by R. J. Grieve
“Yes.”
“Well?” the Prince prodded, in hope of enlightenment.
“Hole in sand,” Gorm declared, unimpressed.
But just then the sand in the hollow began to vibrate a little, each grain shivering and dancing. Fascinated, Eimer and Gorm bent closer, then without warning, an arm made of sand shot upwards from the hollow and grabbed Eimer by the ankle. Sareth, who had been standing beside her brother, leaped back, but not quickly enough. Another hand caught her by the foot and tripped her, bringing her down with a thump onto her face. In a flash, yet a third arm emerged beside her, and gripping her shoulder with the strength of a vice, began to pull her downwards into the soft sand.
Long arms, gritty but strong, began to shoot up all over the beach, groping the air for their prey, like a living, waving forest of fungus.
“Vesarion!” Sareth screamed.
He spun on his heel at her cry and taking in her plight in an instant, drew his sword and sped towards her. He had almost reached her, when a hand caught the heel of his boot and tripped him. He fell heavily on his side, but swiftly rolling over, slashed at it with his sword and sliced clean through the dun-coloured arm. The hand dropped to the ground, but the moment the severed wrist touched the beach, all the grains around it began to be drawn towards it as if towards the centre of a whirlpool, eddying around it, until they coalesced into the shape of an arm to which the hand seamlessly attached itself. It all happened in a heartbeat, before Vesarion, hardly crediting what his eyes were telling him, could react.
Eimer and Gorm were discovering the same thing – the hands could only temporarily be severed before they re-formed. Eimer, struggling madly, had already been pulled into the sand up to his thighs. His sword arm was pinned to his side and half a dozen hands were grasping at his clothes, dragging him downwards. Gorm had him by the shoulders, desperately trying to pull him back, at the same time dancing a nimble jig to avoid being caught by the ankles.
Iska almost made it to the sand-dunes before she was tripped. She fell on her back and was instantly caught in a eye-watering grip by her short dark hair, her head painfully pulled backwards. But it was she who first saw the dunes begin to move.
Slowly, the curved, grass-fringed back of a low dune began to lift. Gradually it arose until a huge man-like figure made of the same element as the dune began to emerge. Legs and arms rose clear of the surrounding soft sand, which flowed off it like water. A head turned towards the terrified girl and she saw that the features were rough and unformed. A crude nose and hollows for eyes were all it possessed. Nevertheless, by some sense unknown, it knew where she was and it turned towards her, its back bristling with stiff grass like spines.
Iska, unable to move, screamed with fear, but the others were equally trapped and could not help her.
The only member of the company who had not crossed onto the beach was Bethro, who, frightened out of the capacity for rational thought, obeyed some instinct deep within him, and taking a lungful of air, bellowed at the top of his powerful voice for help. Why he did so, he could never later explain, for he was convinced they were far from any help, but some hidden instinct for survival rose to the surface and he roared for help again and again.
Eimer and Sareth had now both nearly disappeared into the sand except for their heads. Sareth was struggling to keep her face above the suffocating grains. Vesarion, imprisoned by dozens of hands, was still straining unavailingly to reach her with his one free arm. Even Gorm was now pinned by the legs, still fiercely slicing through everything within reach with his short sword, scattering sprays of glittering grains everywhere.
When the sand creature reached Iska and bent over her, she almost fainted with fear. Fine specks of sand rained down on her from it, getting into her eyes and mouth, almost choking her, its blunt features now terrifyingly close.
Amongst the desperate companions, Bethro was the only one still in a position to see across the lake, and despite his distracted state, a glimmer of light out on the surface of the water caught his attention. At first he thought that a gap in the clouds had opened, casting a beam of light onto the water but, to his astonishment, the light began to move rapidly across the surface of the water in their direction.
Unsure of why he was doing so, Bethro began to yell anew, leaping up and down and waving. The light, as if in response, increased its speed and headed undeviatingly towards him. When it drew closer, he distinguished what appeared to be a pillar of water, glowing with a pale light from within. Softly it emitted an ethereal glow that had a wintry beauty all of its own.
