And then, just as he was about to deliver the killing blow, the man became aware of him. And he turned to face Cygan whose blood froze in his veins.
Human, Cygan had thought him. Human in shape certainly but by every other measure what sat before him was something else. Some new species entirely. Cygan had not noticed as he approached him, but now he saw that his ears had fallen away, leaving two flesh-lined holes either side of the grey-skinned head. The nose too had shrunk backwards; it had not disappeared entirely but sat against his face like the snout of a pig. The lips were little more than a thin lining around the open mouth and they were black, as was the tongue, which had grown and extended beyond the mouth, flicking from side to side. Its teeth, too, had shrunk into the skull and partially fused together, two bony ridges, yellow in colour, like that of some primitive sea creature. From the gaping mouth a liquid poured; it could have been water but seemed a little too viscous. It dribbled over his chin on to the back of the dragon. His cheeks were marked, too; there were three ragged rectangular holes either side that contracted and expanded as this man-creature breathed; if Cygan had not known better, he would have called then gills. Lastly were the eyes and it was these that had spooked Cygan the most. Black they were, and large. Bulging orbs of night and at their centre were its tiny pupils, pinpricks of whiteness in that black face. It extended a withered hand towards Cygan. Again the fingers were black, scaly and mottled and its fingernails had changed. They were yellow, long and pointed, claws inches long and it was using them to try to strike Cygan. From its mouth came a groan for it could no longer use human speech, a long-drawn-out howl, bestial, animalistic, alien. And he saw in its palm a throbbing red stone, one that appeared to have sunk into its flesh. Pus oozed from its edges along with more of the watery substance.
Easily avoiding the creature’s blow, Cygan realised the reason for its howling. It was in pain. Its scaly flesh was smoking and he could see now that the skin was pitting and from the pits oozed water and some strange black ichor coating its chest and shoulders. It grabbed for Cygan again, its nails catching his arm and drawing yet more blood. He felt as scored as a goat steak.
Badly wounded it may have been, but Cygan was in no mood to show pity. As it grabbed for him again, he held on to the bony wrist, feeling it cold and wet under his fingers. He then inched forward and, using all of his strength, slashed at the man-thing, cutting open its throat.
The black ichor sprayed everywhere, over Cygan’s face and chest and hair, over the neck of the dragon, over its own tortured body. It grabbed at its throat and fell backward. Cygan was not letting it go, though; he moved forward and stabbed it again – in the chest this time. Another spray of black ooze coated his hand and arm. The man-thing thrashed and groaned as the lime ate its flesh away and Cygan’s knife rent its body open.
It no longer cared for anything but escape and, as it writhed on the dragon’s back, it rolled and fell. Cygan was holding it, trying to plant another blow in its chest, and the thing’s momentum caught him, too, the two of them plummeting off the great beast and on to the wet sand below.
Cygan landed on top of the man-thing. It partially cushioned his fall but the impact was the final blow for it. For this thing that had once been a man burst with the force of the landing, disintegrating into a pile of scattering bones, vile black liquid and loose skin and cloth. As Cygan rolled free of it, covered in its fluids from head to toe, nothing else of the creature remained. Cygan looked up at the grey brooding clouds and the lowering mist then closed his eyes, exhausted. And the glowing red stone, now freed from the grip of its possessor, finally went dark.
Ventekuu the dragon shook its great head. It blinked and looked about it, almost as though it had wakened from a dream. It beheld the humans, then looked at the water beyond them. Suddenly that was the only thing it seemed interested in. It coiled its tail and dug it into the sand, using the leverage to slide itself forward. If it continued forward at this pace, it would soon roll over Cygan and crush him.
Whitey sprang forward and grabbed the man’s shoulders.
‘Wake up and move. I am sick of saving you and your family!’
Cygan responded immediately, the two of them scampering away barely avoiding the snake’s great body, escaping from a crushing death by the narrowest of margins.
Ventekuu pushed forward again. Now the other humans scattered, getting out of its way as quickly as their legs could take them. But their mood had changed, for they could see that the dragon no longer had any interest in them. As they watched, it levered itself back into the lake, first its head disappearing under the murky waters, then the great coils of its body. Finally just the tip of its tail remained, which stood out of the water until it was far out into the lake. Then it, too, vanished into the depths. Ventekuu had finally gone.
But she had left behind a scene of absolute carnage. Nearly half of the men lay dead or badly wounded; barely anybody had no wounds at all. The boats were scattered; some had been smashed into little more than splinters. Blood and bodies lay everywhere.
They had to leave the dead behind. All bar Terath, whom they laid in a boat according to Dirthen’s wishes. Dirthen himself had been badly mauled; he was already feverish from the bite of the Malaac. When all the wounded had been placed into boats they finally departed the place, eager to leave before it got dark. As they rowed towards the river, looking for the flaming pits on the banks they also saw the bobbing heads of the Malaac. They kept their distance, watching the rowers. They made no aggressive moves; it was almost as if they were just checking, just ensuring that they were leaving the lake for good. Leaving it to Ventekuu and the Malaac themselves. As it always had been. As it always should be. As the Malaac watched, the last boat entered the river to the north before being swallowed by the mist. The Malaac were alone again in their home. And if the humans could have read their minds, they would realise that none of them wanted to leave it again.
