by Ember Lane
When they’d first ventured in, the catacombs had scared the buggery out of Merl, and that had let Billy instantly regain his superiority. Piles of bones had been nestled in receding alcoves, and Merl had sworn skulls had turned as they’d walked past, and empty eye sockets had followed the pair’s cautious movements. Plus, sudden drafts had threatened to douse their torchlight. Then, as if it couldn’t have got worse, at the end of the damp, dark and foreboding chamber, a slab of stone had blocked their way. Upon it a simple inscription of an upside-down goat’s head had been daubed within a red-painted, pentagram. It had alerted Merl’s anti-demon gland to secrete pure terror into his bloodstream. The gland had proceeded to squeeze itself dry when Billy had leaned on the inscription, and the whole thing had fallen away and swallowed Billy into the darkness behind. Merl’s scream had rattled the numerous piles of sodden bones and skulls to a spine-chilling resonance that had seen Gloomy Joe howl in terror. Thankfully, Billy had recovered, lifted his torch up, and had found their salvation.
It was toward that salvation that Frank, Desmelda, Billy, Merl, Gloomy Joe, and Quaiyl now ventured. They all ducked as they passed through the hole in the catacomb’s wall, and then walked along a cobbled wharf that lined a subterranean expanse of black water that vanished into an arched tunnel, and Billy presented them with the rowing boat that he and Merl had found earlier.
“This leads to the river?” Frank asked, looking along the substantial rowing boat. “Rourke could have told us about this before died. Inconsiderate bastard.”
“Dunno,” Billy replied, “but I can’t see it leadin’ much anywhere else, like. You’re supposed t’be the ‘telligent one, Frank.”
Frank peered into the shadows. “My head’s been scrambled of late. You know, people you thought you knew, but they turned out to be someone else.” He flashed a cold look at Desmelda.
The witch from… several places… rolled her eyes. “I never said I wasn’t from somewhere else other that Falling Glen, did I? Seriously, Frank, did you think two mushrooms got it together and out I popped in Falling Glen with a pretty little house and a ready-made cauldron?”
“No,” Frank snapped, clearly losing the argument. “I’m just…”
“You’re just put out he didn’t name Merl and make everything nice and tidy for you. Well, he didn’t, so get over it. If we have to search this land for someone called Duran, so be it.”
“But it has to be Merl,” Frank growled, getting into the boat. “Billy, get the oars, you’re rowing.”
“Why me?” Billy asked.
“Why does he have to be Merl?” Desmelda asked.
“Kinda hope it isn’t me,” Merl added, but he secretly wondered whether that was true. Part of him, a tiny but ever-growing part, quite fancied being something other than ordinary, but most of him still wanted to be Merl Sheepherder, and he couldn’t quite work out where he was, and that increasingly befuddled his mind.
“One at a time!” Frank pleaded. “Billy, it has to be you rowing because you’re the biggest, strongest bastard out of the lot of us, so if there are any problems you’ll have the best chance of rowing us out of them.”
Billy puffed with pride.
“Desmelda, it has to be Merl because of the things he does.” Frank dumped himself on the boat’s rear thwart.
His neck snapped around. “Merl, get used to it—it’s you.” Frank dumped his drooping chin in his upturned palms. “It has to be you.”
“You’re missing my point,” Desmelda said. “As usual, you’re just not listening. I’m not saying it isn’t Merl, I’m asking the question; ‘Why does he have to be called Merl?’” She pointed straight at Merl.
“Because that’s my bloody name,” Merl said, jumping into the boat with Gloomy Joe, but making sure he was as far away from Frank as possible. He was beginning to get fed up with everyone speaking about him like he was a handful of turnips laid out on a market stool.
Frank made to snap but held himself back. “Wait a moment, Merl’s dad called him Merl, but that doesn’t mean…”
“Yes, it bloody well does,” Merl said, grabbing the boat’s bow and trying to mold into it while pulling a very unsure Gloomy across him.
“We’re not saying your name isn’t Merl. We’re saying that you may have been referred to by a different name in the prophecies,” Desmelda said as she settled by Frank, and Quaiyl hopped in.