The sand creature saw it too and straightened up, abandoning Iska.
The pillar divided into three just as it touched the shore, and before Bethro’s astonished gaze, it began to evolve into three female forms. They were beautiful beyond anything he could have imagined. Their flowing dresses were made of some soft, silken fabric that was not shining grey, nor yet clear like glass but a combination of the two, that flowed around their slender forms like living water. Their waist-length tresses were silver, lifting off their shoulders in the breeze, bright and radiant as moonlight. The only colour about them was their eyes, which were the same shade as spring violets.
The sand creature, clumsy in comparison, began to back away from them, clearly afraid. Without speaking, they cast towards it what appeared to be long, gleaming scarves of the same material as their dresses. But the moment the scarves touched the sand, they burst into plumes of crystal-clear water. The sand-being threw up its arms to protect itself, but to no avail. Plume after plume of water was cast towards the shore and began to cascade down upon the creature, diluting the substance from which it was made, loosening the bonds that held the grains of sand together, making them grow wet and liquefied, incapable of holding their form. The hands, still pinning their prey, grew loose and wet. Dollops of sand began to drop to the ground to form gloopy pools. Bit by bit, finger by finger, the forms diminished until finally they lost their grip, enabling the captives to struggle free. Vesarion broke loose first, and crawling over to Sareth, began to dig her out with his hands.
Soon all that was left of their attackers were wet pools on the beach, as if left by a retreating tide. Gorm, compelled to give vent to his annoyance, stamped furiously in the pools, soaking himself in the process but deriving great satisfaction from it.
Bethro at last ventured down onto the strand to help excavate Eimer, who, once he was free, lifted Iska to her feet and turned to thank their rescuers, standing patiently by the water’s edge.
“I don’t know who you are,” he said, “but I wish to thank you with all my heart. You have undoubtedly saved our lives.”
The three women, their silver hair drifting across their pale faces, bowed slightly in acknowledgement.
“We are the spirits of the Lonely Lake. We were awoken from our long rest by your companion’s distress. The creatures who attacked you were once part of the lower order of spirits, the essence of the earth, creatures of stone and soil, loyal to Yervenar, the Creator. But even our kind, who are not bound by this corporeal world, can be corrupted by evil. The Destroyer deceived some of them into changing their allegiance and serving him, and although, like many of the spirits, they have been sleeping for centuries, they have now been awoken and are being called upon to redeem their pledge to him. Many things has he disturbed through the services of his minion, the Demon of Darkness. Many things that left the world in peace while they remained quiescent, have now been roused, and you must beware of them for they do not wish you well, Prince Eimer”
“You know my name, my lady?”
“Yes, Prince of Eskendria, we know your name and the names of all your companions. Nothing in this world is the result of mere chance. To those who look deep into such things, the quest you have embarked upon has been foreshadowed. However, if we know this, so too does the enemy and he will do all he can to stop you. If at times in your journey all seems lost, remember that each of you has a role to play that can be fulfille
d by none other.” She looked down at Gorm who was standing a shade dejectedly in a puddle. “Yes, even this creature, strange though it may seem, had his part to play. If evil can be found anywhere, then so, too, can good.”
Iska, feeling a bit presumptuous in such exalted company, spoke up. “I don’t mean to bring things down to the level of the purely practical but we are in desperate need of food.”
“We have no use for such things ourselves but there is one who may be able to help you. You must go to the Rose Tower. The Keeper of the Tower is aware of your approach and is sure to give you aid. Follow the shores of the lake eastwards, then turn north into the Wood of Ammerith, known in the days of the Old Kingdom as the Golden Wood. There you will find the tower and the help that you need.”
Iska opened her mouth to ask another question but the spirits turned their violet eyes on Vesarion, who had remained silent.
“Farewell, heir of Erren-dar, may that which is rightfully yours, return to your hand once more.”
And with that, they stepped backwards into the water, their gleaming dresses blending so well with the shining lake that in an instant they had vanished.
