‘Far as I know. But there’s some things I need to talk to him about.’ He made several quick arrangements of his arms, forming a succession of symbols from disparate tattoos and when it was done they continued their conversation as if nothing had happened.
‘Well I’ll be in Irongate next week,’ said Janix. ‘If you’re back we could quaff some together.’
‘That’d be good. Real good.’
They clasped hands once more and Janix trudged off towards the barracks. But instead of going inside he sat on a boulder, drew one of his daggers and took a whetstone to it – scraping it along the blade as he looked back to the wagon.
Ormis turned back to Cal. Frustration was curdling his blood, but his face told nothing of it. He had planned to leave Kring at the Wall, but with a suspicious Janix looking on, the only option was to take him through and deal with him on the other side.
‘Some problem I should know about?’ asked Cal.
‘No.’
‘You sure? There’s some black faces over there.’
Rauul and his men were in the same formation, shifting from one foot to another. Kring was staring through the Wall and Janix was brooding on his boulder. Even the guards on the battlements seemed to sense something was wrong and they were bunched together, watching the scene with interest. The tension in the pass was nearly enough to pull the rock faces together.
‘There’ve been some words. But it’s finished now… Many through today?’
Cal relaxed a little. ‘Karkus - couple of hours ago. I used to have a joke with him and a good yarn too. But not now. Lost his good humour that one.’
‘People change.’
Cal smiled. ‘But not you eh?’
Ormis was taken aback. For a second the situation around him disappeared from his thoughts. Cal wasn’t trying to give offence and he didn’t take any. But the words seemed to strike at that place from where his strange new emotions were breaking out; almost as if he were making direct reference to them. He swallowed a lump in his throat and brought himself back into focus.
It would be easy to ask what business Karkus had in the city. But Cal was a suspicious man and the High Exorcist wanted their mission kept secret. Besides, what he really needed to know was what Karkus took back through with him and Cal’s protocol was to check only what came in. Karkus could have taken a wagon full of corpses through the Wall and Cal would never have known. So he asked a practical question instead. ‘How’s the East Road?’
‘No trouble for some time. You should have an easy passage to Rockspur.’ He handed the parchment back and Ormis tucked it away.
‘Very good. We’ll be on our way then.’
They shook and Ormis crunched back to the wagon, waving the others back on and jumping up next to the driver. Cal walked back to the garrison office and signalled the men on the Wall. They disappeared from sight and after a short delay the western portcullis started upwards with a whine of metal. The wagon rolled forward and into the tunnel. Cal watched them go by with his hands on his hips, wondering what all the posturing had been about.
Shredder
Kye shifted on his seat as the wagon slowed up, anxious to be out in the fresh air again. There was a humid tension inside the box and he was feeling every bump in the road through the hard wooden seats. Before the wheels stopped the soldiers were out the back doors, swords ringing from scabbards as they disappeared around the side of the wagon. He looked over at Suula for guidance and she answered the question in his eyes with a simple shake of her head. She was tiny - shorter than Della and just as lean. Her fingers were gnarled and scarred and her nails short and dirty. For most of the journey he had avoided eye contact by staring through the boards between her boots. But on the few occasions he stole a look at her face she was looking right at him. Her face was pale and unblemished and in the dimness of the wagon box, her eyes were like black stones freshly plucked from a river.
The wagon jerked forward and rolled down the road another hundred yards with the back doors still open. Ormis put his face to the barred window when it stopped again. He asked Sulla to come out and told him to stay where he was.
Kye looked out at the view framed by the open doors. They were in the Wilderness now, but all he could see was a stretch of grey mountains. Curiosity and cramped legs got the better of him and he jumped out into the fresh air and looked east. The view before him was like nothing he had imagined. He had been taught that the Wilderness was a black and ravaged land of nightmares, but as he looked eastward he was struck by a bizarre mixture of disappointment and pleasure. He was standing on a road that ran along the foot of the mountains. A few feet away was a grassy bank, thick with the biggest poppies he had ever seen and beyond it, a vast expanse of green treetops ran all the way to the horizon. Birds circled high above and a heady perfume graced the breeze. All he had ever been told about the Wilderness was a lie and his mind scrambling to find purchase as a lifetime of deceit was vanquished by the reality in front of him.
He looked down the road and saw Ormis and the soldiers milling around another wagon that appeared to have been abandoned. Suula was crawling down the bank and sniffing at the ground like an animal. When she reached the treeline she ran back up and spoke to Ormis.
‘Three torucks. No more than two hours ago. Something was carried between two of them. Could be the girl, but I’m not getting her scent.’
Ormis waved Kring down from the wagon. ‘Take a look.’
Kring jumped off and with eight pairs of eyes on his back he bent to examine the first few yards of the bank. When he was done he straightened and looked out over the trees.
‘Well?’
‘It’s like she says.’
‘My intention was for us to part company at the Wall. You must have known that.’
Kring nodded.