Billy pushed the boat away from the wharf and started rowing. “A bit like Walinda Alepuller called her ale Morgan’s Finest Traditional, and everyone else called it Slop.”
Merl snarled at Billy. “Nothing like that, Muckspreader, nothin’ like that at all.”
Billy laughed. “Keep yer danglers danglin’, Merl. I’m only messin’. Think about it. Only important folk have two names—royalty an’ that—King So-and-so of Somewhere-daft.”
“Do’n wanna be royalty. Wanna herd sheep n’ ferget ‘bout everythin’,” Merl grouched.
The oars dipped in the water as Merl snuggled down with Gloomy Joe. Rourke’s naming of Duran had lifted some of the increasing responsibility he was feeling right off his shoulders. For just a few hours he’d felt back to his old self—carefree—or at least as carefree as you could be in a castle surrounded by zombies, in a land surrounded by enemies. He thought he’d slid out from under the prophecy that no one had read.
He’d thought he’d got away with it.
Now, the impending doom of the fate of the land rested back on his ill-suited shoulders. Merl knew they sagged at the best of times. They’d hardly carried the business of sheepherding well. Most days he’d been in flux between absolute panic that he’d lose a sheep and the need for a quick snooze. Cold sweats were a norm for Merl, and impending doom was a mood and not a fleeting feeling. Even if Frank or Desmelda weren’t aware of it yet, Merl knew he wasn’t cut out to be a hero.
Though, I am quite enjoying the adventure, he thought, as his inner conflict reared its ugly head again. He couldn’t be mad at Frank though. He worshipped the Wizard of Quintz. Nor could he stay angry at Desmelda. She was as close to a mother as he’d ever had, though more an older sister.
The glimmer of a smile curled his lips upward. “Gimmie a torch, Frank,” Merl asked. “Let me light the way.” Frank returned his grin as he conjured one from his strange ring.
Merl held the torch forward, urging its light to spread as Billy rowed toward the pitch black. Low archways surrounded them, but the number of them slowly diminished until just one faced them. A singular narrow tunnel led away. Billy pulled the oars in, and they pushed against its walls to propel the boat along.
“Not sure I’m liking this,” Frank hissed, and Merl knew exactly what he meant.
It was tight. The walls were way too close. They had no room to fight, no room to escape, nothing. A shaft of light appeared ahead. Merl craned forward.
“What is it, Merl?” Frank asked.
“Looks like a hole in the roof,” Merl whispered, as they closed on it. “It’s about the size of a well.”
“So a well—” Billy’s words were cut off by a splash and a growl. A bloated gruesome-looking zombay erupted from the black water. It clawed for Merl, who scrambled backward, banging into Billy. Gloomy Joe yelped, but reared and then started barking at the abomination. The zombay tipped itself into the boat, grabbing for Gloomy and Merl.
“Bloody thing. Gross. Get away! Get away!” He kicked out, his boots smashing into the thing’s swollen head. The zombay had beached itself in the boat’s bottom and was struggling to move as its distended stomach filled the keel and its tumefied fingers failed to grasp hold of the boat’s gunwales. Quaiyl barged past Merl. The Origin picked up Gloomy Joe and tossed him to Billy, then grabbed the zombay’s neck and twisted it around until it snapped. It then ripped the head clean off and tossed it away before shoving the undead’s corpse back into the water.
They pulled against the wall, forcing the boat to bang past the floating, headless, zombay. They passed under the well’s sha
ft, all gazing up, all waiting for a zombay to drop on them.
“Bugger, that were grisly,” Billy said, and no doubt echoed everyone’s thoughts.
The subterranean waterway imposed its gloom on them. Its unwelcome darkness pushed at the torch’s tallow flame. Merl fixed his stare straight ahead, locked in terror as he waited for another swollen abomination to burst upward, or some monster to grab the gunwales and capsize the boat.
“I don’t think I’ve ever felt so useless,” Frank growled.
“Yes, well, just don’t use your magic down here. I can smell gas,” Desmelda snapped.
