The Heretic Land

by Tim Lebbon

  They rode them in circles, he thought, recalling those wild shires a continent away, and he pulled the mane down on one side and dug that knee into the shire’s side. It did not seem to react, so he leaned a little, right arm tensing so hard that he felt his muscles lock and his elbow freeze.

  The shire veered to the left, still stamping and bucking and snorting foam at the air. What might have been panic was now anger. Venden could see bared teeth each time it flicked its head back at him, and its tail whipped at his back as if he were merely a larger than average bug.

  As it bounced across the randomly ploughed field, the shire moved in a wide circle to the left, meaning that it passed close to the Skythians. They moved back beneath the cover of trees, watching wide-eyed, the children pointing, and the adults …

  If they had been laughing before, there was some other expression on their faces now. Venden could not read it, but hoped it was respect.

  He pulled harder and the shire stomped in a tighter circle. He was sweating and gasping for air, battered and bruised and shaken, but by the time he passed the Skythian family for the second time he was gaining some control. The shire had gone from scared to furious, and now that fury was giving way to something like acceptance. Still it snorted and stomped, but Venden found that subtle changes in the way he held its mane were already providing results. Wild though it was, he had the measure of that wildness. For a while, at least.

  Across the field from the family, he hauled back on the mane and the creature stamped to a standstill. Breath plumed from its flared nostrils and its eyes rolled, and through his legs Venden could feel the powerful thump of its heart. But it did not buck, and did not reach back to snap at him with powerful jaws.

  Maybe it was biding its time.

  ‘Good boy,’ Venden said, leaning forward and patting its shoulder. ‘Good boy. We’ve a way to go, and you might even learn to like it.’

  The shire snorted foamy derision. Venden laughed. Then he sat back for a moment, surprised at his own good humour and relishing the sense of power the beast beneath him exuded. I haven’t laughed for a long time, he thought. He looked across at the Skythian family, who were already continuing in their efforts to plough the rocky field. If he had shaken them, they were not showing it.

  ‘Move on,’ he said, kneeing the shire across the field towards them. ‘Time to finish buying you. Though I’m not sure you’ll ever be truly owned.’

  Chapter 9

  him

  Milian Mu had never regarded herself as a sexual creature. In her previous life she had been an attractive woman, but not beautiful; wholesome, but not voluptuous. Her husband had adored her, but she had been comfortable with the fact that she did not possess qualities that set other women apart.

  It took the men from the travelling family to make her view herself in a new way. Because they looked at her with something more than interest, and something more animal than attraction. They lusted after her.

  Not them, she thought, because there was some aspect she – or, rather, the shard – sought in a man that was wholly absent here. She was not quite sure what that was, or why, and that troubled her. She could recall her husband’s strength and sensitivity, his shyness, and his love as a father. But when she remembered him, there would be something off inside, as if a part of her was trying to look away. Not him, she would think, and the memory of his face would fade away into a visage she had never seen before. A stranger, with harder eyes and a downturn to his mouth that bore witness to a harder, harsher life.

  Worst of all, she had no idea why she sought anyone. It seemed to be her prime motive now that she was awake, and she disliked the idea of being steered and used. But the shard of Aeon, the part of her god seeded within her, would not answer her silent questions, and in the darker moments of her journey south with those families, she started to believe that she was mad.

  She bore no scars to pay testament to her memories of murder, slaughter and fire. If she held her breath, she soon started to struggle; those dreams of crossing the seabed must be simply that – dreams. She tried to deny herself and give space for the truth, but the shard was an inexplicable presence betraying the veracity of those strange memories. It was something she could not make up. Its heat was obvious as she laid her hand across her belly, as was the taste of the ocean at the back of her throat each time she blinked.

  The shard has me looking for someone, she thought, and more and more she found the two men looking back.

