by Simon Morden
Dalip conceded the point. ‘Okay. But if a knife’s too short, what do I use?’
‘In old times, a spear. Big one, broad. With something to stop the boar pushing down the shaft and attacking you, even as it dies.’ Stanislav raised his eyebrows. ‘You see?’
‘Right.’ It wasn’t a pig, then, all pink and squealy.
‘A knife is all you get, lion man,’ said Pigface, pushing past.
He ended up pressed against the wall again.
‘Find him something longer,’ said Stanislav.
‘I’m not allowed,’ he grunted. ‘She said so.’
‘What else did she say?’ Stanislav tightened his grip. He had no hesitation in inflicting pain on the man. ‘Tell us.’
The confusion that washed through Pigface’s little button eyes almost provoked sympathy from Dalip. It wasn’t supposed to be this way, with prisoners assaulting their guards with impunity.
‘The knife is all he gets. Ever. She wants him to be afraid. Terrified. That’s what she wants.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know why. “Make him afraid,” she told me. “Make him think he’s going to die,” she said. She’s not going to tell me her plans, is she?’
Stanislav let go, and deliberately wiped his hands on his boilersuit.
‘The man that is with her. The one with the silver cane. Who is he?’
‘He’s …’ Then Pigface checked himself. ‘I don’t answer to you.’
All it took was for Stanislav to take step closer, and the guard brought up his club to defend himself.
‘Who is he?’
‘He does everything for her.’
‘Does he have a name?’
‘He’s the steward. We just call him “sir”.’
Stanislav sighed. ‘I expect you do, you worthless pig-faced coward. Go. Go and do what you have to do.’
Pigface shuffled away, and they watched him go to the end of the corridor, turn right towards the guard room.
‘Why does she want you scared?’ asked Stanislav.
‘Because I stood up to her. Now she wants to break me.’ Dalip squared his shoulders. ‘I …’
‘All men break, eventually. There is no shame in that. All men: there is no one who ever lived who could not be taken beyond what they could endure. Now, this boar. It will try to knock you down and gore you. Stay on your feet and away from its head. The front end is very dangerous. When you get the chance you must stab it in the arse.’
Dalip blinked. ‘I have to do what?’
‘Stab it in the arse. It will bleed to death quickly. It may even take just one blow.’ He shrugged. ‘It is what wolves do. Attack from behind, rip out its arse.’
‘You have got to be joking.’
‘No,’ said Stanislav. ‘This is no joke. Wild boar can kill people. If you do not wish to be one of them, then you must—’
‘Stab it in the arse. I get it.’
‘Do not hesitate.’ He put a hand on Dalip’s back and began to guide him down towards the pit. ‘Show no fear. Now we know that is what she wants, the less she gets of it, the more you will hurt her.’
‘Right.’ Dalip’s mouth had gone dry, and his palms sweaty. He waved them down by his sides to dry them. He could hear a commotion from the guard room: raised voices, something banging against heavy wood, and a most awful, high-pitched shrieking that cut straight through his resolve and left it in tatters.
‘Remember: it is nothing but a brute animal. It will act on instinct, while you can out-think it.’
Dalip wasn’t so sure. The dog had been one thing, sprung on him almost before he’d had time to work out what he was going to do. This was different – this was deliberate, planned, and he was a willing participant, no matter how much his situation had forced him into it. He was growing almost light-headed.
‘Breathe, boy. Breathe slow and deep.’
That was it. He was hyperventilating. He caught himself and put his hand to his chest so he could count the space between inhaling and exhaling.
He was in the drum-shaped pit, and the geomancer and her steward were looking keenly at him, trying to gauge just how close he was to begging. He wasn’t going to do that. Not today. He breathed in, counted to five, breathed out. Stanislav was with him, staring belligerently up through narrowed eyes at the woman.
She leaned over to confer with the steward, their voices too quiet to hear. He nodded and scratched at his chin thoughtfully. Dalip wondered what was more important than his fight, and possible death.
Pigface came into the pit and threw his knife down on the ground at Dalip’s feet. He was sweating as much as Dalip was.
‘This one’s a bit lively, if you take my meaning. We’ll be having pork one way or another tonight.’ He was more confident now, with others behind him, backing him up.
Dalip scooped up the knife, even though he could barely hold on to the haft. He clenched his fist over and over.
‘If the boy kills it,’ said Stanislav, ‘it should be his to give to whoever he wants. His risk, his reward.’
‘His reward is that he lives, Slav.’
‘And what is your reward, Pigface? The chance to be a bully?’ Stanislav spat at him, the gobbet of saliva arcing through the air and landing squarely on Pigface’s boots.
‘I should—’
‘Make me lick it off? Yes. You should. But you are powerless.’ He jerked his head at the geomancer. ‘She is the only reason we are still here.’
‘Stanislav?’ said Dalip.
He ended his confrontation with the guard with a dismissive gesture, and turned to Dalip.
‘You will be fine.’ He slapped his big hands on Dalip’s shoulders, nearly causing him to drop the knife. ‘Remember to move, to strike, to finish it quickly. It will charge you: when it is past, then it is vulnerable.’
