by A. C. Salter
When his fingers brushed against the crystal, the words etched around it suddenly brightened, revealing the text as it shimmered silver. It was then that he noticed something inside, stuck in the silt that lay at the base of the vessel. It appeared to be a kind of cane or staff that was of a height similar to himself.
“Do you think you can reach inside and retrieve that,” Dilbus asked, pointing at the shaft. Now that the water exposed more as it disturbed the silt, he could see that it was made from a kind of dull metal.
“If it means we can go home, I’ll gladly drink the contents first,” Limble said, climbing passed Dilbus as he grasped the lip of the huge jar and hoisted himself up.
“Careful, there may be silt leaches in the bottom, you don’t want one of those latching onto your neck,” Dilbus cautioned as he grasped Limble’s foot and aided him up.
Limble’s ample belly squashed onto the rim of the jar as he bent double, his face turning red as he struggled further inside.
Hair hanging down and dipping into the stagnant water, he grasped the length of metal and pulled.
“That’s it, careful now,” Dilbus encouraged his companion, but as the writing around the vessel suddenly brightened he watched Limble’s body go rigid.
“Limble?”
There was no answer, not even an indication that he had heard.
“Limble?” Dilbus continued, shaking the leg which he was holding. But the leg was stiff, as if his subordinate had died and rigor mortis had set in.
“By the Blessed Mother – Limble, can you hear me?”
Limble didn’t respond, even his lank hair appeared to have frozen as if time inside the vessel had simply stopped.
It was magic, it had to be.
Dilbus let go of Limble’s leg and withdrew along the log to his finch. From there he withdrew his sword which was strapped beneath the saddle, and returned.
Drawing the sword from the scabbard, he tapped the blade against the side of the glass, making a chinking noise.
“If you can hear me, Limble, keep very still,” he warned, although Limble was being the perfect example of keeping deathly still.
Taking a breath, Dilbus held the blade with both hands, raised it above his head and brought it crashing down upon the glass.
His arms jarred and he almost bit the end from his tongue as he collapsed back on to the log. He looked up in time to see a jagged crack run from the point of impact, down the side of the vessel to the bottom where it stopped. Dilbus thought he might need to hit the jar again and rose to his feet to do so, but then he caught the tiny little fractures that began to tinkle along the crack, becoming bigger cracks themselves until the entire side of the jar fractured and crumbled into the water.
“Limble?” Dilbus grunted as he caught his companion’s belt and heaved him back.
The portly fairy fell on to the log with a wet slap, eyes darting open and staring about as if he had no idea where he was or how he got there.
“Are you alright?” Dilbus asked.
“What happened?” Limble replied, his gaze falling on Dilbus’s sword and going wide.
“I don’t know. When you entered the jar, the writing on the outside brightened and you froze. Can’t you remember it?”
“No,” Limble said shaking his head. “One minute I was reaching inside, the next,” he flicked his hands open imitating an explosion. “Boom.”
“Boom indeed,” Dilbus said, regarding the jar which now lay in a thousand pieces, the river claiming most of them as they sunk beneath the water. He saw the metal shaft and caught it before it slipped away. It felt lighter than it looked, as if it was hollow yet he could sense the solidness of it.
“A spear of some kind?” Limble asked.
That was Dilbus’s first thought, but now that he had wiped the ends and stood it upright, he realised the truth of it.
“No, it’s a javelin. A rather rare and precious one,” he replied, carrying it back to the finch so he could clean it. “Although how it ended up here I have no idea.”
“Does it explain what the Dylap is?” Limble asked as he stared at the weapon.
Dilbus frowned, “If anything, it has only complicated things.”
“Why? Because it proves that he is a kind of soldier, a warrior?”
“Well, yes there is that but look, do you recognise this?” Dilbus asked, pointing at a small emblem carved into the hand grip of the javelin.
“It looks like something I’ve seen in the old scripts which the scribes study. Something to do with the old city, before the fairies joined together to become the Farrosians.”
