by Greg James
Willow could have stayed in the Summerdowns indefinitely and part of her wondered whether it could hold the Lamia at bay forever. It was tempting to see if this were true, but she knew that she could not do this. She’d come so far since she’d first come to Tirlane. Henu had been right. She didn’t need him anymore though she missed him and his counsel terribly.
She’d found her own strength now. She could feel it growing.
I should be scared, she thought, but I’m not. So long in fear and being afraid that now I actually have something to fear, I can take it.
As they broke camp and prepared to leave, something arose from the ground before them. A small flicker of light – a new-born Kindling.
Willow smiled and held out her hand, cupping the palm so that the Kindling could nest there. It was warm and weighed of nothing. She heard the voice of the Wisps echo inside her head, “Let her be a light for you in the darkest times to come.”
Willow and her friends set off with the Kindling dancing ahead of them.
Onwards they went, to Barrowdwell, to the nest of the Lamia and then – life or death.
Chapter Eleven
It was mid-morning when they came in sight of a Beorhan village; a cluster of small, round houses of polished stone with low thatched roofs. The houses gathered in concentric circles around the opening of a vertical shaft cut into the earth – an entrance to the Beorhan mines. There was smoke clouding the air over the village. Willow could smell burning. Nastonik’s brow furrowed at the sight of it. “Something is wrong there.”
They descended over the hillock they had crested, heading towards the village.
When they came close enough, they could see what none of them wished to see.
There were Behemoths in the village.
They must be feasting upon the village folk, Willow thought.
Nastonik’s face darkened, “Monsters! Abominations! The promise has been broken! I shall make her pay for this!” Without further words, he took off towards the village at a run, bellowing an unintelligible war cry of rage.
“Nastonik, wait!” Willow cried.
It was too late. He was racing towards the village without care, screaming wildly with his short sword drawn.
“Go after him, Viril.”
The centaur did as she asked. “Hold on tight. This is very dangerous, Willow.”
“I know, but we can’t abandon him. Those things will eat him if we do.”
“They may eat all of us.”
“It’s a risk we have to take. I’m not losing him, or you. That’s a promise.”
“Very well.”
Viril galloped down the hillside, but Nastonik had a good head start and pure rage driving him on. He reached the village before they did and slithered to a halt in the dust. Willow could feel her own heart racing as she saw the swaying heads of the Behemoths rising and turning, gazing over the roofs of the village with their horrible mouths hanging open. Was there a glimmer of recognition in those dull, waxen eyes?
The ground shook suddenly as the gaunt monsters staggered to their feet, hands reaching out towards the fresh meat, towards them. Viril began to slow his pace and Willow cried out, “What are you doing?”
“Look there,” he said, gesturing ahead. “They’re not feasting.”
Viril stopped beside Nastonik, who was looking on in silent horror at what lay ahead.
Willow dismounted. She could see bodies on the ground, so it first appeared.
There were No-men moving among them, kneeling and placing their needle-fingered hands on the prostrate villagers. Moments after their touch, the skin of the victims became pale and the hair blackened. Then, they began to grow; limbs stretching and bulging, clothes tearing, bones cracking, and mouths open – silently screaming.
“The secret of the Behemoths,” Viril whispered, “that’s why their numbers have kept on growing. Those that are not eaten are … changed.”
“Made to be like them,” Nastonik croaked.
Willow looked over and saw the Beorhan was crying. “I’m sorry, Nastonik. I’m so sorry.”
“I would kill them,” he whispered, “kill them all, not out of hate but mercy. My people transformed into these beasts. There is no worse nightmare possible.”
The ground shook violently. A Behemoth was swaying over them, its hands descending. Willow could see ropes of drool hanging from its lips. The yellowed teeth in its mouth were stained with traces of blood.
Viril reached out and curled his arms around the waists of Nastonik and Willow. Lifting them into the air, he dashed between the Behemoth’s legs as its hands slammed into the earth where they’d been standing. Willow heard a groan from behind them and saw its shadow falling across them again.