  Three days north of New Kotrugam they stopped beside a lake, fed by a high waterfall and spotted with small floating islands. Large birds had made these islands their nests, and they sat guarding their young, occasionally flitting up and arcing into the water, emerging with a thrashing shape flashing silver in sunlight and landing again to eat. The setting sun lit the waterfall and cast a pink rainbow across the lake. It looked as if the water was bleeding.

  Milian remained the deaf mute, unable to hear their discussions or respond if she did, but their language was rapidly expanding and filling her consciousness, understanding of one phrase dawning from another. This understanding was effortless and frightening, and she knew that a time would come when she would have to begin talking.

  For now, though, she was enjoying the peace and solitude of silence.

  As the families prepared camp she walked along the banks of the lake, admiring its beauty. The sound of birds’ evensong as they settled into dusk was countered with the growl of hunting things, and the undergrowth that grew away from the lake’s edge was alive with hunter and hunted.

  She rounded a rise in the land and looked back, ensuring that the camp was out of sight. Something she had quickly learned was that the families respected each other’s privacy. It was an admirable trait in people existing so close together, and she had welcomed the moments this afforded her.

  Milian stood motionless beside the lake. A dozen species of birds worried over the water, and far out some fish broke surface and seemed to twist and bathe within the failing sunlight. It was a tranquil scene, beautiful, untouched, and she started undressing.

  The water was so cold it took her breath away. She walked into the lake, feeling forward with her toes over slick rocks, and when she sensed the lake bed falling sharply away she leaped in without hesitation or fear. She went under, and for a while the only sound she heard was her own heartbeat and the fluid whisper of bubbles rising about her head. In that sensation she sought memory, but that long walk she had dreamed of seemed to belong to someone else.

  Milian swam, conscious of the depths beneath her. There were things watching. Their attention was not perturbing, and she welcomed their interest. Time passed, she swam back and forth close to the lake’s edge, and then she trod water and watched the sun sinking into the water. It bled across the lake as though making an offering of itself, and when it finally disappeared she felt the cold for the first time.

  Shivering, Milian emerged and walked towards where she had left her clothing.

  ‘You are beautiful,’ the man said. It was the tall man who had first found her, and who had paid her most attention in the few days of their journey. He emerged naked from the shadows beneath the trees. His skin was wet, and the idea of him swimming in the same lake as her, watching, set a chill in her too deep for mere cold.

  Milian made a pretence of covering herself, but it was hopeless.

  ‘I’ve never seen anyone like you,’ he said, walking slowly towards her. He made no effort to hide himself; his arousal pointed the way. She went to step back but then he was before her, leaning in so close that she could smell his breath.

  Perhaps it is him, Milian thought. But the shard remained cool, urging her away.

  ‘You’re not him,’ she said in the man’s own language, and her eyes went wide in surprise. It had been her voice, but it was the shard doing the speaking.

  ‘So you do talk,’ the man said softly. He smiled and moved back imperceptibly, then took up her hand and pressed it to his lips. />
  Milian shoved him, hard. The man staggered back, tripped over his own feet and fell, crying out as he hit the ground.

  This is when he gets up and comes at me and I have to fight back …

  ‘I’m … sorry,’ the man said. He stood quickly and backed away, head bowed. His excitement waned, and Milian felt a rush of fury towards him, not pity. As he scampered into the shadows, she quickly dressed, worried that he might change his mind and return. I could tear him apart, she thought, but though it had been her hands doing the tearing so long ago, it had been that bastard daemon steering her. And Aeon’s shard had saved her from that.

  She ran along the shore, away from the camp and the people who had helped her, because there was no way she could return. She fled into the night, abandoning herself to the wilds of Alderia and wondering what would come next. I am my own woman, she thought, a flush of triumph making her smile. And then the shard rose again, its power obvious and untouchable.

  And Milian wondered if she was her own woman after all.

  He was not the one, the shard said. Its voice rang out loud, leaving her and filling the darkness around her, the lake, the shadows that waited at every corner.

