by Ian Graham
‘They’re not perfect,’ said Ballas, ‘but they’ll have to do.’
‘Not perfect?’ The quill-master scowled. ‘The top parts must be padded! Otherwise they’ll skewer my underarms.’
Ballas thought for a moment. Then he dug up two thick tussocks.
Grimacing, Elsefar stuck them on the crutch-tops. Ballas hauled the quill-master upright. Elsefar tried out the crutches, jamming the tussock-padded ends under his arms and taking a few leg-swinging steps. ‘No good,’ he said. ‘No good at all. The right is too long.’
‘I’m no craftsman,’ said Ballas. ‘And you’re ill placed to moan.’
He glanced at his feet. The cold was making itself felt. Lugen Crask also looked at Ballas’s feet.
‘Sweet grief,’ he said. ‘Bear’s paws! Shall we be moving on, though?’ The eel-catcher grinned. A happy light danced in his eyes. Ballas understood why. Crask had been seconds from death. The Lectivin had almost grabbed him, yet he had emerged unscathed. The near miss exhilarated him. He felt alive.He had gazed into the black pit of death—he had, deep inside, believed he was about to perish—yet he had escaped death. For a short while, the world would acquire new properties for him. Everything would gain clarity—and it would intoxicate him. The frost would appear whiter, sharper, cleaner. The grass, greener. The tiniest familiar things—the clothes he wore, the lines upon his own hands—would provoke mild raptures.
Ballas felt none of this. Only a dull need to find Belthirran.
They walked northwards over the moorland. They were exhausted, and their pace was slow. Crask’s smile did not waver. His daughter was seized by a similar breathless happiness. They chatted to one another, sharing their wonderment. Ballas was uninterested in their words. Their companionship. But he knew they’d be joking about their adventure. They’d be mocking Nu’hkterin whilst praising the lizards. They’d look upon the sewers as something terrible yet adorable: a place of awful foreignness, yet home to a memory they’d prize for ever.
After a short time, Crask halted. ‘Forgive me,’ he said, ‘but the excitement is all too much. I have to, ah … you understand?’ He gestured at a cluster of limestone blocks.
Ballas nodded.
Crask disappeared behind the blocks. The group continued walking, slowly. Ballas pondered idly what their next move should be. Feeling frost-sharpened grass underfoot, he realised that the most urgent thing would be to obtain a pair of boots. But how? He shrugged inwardly. The same way that he had, for so long, got what he needed. He would steal them. If they encountered anyone upon the moors—a merchant, perhaps, or a huntsman—they would attack him, and take anything of use. Then they would kill him. For he, like anyone who laid eyes on them, would be able to tell the Wardens of their whereabouts and the direction in which they were travelling. How would the others take to this? wondered Ballas. Elsefar wouldn’t bat an eyelid. The quill-master seemed unconcerned about human life. After all, he had instructed Ballas to murder his employers. And by his own hand he had burned alive dozens of scribes.
But Heresh and Crask?
They had grown accustomed to killing, in order to preserve their own lives. But murdering for a set of boots?
Two black shapes flapped past Ballas’s face. Startled, he stepped back, raising his sword. A pair of black crows alighted on a limestone block. Then they flapped down to the grass beyond.
Looking towards the horizon, Ballas resumed his train of thought.
It didn’t matter whether Crask and his daughter approved of his actions. But perhaps, for harmony’s sake, it would be better to gain his boots without bloodshed. If they found a town. they might also find a cobbler’s shop, which they could steal from. And they would—
A cry split the air.
Ballas whirled. The cry sounded again, from behind the blocks. Ballas sprinted around them. And froze.
A brown-moustached Warden appeared to be hugging Crask. He held the eel-catcher tightly against his body. Crask’s eyes were rounded, his mouth agape. Suddenly he fell away from the Warden. Blood soaked his lower tunic. A dagger hilt protruded from his stomach. Gasping, he dropped to the ground.
Ballas wondered briefly where the Warden had come from. Had he been hiding behind the rocks all along? No—Crask would have cried out far sooner.
On the ground, the second crow watched Ballas. Around its body a blue light glowed. The creature grew larger and, as it did so, its beak shrank back into its skull, its eyes narrowing. Its puffed-out chest grew more shallow. Its wings broadened. Its feathers faded, to be replaced by a black tunic—blazoned with a Scarrendestin triangle.
