A finger tapped his chin. “Ah, now I recognise you rat.” The man’s hot breath rolled over his thin tongue and blew into Tyler’s ear. “I saw you running. You brought the ghatu on us! You fetched them right to us!”
As his voice rose, the stranger yanked at Tyler’s hair especially hard and kicked his legs from under him. Tyler’s tired body whacked against the wooden deck. Something was seriously wrong; his right arm was warm and wet. He craned his head groggily to survey his limb – his shirt was soaked in blood. A kick was planted right between his ribs, and then another.
Voices. Then darkness thundered all around.
He lay on his back, still. The world and the sound of it slipped away. The sun, which had been slanting between the sails, dimmed weakly. Finally it sunk away into the horizon of his mind, into a pool of everything and nothing. He was floating, drifting on a breeze, bathed all around in night. Someone was speaking to him, persuading him to relax, to be calm. A voice stroked his thoughts, caressed and calmed his troubled mind.
“STRUGGLE NO MORE. I PROMISE YOU PEACE,” There, high above and robed in whirling, tattered cloth, was the Dhimori.
It no longer mattered. The voice was all he cared about. His voice. Tyler surrendered to the
bliss. He had fought enough.
CHAPTER TWELVE
WELCOMING
Fever. Hushed voices. Figures, whispers, touching hands.
A trembling eyelid lifted, and a brown eye strained against the light of a single candle. One tired eyelid flicked shut again. Tyler felt sick. Uncle Jarith had always insisted on leaving a candle burning in the dark when Tyler felt like this. It was enough light to see by if he could not sleep, and it served as a comforting beacon of hope as he tossed and turned in the midst of a high fever. There was a candle … but this was not Uncle Jarith’s house. Tyler knew that. More of a mystery was why he was still alive.
From all around came the groans of strained wood. The air smelt of musk and tar, as though it had been trapped in here for an age too long. If these clues were not enough, a gradual sway to Tyler’s balance was the final confirmation that he was still aboard a ship. He eased open his eyes again and stared around.
Virtually everything was wrought from wood: the floor, the ceiling, the bedposts, the walls. The only exception was a pair of branching iron candleholders. A sparse sliver of evening light poured from a slit in the wall, but only dust danced in the red sunlight. Most of the room was crowded with shadows and secrets. He was not alone.
“Tyler Finch?” a voice pronounced. The stranger’s tongue sounded his name with such thickness that that the very air seemed to hint at liquidity. The voice belonged to a man who was sitting on the foot of Tyler’s bed, and the entire mattress sank towards him. Only his general shape could be made out as the light brushed against his shoulder, and darkness veiled his face.
Tyler licked his cracked lips, which was as good as throwing a teaspoon of water into a bucket of sand. “W-who are you?”
“You’re in safe hands, Tyler. Know that, and allow yourself some rest. You came very close to passing from this world these last few days.”
But Tyler did not feel like sleeping – not now, at least. His uncertainty fuelled him with enough energy to overcome his fatigue. “Who are you?” he repeated as he struggled to prop himself up onto his elbow to see better. A pain tore down in his right arm, and he fell back into his bed with a cry.
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