“Viril!”
“I know,” the centaur gasped, “and there are more ahead.”
She could feel him lurching as he tried to adjust for the uneven weight of herself and Nastonik. Still, he thundered along, swiftly passing between the legs of Behemoths as they swiped at the dust left in his wake. He dashed between the village houses and swept left and right through the circles of the village. Smaller, new-born Behemoths groped at his legs as he passed by. A few tried to cling on and pull him down, but he split their skulls with well-aimed strikes from his hooves. The ground shook as the larger, purer brethren stomped along in pursuit. A chorus of hungry roars now filled the air around them. Willow could see what Viril was heading for – the shaft that dropped down into the mine workings and the lift platform strung over it by a rope pulley.
There was nowhere else to go but down.
“Hang on,” he shouted.
Viril reared up and kicked in the wooden gate. He leapt onto the platform, which creaked under their weight, before turning to her and panting, “Willow, quickly.”
He let her go and she threw herself towards the lever that would lower the lift.
Behemoths were gathered all around, reaching down with filthy hands to collect their evasive feast. The monsters’ sweat and drool was a foul rain. Willow put all of her weight onto the lever. She screamed. “I’m not going to die like this!”
The lever snapped down and the lift dropped.
Too fast.
Out of control.
Suddenly, it jerked to a halt – and began to ascend again.
Willow saw Behemoths had the ropes in their hands. They were dragging the lift back up. Snarling, ravenous faces blocked out the day’s faint light.
“I said no!”
Willow and Viril went to work on the ropes with their daggers, sawing as hard and fast as they could. The ropes came away, but one remained in place. Nastonik drew his short sword, roared and hacked through it with a decisive swipe.
The lift plummeted down the shaft; away from the Behemoths, away from the light.
At the bottom, it shattered into pieces.
*
Willow came to first, shaking off the dust and gravel, she roused Nastonik and Viril. “Are you both okay?”
“I think so. Nothing feels broken.” Viril said.
“Only my pride.” Nastonik grumbled.
“What d’you mean?”
“I ran from those things. I could do nothing to save my people.”
Willow rested a hand on his shoulder, “None of us could, and we are better off alive to avenge your people than if we joined them in death.”
“Will we though?” Nastonik asked, “will we avenge them?”
“We’ll try.” Viril said.
“You saved my life back there. It was nobly done. I’m in your debt.” Nastonik said.
“Think nothing of it.” Viril replied.
Nastonik extended his hand to Viril, “Companions?” Nastonik asked.
“No, better. Let us be friends.” Viril said, taking the hand.
Willow smiled. “Come on, you two. That’s enough of a love-in for now. We need to find a way out.”
She rummaged in her pockets, “Where’s it gone?”
A mote of light arose
as if from nowhere and illuminated the raw tunnel ahead of them. “There you are,” she said, “I thought I’d lost you.”
The Kindling flickered and danced in reply.
As long as you do not lose the light in yourself, Willow Grey, you will not lose me.
“Okay,” she said, “lead the way.”
The Kindling went ahead of them as they followed the winding tunnels of the Beorhan mine. “I can see why people thought your people had emptied out the insides of these hills.” Willow said.
“Tis true,” Nastonik said, “some say that on a night when the season is good, and the air is warm, you can smell the gold as if it were a form of flora.”
“Really? I can’t see any gold.”
He smiled, “That is because we have not yet reached the city.”
After a few more leagues, Willow saw a glow ahead not cast by the Kindling.
“A little further, no more,” Nastonik said.
They came out of the tunnels and her breath was taken away by.
“Welcome to Aerdaene,” Nastonik said.
Soaring polished walls were inlaid with gold, silver, copper and steel; all in intricate threads and filigree. A luminous city of precious and common metals spun away in all directions. A strangely quiet city at that.