‘I can’t do this.’
‘You can and you will.’ Stanislav grabbed him by the back of the neck and pulled him close so that their foreheads were touching. ‘This will be over in less than a minute. Then we can continue to plan our escape.’
Dalip nodded, and watched the man’s broad back disappear through the door. Pigface was directing two other men, shoving a rickety crate towards the pit. The crate was shuddering and jerking side to side with each lunge of the dark shape within: the shrieks of the boar and the taunts and slaps of the men combined to create an unholy cacophony.
The crate was pushed through the door. One of the men took a crowbar to the planks, while his mate stood outside the door, hand poised on the latch.
Dalip took one last opportunity to wipe his hands, and resumed his grip on the knife. He bent his knees slightly, readying himself for the onslaught.
The geomancer raised her hand, glanced at the door, and it slammed shut, just as the crate began to disintegrate. A black snout jammed through the slats, forcing them apart. When it pulled back, the wood cracked and splintered.
The guard turned for the door, and if he hadn’t realised it was now barred to him before, he did in that moment. He threw himself at it, scrabbling for purchase that just wasn’t there and wailing to be let out.
The geomancer leaned forward, as if it was the most interesting thing she’d seen all day, and the boar, with a frenzied energy, reduced the rest of the crate to shards. It stood there for a second, quivering with rage, while it took in its new surroundings, and charged the nearest enemy.
Which wasn’t Dalip.
He shouted a warning, but the man wasn’t even looking in his direction. The crowbar, the only weapon the man might have feasibly used, lay forgotten on the ground, while the man banged uselessly against the thick door. He was trapped in a short tunnel with a beast that filled it widthways.
It took him down by slashing its tusks through his calves, then just kept on going, shaking its head left and righ
t, cutting and cutting him into bloody ruin.
Dalip ran forward, over the broken remains of the crate, and just like he’d been told, rammed the knife blade up to the hilt under the boar’s squirming tail. Just like he’d been told, he twisted the blade, and just like he’d been told, dragged it out sideways with as much force as he could muster.
From rooting around in the still-screaming guard’s body, to turning on Dalip, was almost instantaneous. Its sheer bulk belied a speed and agility of an animal half its size. Its head went down and it rushed him. Dalip jumped clear, springing back and sideways. It was dripping blood from its snout, but it was pumping it from the other end.
They were in the pit proper now, Dalip balanced on the balls of his feet, hand and knifeblade shining wetly red, the boar, bristles caked in gore, its deep-set eyes murderous. But nothing could disguise the thick trail of spatters and splashes that marked the stone floor.
It came at him again, slower, misstepping, uneven, and Dalip spun away again, leaping aside and letting the beast ram the wall with its thick skull.
He could have stabbed it again, in the time it took it to recover, but he backed away, carefully avoiding the sticky ribbons of blood on the ground.
The boar limped around, breathing heavily, trembling with effort now, not with anger. It staggered, its forelegs slipping underneath it. It rose and made a drunkard’s walk towards Dalip, who circled away, forcing it to follow.
Halfway around, it sagged to the floor, shivered all over, and didn’t move again, save for the slight rise and fall of its ribs. Once. Twice. Then nothing.
Dalip kept a wary distance, and closed on it from the rear. There wasn’t much blood left to pool, but what there was shone thickly around its hindquarters. He prodded it with the outstretched knife, pushing the point into its hairy back, through the skin and into the fat below.
The boar didn’t move, and he thought it safe to assume it was dead.
The guard, on the other hand, was weeping as he tried to hold his wounds together. In the shadow of the tunnel, Dalip found it impossible to tell where clothing finished and flesh started. Both were bloodied rags.
‘Why? Why?’ the guard sobbed.
Dalip didn’t know, beyond naked barbarism and utter contempt for life. The man couldn’t be moved – he screamed in agony when Dalip tried – and perhaps with modern medicine and a team of doctors, he might have survived. Scarred inside and out for certain, but alive nevertheless.
He died too, slowly, sadly, knowing he was going, sliding inexorably into darkness and terrified of it. He died clutching at Dalip’s forearm, and only let go when he slid to one side, awkwardly trapping his head in the angle between the wall and the door. Not that he cared any more about comfort.
Dalip walked back out into the pit and stood centre stage. He threw the knife down and looked up at the geomancer, dressed in her finery.
‘Are we done here now?’ he shouted at her. ‘Are we?’
‘Yes,’ she said, and stood, adjusting her skirts, readying herself to leave. The steward tapped his silver-tipped cane against the balcony, in annoyance or impatience or just out of habit, and scowled at Dalip.
Who bent down and caught up as much blood as he could off the floor, before flinging it up at his captors.
Most of it either fell back or flecked the high walls of the pit. But one or two drops reached their targets. The steward stiffened as something touched his cheek, and the geomancer saw it without knowing her back had its own darkly shining jewel clinging to the fine fabric.
‘There. That’s your share of this butchery.’
He stared up, his bloody hands raised to them, while they stared down. Whatever they were expecting, they got defiance, not supplication. They got his red palms and drying scabs instead of his fear.
