Where Gods Fear to Go

by Angus Watson

  She put the next arrow through the beast’s abdomen to see what that would do. The arrow cracked through the chitin body in between the pincer arms without too much trouble, but the wasp man flew on, apparently untroubled.

  Headshots, then.

  She shot four more, then Keef shouted: “Leave the last one to me, please!”

  Sitsi skipped clear, keeping an arrow ready on her bowstring.

  Seeing that the missile threat was gone, the final attacker slowed. It had a sting the length of a forearm on the end of its abdomen, like a spear tipped with a pearlescent globule which had to be venom.

  “Watch that stinger, Keef!” she cried.

  Keef nodded, pacing and swinging his long-handled axe from side to side. He probably, thought Sitsi, spent at least half his waking moments practising with that one weapon. He was no Owsla–he didn’t have the alchemical advantage–but he was skilled.

  That said, he didn’t have eight limbs, six hands, giant pincers, a body that could take an arrow through it without harm, or wings.

  The beast flapped closer. Keef stood, arms open, Arse Splitter in one hand. It looked like he was inviting the beast to have a go at his chest.

  It ignored the offer. It flapped almost lazily upwards until it was fifty paces above, then dipped its head, tucked its wings and fell, pointed end of its closed claws fore-most.

  Bouncing on his toes, Keef took his axe-spear in two hands and watched it come.

  Ten paces up, the beast flipped in mid-air and stopped. It hovered at head height, pointed its sting at Keef and squirted creamy white goo in a wide, heavy spray.

  Sitsi gasped.

  Keef leapt backwards, landed on his hands and threw himself sideways. He rolled and leapt up as the beast squirted again.

  The Wootah man jumped, avoiding the ejaculate.

  Where the first salvo had landed, Sitsi saw that the rock was dissolving in oily bubbles. One did not, she guessed, want that stuff on one’s skin. The Owsla outfit left her head, arms, midriff and thighs exposed. She backed away.

  “Shall I shoot it?” she called.

  “Don’t shoot! If it’s anything like me…” Keef danced, spinning towards the wasp man. It pulsed its thorax to squirt again, but only managed to dribble a cupful of gloop onto the rock below.

  The Wootah man swung Arse Splitter, holding the weapon by the end of the shaft, and sliced the attacker’s head from its body. The beast fell.

  “Ha!” Keef danced a circle. “The creature sought to send the Wootah man to Valhalla, but Arse Splitter showed him to the halls of the headless!”

  “You said something about If it’s anything like me?” Sitsi asked when Keef’s victory routine was done.

  “Ah, that, yes.” His pale face reddened like a shrimp dropped into boiling water.

  “Yes?”

  “Never mind that. Now, I am a humble man and although—”

  “You are a humble man.”

  “Please don’t interrupt when I’m proclaiming.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Apology accepted. So, I am a humble man and although nobody could have doubted the outcome of my fight with the beast, it would have been more difficult to fight all six. I would still have won, obviously,” he looked enquiringly at Sitsi and she nodded, “but I would have needed to exert myself. Had Arse Splitter and I been attacked by a dozen of the fell creatures, maybe even we would have fallen. Your bow, however, could have sent two dozen or more of them back to their foul realm. So, I would like to make a bow like yours and I will allow you to teach me how to use it.”

  “I’d be glad to,” said Sitsi, “but you have to ask.”

  “I am in your land and happy to adapt to your bizarre Scrayling ways. Please will you teach me to shoot a bow?”

  “I will.”

  “I may also require aid in its design and fabrication.”

  “So?”

  “Please will you help me make it?”

  “I will.”

  They smiled at each other as the wasp man’s venom bubbled in puddles of dissolving rock.

  Chapter 13

  Paternal Support

  Finn stopped screaming to draw breath and heard Taanya! Taanya! in his mind.

  Mercifully, the grip on his neck and feet was relaxed, then released. He whumped down onto the red sand. Moments later Sassa and Thyri ran up, skidded to a halt and stood, wary but ready to attack.

