by Ember Lane
“Not a hint of zombay, then—while he was here, like,” said Billy, trying to look serious. “No dribbling, black blood, lurching, dragging the odd foot or nothin’?”
“You think the corruption is in Quintz?” Frank said, ignoring Billy.
“I don’t think it lurks in the tall grass,” Rithender replied cryptically.
“No gray skin, ripped cheeks, eyes fallen out of their sockets…” Billy carried on.
“Billy!” Frank shouted.
“What?” Billy drew back. “Just tryin’ t’get to the bottom of it all. Reckon it might be like tha’ clops.”
“What?” Frank screwed his face up in confusion.
“Tha’ clops, y’know, when ya can’t control when ya gotta—”
“I know what the bloody clops is,” Frank growled. “What I don’t know is what it has to do with one of the most distinguished, accomplished, and greatest wizards the Land of the Crescent Moon has ever seen.”
“Well,” Billy said, taking center stage and reveling in it. “I’m glad you asked me. The clops, Frank, as you know, aren’t instant. You eat a bit of dodgy chicken, or whatever, and a few hours later you’re crappin’ like the waterfall over Bucket Lake. See what I’m sayin?”
Frank’s expression had turned from displeasure to interest to incredulity, all in the space of Billy’s brief explanation. “No, I don’t.”
Billy rolled his eyes. “I’m sayin’ maybe he ate tha chicken in Quintz, but got tha clops aboard tha giant boat, that’s what I’m sayin’.”
“But the zombay thing is instant. You’ve seen ‘em Billy. They bite, drop down dead, an’ then get up,” Merl pointed out.
“Ah,” said Billy, “but I’m not saying Ricklefuss, or whatever his name is, was bitten by the bastards, am I? I’m sayin’ he was given tha’ clops—poisoned, like—now, whoever poisoned him is in Quitnz so he’s hardly likely t’want Ricklefess t’go all blurb-blurb-blurble in tha city, is he? Coz if he did, the tha’ whole of Quintz gets it an’ that don’t help whoever… whoever… who…” Billy stuttered to a stop. Everyone looked at him, waiting. Frank had his mouth open, Merl’s his head was inclined, and Desmelda was leaning forward a little. “Nope, gone. Lost me thread,” Billy added.
“What Billy is saying, is that Ricklefess was given a delayed-action poison in Quintz which only manifested on Wave Walker,” Desmelda explained.
“Ah,” said Frank, “that makes sense.”
Billy scratched his head. “Does it?”
33
Pelleth led the way, threading through the tall grass as their stems became thinner and denser and their tips became shallower. Merl strolled after, letting the others go first. Mushroom and Quaiyl accompanied him with Gloomy Joe taking it upon himself to sniff near enough every single stalk.
Frank was now full of conspiracy theories, and Quintz, by all accounts, was a hotbed of intrigue that served as ideal fuel for their fire. It was full of sects, factions, and guilds who all appeared to be at each other’s throats. The House of Pulstar, he’d told them, was at odds with The Seven Sons of Apathy, who were rarely at odds with anyone but were in bed with The First Bell Brethren, and they were allies of The Eye of Mizzen. The Eye of Mizzen were also opposed to The House of Pulstar, on the surface but were, in fact, blood brothers. At least that’s what Frank reckoned. Not only that, there were factions within sects, and conspirators within the factions.
“You don’t know who your enemies are, let alone who yer friends are,” Frank had told them during the conversation, and then continued to explain. Merl’s mind had wandered, but a lot of it had sunk in.
Ricklefess, for instance, was in The House of the Lonesome Mage, and all despised him. All except one other wizard, and that was Frank, which was a true statement on the face of it, but… Ricklefess was actually on good terms with all wizards, except when they had their faction capes on, or their guild hats. Once those capes were worn and hats were on, they had to adhere to faction rules and guild treaties and despise Ricklefess… and Frank. Most tried to keep on Frank’s good side, because while they had magic, and the more powerful wizards had reduced their casting times to mere taps, Frank had a bloody great sword and could equip it in a flash.