“That’s because it is. This emblem hasn’t been seen outside the scribe tree for hundreds of years and anything that old should have decayed and rotted long ago.”
“But this appears newly forged, there isn’t a mark on it.”
“Not only that, but it is made of silver. Whoever it belonged to was somebody important. Perhaps even having royal blood.”
“The Dylap?” Limble asked, his hands rubbing roughly through his hair.
Dilbus shook his head. “I doubt it. Maybe he found it, maybe it simply found its way in there from the river. Or maybe Dylap has nothing to do with this glass, the vessel or the javelin at all.”
Limble sat back, a heavy sigh escaping pursed lips. “We’re not heading back yet are we Sir?”
Dilbus slid the javelin beneath the straps of his saddle, his heart feeling heavy as he answered.
“Sorry Limble, it’s only another piece to the puzzle that still needs solving. But we are close. Maybe we’ll get our answers in the morning. For now, let us find some to shelter and rest up for the night.”
Dawn came, the sun a white ghost barely visible through the fog that choked the forest. It clung to the trees, seeping into Dilbus’s bones and wrenched a cough from damp lungs. He missed his cosy chamber in the large oak, missed the warmth of a sun gem glowing in the hearth, missed his old rocker and the quietness. A far cry from the hard wood of the elm that creaked all night, swaying with the wind as its thick limbs knocked against a neighbouring elm. The elm had a wood knoll, as wild as the unkept foliage above. It had pestered them since dusk, shouting in its strange language while throwing stones and pips at them. In the end, Limble had shut it up by threatening to set fire to the tree it was born from, and the mood Limble had been in, Dilbus was sure he would have seen the threat through.
The birds were already packed and he sat in the saddle of his finch, awaiting Limble who was struggling to put the reins on his thrush. His bird spitting out the bit when he worked it into her beak. By the time he was ready to go, the fog had begun to melt and the river came into view.
“If we find nothing by the end of the day, we’ll head back,” Dilbus said, hoping to instil enthusiasm into his companion.
“Really, Sir?” Limble asked, ears pricking up as he kicked his bird into flight.
“Really,” Dilbus replied as his finch jumped from the branch and followed. Although if they didn’t find anything, Limble would be heading back alone. Dilbus couldn’t return without answers, but he would be damned if anyone else should suffer because of him.
“We could be back in a week, sooner if we push hard,” Limble said, almost singing his words.
They flew in silence for the rest of the morning, the river continuing to sweep this way and that, but they found nothing of interest other than the skeletal remains of a large boat. The prow sticking above the water, the wood cracked and rotting as if it had been there for a considerable time. They circled the wreckage but garnered no clues so carried on the search.
Before midday they came across an estuary that fed from a fast-flowing stream. The mouth was wide, yet shallow, the water fresh and clean unlike the two-tone waters of the Twine.
They had passed other estuaries on their way north, but since they had discovered fragments of glass up river they had continued. But now that they had found the rest of the vessel, there would be no more splinters of the crystal to
find.
They landed on a nearby willow to feed and rest the birds. Limble began humming, much to Dilbus’s annoyance and began to scout the tree for wood knolls or food. When he returned, Dilbus gave him the remainder of the sprig biscuit.
“We’ll fly up this tributary for a little way,” Dilbus said. “Maybe it will reveal something. If not, at least it’ll be a break from following the river.”
Nodding, Limble stuffed the biscuit into his mouth and climbed onto his bird. “Then let us get started, Sir,” he said spraying crumbs, “I want us to be on our way home soon.”
Extending his arm up stream, Dilbus waited for his companion to take to the air before jumping into the sky himself.
The trees grew thicker here, he noted. The harsher waters of the river would sweep away any that were less than heathy while the stream slowed once away from the estuary. The dense forest rang with life, wild birds, crickets, knolls and other woodland creatures that chirped a merry chorus. The sun shone from the moss coated bark and enlivened the surroundings in rich emerald, contrasting the many other vibrant colours. Dilbus may have found it beautiful if it wasn’t for the remains of a goblin, its crooked skeleton lying face down across a rock, the flesh plucked from its decaying body.