  How do you know my name? asked the squatch.

  I know more than your name, Erik continued, I know that you’re kind and good. I know you’re attacking us because you think we’re a threat to Ottar. We are not. We love him. Your sister Ayla would tell you as much.

  Finn’s neck and hips were in several sorts of pain. He crawled away from the squatch, over to the prone Sofi.

  Ayla? How do you know Ayla? Have you seen her?

  Sofi was unconscious but breathing.

  She’s our friend, Erik continued. We helped each other to escape from an evil bastard who had us imprisoned in the Badlands, then she helped us escape from your father Berlaze.

  Berlaze? Wait, no, tell me first what she was doing in the Badlands.

  Why don’t we all join Ottar and talk about it? We don’t want to leave him alone, do we?

  You’ll try to snatch Ottar!

  And you can kill us with your mind if we do.

  Good point. Come on then.

  Finn looked up–an apology would have been nice–but the squatch strode away.

  “Well done, Finn.” Sofi was sitting up and rubbing her head.

  “Actually, it was Erik. He got into her mind.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He was nice to her.”

  Thyri laughed. “Did the big warrior need Daddy to rescue him?”

  Finn held her eye. “I suppose he did.”

  They walked up to Taanya’s eyrie. The circle of rock towers, maybe twenty paces high, sprouted imposingly from the promontory. It would have made a wonderful longhouse, Finn thought, or more accurately a tallhouse, for the most vainglorious jarl.

  Finn was limping and his neck felt seriously odd, but he wasn’t badly damaged. Sofi was physically fine after her mind crush, but she was scowling like a newly caged lion. Not a fan of losing fights, that one.

  “How come the gods didn’t make any weird rock structures near Hardwork?” Finn asked, not speaking to anyone in particular.

  “Are you sure it wasn’t a demon?” asked Thyri, walking behind him.

  She had a point. The whole world west of the Shining Mountains was far too messed up for any god to have created it, apart from possibly Loakie, but Loakie was no maker of worlds.

  The path climbed up the side of the bluff through the pinyon pine, juniper and rabbits, then doubled back on itself along the ridge, towards the spectacular natural fort where Ottar was apparently concealed.

  A passage led to a roofless chamber with a packed earth floor. A fire smoked in one corner. In the another, perched on a plinth and looking very pleased with himself, was Ottar the Moaner.

  Finn, Erik, Sofi and Wulf sat with Taanya and told her everything that had happened from the Badlands on, and about their quest to go to The Meadows and defeat the force there that was bent on destroying the world.

  It was odd conversing in silence, not least because they could hear the others buggering about outside. By the sounds of it, Thyri was sparring with Chogolisa, Ottar was chasing rabbits and Sassa was chasing Ottar. Bodil and Yoki Choppa were gathering herbs and insects.

  Finn, he heard in his mind after a while. Finn? It was Erik.

  Yes?

  Have you been paying any attention?

  Not really.

  Do try to keep up, please. Will you tell Taanya what Ayla told you?

  She sends her love, and she said that you’d be able to tell us more about what’s going on at The Meadows.

  She also said, Sofi added, that you might know how we can defeat the force at The Meadows.

  Haven’
t got a clue, thought Taanya. I had noticed some strange weather, and there have been a lot of new animals flying around. They’ve killed quite a lot of predators, but they haven’t troubled me and I don’t trouble them.

  So you can’t help? thought Wulf.

  I cannot.

  Do you know anyone who might be able to? asked Erik.

  Yes.

  Who?

  A man like you, called Ola Wolvinder. He lives two days’ walk from here. Probably four days of your short-legged walking. He lives alone because nobody would want to live with him. But he knows everything. Or at least a lot. He’s old.

  “Ola Wolvinder?” said Wulf, giving Erik a meaningful look. “Interesting name.”

  “And he’s old…” Erik widened his eyes knowingly.

  “What?” said Finn. “What are you talking about?”