They still left, and he had to drop his arms by his side at some point. He hung his head, and went to pull the body out of the way of the blocked door.
19
Mary made the top of the last rise. Even at a distance, the gorge that divided the two peaks was discernible. The base of each mountain was forested, like most of Down that she’d seen so far, but higher up where the slopes grew steeper, bare grey rock dominated. The peaks, facing each other over the chasm, were high but rounded, scraped clean by the wind and the rain.
She still couldn’t see the geomancer’s castle which, Crows assured her, was behind the rightmost peak, tucked in a hollow with a lake.
Crows puffed up behind her. ‘We should turn back before it is too late.’
‘Shut it, Crows,’ she said. Between them and the gorge was uninterrupted forest, and this was the last chance she had to get her bearings and see if there was a different route. But the best choice seemed to be the simplest: meet the river that bisected the mountains, then climb up past the gorge to the very top, where they could look down on the castle unseen. It looked like hard going, with a lot of scrambling over loose rock especially just below the summit, but far from impossible. By going for the more difficult ascent, she hoped to avoid anyone guarding the way from the valley up the lea side of the slope.
The sun was creeping lower to the horizon, and the moon would only rise halfway through the night: enough to hide her once she was in position, and enough to let her climb down while it was still dark.
She took one final look and pointed her toes in the direction they needed to go, angling down the ridge and heading for the start of the gorge. The forest covered her, and she tried to keep to the right path, even though she’d lost all her landmarks.
She seemed to be doing this all by herself. Crows was dragging his feet, and she was fed up of waiting for him. She’d given him the option of not coming, and he’d said he’d take her to where she’d be able to see the castle. She understood he didn’t want to get closer, but he should at least keep his promise, and without complaining every step of the way.
And then, almost on cue, she heard a wolf howl. She stopped and rolled her eyes.
‘Just what we needed.’ She didn’t know if it was the wolfman, or a regular wild wolf, but actually, she did know. She didn’t even have to bet herself which it was.
Crows drew level with her, and licked his lips nervously.
‘We can avoid him, right?’ she asked. ‘Like we did before?’
‘Perhaps someone else has come through the portal. If so, he’s far away, and not looking for us. If not, he could still be looking for you. He doesn’t hunt on his own, Mary. Ever.’
‘He did that first night. It was just him.’
Crows shook his head. ‘No. The forest would have been full of them. When you moved off, they followed you. When you started questioning the wisdom of where you were going, they attacked you. The wolfman is never on his own: he is scared of Down, scared of its spaces and its silences, scared of being alone and scared of not being owned. He joined with the geomancer to stop himself going mad, and he lives in fear of her sending him away.’
‘Oh. Okay. Let’s hope he’s after some other poor bastard then, and not us. At least for now.’
She checked the direction of the sun through the canopy of leaves, and set off in what she guessed was the right direction, which was downhill. They reached the river, and walked upstream alongside it – there was no need to go all the way down to it, just keep it on their left. Then uphill towards the clear, bare rock beyond the forest.
The ground bent upwards, and the trees began to sprout from between weathered boulders and moss-covered outcrops of stone. Soon the river was below them, rumbling away between the walls of the deepening gorge. The wolf howled again, plaintive and symbolic in a land devoid of human habitation, a wilderness made more wild by desolation.
The vegetation stopped abruptly at a steep ledge. Above it, there was no cover, nothing to mask her from view. She was, of course, still wearing orange.
Down’s gifts only seemed t
o run to buildings, not clothing. She almost turned back then, realising what a stupid thing she was doing, and that any half-blind idiot would be able to spot her, the only splash of colour pinned to a mountainside. Then again, if she could draw down darkness and make fog, could she camouflage herself with what she had around her?
There was only one way to find out. She stooped down and collected a double-handful of dry, brittle leaves, all browns and dark reds. She knew what she wanted, and she could see it in her mind.
A cloak like Crows’, not black and ragged, but the colours of nature, muted and ending beyond the edges of the cloth so that it looked like a storm of leaves, continually moving and changing.
She threw the leaves she held up in the air, and let them fall around her. She scooped up more and cast them backwards over her.
And when she straightened, it was done. She was wearing a shifting mirage of browns and greens and reds which trailed out behind her and flowed over her arms. She brought her hands together, and the folds of the cloak closed over her orange boilersuit, concealing it beneath the fluttering, rustling cloth.
It wasn’t her, and was still part of her. Like the hem which had no definite beginning or end, neither did she now. No longer isolated and self-contained, she was growing into the landscape as it was growing into her. Let the wolfman and his gang find her now.
‘You should go more slowly,’ said Crows, puffing up behind her.
‘We’re not going to get there if we don’t get a move on.’ She gazed up at the steep slope, and tried to work out her route.
‘That is not what I meant.’ He too tilted his head back, scanning the sky. ‘You know how dangerous magic is. If you do not control it, it will control you. I have seen the results and they are not good.’
‘I can handle it, okay?’
‘Being lucky once does not make you invulnerable.’
‘I know that. Crows, you’re not my social worker, all right?’
‘Am I correct in thinking you did not listen to them either?’
She gave him the look, and he turned away, holding his hands up in mock surrender.