Whilst most of Frank’s revelations had indeed gone over Merl’s head, he had come to the conclusion that Quintz was, essentially, the same as Walinda Alepuller’s tavern. Just like Walinda’s bar had regulars that sat at various tables, some even had their own prized position at its worn and scratched counter, so Quintz had its factions. Frank and Ricklefess had been Morgan Mount’s version of Twisted Tom and One-Boot Ben, who always stood on their own in one corner. Whenever folk were sat at their tables, they’d shout and sneer at One Boot, and not give the time of day to Twisted Tom. Put the same person next to Twisted Tom by the piss pit, and they had chatted like old friends.
As far as Merl was concerned, the conundrum appeared to be who would have wanted Twisted Tom dead, or was the point really to stop One Boot Ben, or in their terms, was Ricklefess poisoned in order to kill Frank who in turn was hunting Merl? Additionally, had the unknown assassin inadvertently poisoned the whole of the Land of The Crescent Moon, or was it his intent?
Or, as Billy had put it, “Bit of a pickle, innit?”
The finnan, with Rithender’s blessing, were now allied to Frank and Merl and no longer in cahoots with Quintz. Their tribes spread throughout the grasslands and plains of Orion, and so the alliance was a fortunate one. Frank had explained that it cost the finnan nothing, as no wizards ventured away from Quintz nowadays, but its symbolism was everything. It handed them much in the future, provided they lived that long.
Merl and the others trudged through the endless grass, as they had for three days. Their escort was the height of efficiency. Finnan scouts always ranged ahead looking for signs of either monsters or Daemon Mercer’s men. Their hunters foraged for food and set up camp, and Pelleth made sure that all, including Mushroom, were taken care of. It had been a pleasant, if mind-numbingly monotonous trek that ended on the fourth day when they abruptly came to a bank of charcoal scree that stemmed the sea of green. It rose up twenty or so feet to a black ridge that led away both east and west.
“This is as far as I can take you,” Pelleth said. She turned to them each in turn, bowed, and bid them farewell. “There is a refuge over the ridge. The stonecutters used to use it. Take care, monstrous eagles circle, and there is tell of bears and stone demons. Do you travel the Old Way to the Mara Hawks?”
“We do,” Frank replied, as he assessed the slope.
“Then take care under. The bones of the earth stir. They grow restless as this age turns in its grave. It is entirely possible Daemon Mercer has awoken something that should never have been roused. We finnan can feel its evil leaching into the rich loam we tread. This much we know, but the tall grass is ours and that endures, not the rock that is closed to us. Stone casts too heavy a shadow.” Pelleth clicked her fingers, and a scout appeared, a small pack in hand. “Take this. This is Clithadrial, biscuits blessed by Rithender herself. Know this, Frank of Quintz, you will always be a friend to us, as will Merl of Many Names, and the rest of you. May the wisps be with you when all else is dark.” Pelleth bowed low, and then the finnan blended away, vanishing into the tall grass. “Farewell, Merl of Many Names, Desmelda of Wormloe Tump, Billy, and Frank, Friend from Quintz.” Her parting words kissed his ears with the lightest of breezes.
“What did she—?” Billy scratched his head. “Bones of the earth, that bit, didn’t like tha’ sound of it too much, did I?”
Frank’s boot ground into the scree. He stared up, scanning the sky for any sign of monsters. “Me neither, Billy, but time’s tight and dusk waits for no one.” He began the climb up.
Merl’s boots crunched and slipped, and his calves burned. Billy huffed and puffed, mumbling and grumbling with every energy sapping step.
“Lucky I got yer troll hammer in me copper band eh, Billy? I wouldn’t fancy it’d work as
good as Frank’s staff. Be more a hindrance, eh?”
“Be more a bloody seat, that’s what it’d be.”
“Yer face looks like it’s about to pop, Billy Muckspreader,” Desmelda said as she nimbly sped past him.
“A decent Witchy Witch would give us a lift on her broomstick, wouldn’t she, like?”
Desmelda let out an exaggerated cackle that clattered around the slope like rolling tin pans. "We only use them in an emergency.”
“Come on, Billy, it’s no harder than Three Face Mountain,” Merl said.
Billy stared up, huffing and puffing. “Ain’t that, Merl. Me feet ain’t stopped walkin’ since we left yer old dad’s. I’m surprised I got any left—surprised they ain’t worn down t’stumps. Can’t wait t’get to Quintz and draw up a nice chair by a warm fire and rest the poor blighters.”
