Monument

by Ian Graham

  ‘I went to a healer—a dispenser of magical remedies. Living in fear of the Church, they are accustomed to secrecy. Indeed, their lives depend upon it. I could be certain that no one would learn of my condition.

  ‘The healer discovered a growth upon my liver. She described it to me, in some detail: its size, its texture. In a jar, she had something similar, extracted from a horse. Mine, she said, was too large to be removed—by scalpel blade or by spellcraft. This ugly, misshapen sphere of flesh was my death warrant.’

  Laike gave the flagon to Ballas.

  ‘The healer reduced its size, to such a degree that I felt— and feel—little pain. But it will grow again, and I will die. Such deaths are unpleasant.

  ‘In such circumstances as mine, everything changes. Death cannot be avoided, that is certain. So one must choose the way that death is met. If I wished, I could die in the lowlands, numbed by drugs, unaware that I was dying, or had ever lived … I could fade away, amid the squalor and dirt of humanity.

  ‘Or I could die amid the purity of the mountains. I could die amid rocks, and eagles, and rowan trees.’

  ‘You’re going to kill yourself?’

  ‘No. Rather, I shall let the elements take my life. There is a pool, up on the mountain tops, near a rowan grove. I shall settle there, and let the winds blow around me, and the snows pile upon me, until I feel nothing … until I become nothing. And you, Ballas, have rendered this possible.’

  ‘How so? Surely, you could’ve hired someone to bring you here …’

  ‘What if I became ill during the climb?’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘I crave the mountain-tops and the rowan grove. But if I sickened, no climber—however well paid—would have helped me make the ascent. I would be too great a liability; he would abandon me.’

  ‘You said mountain men were forbidden from—’

  ‘The code of honour is dead,’ interrupted Laike. ‘In my day, it thrived. But now? The tide of humanity, black and noxious, has drowned it. It exists no more. It has gone.

  ‘You crave the mountain tops as much as I do. When I spoke to you, that much was clear. I knew that no matter how unwell I became, you would help me. Because without me, you won’t get there. Without me, you’d never have a chance of finding Belthirran. If needs be, you would have carried me on your back.’

  The two men were silent. The fire crackled, shadows crawled.

  ‘Strange, isn’t it, how we follow the same path, but for opposite reasons? You wish to live. I wish to die. You want refuge. I, the grave. But perhaps death, for me, will be a type of refuge.’ He touched his stomach. ‘The pain has returned. Pass me the whisky, Anhaga Ballas.’

  Despite the whisky, Ballas’s sleep was restless. The stone dream—which still defied all attempts at proper recollection— had filled his slumber, and he woke cold, tired and angry. Yet his mood improved when he found that the blizzard had abated. He stepped out of the cave, into a world of heaped snow crystals. Every rock-face fissure was snow-crammed, the ledge was stacked shin-deep. The air bore a sharp, clean flavour—as if it had been purified by the fierce weather. The sky was clear: the sun burned, and its light glared upward, reflected, from the snow: an eye-searing dazzle that made Ballas squint. It was easy to see how Laike had gone snow-blind.

  They ate a quick breakfast of leftover goat meat. Then they set off along the ledge. Ballas and Laike removed their crampons, for they provided no benefit in the snow. No longer in danger of slipping, Heresh walked upright, denying Ballas any more hard, spiteful amusement. And so they moved on, at a reasonable pace and faster than they had done since the frosts had closed in.

  Ballas felt contented. For the first time in months, Belthirran seemed truly attainable. Within hours, he would be up on the mountain tops. And then—then there was the rock wall to contend with: the barrier between Druine and Belthirran. Laike thought it impassable—yet this, to Ballas, seemed absurd. He could not say why; he understood that, logically, Laike might be right. Yet Ballas did not feel that he was. Instinctively, he knew that the explorer was mistaken.

  In early afternoon, snow clouds appeared. After a while, snow began to fall—the pale flakes floating delicately on to the ledge. Ballas licked his lips, tasting the air’s cold.

  ‘A blizzard coming, you reckon?’ he asked.

  ‘We must hurry,’ said Laike.