  By the time they reached the ravine Bon’s pain was manageable. He could walk on his own and the faints no longer came over him, and Juda had rigged a sling so that he held his left arm across his chest, hand fisted and pressed almost to his right shoulder. The steady, hot throb of the stark blight venom was receding, or he was becoming more used to it. Either way, he no longer felt like a liability.

  Juda, however, did not have very long left.

  ‘Two miles,’ their guide said. He was snatching at the air before him again, as if ripping the failing light aside and storing it for later. ‘Two miles, gas marshes, hide …’ His madness was falling, and he had no more scamp cigars left.

  Bon had heard of these places, scattered widely across Skythe. Some of the old histories he had read of the island – forbidden books, rarer than rare – regarded them as deadly, mysterious places where only those strange creatures adapted to such environments could survive for long. One tome had called them cursed by Aeon, but even that ancient book had the air of a scientific text rather than a religious tract. He hoped that Juda knew what he was doing.

  And beyond the gas marshes, once they had, hopefully, evaded the slayers, perhaps they would find Venden.

  He so wished to stop and tell Leki more about his clever, bright son, the things he had invented and built himself, his interests and talents, the books he had loved and the thinking he had done on his own, analytical thoughts on the politics of Alderia and the veracity of the Fade, ideas untainted by parental influence and arrived at through his own incredible mind. He wanted to tell her about the good times they had had together, but found there were few. He wished he could reveal to Leki the love he had for his son, and which was reciprocated in an unconscious way. But along with these desires came the understanding that nothing about his relationship with Venden had ever been normal. He could not blame all of that on his son’s uniqueness.

  Bon heard the river before they reached the ravine. He could smell it, such was its violence and the moisture it threw into the air. Juda paused on the deep ravine’s edge, looking down the steep sides at the raging white beast below. He swayed, slashing at the air again, then turned and glared at Bon and Leki.

  ‘Can’t we go around?’ Leki asked.

  ‘Quicker down there. And some cover from them.’ He indicated back over his shoulder, as if the slayers were in sight. Bon could not help glancing back, but the plateau was wide and barren, with no signs of pursuit.

  ‘You’ve done this before?’ Bon asked, but Juda did not respond. He had dark rings beneath his eyes and his face was slack, as if sleep was already pulling him down.

  ‘I don’t have long,’ Juda said. He glanced left and right, then started down into the ravine, following a rough path that might have been worn there by animals of some kind. Narrow, rocky, it followed the easiest route down towards the raging river.

  ‘You sure you’re able to do this on your own?’ Leki asked Bon. The concern in her gaze was obvious as she looked at his painful hand.

  ‘No choice,’ Bon said. He was right. It was too dangerous for Leki to help him down. From up here the path looked almost too narrow to pass in places, and if one slipped, they both would. The ravine sides were sprouted with plants and ledges, so a tumble would not necessarily be fatal. But he had no desire to put Leki at risk. He had already seen one woman fall, and he had been unable to save her.

  They descended into the ravine and followed the river’s course, walking through flutters of strange-tasting snow. The river’s roar allowed no communication, and its noise filled Bon’s head, trying to drown other thoughts. As they descended, the roar grew greater until it became something that intruded into every sense – the taste of river water, strangely stale; a vibration to the air, the shaking ground; the smell of dead things carried on the river and the stagnant dampness of places never touched by the sun. Bon’s pain seemed to recede the deeper they went, whether because of the overwhelming effect of the river or a dispersal of the venom, he did not mind.

  Some time passed. An early dusk closed over them, but it was not darkness that tracked the passage of time for Bon, but Juda’s behaviour. He stumbled several times, and then started falling over. His hands continued to wave at the air, the actions changing from grasping to punching, clasping, slashing.

  Bon grabbed Leki’s arm and pulled her close. ‘We have to tie him and carry him!’ he shouted, and he could hear his own voice again. Leki nodded and heaved off Juda’s backpack. He carried rope and tape, and as Bon took a moment to glance around, she went about binding his wrists together.