A second Warden gazed at Ballas. His eyes were dull, as if he had suffered unimaginable pain. Yet a vigilant gleam lurked in them.
Ballas blinked—then swung his sword horizontally into the first Warden’s face. The blow half-cleaved his skull. The Warden fell, his blood gushing. The second Warden drew his sword and lunged at Ballas. Ballas deflected the blow, the clash of steel ringing out across the moors. Ballas stepped back, observing the Warden. He was almost as tall as Ballas. And leaner. He moved with a near-feline grace. Springing at Ballas, he hacked with his sword at Ballas’s ribs. Ballas raised his own sword—but only just in time. The blades met, and the jolt nearly wrenched Ballas’s sword from his hand. Gasping, Ballas retreated a few steps. The Warden attacked again, lifting his sword high, then slashing it downward at Ballas’s shoulder. Ballas danced aside. The blade whispered down his tunic sleeve. Cursing, Ballas hazarded an ungainly crossstrike at the Warden. The Warden parried it with ease. Ballas trotted back yet more steps.
‘Did the Lectivin send you?’ he asked. ‘Are you his creation?’
The Warden didn’t reply.
‘His magick made you, yes? Of course it did. What else could’ve done it?’
‘There are many more like me,’ said the Warden.
‘Like you? You mean, those that’ve sworn oaths to the Lectivin?’
‘He trusts us,’ said the Warden, ‘for he knows we cannot disobey. He has ordered me to kill you. So I shall do so.’
Leaping forward, he snaked out his sword at Ballas’s neck. The big man stumbled back. His heel struck a stone concealed by the grass. For a second he stayed upright but unbalanced. Then he fell on to his back.
The Warden swept his sword down, slashing at Ballas’s chest. Rolling aside, Ballas heard the blade crunch into frozen soil. He scrambled to his feet, just as the Warden launched another strike. Ballas blocked it clumsily. He had scant time to brace himself, to clench the muscles in his wrist. The blades impacted, and Ballas’s sword spun from his grasp.
The Warden smiled. He walked closer to Ballas, moving at a relaxed pace. There was no need to hurry now. His prey was unarmed. And exhausted. He took a step closer. Then he swung his blade across Ballas’s stomach, intending to slice it open. Ballas arched himself forward, drawing in his gut. The blade’s tip brushed his tunic. Growling, the big man hurled himself at the Warden. As he did so, he grasped the Warden’s arm, pinning it across his chest. Both men fell, Ballas landing on top of the Warden. Straddling his ribcage, Ballas planted his left knee on the Warden’s free arm, holding it to the ground. With his free hand, he grasped the other man’s sword-bearing arm above the elbow. He braced it against his chest, and bent it slowly back against the joint. The Warden howled. Gristle grated, tendons popped. There was a slow tearing sound, as the muscle fibres pulled apart. Ballas released the arm only when it was utterly ruined. It flopped upon the grass, hinged back against the elbow.
Rising, Ballas retrieved the sword. He planted his foot upon the Warden’s chest. He contemplated sinking the blade through his throat. Then he decided against it.
He stabbed it through the Warden’s scream-widened mouth. The blade’s tip pierced the back of his throat, skewering him to the ground.
Ballas stepped back, heart pounding.
Then he remembered Crask.
The eel-catcher sat on the grass, propped half upright against a limestone blo
ck. His daughter was beside him, her arm around his shoulders. She looked frantically to Ballas.
‘You must do something,’ she said.
Ballas kneeled in front of the eel-catcher. He peered at the knife wound. The blade was lodged hilt-deep. He looked at Crask’s face. Blood greased his lips. He gazed unfocusedly at the horizon. His breathing was a wet rasp. He blinked, then vomited a gobbet of blood.
‘Don’t die,’ whispered Heresh. ‘You cannot die—not now; not after everything.’ She turned to Ballas. ‘There must be something you can do. Somethingwe can do. A physician— we must find a physician. Please—you must …’
Crask’s gaze drifted from the horizon to the ground. Then he turned his face to his daughter, slowly, as if the movement cost him much strength.
Their gazes met.