The Elite Guard moved either side of the giant so that they were arranged in a semicircle around him. Kail and Steith had arrows notched and Rauul and Dorian swords drawn - the tips pointing down and the blades glinting in the midday sun. But there was no sign in Kring’s frame that he was in the mood for a fight. His eyes were distant and his battering ram forearms were hanging by his sides.
‘You’ve forced yourself upon our company,’ said Ormis. ‘Whatever your brother is involved in I do not believe you are part of it. But I can’t ignore that you are bonded to him in race and blood. I can’t spare the men to take you to Rockspur so you’ll have to come with us - unarmed and with a bowman assigned to you.’ Rauul was standing right beside him and he delegated the task to Kail with a nod of his head. ‘Don’t give him cause to shoot.’
Kring continued to stare east and made no reply.
Ormis strode back to their wagon, giving Kye a black look when he saw him standing at the edge of the road. He took a rolled parchment from inside his cloak and handed it to the driver. ‘Give this to Lord Formin and request he send someone out for Karkus’s wagon.’ The driver nodded and tucked it away.
While Rauul and Kail watched Kring, the others brought backpacks from the wagon and handed them out. Then as the wagon rolled away Suula led them to the tree line in single file: Rauul behind her then Ormis, Kye, Steith and Kring. Kail followed the giant after some space had opened up between them. His eyes were fixed on his wide back, his arrow notched and ready to follow through on the exorcist’s threat. Dorian was last and with one last look up and down the road he picked his way down through the poppies and disappeared into the trees.
As they stepped into the shade Kye was struck by the large patches of bluebells that streaked the forest floor. There were impressive displays much like it every year in Agelrish Forest, but never at the end of summer when the forest foliage had thickened out. But despite the season they stood proud here, their delicate bells screaming colour and filling the air with a sweet aroma that was much stronger than he thought the flowers capable of. He was trying to fathom how this could be when Ormis called a halt and pointed to a bush.
‘What do you see
there?’ he asked.
‘A bramble bush.’
‘Are you sure?’
The others were strung out in a line watching, the look on their faces suggesting they understood why Ormis was asking such a question. He felt a sudden apprehension. There was a common knowledge among them that the exorcist was about to share and from the tone of his voice and the unblinking focus of his grey eyes, he knew he wasn’t going to like it. He took a step towards the bush, but before he could take another the exorcist grabbed his shirt. ‘Close enough.’
Kye stiffened, understanding now that there was some danger here that the rest of them could see. He applied himself to the task and studied the bramble bush. But there was only one difference between this one and those he was used to foraging in Agelrish. ‘The berries shouldn’t be ripe yet.’
‘You’re right. But there’s more…Where are the best pickings?’
Kye looked again. ‘There,’ he said pointing to the centre where the darkest berries clustered.
‘And how easy do you think you could harvest them?’
Now he saw what the exorcist was getting at. There was a small space in the centre of the bush, just big enough for a person to step into without getting caught on the thorns. ‘Easily.’
‘It certainly looks that way doesn’t it?’ Kye nodded. ‘Now step back.’ He picked a rock up and threw it onto the open ground at the centre of the bush. As it thudded down the plant came alive. Its thorny coils lifted from the undergrowth and twisted inwards in a deadly spiral. It remained clenched for some time before relaxing back to its original position.
Kye stared.
‘In the West it’s a bramble bush,’ said Ormis. ‘Over here it’s a shredder. Those thorns have tips like the finest swords. If you stepped into that space, you would be dead before we could cut you out. In just a few minutes this shredder would bleed you to a puddle and leach it from the soil.’ Kye swallowed a lump in his throat. ‘All the bramble bushes you see from here on in will behave in this way. The berries are edible and they taste as good as they look. But they’re bait…You will see much this side of the mountain that you are familiar with. But everything has been poisoned by the mist and changed in some way… If you lie down in some places there are packs of tiny moles that will anchor you to the ground with hook-like claws and eat you hollow in a matter of minutes. If you place your hand on some trees their bark can close up and nip off the end of your fingers, leaving you with bloody stumps to pick your nose with. In some places there are grass traps – flat muscular creatures with a top surface indistinguishable from grass. If you were to step into the centre of one of these creatures, its petal like arms would spring up and enclose you within a thick muscular sphere from which you could not escape. And even if we cut you out, you’d still be dead. Its digestive juices would cause you irreparable damage in seconds - dissolving your flesh and making you look more like a dripping candle than a boy… If you were to walk freely in this place you’d be lucky to survive an hour.’ His face became even more severe and there was a reprimand in his eyes. ‘When we stopped on the road I told you to stay in the wagon. Make sure you don’t disobey me again. The land further east is less forgiving and there’s no time to familiarise you with everything that’s dangerous. Touch nothing and stay close behind me.’
Kye looked around at the forest with new eyes and when they set off again he walked in Ormis’s fresh prints.
Little Finger
Blackness ran off her like water.