“Probably Billy,” Merl muttered without thinking.
As if to prove Merl right, Billy tore a guffer and began snickering.
Desmelda shrieked in disgust.
“That’s bloody foul!” Frank exclaimed.
“Best not use your magic now,” Billy said proudly.
Merl grinned, but his lips briefly trembled. He watched the black water and scoured the tunnel’s dark walls. His terror ebbed as hope regained its footing. If they could laugh through this daunting episode, they could get through anything.
A tiny horseshoe of light came into view. It spread toward them like a star’s twinkle. They pushed harder against the walls to propel the boat faster as they strove for the light and its promise of salvation. The horseshoe grew until its brilliant light sprayed over them. Merl bathed in it first, and then the rest of the boat soaked in the sun’s noon rays. The river’s current caught hold of them, and Billy rowed like a madman to try and traverse its flow, but they were swept westward nonetheless.
Billy eventually reached the other bank just as Vorast vanished from view. They hauled the boat up onto a dry land and all took a well-needed breath of fresh air.
“The trail?” Merl asked, looking about for any hint of a track.
“I’m beginning to wonder if we can’t make better time on the river,” Frank said. He took a map from his ring. “I took this from Rourke.”
“He had no need fer it, like,” Billy said as he helped Frank smooth the map out.
“If we use the trail, we have to pass by the towns of Gorbon and Trel,” Frank continued. “Like as not, they’ll be overrun with zombays. But if we use the river.”—Frank traced a line with his finger—“it looks like we pass straight through this forest and all the way to here where we’ll have to get out.”
“Are they falls?” Desmelda asked.
“Falls or rapids,” Frank said. “Either way, we’ll carry on by boat for as long as we can. We’re going to have to fight zombays to get through Erreden, so let’s take a bit of peace and quiet where we can.”
“Back in the boat?” Merl asked.
All things considered, Merl was quite pleased with the decision. He’d had enough of hoofing it through Alaria, especially now that they had no cart. Plus it seemed the safe way to go, and it would give him time to think. Merl needed to think like he’d never thought before.
“Back in the boat, Merl,” Frank told him.
“Well, I ain’t rowing all the way,” Billy said. “We can share that.”
“’Least it’s downhill,” Merl pointed out.
The river widened as its heavily forested banks sped by. Sunlight blinded them. Merl now sat in the boat’s stern. Gloomy Joe’s head rested on his lap, and Merl’s hand laid on him. Quaiyl sat opposite Merl and if the construct had had eyes, they would have been staring directly at Merl.
“Why are you called The Origin? Merl asked Quaiyl, but he knew he wouldn’t get an answer. He knew it because he’d asked Quaiyl the same question over and over, day after day.
Quaiyl remained impassive.
“Why bother?” Desmelda asked Merl. “Will it even know?”
Merl glanced over Quaiyl and at Desmelda. “Because I need to understand. I want to know what origin he is.”
“What origin?”
Merl studied Quaiyl again. “For instance, is he the start of Arthur15749’s lore. Can we only understand the first ward if The Origin lets us? Or is ‘e the thing I need to create a village and begin building? Is there a place I need t’get to, or is he the guide to get me there? What is he?!”
“Sorry I asked,” Desmelda said, and then clambered past Quaiyl and slumped onto the rear thwart by Merl. Gloomy Joe deigned to open an eye and inspect her, but soon resumed his slumber.
Merl guessed it was probably the first real rest Gloomy Joe had enjoyed since Wave Walker. The dog was like an island surrounded by chaos. Sometimes Gloomy appeared quite happy to rip a zombay’s throat out and bound straight onto the next. Other times he barely bothered to wake, and on some rare occasions he actually summed up the energy to be terrified. Gloomy Joe had a mood that could fit any occasion and was unwilling to change it no matter what was going on.
It wasn’t quite the same for Merl.
“Well,” Desmelda said, “it doesn’t look like you’re going to get an answer any time soon. Why don’t you ask it a different question?”
“It won’t answer coz it ain’t got a mouth,” Billy shouted back to them.