  The ravine had widened considerably and the river’s violence lessened, flowing past confident and brash. Where has he led us? What by all the false gods is that?

  It was only a river. Only a river …

  He helped Leki tie the twitching, sleeping man, and Juda’s eyes opened, white, rolled upwards.

  ‘Into the marshes …’ he shouted. ‘But … dangers …’

  ‘The air!’ Leki said.

  ‘Tadcat … liver oil. In my pack. A paste … leather pouch. Rub it …’ Juda gasped, clasped at the air, and then very deliberately drew two fingers slowly across his top lip.

  ‘I know a little about the marshes,’ Bon said. Leki glanced at him, one eyebrow raised. Bon shrugged. He knew something about them.

  But his comment seemed to ease Juda into a more peaceful sleep, and they finished tying his wrists and ankles.

  Leki rummaged in Juda’s pack and brought out several items, looking more and more concerned as she did so. One of them was a long spike, a length of gut trailing from one end. Another consisted of several glass vials melted together, fluid in some of them showing different colours depending on the angle Leki held it at.

  ‘What?’ Bon asked.

  ‘Things he shouldn’t have.’ Leki did not elaborate, but opened a small leather pouch, sniffing and nodding. She plunged two fingers inside and then smeared them beneath her nose, so that her top lip glistened with a faint pink gel. She dipped again, and Bon leaned forward to receive the paste. Lastly, she did Juda.

  ‘Stinks,’ Bon said.

  ‘Better than being poisoned by marsh gas.’

  ‘You think this will make us safe?’

  Leki shrugged, and looked faintly disapproving. ‘You’re the one who said you know about the marshes.’

  ‘Well … some.’ They left it at that. Time was moving on, dusk had settled, and they both felt the pressure of pursuit building behind them. Whatever things Leki had found in Juda’s pack, Bon knew they had to trust Juda, for now. He would ask Leki about the objects when they were safe.

  The river – ice-cold, the frozen artery of this degraded, dying land – pointed the way to the gas marshes.

  Juda was heavier than he looked, and they carried him in short
stints. Tall, skinny, clothes flapping about his sticklimbs, Bon thought he must possess bones of steel and organs of rock. His heart, at least, was still a mystery, and Bon did not mind sharing that doubt with Leki.

  ‘We still don’t know why he saved us,’ he said.

  ‘Does kindness need a reason?’

  ‘Really?’ Bon frowned at Leki where she carried Juda’s legs. ‘After whatever you found in his pack, you really believe it’s just kindness?’

  ‘No,’ Leki admitted. She looked down at the man slung between them; his bound wrists, tied ankles. He was twitching in his sleep, and muttering things they could not yet hear. His talking would increase in volume soon. They would need to gag him.

  ‘He’s led us from the slayers into this place, which is even more likely to kill us,’ Bon said.

  ‘He’s here himself.’

  ‘A madman might not know fear.’

  ‘Hang on,’ Leki said. ‘Wait.’ She was panting. They eased Juda to the ground. ‘Just a breath.’

  Bon looked anxiously behind them, into the narrowing ravine where the river and its misty spray seemed enraged, filling the whole space. He wasn’t sure just how they’d managed to come through there.

  ‘This river …’ he said.

  ‘It’s just a river,’ Leki said. ‘I know what you’re feeling. I feel the same. But I think it’s just … picking up on the cold in the land.’

  ‘The cold?’

  ‘The frozen heart of Skythe. Maybe it’s only us amphys who sense it.’

  ‘Not something I’ve heard of,’ Bon said, surprised to feel a little put out. He’d thought himself an authority on Skythe, and the cold river had frightened him without his knowing why.

  ‘All the waters of the world are joined,’ Leki said. ‘They merge and mix and flow, and tell their stories. And the story goes that deep beneath parts of Skythe, the underground has gone from molten to frozen. The heart of the land, frozen by what happened.’