  For some time they moved on, maintaining a brisker pace. Then the winds came. Their arrival was slow, gradual. At first, a breeze swept over the mountains. Then a single hard gust blew, jolting the snowflakes into a sudden dance. It died back, then blew again with doubled strength. Ballas staggered; the wind died down once more, then rose again, so fiercely and suddenly that Ballas was almost knocked off his feet. This time, the wind did not lessen. The gusts became a continual blast.

  ‘Laike!’ shouted Ballas. ‘We’ve got … got to find shelter!’ He peered through the driving snow. The explorer, and Heresh, had dwindled to vague, dark shapes. ‘Do you hear? We have to—’

  Laike shouted something—but Ballas did not hear: the wind was too loud. Stumbling forward, Ballas grasped the explorer’s shoulder.

  ‘We need shelter,’ he repeated.

  Snowflakes clung to Laike’s hair. ‘There is no shelter!’

  ‘There must be more caves somewhere …’

  ‘Listen to me! There is no shelter!’

  Something flashed past Ballas’s face: a blur of rapid darkness. Startled, Ballas lost his footing. An instant later, he was sprawled face down, his legs hanging over the ledge. Swearing, he clutched at the snow, sinking his fingers into it, trying to haul himself back up. It was a struggle. The snow shifted, breaking apart; and it seemed to Ballas that he had little strength.

  Then someone grasped his collar and pulled. Ballas rose, slightly, and this extra help was enough: he managed to drag himself on to the ledge.

  He looked up.

  Heresh was staring down at him. In her eyes, in their depths, Ballas saw relief. And a type of expectancy. For a few moments, he held her gaze. Then something flickered at the edge of his vision.

  On the ledge, twenty paces away, something glowed— glowed with a deep blueness. The light strengthened, so much so that the snowflakes cast grey shadows.

  Cursing, Ballas ran over. As he approached he saw, through the blizzard-gloomed space, the outline of a crow. This outline, edged by the blue light, grew larger; it gained height and breadth. By the time Ballas arrived, it had become a Warden.

  The Warden sagged against the rock face. Blood poured from the side of his head. His right arm was twisted, badly; a spike of bone pierced his tunic sleeve. The winds had been too strong, Ballas realised. While a crow, he had been dashed against the mountainside.

  Ballas halted, watching him.

  The Warden raised his head. Then, with his left hand, he unsheathed a small dagger and stumbled towards Ballas. His movements were slow, clumsy. Ballas grasped his wrist, then squeezed. The knife slipped from the Warden’s fingers.

  ‘Are there others?’ shouted Ballas, moving close.

  The Warden did not reply. Ballas seized his broken arm and wrenched it. The Warden shrieked, dropping to his knees.

  ‘Are there others?’

  The Warden did not reply—he merely groaned. Then Ballas realised how foolish his question was. Of course there would be others. The Warden would not have pursued him alone. He had been the first to find Ballas, true. But soon his companions would arrive. And then?

  Grunting, Ballas half pushed, half threw the Warden from the ledge. The wind smothered his cries. He fell, visible only for a moment: a desperate, sprawling figure, disappearing into whiteness.

  Ballas ran back to Laike.

  ‘There is trouble,’ said the big man.

  ‘The Lectivin?’

  ‘Wardens—those that shapeshift … The Church has followed me.’

  They hurried along the ledge. Ballas’s own words rang through his head, louder than the wind:
The Church has followed me …

  It did not make sense. He wasn’t threatening the Church— he sought only to avoid them. So why—why were they hunting him? Why, when by now they must know he posed no threat. He was scrambling up the Garsbracks, in a blizzard: the mountain might kill him: so too might the weather. He was taking himself far from Druine, far from anywhere he could threaten the Church and the land it governed. So why had they followed him? Why did they demand his death? And why should that cursed Lectivin still be pursuing him?

  In his mind’s eye, Ballas glimpsed Belthirran—and all such questions faded away. The Church was trying to kill him. Their motives were unimportant. He had to survive. He had to find the Land Beyond the Mountains.

  Following Laike, he climbed a small rise—then staggered, as the wind struck him with sudden force. It blew unhindered here, moaning around unseen rocks.