Once Billy had said it, Merl wanted it too, factions or no factions. As he carried on up, he pictured the roaring flames, the mug of frothy ale by his side, the glowing embers, and the floors stone flags. That wholesome vision was only extinguished when he neared the black ridge’s top, and the mountains behind came into view.
Not surprisingly, they were headed straight for a peak, which Merl knew meant they were on course for a shelter. Closer, it was plain to see that the mountains had been carved by the Gods themselves. Each was a huge monolith, a towering peak that was surely impossible to climb. Riven from the blackest stone, their near vertical sides rose in jagged chaos as sharp as a blade and as pointed as a spear. Merl soon stood upon the ridge, oblivious, for just a moment, to any threat that might be about him. He took a long breath as he felt the small pangs of his own insignificance, cowed in the face of their power.
The darkening blue skies held no trace of circling eagles, and the folds of the jagged foothills showed no sign of huge bears. The ridge dropped sharply away, falling to a rock crease that looked like an axe had plunged from the sky and riven its great furrow. Frank slipped and slid down to a stream that flowed black with the sooty rock. Merl and the others followed. Mushroom bounded down in one great leap.
They followed the stream as they climbed the craggy crease, hugging shadows, wide-eyed and ready for anything as the sun began to wane, and their time to find the refuge shortened. Frank stopped and put his hands on his hips, wheezing, lips peeled back in a pain-filled smirk.
“That’s it there,” he said, and pointed.
Merl looked for some grand entrance, then for an understated refuge, but his eyes skipped over what Frank pointed at. It was just so normal, and in being so mundane, didn’t stand out at all. A single, large doorway had been carved into the mountain, and a curiously inconspicuous door filled it. It was no vast dwarven gateway to the underworld, though it was, perhaps, one and a half times the size of a normal door. Neither was it a rune-crusted portal, but more a simple iron-braced door, with a brass knob on one side.
Desmelda pushed Frank out of the way. She approached the door cautiously, chanting and throwing gray dust all around its creases and cracks. She traced her finger around its edge and closely studied its threshold.
“It looks clear,” Desmelda said, “but let me just—”
“Of course, it’s clear,” Frank muttered, shoving past Desmelda. “It’s a refuge. No one traps a refuge.”
Frank grabbed the doorknob, froze, and then became deathly pale. He began shaking uncontrollably and ground out a scream from behind clenched teeth. Deep blue sparks flew out, fizzing on the ground about the wizard.
Merl surged forward, and Billy did too, but Desmelda barked, “No!” Her arms shot out, keeping them all back.
“It’s a shock spell, it needs grounding. Pull him away and you’ll kill him, likely end yourself too.”
“Do… something…” Frank growled, his eyeballs much bigger than Merl remembered.
Desmelda began chanting, her hands high and fingers stiff like claws, her neck taut. She growled her words out quickly, and the ground under Frank began boiling. Green shoots forced themselves up, and in doing so they lifted the Wizard of Quintz off the ground. The shoots’ stems fattened, and waxy leaves formed a platform under Frank. The sparks instantly lessened, fizzled, and died out. Frank fell back off the platform.
“What the hell did you do?” Frank asked as shivers rippled through his prone body. He hugged himself as if he was cold.
Desmelda looked down at him, her face painted with victory. “That’s the difference between wizards and witches. We actually think through a problem. What cancels a shock spell?”
Frank bit at his lips, whistled in a sharp breath, and failed to answer through chattering teeth.
Desmelda stepped up onto the leafy platform. “To insulate yourself against a shock spell, you merely need a rubber plant or two.” She twisted the brass knob and pushed the door open. “See, just takes a bit of thought.” She grinned, and in the time it took her to smile, a huge bear rushed out, its momentous growls filling the valley with a new horror.
“Now that’s some’it we can fight,” Billy cried, finding some energy from somewhere. Merl equipped Billy’s troll hammer from his copper band’s weapons slot, immediately hefting it to his friend before equipping his own katana. The bear powered into Desmelda and tossed her aside like a ragdoll before she could conjure a spell. Billy raced forward, his troll hammer swooping down and slamming straight onto the beast’s noggin.