The pair of them swooped down and landed beside the head of the goblin. The skull which was much larger than his chamber at home, stared through empty sockets and the lower mandible had been torn away.
Dilbus drew his sword and scanned the area for any signs of a threat, but it was clear that the giant had succumbed to death many, months ago.
“How do you suppose he died?” Limble asked, his face taking on an ashen quality. “He’s a right mess.”
“Most of the damage was done after he was killed,” Dilbus explained. “The scavengers of the forest have seen to anything that was edible, but he was injured in the stream. He managed to drag himself up the bank and got as far as here before somebody hit him on the back of the head.” Using his sword, he pointed to the back of the cranium which was caved in and now hollow. “At least we now know who the sunken boat belonged to.”
“How do you know he was hit on the back of the head and hadn’t fallen or that the boat was his?”
“I’m making a calculated guess. The boat was too small to be human-built and too large to be brownie, which leaves only goblins and dwarfs.”
“Dwarfs don’t like the water,” Limble offered, scratching his chin.
“Which leaves goblins, so, if he’s here and his boat carried on down-stream, it means he was knocked out of it. I find it hard to believe he came by that blow by accident. Besides, if it did happen while he was still on the stream, his body would be either in the boat or in the water.”
“Unless he got the blow and then dragged himself out.”
Dylap tapped the white protruding skull fragments with the tip of his sword and watched as the bone crumbled.
“This blow would have killed him outright. Which means who ever knocked him from his boat, followed and then finished him.”
“But why?”
Dilbus shrugged. “Maybe he stole something, maybe he tried to escape or perhaps it was done out of fun. Who’s to say what goblins do, they’re a nasty breed of giant.”
He put his sword away and was about to suggest that they move on when he spotted a long black feather that was curled around its fleshless fingers. It was so black it looked like a piece of the night had fallen from the stars. Its oily surface catching the sun and soaking up the rays.
Putting his boot between the huge bones of the fingers, he yanked the feather free and examined it closer.
“It can’t be,” he muttered.
“I’ve only ever seen one bird with feathers like that,” Limble said. “And that black monster is back at Farro.”
“My thoughts exactly, this belongs to that falcon alright, or something very similar.” He dropped the feather and climbed back onto his finch. “Let us leave this place,” he said, eyeing the rest of the corpse for any further clues, but the animals of the woods had torn, ripped and eaten anything else of him. “There’s still plenty of day left for searching and I’m getting a nagging feeling that we’re about to find something more significant.”
Significant was too smaller word for what they stumbled upon next. They didn’t need to fly far before arriving at a stone and mud cottage. The crudely built building sagged to one side, leaning into the stream where a badly serviced waterwheel, missing several paddles, slowly turned in the current. Smoke rose lazily from a twisted chimney, flowing out between the wide cracks of the masonry as well as from the jagged pot-work on top. The thatched roof had also seen better days: it was green with mould and a spindly rowan grew from an eave.
“I don’t like it,” Dilbus said as they landed on a nearby ash to observe the hovel. They walked the birds beneath the thick leaves and out of sight before crawling to the end of a branch to get a better view.
There was a rough plank door and a single window, the lead that held the glass had long ago peeled away and several glass panes lay on the floor, shattered. The gaps they left had been replaced by cut bark and wedged in tight with mud. Along the wall beside the door were many rusty hooks with various traps and cages hanging in disrepair and at the end of the building was a wooden frame with skins and furs from many different animals, spread out to dry.
“My guess is that whoever lives there is a trapper. Why else live so deep in the forest?” Dilbus said.
“Would he have anything to do with Dylap though?” Limble whispered. “Those skins are from deer, badgers and bears.”
“A trapper is a trapper, as long as somebody is buying his wares, he’ll trap anything he can. I’m going for a closer look.”
Retrieving his bird, Dilbus flew down and landed on the windowsill. He edged the finch towards a broken pane and hid himself behind the bark. Edging closer to the glass, he put his hands to the grimy surface and peered through.