Ventekuu was tired. Woken from her slumber of ages against her volition and long before she was ready for it, there was only one thing she craved now. Sleep. She had been released from the strange power that had controlled her mind for so long, a power she had fought all the way but one that until now she had been unable to fully shake off. She swam slowly and gracefully, unwilling to extend her muscles, but still eating up the distance across the lake, for she had one destination in mind. It was an island at the heart of the lake, not a sand bar but a series of tooth-like black rocks jutting defiantly out of the sludgy brown waters. Once she got there she levered her massive body over them, looking so much more ungainly once she started clambering out of the water. At the island’s centre was a jagged black hole, a cave that plunged to immeasurable depths, below even the lake’s bottom. Her lair for a time beyond human reckoning and the place to which she would now return. Her tail was the last thing to be seen in this era of history, pointing up at the sky in a final defiant gesture before it too disappeared from view.
The last people to see her, though, were not the men of the Endless Marshes. They saw her tail vanish into its cave from their vantage point, a small sandy isle studded with clumps of thick sea grass. There were three of them, shaven-headed and clothed in full-length black cloaks. Their leader, the tallest of the three, his eyes dark and saturnine, stood in silence for a while before speaking to the others.
‘We chose badly here. Brother Ekmon had little empathy with that creature and was unable to exercise the full power of the stone. We chose ambition and enthusiasm over innate ability. Directing these divine beings to bring about their judgement will be more difficult than I surmised.’
‘But we will learn, Brother Ursel, we will learn. There are tests we can administer to detect those who have ability to manipulate the stones in the correct manner. They may prove fatal for some, but the results will be more than worth it.’
Ursel said nothing for a while, the thinnest of smiles playing over his pale lips.
‘It is the bitterest of ironies, is it no
t, that the power of the stone we have lost is being wielded by one with so much more ability than Ekmon ever had? It will be interesting to see what transpires there, though it has little to do with the vision of our founders.’
‘It is of little interest to me,’ his companion replied. ‘Anyway, we have the location of two more stones now. Perhaps once they are collected we can put what we have learned into practice. Then maybe we can render vengeful justice on to this foul and corrupt world.’
‘Wise words,’ said Ursel. ‘Come, we are done here. It is time to move on. Let us return to our ship and prepare for the future. This world shall still be cleansed by righteous flame and it is our sacred duty to enable this to happen.’
They turned and walked over to a small rowing boat pulled up on to the shore. They cast off and were soon lost in the mist. Where they were to appear next was a secret that only the three of them knew.
42
Night was coming. A pale sickle moon sat low in a liquid blue sky, its colour rapidly deepening to a rich indigo. On the secure walls of Shayer Ridge, Sir Varen stood looking at the dark woods beneath him. The enemy campfires were lit and shone brightly between the trees. It was just another night of the siege. Winter’s bitter cold had retreated somewhat over the last few days; he could smell the pungent resin rising from the forest; he could even smell the lively little river, always laughing as it sped down the hillside. A cloud of bats flitted just over his head, moving almost too quickly for the eye to see and in the far distance the wolves were howling, the despoiling of the country by Trask’s men and the bands of slavers meant that there was plenty of carrion on which they could feed.
He had just come from the magistrate’s house, his family home. His father continued to ail. His skin had taken on the consistency of parchment, he sweated profusely and his breathing was hoarse and rasping. Despite constant attendance from the sisters of Meriel, he appeared to be going downhill. If his father passed away, he would be offered the magistracy, meaning his days as a knight would be over before Varen felt they had properly started. He could refuse, of course, leaving Morgan to make a new appointment, but deep down he knew that was not what his father wanted.
Rordan, captain of the city guard, had been discussing rotas with his sergeants. Seeing Varen’s lonely vigil on the wall, he clambered up the steps to see him. He sounded concerned.
‘Do not trouble yourself with watching the enemy tonight, sir; we can do that. If you wish to return to your father’s side, you can. There are more than enough of us here to keep the place secure.’
Varen inhaled a lungful of clear mountain air, far more wholesome than the miasma of a man’s sickbed. ‘But there is nothing I can do, Rordan, nothing. It was my father himself who sent me away; he hates me seeing him so weak. All in all, we both feel that here is the best place for me.’
‘Artorus and Meriel keep him safe,’ Rordan replied. ‘There is a prayer vigil for him at the holy house tonight. As many of us who can are going, at least for a little while. Even I, an old man with a heart of granite, can be moved by their choir. They sing so beautifully.’
‘Yes, that they do, and thank you, Rordan; it is gratifying that both you and the town care so much.’
Rordan sounded slightly embarrassed. ‘He is a good man, as are you. No one wants to see...’
He stopped and turned round. Both he and Varen heard it, the panicked cries of men and women somewhere in the town. Varen wondered in this deepening gloom how he could pinpoint the source of the disturbance. He needn’t have worried.