She tried to sink back down; to wrap herself up in the dark numbness she was rising from. But it did no good. Her sensation continued to strengthen - brightening like a sunrise after a cold winter night. She was rocking side to side on a hard surface and the back of her head and heels were raw with the movement. Her mouth was an arid pocket and the air a smothering mask against her clammy face. Worst of all were the grinding rocks in her head. She screwed her eyes up in a slow wince and was reminded of a time when she was living in a little coastal town called Pebblestone. Their home was a blue cottage that perched on the cliffs above the harbour, looking west over the Endless Sea.
She was sitting at a driftwood table watching the sun bleed over the water when her uncle sat down beside her with a foaming flagon of ale. He had never been a drinking man and he looked at her in a way that seemed to invite her to comment.
‘Good catch today,’ he said before she could speak. ‘Captain Beedie was so pleased he saw fit to thank us with a small keg of his home brew and a fish supper.’ He lifted a tangled net bag into the air. It unwound in his grip and the fillets inside glistened in the sun. He tossed the bag onto the grass and took a long drink. ‘Be a shame to pour it away,’ he said wiping the froth from his mouth.
In all her years she had never taken a drink of the strong variety. Perhaps it was the stink of the places where men gathered to take it, or the way it took charge of their mouths and fists. But now, as she looked at the way the foam on the tankard caught little rainbows of dying light, she decided she wanted to try some.
‘Can I have one?’
‘A fish?’
She laughed. ‘No. Not a fish. One of those,’ she said, pointing to his drink. Now he laughed and without giving her an answer, turned his attention out to sea. ‘No really. I want to try some.’
He looked back at her and she could see his protests gathering behind his eyes. ‘But your leg… It might not, you know… Sit right with it.’
She knitted her brow. Whenever she wanted to do something he was uncomfortable with, her leg was always his fall back argument. Whether it was horse riding, tree climbing or rope swinging, it was always what about your leg? ‘I could say the same about all those herbs and potions you get me to try. They’re just as likely to make me sick as make me better.’
His face twitched with discomfort. After all their years together he still thought of her as a child. Every now and again she had to point out that the twenty years separating them were insignificant given their longevity and they were practically the same age.
‘Now why would you want a drink all of a sudden?’
‘Why would you?’
‘It’s a nice night and I fancy one.’
‘So do I.’ She watched him, amused now as he squirmed in his chair. ‘Or would you rather have me wait to my six hundredth birthday?’
He gave her an exasperated look and disappeared into the cottage, returning with a second flagon and placing it in front of her. ‘Just the one then. But go steady with it. Beedie reckons it’s strong stuff.’ She lifted it to her mouth with both hands and took several pert lipped sips that did little to drain it. Then she put it down and turned to her uncle, her face ripe with victory. He reached over and she thought he was going to take it away from her. But his hand went to her face instead, wiping a bit of foam off her nose. He sat back and they both laughed.
‘What do you think?’ he asked.
‘It’s nice.’
‘Liar,’ he said and laughed again.
‘Well I’m going to drink it anyways.’
So they drank together as the sun went down; her sipping at her single flagon whilst he gulped his way through several refills. At first he watched her with misgivings, but when she started to sing he finally relaxed and joined in. They sung their way through several favourites, starting with The Ginger Cat and the Three Legged Rat and finishing up with The Washing Stealing Seagull of Teavul. After that all she remembered was falling in the daffodils and being carried inside.
The next morning, she woke up to another new but altogether unpleasant experience: a dry shrivelled feeling inside her head and a gravely crunch behind her temples that her uncle called the grates. What she felt now as she rocked from side to side was like a severe version of the grates and it seemed to be getting worse.
She condensed further into the world, becoming aware of birdsong and the occasional grunt of someone close by.
Another memory surfaced now – Ismara with her friends, pushing her to the
ground and standing over her with a pair of rusty shears; her hair blazing in a corona of sunlight. Had she collapsed in the road after they ambushed her? Pushed herself so hard that the poison made her sick again? It would explain why she felt so hot… Someone must have taken her home and now her uncle was rocking her in one of the chairs by the fire. Sometimes when she got really sick with the poison the nightmares would come – black mindscapes that were scorched by green lightning and populated by giant snakes. She would often wake up dripping with sweat and calling for her mother or father. But it was always her uncle who was there and if he couldn’t get her settled he would carry her to a chair and rock the nightmares out of her head.
But if he was rocking her now, why was the chair so hard?
She drew a deep breath through her nostrils and when she smelled flowers, imagined her uncle picking them in the garden and setting them in a vase. She smiled despite her discomfort. He always made such a pretty arrangement and when she had the energy she would open her eyes to look. But for now she just savoured the scent as she rocked, believing she was coming awake into the world of a few days ago...
Her eyes flicked open to more darkness, as though she had lifted a blind on a boarded window. In a jitter of panic, she tried to sit up, but she struck her forehead on a hard surface only inches above her and fell back down. White light lanced through her skull and the grates rumbled with new life. Her hands came up in reflex to nurse her head but they caught on the same rough splintery surface, skinning her knuckles. She twisted around and probed the blackness, her hands increasingly frantic as she discovered a wooden surface all around her. She was trapped in some kind of box. Her unseeing eyes bulged and her heart leapt in her chest.
Absence_Whispers and Shadow Page 31