Shadowrise s-3

by Tad Williams

  As Briony stood staring up and down the miniature road, wishing she could get on a stepstool to look into the windows on the upper floors, a woman less than half her size walked out of a house a few doors away to toss out a pan of slops, trailed by a pair of tiny children. The children saw Briony and Ivgenia instantly, and stared at them with unabashed interest, but it was only after the woman had finished shaking out the pan that she discovered she was being watched. Eyes wide, she stared back at the noblewomen for long moments, motionless as a startled mouse, then grabbed her children and scuttled back through her doorway and closed it behind her.

  "If we'd been men, or had the soldiers with us, somebody would have rung the bell there." Ivgenia pointed to a temple tower, half-sized like everything else. "Then likely nobody would have come out at all. The whole street's full of folk just like her. Dozens and dozens."

  "Funderlings?"

  "Kallikans, silly! You wanted to see them."

  "Back home we call them Funderlings. I didn't know you had them here." Briony shook her head: it all seemed quite dreamlike. "Isn't that strange-even a different name! Ours live in a big city of their own under Southmarch Castle. They made the place out of solid rock, with a very famous roof that looks like leaves and birds and…"

  "The king and all, they made ours build here, up where everyone could see them," said Ivgenia. "They can be mischievous, you know. They steal."

  Briony hadn't heard that said about the Funderlings back home-it was the Skimmers who were supposed to be unreliable, with their strange looks and strange language. "Do you have Skimmers too?" she asked.

  But Ivgenia was already off, beckoning Briony to follow her down the narrow, winding street, deeper into the Kallikan neighborhood. Now the anxious guards came hurrying after them and Briony heard upstairs windows slamming shut, shutters rattling into place, as the little people made their secrets safe from the Big Folk.

  By the time they got back to Broadhall they had missed supper in the great banquet hall. Ivgenia went in search of something to eat but Briony was tired. She was still hungry, though, so after a while she sent Talia, her youngest maid, down to the kitchens to ask for a bowl of soup and some bread while her other ladies helped unlace the tight jacket she had worn out to the market and remove her shoes and hose. The fire was roaring in the fireplace and she wanted nothing more than to sit in front of it and warm her chilled toes.

  She had settled in, and might even have drowsed a bit, when a horrible clatter in the passageway outside made her jump. One of the maids ran to the door and peered out, then screamed.

  Briony shoved past the terrified girl and discovered little Talia facedown in the hall in a puddle of spilled soup and broken crockery. When she turned the girl over her face was dark blue, her eyes staring as if in horror. Briony jumped up, fighting the urge to be sick. The little maid was obviously dead.

  "Poison!" Briony's legs were trembling so badly she had to lean against the wall. The maids and other ladies stood huddled, wide-eyed, in the doorway. "Poor thing, she must have drunk a little of the soup on the way back. She said she was hungry. Oh, merciful Zoria-that was meant for me."

  6

  Broken Teeth

  "The Book of Regret is a fairy chronicle which is claimed to contain the history of everything that has ever happened and of everything yet to come. According to Rhantys every page is of hammered gold and it is bound in pure adamant. Some old stories suggest the Theomachy, or Godwar, was fought over the theft of this book rather than the kidnapping of Zoria."

  -from "A Treatise on the Fairy Peoples of Eion and Xand"

  Barrick had often criticized his sister Briony for her slovenly habits. She let dogs sleep in her bed even on warm nights, dropped her shoes wherever she took them off, and would cradle the muddiest, most disgusting creature in the world to her breast as long as it was a baby-whether puppy, foal, kitten, lamb, or chick. However, despite all the times Briony had driven her more fastidious brother into a rage, his strongest wish now was that he could speak to her again and apologize for saying that she was the most untidy thing that had ever lived… because now he knew better. No creature, not even some blind worm living in the very privies of Kernios, could be more disgusting than the raven Skurn, with his meals of frogspawn and festering mouse carcasses, his verminous, patchy feathers, and his constant smell of blood, rot, and ordure.