“Where are the people?”
“I have no good answer,” Nastonik said, in a tone of shame.
“Nastonik?”
His voice trembled as he spoke, “We are … a proud people and sought to be worthy of our father-creators, the Giants. We thought that we might succeed where they did fail and unearth the means by which the Lamia could be defeated.”
After a moment of silence, Viril spoke, “The Worldstone.”
“Aye, I am afraid I lied to you before. I am no wanderer and neither were my companions. The Lamia’s creatures, they have my folk as slaves, working the mines to unearth the Worldstone. She covets it and so she darkened our minds as she did the Giants before us, blinding us to the truth of what we were doing. We were serving her bidding all along. The curse of our father-creators was passed onto us. So, we fled the mines in the vain hope of finding some help.”
“And you succeeded.” Willow said.
Nastonik shook his head, “You should not have followed me here. I should not have led you here. It is folly. We shall all be killed and thrown into the abyss by Lord Scaithe.”
“Scaithe?” Willow almost spat his name, “I think not. I’ve come this far. Show us the way, Nastonik.”
*
Nastonik led them to a vast cavern peopled by Beorhans hacking away at its walls with hammers and picks. A pulsating glow shimmered from the rock of the mine walls, which were peppered with sparkling black and red crystals.
Ragged Beorhans pounded picks into the rock, emptying the crystals and rocks into endless chains of ore carts that rolled past on rusted tracks. The enslaved were all so bent on their tedious work that they cared little for what was occurring even a few inches away from them, allowing the three companions to make their way through the shadows unseen.
There was a snarl from the cave’s entrance.
Molloi entered, casting their beady eyes back and forth at the humbled miners.
These people are so cowed, Willow thought, they barely need supervising.
A Molloi cracked its whip across an elderly Beorhan’s back. The slave buckled in pain. Nastonik reacted, gripping his sword tightly. The look on his face said he'd like to ram it into the Molloi’s deformed skull. He hesitated just long enough to let his anger settle as the exhausted slave creaked back to his feet, feebly lifting his axe to continue his work.
A small, lightly-bearded Beorhan boy groped along the ground, carrying a bucket of water in one hand whilst using the other to feel his way along the rock wall. Willow could see he was blind. There was a scar across his eyes made by a whip.
"Water, masters. Please, water."
The boy stumbled and fell at the feet of the Molloi guards. One of them picked the boy up by the scruff of his neck and drew a dagger from its belt. It smiled, showing its broken teeth, as it raised the blade to the boy’s throat.
Willow lunged out of the shadows, knocking the Molloi guard to the ground and stabbing it through the heart. Viril was at her side, lashing at the other Molloi with his hooves. He caught one in the chest, killing it instantly. The others fled, screaming and whooping. Nastonik tended to the boy, picking him up and giving him water from his water-bottle. The surrounding Beorhans’ eyes went wide. The change of having someone new present seemed to shake these people to the core yet they did nothing. The boy thanked Nastonik and crawled away despite his entreaties.
“Broken,” he sobbed, “my people have been broken. Where is their strength? Where has it fled to?”
As if in answer, a loud gong sounded through the cavern. The Beorhans rose as one, set down their picks and axes, formed into lines and began to walk out of the cavern.
Willow, Viril Nastonik followed them at a distance.
They came to a natural amphitheatre of dripping stalactites and weeping stalagmites where slaves and Molloi from other caverns formed into a vast crowd, separated from the other side by a deep abyss. A scowling stone face was carved into the far rock wall. Slaves and Molloi alike fell to their knees and began to chant, “Scaithe-Scaithe-Scaithe.”
The stone face’s mouth opened, spitting flames. After they died down, Scaithe emerged dressed in long, flowing black robes and a horned crown. “The day of reckoning is upon us. The mighty Lamia is pleased with you. Your work is done. The prize we have sought for so long has finally been unearthed.” At his words, the ground shook. “Do you not feel its power as it rises from the depths? Here, her Majesty is not ungrateful and wishes you to feast before the end of all things true.”