‘Father?’ said Heresh, uncertainly.
Crask opened his mouth—then something in his gaze altered. The life-light faded. In its stead appeared the reflection of the grey gleam of dawn. He sagged forward, then sank sideways, sliding away from his daughter.
In a vague fashion, Ballas supposed that he owed his life to Crask. If the man hadn’t realised they ought to follow the lizards they might still be wandering the sewers. The eel-catcher had annoyed Ballas, true. Yet Ballas had never wanted his death.
Heresh hugged her father’s corpse. She buried her face in the crook of his neck. Ballas stood fifty yards away—yet he could see her shoulders shaking as she wept. He sensed the immensity of her grief. She was suffering an immeasurable agony—an agony so profound she’d never imagined it could exist. Some emotions were so fierce, Ballas knew, it seemed incredible that they did not physically tear apart the sufferer.
Jonas Elsefar approached.
‘I hate to speak of practical matters,’ he said, ‘but we must keep moving.’
The quill-master squirmed on his newly made crutches.
‘The Wardens’ll care nothing for her unhappiness. They will still be hunting us. So too will the Lectivin. It is folly to delay another instant. The sooner we get to my home—my new, safe home—the better.’
Ballas did not reply.
Elsefar jabbed a crutch tip into the ground. ‘Have you lost your wits? What are you waiting for? The girl’s grief to run its course? I warn you, a woman’s misery never blows itself out. Stay here for a million days and nights, and still she’d weep. What is she to you, Ballas? What was her father? Nothing. A means to end, that is all. Her purpose is served. Have you forgotten that? Now she is nothing but a hindrance. If she wishes to stay with her father,’ he sniffed, ‘let her.’
Ballas disliked the quill-master.
‘She is nothing to you,’ Elsefar repeated. ‘The only thing that matters is that you get to Belthirran.’
Ballas hesitated. Elsefar spoke sense.
‘Leave her,’ the quill-master said. ‘We’re wasting time. Can’t you hear sand slipping through the hourglass? Think upon this: to reach Belthirran, you’ll have to cross the mountains. In fair weather, it is thought an impossible task. But in midwinter frost and snow?’ He shook his head.
Ballas turned to Heresh. To his surprise, he found she was on her feet.
‘We cannot leave him here,’ she said. ‘Not where wolves and buzzards can get at him. We must bury him.’
‘We’ve no time,’ said Elsefar impatiently.
‘And we’ve no tools,’ said Ballas. ‘We can’t dig a grave with our bare hands.’
‘We cannot abandon him. We must do something …’ Heresh lowered her gaze. She drew in a sharp breath. ‘It is your fault, you bastard! This is all your doing!’ She slapped Ballas across the face—a sharp blow, which the big man made no attempt to avoid. ‘If you hadn’t come to the marshes—if you hadn’t dragged us into all this—my father would still be alive!’ She pounded her fists against Ballas’s chest. Ballas could have easily grabbed her wrists and stopped her. Yet he let her continue.
Eventually she grew still.
‘There is something we can do for your father,’ Ballas said quietly.
‘What would you care?’ hissed Heresh, glowering.
‘I don’t care,’ replied Ballas. ‘I’m only saying that there’s a way of keeping your father’s … your father safe. It’ll only take a few moments. Take it or leave it, woman.’
Ballas told her of his intentions. She consented. Slinging Crask’s body—limp, blood-wet—over his shoulder, he walked a hundred yards to a heap of grey boulders. Ballas was not an educated man. But he had been told that once volcanoes had studded the land. They had spat forth lava that hardened into boulders such as these. Each was a rough, elongated sphere, no larger than a child’s torso. Each was porous, and weighed no more than a sack of grain.
Ballas set down Crask’s body. Then he hefted aside a boulder, exposing a dark space beneath. He moved more boulders, until he had exposed a wide opening. He granted Heresh a moment to look upon her father a final time. Then he lowered Crask feet first into the blackness. He felt Crask’s boots make contact with stone. Gripping his collar, Ballas allowed the body’s knees to buckle, until they rested on the stone. Then Ballas gently released him. Crask pitched softly forward, his back bent and head lowered. As if, in death, he were praying.
Ballas replaced the boulders, sealing Crask underneath.