For a long moment everyone remained staring at the empty grey lake as if under a spell. Eimer was the first to descend to earth. Rubbing his shoulder tenderly, he addressed the shortest member of the company: “It’s not that I don’t appreciate your efforts to pull me out of the sand, Gorm,” he observed ruefully, “but next time, would you mind keeping your claws in?”
The Turog responded with something perilously close to a sheepish grin.
“The tower that the spirits mentioned,” continued Eimer still holding his shoulder, “do you know where it is? Their directions were a bit vague.”
“Yes. Saw tower once. Know the way to Golden Wood. Take two days to get there, maybe three if weather is bad.”
“I’ve heard of it,” interjected Bethro. “In the Chronicles of the Old Kingdom, it is referred to as the wood where it is always autumn. There is a romantic legend associated with the Rose Tower. It is said that long ago a spirit of the woods assumed corporeal form and lived in the tower for many years. Then one day when he was walking in the woods, he met a mortal girl and fell in love with her. For a time they were happy together, but the ending to their tale could only be a sad one because he was immortal and she was not. When she died, it is said that he was so distraught that he turned the leaves of the trees to the golden colour of her hair to keep her memory alive, and so they remain to this day. When he could bear his loneliness no longer, he abandoned the tower and passed into the Lost Realm, where spirits who have tired of this world seek rest.” He sighed sentimentally. “I have always thought the tower was just a myth, but now it seems we shall actually see it!”
“Not without a soaking, I think,” said Sareth prosaically, glancing at the pale, nacreous sky, its cool, high clouds drifting before a strengthening breeze.
Gorm looked upwards, too, his head to one side.
“Going to rain,” he confirmed. “Know place to shelter but must hurry.”
His assessment of the weather proved all too accurate. Within an hour, the heavens opened and rain began to fall as straight and hard as steel spears. Soon everyone was soaked and miserable. The horses plodded on, their flanks streaming, occasionally snorting water out of their nostrils.
Skirting the lake to the east, they followed Gorm’s lead and entered a dismal, marshy region that appeared to be caused by the outflow from the lower end of the lake. It was a land of tall reeds and bulrushes, interspersed with copses of sparse willows and birches too stubborn to stop struggling against the unpromising terrain. Its main inhabitant appeared to be a persistent swarm of midges that whined around the horses’ ears and bit any exposed flesh they could find, causing the riders to button their shirts up to the neck. The only one unmolested by them was Gorm, who stumped along apparently indifferent to them. Eimer whispered in his sister’s ear, that the midges were probably as much put off by the smell of hot, wet Turog as he was.
Soon not a single member of the company possessed a dry stitch. Bethro, who loathed physical discomfort and concluded that he was getting far too much of it lately, slumped in the saddle, much the same shape and demeanour as a wet suet pudding, and with about the same amount of conversation.
Vesarion, water streaming down his face, with an equally wet Iska stuck behind him, urged his horse to a trot and caught up with their guide.
“How much further?” he asked, wiping rain out of his eyes.
“Get there before dark,” Gorm reassured him. “See rocks ahead?” He pointed to steeply rising ground ahead, through which the occasional grey limestone outcrop thrust up precipitously. The outcrops were bewigged in dense green vegetation but even from a distance, Vesarion could see that they were much pitted and riven.
“A cave?” he asked.
Gorm merely nodded and continued squelching through the mud, as immune to the vagaries of nature as he was to the local fauna.
The cave, when they finally reached it, did not initially look promising. But a narrow, sloping entrance, like a slit, just wide enough for an unladen horse to squeeze through, widened suddenly after a few paces into a dark chamber with a hard, earthen floor.
“I can’t see a thing,” complained Iska, holding Vesarion’s horse.
“That’s because Bethro is blocking the entrance,” said Sareth acidly.
Once the obstruction was removed and their eyes became accustomed to the dim light filtering in from the dreary day outside, it could be seen that the cave, though green with damp, did possess one homely feature – a stack of firewood.
“I wonder who left that there?” mused Eimer.
“Told you,” said Gorm impatiently. “Been here before. Does no one listen to Gorm?”