The bear halted in its tracks, clearly stunned, but managed to swipe Billy out of the way before it staggered back. Merl took the opportunity to jump into action, drawing his great blade back and bringing it across his body in what should have been a devastating strike. The bear, however, still reeling from Billy’s thump, weaved backward and the tip of Merl’s blade barely scratched the bear’s chest. As Merl’s follow through partly turned him away from the beast, the bear screamed a terrible growl and raked its claws down Merl’s back. They ripped along his flesh, carving terrible furrows. Quaiyl leapt into action, kicking out at the bear’s outstretched paw and snapping it in two.
Merl screamed in pain, fell back, and the stones and shale gouged into his open flesh. Merl’s anger rose, but he focused, trying desperately to rid his mind of the burning pain that threatened to swallow his consciousness. Using all his willpower, he pushed himself up, turning to face the bear. Frank still lay on the ground, his body trembling. Merl forced himself to shut out the pain when he saw the bear rear up, its arm dangling uselessly by its side. Quaiyl circled, looking for an opening. Billy stirred and groaned.
“Desmelda, bind his feet!” Merl screamed.
Desmelda stood, but clearly too quickly, and she staggered around, dazed and confused. A pitiful gout of green magic shot up from Frank but petered out before it had traveled even a few feet. Merl screamed his battle cry, but it wasn’t much more than a whisper. He staggered, rather than lunged, forward. Mushroom jumped in from the edge of the confrontation, overshot, and slammed into the mountain high above the door. Merl finally shed his pain and charged.
He shouted a battle cry, more in pain than anger, primed his katana and readied his strike. Quaiyl launched himself into the air, his outstretched foot smacking the bear on its snout. Merl forced the katana down, its glinting blade forming a stuttering arc as it thwacked into the bear’s skull. A mix of blood and brains spouted in a gruesome fan. Merl nearly blacked out, stars popping on his eyelids, fog muddling his mind. The bear lurched one way and then the other. Mushroom slid down from above, fangs bared, and sunk them into the gouge carved by Merl’s katana.
The bear slumped down, but then seemed to recoup, and let out bellow. Merl heaved his blade out as he fell sprawling back, his energy gone, his willpower overspent. Quaiyl backflipped out of the way avoiding the bear who careened under Mushroom’s weight.
Billy finally straightened. He lifted the troll hammer high over his head, a little too high, and tumbled straight back, smashing into the ground with a back-breaking thump. Merl tried to rise, but his back was on fire. He had nothing left. The be
ar shimmered, then it growled one last time. A vile slurping sound issued from under Mushroom’s cap, and the bear appeared to suck itself inward and shrink. After another huge slurp the bear’s stomach became concave. One more, and its skin wrinkled, its body withered, and its bones collapsed. Mushroom fell to the floor, stalk first. He pulsed, burped, and growled a little.
“Now that was a decent meal,” Mushroom announced.
Desmelda helped Merl up, tutting as she studied his back. “Frank,” she said, snapping her fingers in front of him. “Are you with us yet?”
Frank sat up, gazing at the crumpled animal. He glanced at Mushroom. “He save us again?”
“Oh yes,” said Merl.
“Getting’ pretty fed up with it,” Mushroom said. “Do all the savin’ yet I don’t get a seat at the big table. Jus’ remember that when yer all leave me outside while you’re drinkin’ in tha big hut.” He burped and turned a little green. “Oh bugger, I think the damn bear might have given me the clops.”
Desmelda’s light was feeble compared to the cavern’s size, yet it brushed the craggy ceiling and distant walls, and cast long shadows either side of them, behind boulder and bluff. A subterranean river burbled by, carving its mark in the blood-rock’s floor. Ancient stalactites hung like broken teeth, their points shattered on the floor, their stumps jagged and decayed, which broke up the dire blush color that dominated.
“Spring berry,” Merl said, then shied back from his words as if their mere saying would bring the shadows alive with foul demons. He paused, then stepped forward, showing all he could brave the cavern’s ominous challenge. Then he continued his musing as he found comfort, not fear, in the sound of his voice. “It’s the color of the spring berries that line the hedgerows near Chivers’ Farm. Color of spring berries alright. You remember them, Billy, you remember them, right?”