Heresh wished to speak with her father. Leaving her alone, Ballas walked to Elsefar. The quill-master wore an impatient expression. Ballas detected his unspoken thought: We should abandon her. Time is slipping away. With every passing moment, the odds of you reaching Belthirran grow longer …
Belthirran—the word flashed in Ballas’s skull, and he feit a dry, hard thirst for the place, and an overwhelming urge to go now, without delay …
‘We are leaving,’ he told Heresh, striding over to her.
She had been talking to her father … had been whispering into the heaped boulders. She started.
‘I need a short while longer,’ she said, a touch of resentment in her tone.
‘Stay if you want. But I’m going.’ It was true that he no longer needed Heresh. Her purpose, and Crask’s, had been to take him to Elsefar. That had been accomplished weeks ago. Once the city had been sealed, Ballas had remained with them, suspecting that they might prove useful. Which Crask certainly had: he had enabled Ballas to escape the sewers.
But Heresh? What use was she? What use was she now?
‘Remain here as long as you like,’ said Ballas. ‘We’ve nothing to do with each other any more.’
Heresh turned to look at him. ‘What?’
‘We are done with each other, you and me. You’re free to do as you wish.’
She looked suddenly frightened. ‘You cannot go without me,’ she said, rising. ‘You cannot leave me alone. Not now. I’ll walk with you. For a while, at least.’ She glanced abjectly at the boulders. ‘My father spoke of a place where I may be safe. My uncle’s home. In a few days, I’ll find my way there. But not yet. I can help you, Ballas. There are things I can do which you cannot. You are distinctive-looking. Every man who sets eyes on you will know you’re the fugitive. But me? I am unknown—for the time being. There are many red-haired women. But few men of your size … and none that bear such a scar upon their foreheads. I can bring you ale from taverns. If you need anything from a market place … if you need fresh weapons, or horses … anything … I will be able to buy them without being recognised. And I can fight, can’t I? Not well. But not badly, either. I know how to hunt, too. And light fires. I can make your journey less arduous.’
Her eyes glittered, desperately.
She fears solitude, Ballas realised. She had been uprooted from her home. Her father had died. She was utterly alone. Everything would appear cold, uncaring towards her. The pale sky cared nothing for her. The winds blew and the rains fell unfeelingly. Druine, the whole world, was suddenly peopled by strangers.
Ballas understood these sensations.
He understood why Heresh wanted to remain in his presence. He
was the only familiar thing that had, so far, endured. Their time together had been brief. He had led her into deep unhappiness. Yet he was all that she had—a flame that burned her, but at the same time provided the only light within the greater dark.
Heresh hated him, he was sure. But, for the time being, she needed him.
Ballas shrugged. ‘Do what you will.’
He and Elsefar set out across the moors. Heresh followed, ten paces behind.
Chapter 16
… and he kept secret the full strength
Of his magic, and the pilgrims grew wary,
For his secrecy was profound, and he craved
Power upon power …
They moved across the moors.
Things were different now, Ballas knew. He had not expected the Lectivin to pursue them—for it to be sent out by the Church like some hunt-hound. Nu’hkterin was the Church’s deepest secret. A secret that, if revealed, could threaten the entire institution. Yet the Blessed Masters were willing, now, to take that chance. To let Nu’hkterin move among Druine’s citizens. To have entered the sewers, it would have had to pass through the visionary’s-root den in the brothel. Would the root-eaters have thought it a mere hallucination? Or maybe they hadn’t had time to think anything at all: surely the Lectivin would have been instructed to destroy all witnesses.
It was a measure of the Church’s keenness to capture Ballas that they should employ the Lectivin so openly. Ballas recalled Father Rendeage’s words: A Decree of Annihilation has been issued. The purpose of such a thing is not to punish a wrongdoer—it is to prevent more harm. But what sort of harm? Of such things Ballas had no understanding—nor did he care to acquire any. He had to reach Belthirran. That was all that mattered. He cared not whether the Church collapsed or thrived. He simply wanted to cross the Garsbracks, and find the Land Beyond the Mountains.
The Lectivin troubled Ballas. He did not know what it was capable of. It could cause a man to burst into flames. Or adopt a crow’s form. It could follow a man, as Crask had claimed, by his soul-glow …