  The big dark bird ate constantly, head bobbing up and down over some horror or other with the infuriating regularity of a waterwheel in a strong current. And Skurn ate anything and everything-bugs out of the air, droppings of other birds off the trees, slugs, and snails and anything else too slow to avoid his horny black beak. Nor was he a tidy eater: his breast was always covered with a drying crust of whatever he'd eaten last, often with some bits still faintly twitching. And his other habits were even more dreadful. Skurn was not careful about where he defecated at the best of times, but when he was startled he gave up all discretion: wayward droppings might splash on Barrick's shoulder or even into his hair.

  "But us doesn't shit on you a-purpose," Skurn pointed out after one such accident when he was startled by a falling branch. "And as must be said, so far us's kept you clear of the silkins."

  That at least was true. Since Skurn had returned, he had helped Barrick through Silky Wood with little contact from the creatures after whom it was named. A pair of silent stalkers had followed them for a while a few sleeps back, but had come no closer than the lower branches. Perhaps, Barrick thought with a touch of pride, word had spread of how he had dealt with their kin. (More likely, though, he recognized, was that they were simply waiting until more of them had gathered.)

  He hadn't seen a sign of them at all yesterday or today, and had actually managed a few hours of sleep while the raven Skurn played sentry-or claimed he had, anyway: not only was Skurn self-serving, he was old. Once Barrick had actually seen him doze off midflight, lose control of his wings, and crack his head against a tree trunk, spinning to the ground like a clump of black leaves. As he hurried toward him, Barrick had been sure the raven had broken his neck.

  Is it a heresy, Barrick couldn't help wondering, to pray to gods whose existence you are confused about and whose kindness you certainly doubt, begging for the safety of a brute of a bird you do not even like?

  "I don't believe you know where you're going at all," he shouted at the bird. "We're going in circles!"

  "No circles," protested Skurn. "All looks the same, this, 'cause un goes on and on."

  "I don't believe you."

  Between the mist, the thick trees, and the eternal twilight, Barrick had never been able to get a real idea of where he was or what this part of the shadowlands looked like, but they had been trooping through endless, indistinguishable forest so long that he was becoming desperate to see something of where he was. Thus, despite Skurn's strong disapproval, he began to climb uphill toward what he hoped would be a break in the trees and some kind of view.

  "Stay away from high ground and low," said Skurn, fluttering nervously as he struggled to avoid the branches bending close overhead. "That's sense! Everybody knows of that."

  "I don't." Barrick didn't want to talk: his arm was already aching and he wanted to save the breath he had for climbing.

  Muttering darkly, the raven fluttered ahead up the slope but soon returned.

  "Us thinks us knows this place, now. Tine Fay be here. They nest all hereabouts."

  "Tine Fay? Nest?" Barrick shook his head. "Are they worse than the silkins?"

  The raven lowered his head into his feathered shoulders, a corvine shrug. "Don't think so. In fact, they be somewhat slurpsome if un can separate 'em from they weapons…"

  "So let me be, then."

  "Not worse than them silkies, p'raps," the raven grumbled. "But us didn't say nice, either."

  What might have been an hour later he was still toiling uphill, ignoring an arm that burned like fire as he dragged himself over fallen trees and through clinging undergrowth-worst of
all the creeper whose vines were covered with tiny thorns and whose velvety black flowers bobbed at the ends of the largest stalks, big as cabbages. These creepers seemed to colonize entire hillsides and choke out everything else, even the smaller trees, growing so thick that he would have needed a scythe to cut through them, although even then it would have been hard, sweaty work. Wherever Barrick found the blackflower vines-and they were all over these hills-he could only turn and make his way around them. Still, one advantage of the eternal twilight was that just as full light never came, neither did full darkness. At least he did not have to fear night finding him exposed on the hillside.

  But where did this twilight come from? Barrick understood that clouds and fog could cover the land and keep out the sun, but how could they hold light in the world after the sun had gone down for the day? While they were keeping the shadowlands in twilight did they soak up the sun's rays like a dry rag in a puddle of water, so that light continued to leak into the sky long after the actual sun was gone?