There was only the one room. A log burned in the hearth giving enough light to see a cauldron, a simple cot and a table. Shelves filled the walls with a multitude of animal pieces left upon them gathering dust. Teeth, skulls, claws and even a human hand, lay amongst the jars and cups, which were filled with other oddments. At the table with his back to the window was a goblin, his shoulders hunched over as he worked under an oil lamp, green mottled skin wrinkling up like that of a witchetty grub He was humming a merry tune as his pointy elbows worked back and forth as if he was sewing or stitching a garment. Dilbus watched as the goblin leaned further over the table and held a small object closer to the lamp.
He gasped when he recognised a pair of fairy wings. The red and gold limbs had been stretched and fixed onto a blue stone to form a brooch. It shone under the light, a gruesome piece of jewellery for a human in a faraway city, perhaps. Seeming satisfied with his work, the goblin took a brush and dipped it in clear liquid before applying it to the brooch; a gloss to seal it together.
Limble slapped a hand on Dilbus’s shoulder, startling another gasp from him. “Don’t do that?” he hissed, doubting that his heart would take another scare.
“Sorry Captain, but if we’re to head back to Farro we ought to start…” Limble stared through the window and then back at Dilbus, his bottom lip protruding once again. “We’re not going back now are we Sir?”
Dilbus wished he had never told Limble that they would head home if they didn’t find any more clues. It gave him hope which he would now need to break.
“Sorry Limble, but this has everything to do with Dylap, see the jars along that shelf?” he asked, pointing to the back of the shack.
Limble cupped his hands around his face and pressed it to the glass.
“Those are the same as the one we found yesterday.”
“Precisely, I’d bet a golden prim fig that he had spent some time in here but had escaped somehow. He would have been a rare specimen, having the spines that he has.”
“Maybe the other goblin had trie
d to steal it and was killed for his troubles,” Limble added, “But the jar Dylap was trapped in fell into the stream during the fight, only to be washed to the river where it smashed. And that’s how he ended up in Farro.”
It was rare that Dilbus was impressed by his subordinate’s thinking, yet he had to admit, Limble was onto something there.
He was absently mulling over what might have happened and didn’t notice that his finch had begun to fidget. Its sharp beak suddenly tapping the window as it began to preen itself.
Limble yelped as the goblin turned around. Dilbus slapped a hand over his mouth and pulled him behind the pane of bark.
Slowly he peered around the mud acting as lead, and stared through the glass.
Beatle-black eyes, sitting too close together, narrowed on the window. They stared above a hooked nose with wide sweeping nostrils which flared as he sniffed the air, tall ears waggling before pricking up.
“Fairies they come, fairies they go,” the goblin sang between licking his sharp yellow teeth. “Some pickle fast while others pickle slow. I takes their wings and grizzle their bones, they make fine goodies to put on show.”
He laughed at his own song before raising a long finger and tapping his nail against a jar that was sat on the table and had been hidden behind the goblin’s body before.
“Friends of yours my dear?” he asked, then continuing to sing, went back to work.
Dilbus bit the inside of his cheek, his fear ratcheting up to an all-time high as he saw what was in the jar.
“We’re no longer searching for clues,” Dilbus said, attempting to channel his fear into a seldom felt strength. “It’s now a rescue. Did you recognise the fairy in the jar?”
Limble nodded. “That was the baker’s apprentice. The one that went missing weeks back.”
“Genili,” Dilbus confirmed, as he climbed on his finch and flew back to the safety of the ash. “This is going to take some careful planning.”
19
Blame
The obelisk towered above the dead ground. Dark and looming it tilted to one side, the wind whistling as it blew across the large holes that punctured through the structure. It glowed from within, a subtle blue hue marking out the swirling etchings that ran around the edges and corners and spiralled through the holes. The ancient stone made a crackling sound and hissed when Dylap touched it, making his teeth itch, the sensation traveling through his body and intensifying before vibrating up his spines.