  Chapter 14

  Separate Ways

  Paloma Pronghorn poled the raft to avoid a shoal on the inner curve of a broad meander. It was even hotter than the day before and the landscape had climbed yet another notch in splendid weirdness. It was still made up of red cliffs, skirted mesas and towers, but they were larger and even less likely looking. In some places there was no vegetation at all, just scree and heat-cracked boulders. On the outer edge of the meander, a red and black rock wall without so much as a blade of grass blemishing its precipitous face plunged directly into the water.

  The current caught the raft and Paloma sat. There was no wind and the sun blazed, but they’d made comically large reed hats and the odd splash of spray from the river was refreshing. For the first time she could remember, Paloma didn’t yearn to run. She was happy listening to the girl’s stories.

  They’d been a lot quieter when they’d set off, listening out for more of the flying creatures or any other horrors, but none had appeared and they’d relaxed.

  Freydis the Annoying spoke without seeming to draw breath; a skill learned from Bodil Gooseface, guessed Paloma. She told legends of gods and heroes from the old world, the story of Olaf Worldfinder crossing Olaf’s Salt Sea a hundred years before, travelling inland along rivers and across great lakes and forming the town of Hardwork, how the Goachica had looked after them that first winter and ever more, until the Calnians destroyed their town.

  As the raft bobbled over one of the rare stretches of tame rapids, Freydis asked why the Calnians had destroyed their town and killed almost all the Hardworkers.

  “Adults,” said Paloma, “are dicks.”

  “Dicks, Paloma Pronghorn?”

  “Silly, nasty, selfish people.”

  “Raskova the Spiteful and Marina the Farter, who were Jarl Brodir the Gorgeous’s daughters, were silly and nasty and selfish and they were children. And you’re an adult and you’re nice and kind.”

  “Some children are dicks and some adults aren’t. And I have done some silly, nasty and selfish things.”

  “Like what?”

  “I’ll tell you another time.”

  “I know. Like kissing Finn the Deep.”

  “How do you know about that?”

  “Ottar told me.”

  “Who told… oh, never mind. What was I talking about?”

  “Why your people killed all of mine.”

  Not all, thought Paloma, but she didn’t say it. Her tribe had killed most of Freydis’s tribe, and tried to kill the rest of them, so she wasn’t in a position to quibble.

  “The point is adults can be as silly and nasty as children, but the difference is that some of them have power, so they can do nasty things for silly reasons and hurt people badly.”

  “Like kissing someone and hurting them because they like you afterwards but you don’t like them in the same way?”

  “Yes, that would be one example.” Freydis was meant to be six years old. Could that be right? “Another, much more serious and important example, would be setting off to massacre another tribe because your empress had a dream about them.”

  “Why didn’t anyone tell the empress it was a silly thing to do?”

  “You don’t tell an empress anything.”

  And so they chatted, floating down the river, keeping an eye out for somewhere to hole up and wait for the others. But there was no rush. The Meadows was south-west, and that was the direction the Red River was taking them.

  “How about you stop paddling,” said Keef the Berserker.

  “Why?”

  “Save your arms in case you need to shoot a whole flock of those insects.”

  She didn’t need to save her arms. She knew that he just wanted to do all the work to look heroic. And who was she to stop him? She tucked her paddle into the canoe beside her, trying to quash the urge to tell him that the wasp men weren’t insects. Insects had six legs, not eight.

  “You’re calling them insects?” she heard herself say. Seems she couldn’t quite quash the urge.

  “Yup.”

  She squeezed her lips tight and tried to focus on signs that Paloma had run along this part of the river. Her traces–a bent twig here, some missing leaves there–would have been invisible to most others, but to Sitsi it was like Paloma had run along with paint-soaked brushes attached to her elbows.

  Keef broke the silence after a while: “Why does it bug you so much that I think the wasp men are insects?”

  “Because they’re not?” She was annoyed that he’d realised she was annoyed.

  “And you know that. So why does it matter to you if I’ve got it wrong?”

  “Because it’s good to be right.”