“I know, Billy Muckspreader. He don’t answer questions.” Merl huffed at Billy.
“Then why you asking?” Billy chided.
“I’m trying to think, and all the time I’m askin’, I’m thinkin’.” Merl was trying to be ‘telligent. It was had work.
“Odd way t’do it,” Billy muttered.
Merl sat, elbows on his knees and chin on his palms. He stared at Quaiyl. “What aren’t you tellin’ me?”
Merl sat back and decided to think about what else he knew. Assuming he could build a settlement, he now knew that he could build farms, woodyards, and quarries around it, and they would produce bricks of material that could then be used to produce more stuff. This, he decided, was the Power of Resource. The resources could basically produce unlimited building blocks. So, the Power of Construction was the act of building and increasing the building levels. With the Power of Resource he could produce the blocks that would drive everything, and then the Power of Nascent allowed him to produce more diverse constructs to fill the varying jobs within his settlement. The Power of War had to be the means to wage war—that one went without saying. Once he had mastered all of the first four wards he would basically have a working castle and village he could defend.
All he needed to do was find how to begin, which was why having a construct titled “The Origin” was truly frustrating. Having thought all that through, he announced his conclusions.
“Once I start, I can build a castle and an army.”
Frank’s head snapped around. “You’ve worked it all out?”
“Up to the Power of War. I just need a starting point.”
Frank slumped, but Merl could see he was ruminating, and when Frank did that, something impressive normally spurted out of him.
“Quaiyl does exactly what you tell him, doesn’t he?” Frank asked.
“If I ask him to do something, he sort of does it. But I’ve mostly only asked him to kill stuff for me.” Merl was sure that was roughly how it went.
“Why don’t you order him to build a city, then?” Frank suggested, but quickly followed it up. “Not now! Not on the boat.”
Just as Merl decided Frank had it, Billy turned everything upside down.
“Might be like a seed. Quaiyl, he might be like a seed—just waitin’ for the right time t’sprout. Maybe waitin’ to be blown to the right place, like. I think Quaiyl, being The Origin n’ all, will only reveal its true self when it’s the right place ‘n the right time, like.”
“I think you might have it, Billy,” Frank said. A smidge of astonishment peppering his words.
“You mean, we’re tryin t’shear tha sheep in fallin’ season?” Merl said, getting his noggin around Billy’s idea.
“Can’t plant corn in winter,” Billy crowed. He was clearly happy he’d got something right for a change.
“What you’re all saying,” Desmelda started to sum up, “is that
the construct we call Quaiyl will only fulfil his destiny when a load of preset conditions that we haven’t got a clue about, come to pass.”
Merl’s hopes surged. That was it! Desmelda had got it!
“Well that’s about as much use as that stupid prophecy about Merl and Duran. Now we’ve got two prophecies to worry about, and no one’s heard either of them. Fan-bloody-tastic.”
Merl’s hopes slumped.
Adventuring was stupid.
“What’s a Knight of Tintagel?” Merl asked Frank, right as the question popped into his head like a rake handle smacks you when you step on its end.
Frank didn’t answer for a while. He merely sat, motionless, and stared ahead. Merl instantly knew he’d sucked any hope out of the conversation. When Frank did answer, it was like he was talking in his sleep.
“It is a guild—a little like One. Its heraldry is lost to the mists of time, but its origin is very similar to that of One as to be uncanny. The Knights of Tintagel are an offshoot of a once-great guild called Camelot. The Knights are the land’s last hope, and they are all that stands between light and dark. They harry Daemon Mercer. They sink his ships. They steal his supplies. Once, a long time ago, they used to take him on in battle, but not now, not any longer. Those times are past. He is too strong for them now.”
“What hope is there, then?” Billy asked.
“There is always hope, Billy, always. But this cursed plague has stolen our recruits. Our faltering magic has sealed our fate. The Knights of Tintagel have little hope unless we unravel the secrets of the ancient lords.”
Merl pondered Frank’s words. He’d never heard Frank so down. Surely all couldn’t rely on this Duran or him, could it?