  What does it matter? It's more fairy magic. But it made him wonder about the gods, who from all he had heard seemed little different from men, at least in the ways they lived their lives. Perhaps Perin and Kernios and the others had not become the masters of mankind because they were gods-perhaps they were gods only because they had been powerful enough to make themselves masters of mankind…

  Skurn dropped out of the sky and landed on his shoulder, making Barrick jump and curse out loud. "Quiet, now," the bird hissed in his ear. "Somewhat be moving in the trees ahead."

  Heart beating fast, Barrick pulled his broken spear from his belt, then took a deep breath and stepped forward, pushing aside a branch to reveal a small clearing, a relatively bare patch on the hillside. There was indeed much movement in the trees and rustling among the branches, but the creatures swarming there were smaller than Barrick's smallest finger.

  "They're… little people!" he said. "Like in the stories!"

  An instant after he finished speaking a shrill horn call sounded from the greenery near him and a shower of sharp little objects came flitting down all around. Two or three stuck into the back of Barrick's hand; he cried out in pain and tried to shake the tiny arrows out of his skin but another shower of miniature barbs followed, stinging his face and scalp like horseflies.

  "Stop it!" he shouted and turned again, but every direction he chose seemed to be full of prickling darts. At last he put his arm across his face and ran forward until he reached the first branch he had seen. As the tiny men scattered Barrick had a brief glimpse of chitinous armor like beetles' shells. He caught the branch before any but a few had escaped and shook it until little bodies were falling all around him. He caught as many as he could, perhaps half a dozen, and lifted the squirming but largely undamaged mass above his head as a shield. He heard shrill squeals in the trees above and the storm of miniature arrows suddenly stopped. "Yes, tell them to stop shooting at us, Skurn!" he shouted. "Tell them we mean no harm!"

  "Us said to stay off high places," Skurn reminded him sourly, but after a moment Barrick heard the bird say something in a loud rush of trills and clicks. After a pause, Skurn spoke again-Barrick guessed that the voice of whoever was speaking for the tiny people was too quiet for him to hear. The raven's voice and the seeming silence alternated for long moments.

  "Us thinks Tine Fay mought give us safe passage if you let loose those in your hand. Us told them you wouldn't keep more than two or three to eat."

  "Three to eat? Three of what…?" Barrick suddenly understood. "The gods curse you, you foul bird! We're not going to eat them!"

  "Not for you," Skurn said, hurt. "Knowed you wouldn't. More like they were for me…"

  "Listen to your foulness! These are people… of a sort, anyway. More than can be said for you." Barrick looked down. One of the tiny bark-clad men was struggling to cling to his sleeve, legs kicking above what must have been a terrifying fall. The little fellow's bird-skull helmet had tumbled off and his eyes bulged with terror. "For the love of the Three Brothers, they're even wearing armor!" While still keeping his head protected, Barrick moved his arm closer to his body so that the little fellow could gain the security of his tattered jacket.

  "They armor shucks off easy enough," said Skurn. "And them is proper toothsome underneath. 'Specially they young ones…"

  "Oh, be quiet. You are disgusting, bird. Not to mention that while you're talking like that up a tree, I'm the one who's going to get an arrow in my eye if anything goes wrong. Tell them I'm going to put them all down, if that's what they want, and not to let fly at me. Tell them that I'm going to let them all go, or by the gods, Skurn, I'm going to pull your tail feathers out."

  While the raven relayed these words to the Tine Fay, Barrick slowly lowered his hands from his head and down to the ground. The little people, who from terror or pragmatism had stropped struggling, carefully slid to safety. He hoped he had not killed any, not because it shamed him-they had been shooting arrows at him, after all-but because it would make things more difficult now. That was a lesson of his father's: "Don't rub your enemy's face in the dirt when you have him down," Olin had often said, "not if you intend to let him up again afterward. Insults take longer to heal than wounds." It had never made much sense to him before, since Barrick felt he was usually the one whose face was being rubbed in the dirt, but now he was beginning to understand it. Going through life was perhaps a bit like going through this horrible forest: the fewer things behind you that hated you, the less strength you had to use watching your back and the better you could worry about what was coming.