For part of the town was on fire.
‘Mytha’s steaming guts, it is the grain store.’ Rordan was angry; he drew his blade and spat on its glinting steel.
‘Keep a strong presence on the wall; it may be a distraction.’ Varen, too, drew his sword; he had left his trusty mace at his father’s house.
‘Or it may have nothing to do with our besiegers. It may be just an accident.’
‘Keth’s teeth, I doubt that. How does a stone building catch fire without assistance? More to the point, how did they get in?’
Varen was already running down the steps, Rordan close behind.
‘One of the side gates? Or the culvert? All are guarded though; maybe one of Lasgaart’s men has taken Fenchard’s coin.’ They were at the main road through the town. Rordan called to a group of guardsmen who had waited for them with weapons drawn, and all together they ran towards the grain stores, nestled as they were against the side of the mountain.
Shayer Ridge was not a large place. It had its square, its residential houses clustered close around it, and a main road that ran in a straight line from the gates, through the square, up to the mines. It was close to these where the grain stores were located, between the mines and the enclosing western wall. So it was down this road that they now ran, picking up more guardsmen en route. At last, they crossed villagers running in the opposite direction. Varen managed to stop one of them, a young man with only one leg, the legacy no doubt of a mining accident. He used a stick with surprising efficiency, but Varen did manage to halt him long enough to ask what he had seen.
‘Fighting. I think they must have come in through the west gate. I heard they had broken into the store and are burning the roof timbers and supports. What will we do without food?’
Varen did not answer but left the man behind as he continued towards the fire. The store sat on a low rocky hill, reached by a cobbled side road that ran a winding route along the points of least resistance up the hill. In front of the store’s great double doors were a small paved square and a couple of wagons, used to transport the grain as required. Lungs tearing, Varen started along the path up the incline; Rordan, an older man, was just behind him with guardsmen both in front and behind, their mailed boots clattering on the cobbles. Varen looked ahead; he could not see the stores from here but an ominous red glow filled the sky obscuring the stars that elsewhere in the town were just beginning to wink into view. Choking smoke drifted down the hill, carrying great smuts of black soot. Varen ran into it regardless. And stumbled. The cobbles were uneven here and easy to trip over in the smoke. As he started to right himself, though, he felt a draught – something passed close to his right ear. There was the sound of wood skipping over stone and the cries of battle and the clash of steel against steel up ahead.
Rordan caught up with him, helping him to his feet. ‘Archers!’ Varen told him. ‘Be careful.’
A sudden breeze travelling from the mountains swirled around them, striking sparks up ahead and scattering the smoke around them. They could see figures ahead, silhouettes against the flames, brawling in the darkness.
More arrows flew past but they were poorly aimed this time. Varen could see one of the archers, though, and headed straight for him, sword raised.
His target dropped his bow and made to pull out his knife, but Varen’s momentum made him much the faster. He slashed downwards with his blade across the man’s face and chest. The man screamed and went down grievously injured. Varen ignored him and ran onwards, finally getting to the top of the hill.
It was a confusing scene. Men were fighting everywhere; it was near impossible to tell friend from foe. As for the grain store, it was a lost cause. Its roof had collapsed and both doors had fallen away from their hinges. The doorway was engulfed in flame, which billowed into the small square as and when the wind caught it. The good news was that the second store behind it was as yet untouched. Varen chanced a quick glance over the hill towards the western wall below. Fires were burning in the streets leading from the west gate; it did look like that was how these infiltrators had got in. He wondered how many of the enemy were inside the town.
A man ran at him sword swinging at Varen’s face. Varen blocked it before returning a blow, which was in turn blocked just as easily. Both men circled each other; Varen recognised the green-and-white livery of Vinoyen. They traded further blows, testing each other, but Varen’s training as a knight slowly gave him the edge, his speed and
skill wearing his opponent down. He waited patiently; waited for his foe to make a mistake so he could take his chance. Finally it came – the man in green made an ill-aimed thrust at Varen’s chest, which Varen ducked and countered accurately, his own blade running through the man’s heart. He died instantly, falling against Varen, who twisted and pulled his blade out before letting the man crash to the floor.
He made a lightning assessment of the situation. It looked like this was some sort of advance party, sent to destroy the food supply, and it also looked like his men had been smart enough to catch them before they could rejoin the rest of their colleagues. It seemed as though his men were winning the fight here; more guards were surging up the hill and seemed to outnumber the enemy by at least two to one.
‘Rordan!’ he called out. ‘Can you handle this? I need to go and seal the west gate, stop more of them getting in.’
‘Yes, sir. Have you seen West Street? It is full of Fenchard’s men. Leave it to me here. You go and get our boys to push them back. Push them back, at all costs!’
Varen left him and started hurtling back down the hill. Once at the bottom, he took a sharp right turn and started down the gloomy lightless side streets, heading towards West Street, where the fires were burning. He saw no one; obviously, the enemy seemed more interested in securing the square than spreading outwards around the town.
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