A series of carts appeared brimming with small bundles of food. The slaves and Molloi rushed madly towards them, fighting each other like animals.
Scaithe stood in the jaws of the stone face with his arms folded, watching.
Willow ran towards him, pushing through the crowd.
"Willow! Willow!" Nastonik and Viril cried, trying to follow her. They were swamped by the ferocious melee of famished slaves and squabbling Molloi.
Willow reached the edge of the abyss alone.
Scaithe had seen her. He smiled. She closed her eyes and stepped out onto the dark of the abyss, expecting to fall – but she did not. She walked across it as if it were solid ground and found herself face-to-face with Scaithe.
“The Lamia found another use for you then?”
He circled away from her and drew a sword from the folds of his cloak. She brandished her long dagger. They feinted, danced and lunged. He struck the dagger from her hand. It went skidding to the edge of the precipice. Willow threw herself after it, grasping for its hilt. Her fingers closed on nothing and she watched it disappear too quickly into the darkness below. Scaithe stood over her, “Beg for your life, bitchling.”
Willow looked up at him. She got to her feet. Her hands came together as a fist and she mimed the motions of wielding a sword.
“You have lost your mind at last, Greychild. You think to will a weapon into being? You, coming from a world where there is no grasp or understanding of magic? You grasp at nothing, in vain, and I will take your head for the Lamia.”
He lunged forward, driving his sword’s point at Willow’s throat.
A burst of starlight erupted as his sword struck something that was not there. He shrieked and fell to the ground; letting his own sword fall from his hands. Willow stood over him haloed with light that was emanating from the sword in her hands; the Sword That Was Not There, composed entirely of starlight.
Scaithe scrambled away, “What is this? It’s impossible.”
He began to conjure a spell with intricate movements of his hands. Unlight started to gather around him and the colour was drawn out of him as he muttered bitter words under his breath. He threw out both hands and shrieked the spell’s name as bot
h curse and command, “Death!”
The unlight ran along his arms and leapt at Willow like a spearhead. She severed it with one stroke of her sword, but it grew back its point and carried on driving towards her. It began to pull away from the sword, moving around it and her, tying her in strangling knots as if she were caught in strangling black vines. The darkness bound itself impossibly to the light aura and to the sword.
Scaithe’s face became gleeful once more, “Cast her into the abyss and let her fall forever in the void between worlds. Let the Greychild and her Grey magic pass out of existence forever.”
The darkness began to drag her towards the edge as she fought and struggled against it. Willow could feel her breath becoming thin and her vision was colouring, soon there would be shadows and silence over everything; she would be helpless.
She had no wish to kill again but she also had no wish to die here.
Willow met Scaithe’s gaze and he paled at the hardness of her stare.
The Kindling emerged from the rocky cavern wall to hover beside Willow.
"Bring me the thule! Its light alone is not enough."
You do not need me to summon the thule, Willow. The power is within you. It always has been. With that, the Kindling disappeared in a puff of smoke, its message delivered, its task complete.
"It’s over, Greychild. The Worldstone is discovered. It will rise and my mistress will use it to lay waste to this world, and all others beyond it.”
Willow held up her hand, her fingers curled as if there were a hilt in it. The thule appeared from thin air. She slashed at Scaithe’s hand, extinguishing the fireball and severing one of his hands at the wrist. Scaithe held up the blackened stump in shock. "But ... how ...?"
Willow forced Scaithe over to the edge of the chasm.
“Mercy, Greychild, please.”
“You are without mercy, yet you plead for it?”
“I do.”
“You who tried to rape me, kill my friends, and bring ruin to everything and everyone?”
Willow swung the thule, cutting him in two.
Scaithe’s body crumpled in on itself and plunged backwards into the abyss.