Vesarion crossed to the wood and placed his hand upon it. “The top pieces are damp but the rest seem useable.”
He then withdrew the silver tinderbox from his pocket, not noticing how one member of the company’s eyes gleamed when they saw it, and set to work to get a fire going.
Gorm and Eimer disappeared out into the downpour together to hunt, even thought their bows were almost useless in the rain. By the time they returned, the fire was well and truly alight and an assortment of wet clothes were spread before it to dry.
“Any luck?” Iska asked.
“Not much,” Eimer replied. “Four woodpigeons, that’s all. Not exactly a feast for six people.”
“Five people,” corrected Vesarion under his breath, “and one rodent.”
Gorm, busily plucking the pigeons, cast him a slant-eyed look to show that he’d heard but passed no comment.
“We had better find this tower soon, or some of us are going to be a lot thinner,” Eimer joked, his eye fixed on Bethro.
“I don’t know why you are all looking at me,” declared the librarian huffily, and was clearly offended when everyone laughed.
Although the floor of the cave was hard, and her clothes still damp, Sareth found that she was so tired that she slept solidly though the night until the soft light of sunrise creeping in the entrance touched her face and awoke her. Stiffly she sat up and did what she did every morning when she was the first to awake – she looked at Vesarion. He was lying on his side, facing her, still deeply asleep. The roseate light of early morning gently touched him but he did not stir. He was by now somewhat less neat than was customary with him. He was unshaven and had a streak of mud across his forehead. There was also a tear in the sleeve of his shirt and his collar was frayed, but Sareth saw none of these things. Instead, she indulged herself in the pleasure of being able to look at him with her feelings written on her face. After a moment, unable to resist, she arose and crossing to him, bent and lightly as a falling petal, touched his dark hair.
Then taking the patient horses by their bridles, she led them out of the cave into the fresh new morning. The rain had passed, but every tree was still dripping, spattering the damp earth with rai
ndrops. Every drop was a thing of beauty, turned to a glittering diamond by the clear new light as the sun rose. She breathed in the fresh, invigorating smell of a morning washed clean by the rain. The horses were tugging determinedly at their bridles, scenting grazing, and she led them to a glade, rich with lush grasses, where she took off their bridles and hobbled them.
Then seating herself on a convenient stone, she made the discovery that there was a small tear in the knee of her breeches.
“You must look a sorry sight,” she told herself severely. “Torn clothes, muddy shirt and hair that it’s going to take a week to untangle. Just as well you don’t have a mirror – although I suppose,” she added, her mood changing, “it scarcely matters what I look like.”
“Sareth talking to herself,” a voice remarked.
“Gorm!” she gasped. “You startled me. You certainly can move stealthily when you want to!”
But Gorm was standing looking at her, his arms folded, his head cocked to one side in a manner that she had come to recognise as meaning that he was considering something.
“Sareth sad?” he asked at last.
“No, not at all.”
“Need something to cheer her up,” he declared. “Like to see Gorm’s treasures? Show to no one but Sareth?”
Utterly intrigued, she nodded.
Carefully, he began to fish about in a little leather pouch that she had noticed he always wore attached to his belt. With a certain amount of flourish, like a conjurer, he drew out a slightly grubby silk handkerchief and began to spread it out at her feet, fussily smoothing it and straightening the corners.
Then one by one, he began to place on it an assortment of small items that he produced from his pouch. As she watched this performance, Sareth made the discovery that Gorm was something of a magpie, irresistibly drawn to things that were bright or shiny.
First, he produced a brass button that he had obviously polished with such enthusiasm that he had worn the pattern off. He held it gleaming for a moment in the morning sun before placing it carefully in the centre of the handkerchief. Next came a piece of broken silver chain, followed by an assortment of coins, some of which, Sareth noticed, bore the stamp of Eskendria, all polished to within an inch of their existence. Then came seven glass beads in various bright colours and lastly, obviously the most prized piece, a silver thimble set with pretty enamelled flowers in red and blue. Instead of setting it on the handkerchief, he held it out to her.