  “And you are. Why worry about anybody else?”

  “Because… Pull to the bank. I’ve lost Paloma’s tracks.”

  Keef angled the paddle and the boat’s nose shifted shorewards. “Could she have diverted away from the river again?”

  “She’s only done that when she’s needed to before. There’s no need here, the bank is flat and clear.” Sitsi stood in the prow and looked upriver. “Yes, she stopped back there.”

  The large-eyed Owsla woman leapt from the canoe, almost too terrified to confirm or deny what she thought she’d seen.

  But it was clear. A raft had been dragged up the shingle and pushed out again. There’d been a campfire. And, all around, were large, fresh human footprints and small, fresh human footprints.

  “Keef! Freydis is alive!” she shouted, still examining them to be triple certain. “The raft stayed intact. She must have rode it all the way here!”

  She spun. Keef was running towards her. He picked her up and held her tight and shouted: “Wooootah!”

  Sitsi put her arms round him and squeezed hard. He felt wonderful, he smelt wonderful.

  He put her down. She looked up at his pale blue eye. He looked back.

  “Right,” he said, stepping away.

  “Right,” she agreed, stepping back herself.

  “So where did they go?”

  “Downriver, on the raft.”

  “Why? And why did Freydis stay on the raft for so long? And how?”

  “We’ll catch them up and ask.”

  “Could take a while.”

  “It could.”

  “Well, at least we’ll be in the same boat. Ha ha ha!”

  She punched his arm.

  Erik the Angry and Chogolisa Earthquake fell back to the rear of the group walking southwards. Taanya was leading the way, carrying Ottar the Moaner. Erik suspected that the squatch still intended to keep Ottar. The best idea might be to kill Taanya in her sleep and find their own way to Ola Wolvinder, but he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to do it, nor if he wanted to. She was helping them and she was Ayla’s sister.

  What was more, the boy seemed to like the squatch. Every now and then they heard a burst of manic laughter and roaring chuckles up ahead as the two of them larked about.

  “I’d still rather I was carrying him,” said Chogolisa, as if reading Erik’s mind.

  “Me too,” agreed Erik. “And I’d rather Freydis was on my shoulders and not—” he shook his head, not
far from tears.

  “She’ll be fine. She’s not the dying type,” Chogolisa reassured him.

  “Sure. And there are benefits to not carrying them. You can have enough of a child’s warm groin pressed against the back of your neck.”

  “You can.”

  They walked on under the blue sky and burning sun, past low sandy hummocks backdropped by green hills. Far ahead and southwards were snow-capped mountains. To the west the land dropped away into hot, red haze.

  It was getting towards camp-making time when two figures walked towards them from the west.

  It was a man and a woman, both maybe ten years older than Erik. They stopped fifty paces away and stared at the Wootah and Calnians.

  “Don’t worry, we mean no harm!” cried Wulf. “In fact, the opposite. If you need food, or would like to shelter with us for the night, you are more than welcome.”

  “How do we know you don’t mean us any harm?” asked the man. His voice was a smoky drawl, similar to Weeko Fang’s, their guide who’d been killed by the squatch.

  “By my winning smile?” Wulf asked.

  “The last person who robbed us was smiling.”

  “Do you get robbed a lot?”

  “Are you new here?”

  “Taanya isn’t.” Wulf pointed at the squatch. “The rest of us are.”

  “Go back where you came from.” He seemed unimpressed that one of their number was a squatch. “There’s nothing here but death. If the monsters or the land don’t get you, the people will. The only men and women west of here are the destitute and the bastards preying on them. We’ve had everything taken bar our lives and that’s only because we’re too old to eat. They ate everyone else.”

  “Who did?”

  “Monsters ate some, people ate the rest.”

  “We won’t eat you.” Wulf laid his hammer on the ground and spread his arms.

  “If you’re truly decent, walk on.”

  “You’re sure we can’t help you?”

  “You want to help? Then get out of our way. We mean to head on east. You should do the same. The gods have gone mad in the west.”