  Ballas stood on a plateau of snow-caked stone.

  A strange nervousness flickered inside him. Turning to Laike, he opened his mouth to ask if … if they had …

  Laike pulled down his hood and gripped his staff tightly, as if partaking in a ritual, a ceremony. Ballas didn’t need to ask his question. The answer seemed to sing upon the air.

  They had reached the top of the Garsbracks.

  Chapter 20

  From Asvirius, the flesh was seared.

  Its lungs erupted into flame,

  Its bones flared to ash,

  Yet in death it promised

  A return to life, and vengeance …

  For a moment Ballas did not move. He felt the wind scrape his skin, the snowflakes whirl around him. He thought, briefly, of the past months: of everything that had led him to this point. Of Papal Square. Of the barge journey. Of the marshes, of Granthaven, of the sewers and Jonas Elsefar’s forest home.

  He drew in a breath.

  What was he supposed to do now? How was he to find Belthirran?

  Ahead, there was a darkness—a high patch of grey amid the white. Squinting, he saw that it ran—seemed to run—the full length of the mountain top.

  Ballas shrugged out of his rucksack. A grappling hook dangled from the back, fastened by a leather strap. Ballas started to undo the strap’s buckle—yet his fingers were numb. And his hands shook.

  He was nervous, he realised. And in his guts he felt urgency: a fierce need to hurry, to be quick, for at any moment something might happen—something that might thwart him …

  Cursing, he ripped the grappling hook from the strap. Then he ran towards the greyness.

  The rock wall wasn’t truly grey—it was black: as black as snow clouds. Snow lay mounded against the base, curving upward into a long, sharp dune. The top of the wall could not be seen: through the falling snow, Ballas’s vision reached only a few feet. He had no idea how high it was. But he could see that the wall was smooth, like a pebble on a stream bed. He touched it, and it felt like bottle glass: he detected no ridges, no fissures. Nothing that could provide a handhold. He had not expected the wall to be like this … to be such a perfect barrier.

  Ballas hurled the grappling hook upward. The hooked iron claw disappeared from sight. Then hurtled back to the ground, sinking into the snow.

  Cursing, Ballas snatched it up.

  The wall was higher than he had supposed. He threw the hook again, with doubled effort. This time, it did not fall. Not straight away. Ballas grasped the rope as it hung from the hook, and started to climb. As soon as the rope took his weight, it loosened; Ballas felt the hook slithering from whatever it had found purchase upon. The hook flashed past Ballas’s face. The big man uttered a profanity. Then he retrieved the hook and tried again.

  The same thing happened: the hook lodged upon something—the top of the wall, presumed Ballas. Then, as he started to climb, it slipped free.

  Laike and Heresh approached.

  ‘Laike,’ shouted Ballas, striding over. ‘You’ve seen the wall in daylight, haven’t you?’

  The explorer nodded.

  ‘Where should I throw the hook? There’ll be a jagged part, won’t there? Somewhere the prongs will catch, and stick?’

  ‘There is no jagged part.’

  ‘There must be!’

  ‘Do you think I did not try a grappling hook, when I was last here? We have spoken of this before.’

  ‘There must be somewhere,’ persisted Ballas, ‘where the hook will catch. Tell me, Laike: where should I throw the bloody thing? Where?’

  ‘Ballas,’ said Laike, sadly, ‘it is not possible …’

  ‘Bastard!’ Angered by the words, Ballas drove his fist into Laike’s face. The explorer sprawled backwards, on to the snow. His nose was broken: even through his chill-numbed knuckles, Ballas had felt the gristle rupture. Blood poured over the explorer’s cheeks and pooled in his eye sockets. Ballas felt surprised for a moment. He hadn’t really meant to strike Laike. He had simply lashed out, like a wounded, enraged animal.

  But anger persisted. Stooping, he hauled Laike to his feet.

  ‘You said you wanted to die—so die! Go on, you are no use to me! Piss off! Go to your bloody rowan grove and freeze!’ He pushed Laike away.

  Turning, the big man ran along the bottom of the wall.