  When the prisoners were all safe the rest of the Tine Fay slowly made their way down from the trees and from underneath the bushes in the clearing-perhaps a hundred in all. It was not only their minute size that separated them from true men, Barrick decided: their features were longer and stranger, especially their pointed noses and chins, and their limbs seemed in some cases as thin as spiders' legs. In most other respects, though, they were not much different than people many times their size. Their armor had been ingeniously constructed from bark, nutshells, and insect cases, and their spears were skewers of what looked like whittled bone. The looks on their faces were even those of a full-sized army in uneasy truce: as Barrick crawled toward them they all watched with fear and distrust, clearly ready to bolt back into the undergrowth if he showed any hint of treachery.

  When Barrick was settled one of the Tine Fay stepped out from the crowd, his voice piping like a baby bird's. Despite this fluting tone he had a very martial look about him, his shield made from a shimmering blue-green beetle's shell, his little beard wound with ribbons, his head helmed in the skull of a toothy fish.

  "He says that he respects the parley," reported Skurn, "but if you come to plunder the sacred gold from the hives of his people he and his men must fight you to the death anyway. Such is their oath to their ancestors, to protect the hives and the honey-horses."

  "Hives?" Barrick shook his head. "Honey-horses? Is he talking about bees?" For a moment he could taste honey-nothing sweeter than sour berries had touched his tongue in months-and his mouth watered. "Tell him I mean them no harm," he said. "I am trying to make my way to Qul-na-Qar."

  After a moment's ticking discourse, Skurn turned back to Barrick. "He says that if you doesn't mean to steal their treasure then they need to go back and keep an eye out for others who do." Skurn picked with his beak at his chest feathers, worrying out a flea. "They never stay long in the open-already they feel fretsome about being so long out of the shadows." Skurn cocked his head as the tiny chieftain spoke again. "But because you are honorable and they do not wish you to die horribly, they say go not near Cursed Hill."

  "Cursed Hill? What is that?"

  "Us has heard of it," the raven said gravely, "but heard nothing good. Us should be on our way."

  But the chief wasn't done. He piped a few more times, pointing agitatedly at the bird.

  "What's he saying?"

  "Naught." Skur
n was a study in disinterest. "Merest chitter-chat. Farewells and benedictions, like."

  The chief's voice rose to a higher-pitched squeak. The Tine Fay seemed to have a very urgent way of saying farewell.

  "Ah, well, tell them I say thank you, and…" Barrick's eyes narrowed. "Skurn, what's that under your claw?"

  "What?" The bird looked into the air rather than down where Barrick was pointing. "Nothing. Nothing at all, Master."

  If he hadn't already seen the minuscule man struggling weakly, the bird calling him "master" would have given it away. "It's one of them, isn't it? One of the wounded ones. Gods curse you, let that poor little fellow go or I truly will pluck out all your feathers-and have your beak off as well!"

  The raven gave him a reproachful look as he lifted his scaly black foot. A half dozen Tine Fay hurried forward to carry their wounded comrade away. When they had him secure, the entire little tribe swiftly vanished back into the undergrowth.

  "You are disgusting."

  "He were already bad hurt," Skurn said sullenly. "Nothing much can they do for him-and see how plump he were!"

  I withdraw my earlier prayers, Barrick silently told the gods. I had no right to ask your help for a winged wretch like that.

  It was hard to make complete sense from the words of frightened imps as translated by a grumpy raven, but as best Barrick could discern he and Skurn were on a ridge that stretched a long way through the forest, but they needed to climb down it again to avoid the place called Cursed Hill. Why it bore such a name he couldn't tell. Skurn was sulking, now; the most the bird would tell him was that "folk what stray there come back mad or changed."

  In any case, if he had understood the miniature folk correctly, once past the ill-omened spot they should only be a day or so away from safer lands beyond the silkins' territory.