  ‘There must be somewhere,’ he shouted. ‘There must be some bloody place where the hook will stick!’

  He stopped and threw the hook. It lodged; but when the rope took Ballas’s weight, the hook scraped free.

  He tried over and over again, at different points. Each time he failed.

  He swept up the hook and glared at it. ‘You piece of horseshit! You bloody piece of useless horseshit!’ He crashed the hook against the wall. Sparks flared where the steel struck stone. Ballas hit the wall, over and over, until the prongs buckled. He threw down the hook.

  Heresh and Laike stood nearby. Whirling, Ballas approached them.

  ‘I told you to piss off, old man! Why are you here, when I told you to go? Does this … does it amuse you?’ He glared at Heresh. ‘You are finding it funny. I can tell—it is in your eyes, you bitch …’ Clenching his fists, he started towards the woman.

  Suddenly, Ballas grew cold, colder than he had been before. He felt as if he had fallen into a frozen pool. His muscles jolted, each one locking in an angry spasm. He staggered, surprised. Then his balance vanished. Swaying, he stumbled— then dropped to his knees. Bile swirled in his throat. His head ached, as if it were being crushed in a carpenter’s vice. He clamped his hands over his temples and groaned. From the edges of his vision, darkness encroached. He realised that he was slipping from consciousness. He resisted—yet he felt himself being sucked into oblivion …

  … And as he fell, he remembered … he saw again … the dream of stone.

  Ballas stares at the rock wall—at the smooth blank upthrust of stone. He sees nothing else: the sky and the ground are beyond his vision. And he feels nothing: his flesh is neither warm nor hot, if a wind blows it does not touch him, he cannot tell if the earth beneath his feet is soft or solid. He is aware only of the wall.

  Then—he is pacing along the bottom of the wall He does so without wishing to. He is not trying to walk—but nor is he trying to keep still. Something is making him move, something is working his limbs, and he finds it neither enjoyable nor unpleasant: it is simply happening, and will continue to happen, and it does not trouble or delight him.

  He moves at great speed, yet doesn’t look where he is going. His gaze is fixed upon the wall. He stares hard at the stone, as if seeking something, as if—

  Suddenly, he slows, then halts.

  He feels excited—and it is an almost childish sensation: a mixture of urgency, yearning, happiness.

  In the wall there is a seam of red stone, running vertically. It ridges out from the darker stone, like a weal; and it glows—glows like a whore’s lantern.

  Without intending to, Ballas kneels.

  The seam delights him, it inspires all manner of joy …

  … And a strangeness—a light-headedn
ess, and a sharpening of desire—sweeps over Ballas. He finds himself remembering something … something that does not belong to the dream, yet nonetheless seems unreal … something that he can feel within his mind, yet that he cannot quite coax out … something sensed, but not seen …

  Ballas opened his eyes.

  Briefly, he wondered what had happened. Had he fainted?

  It did not matter.

  Scrambling to his feet, he returned to the rock wall. He placed his hand flat upon it. He groped for the crease, for the weal—yet he could not find it.

  Swearing, Ballas stumbled a few paces to his right. He kept his hand against the rock wall. At any second he expected to feel the crease. He took step after step, and found himself running—found himself stumbling through knee-deep snow.

  ‘What are you doing?’ cried Heresh.

  Ballas glanced back. The young woman had followed him. Laike was with her. Heresh held the explorer’s sleeve lightly, so she could guide him.

  Ballas continued running. The rock face was so smooth that he could scarcely feel it. He might as well have been touching empty air—

  Until a dull pain shot through his hand. Something tugged at his flesh. He jerked back his hand reflexively. Blood poured from a gash in his palm. Cautiously, he touched the rock wall. His fingertips met a raised strip in the stone. He peered more closely. As in the dream, a weal ran down the wall. A weal of red stone. Through the blizzard it shone, faintly. It extended as high as he could see. Ballas looked down. The weal sank into the snow piled at the wall’s base.

  For a moment Ballas was numb. He lifted his hand to his mouth. He licked blood from the laceration.

  Then urgency seized him.

  Dropping to his knees, he dug at the snow. Frantically, he heaved away handful after handful, hurling it behind him.