by Sam Bowring
Enough to drive a man mad, he thought, and gibbered.
Ugly thoughts reared their ugly heads, and his eyes wandered over sharp objects – a sword strapped to someone’s belt, the edge of the bar, even the dangling cloth the innkeeper used to polish a glass. Maybe if he took a run at them he would do a better job of caving his skull in than he had with the flat wall of the tomb.
And then what? What if these others finally wake, to find me lying apparently dead – if they bury me, will I open my eyes inside of the earth, prison after prison after prison?
He shook his head. He was not going to succumb this time. Despirrow would have to release him eventually. In the meanwhile, he knew how to do this.
Of all things, I know how to do this.
Twenty-five chairs …
Forger was bored. He could not even be bothered to chastise himself anymore for allowing Despirrow to depart on his ridiculous errand. So what if Yalenna inherited Braston’s power? She was high on the list of people Forger wanted to kill anyway.
He sat on a swing in someone’s yard, watching a mother and father play with their little girl. Love was plain on their faces, the girl caught in an embrace between the two of them as they hoisted her into the air. She was laughing, her little hands reaching skywards.
Ah, how simple it would be to reduce them all to tears.
‘If I could,’ he muttered.
He had grown shorter again, which added to his bad mood. He could not cause pain to the impenetrable, and thus, as he waited for the world, his power had diminished.
Nothing he could not quickly correct.
As he daydreamed about things he could do to the small family – more inventive than simply killing one of them, though that was ever-effective – he thought he heard something. He cocked his head, wary that his mind might be playing tricks on him – but there it was again! Somewhere in Tallahow, someone was calling out.
Excitedly he slid off the swing onto the little garden path. Careful to avoid the grass, he made his way to the gate, and clambered over. In the street all was still in the odd light of the faded moon and bright cracks in the sky. He listened, trying to make out the voice, and what direction it came from.
‘Hello?’ he shouted. ‘Who’s there?’
He began to jog, no echoes sounding from his footfalls. Up towards the keep, that was where the voice sounded!
‘Hello!’ he called. ‘Hello, hello, hello!’
‘Is that Forger?’
This time he heard the words, recognised the voice. As fast as he could, he bounded up through the tiered city towards the rising cliff face, until he reached the keep. There, in the square, he found Salarkis waiting.
‘Thank goodness!’ Forger said, halting before the stony Warden. He patted his chest affectedly, as if he needed to catch his breath. ‘I was beginning to think I’d be alone forever.’
‘Hello, Forger.’
‘How did you get here?’
‘I was away to the west somewhat, when this,’ he waved a hand about, ‘occurred. Had to pick my way amongst grassland to the road.’
‘Oh dear.’ Forger seemed genuinely concerned. ‘That must have been painful.’
‘I have good balance. I was able to keep to the flats of blades, mostly.’
‘Well, I’m very happy to see you.’
‘And I you. Assuming, of course, you can explain to me what the blood and piss is going on!?’
Forger blinked, taken aback by Salarkis’s ire. He still did not know where the Warden’s loyalties lay, he realised, though he hoped for the best.
Mustn’t be too hasty, he decided. You’ll fall victim to your own good nature.
It was even possible that, once time started, Salarkis would whisk away and try to stop Despirrow, even to save Braston … that was, if he found out exactly what the plan was.
‘Despirrow has an errand,’ Forger said vaguely. ‘I’m not sure what.’
‘Then how do you know he has one?’
‘Isn’t it obvious? Look around you.’
‘So, you haven’t seen him?’
‘No one has visited me.’ Forger pulled a remorseful face. ‘Not you, or him, or Karrak, or Stealer.’
‘Stealer is dead,’ said Salarkis flatly.
‘I heard the rumours, and feared them true.’ He sighed. ‘Come, we have much to discuss, and nothing but time to do it. Let us enter,’ he gestured at the keep, looming above him, ‘my humble abode.’
Despirrow glanced at the sky uneasily. He knew he could not keep this up forever, or even much longer. His cycles of recovery were coming more slowly, and did not last as long before heaviness returned. His hold on time felt slippery, and sickening, as if he’d gripped something slick and rotten. Soon he would have to let it go.
And he would.
Ahead loomed Althala’s towers. He could not believe that he had made it. For so long he’d held them in his mind’s eye, hoping to see them over every hill, around every bend, and finally, here they were.
With the sky cracking above him, Despirrow stole up the road, into Althala.
A NEW DAY
He slipped along carefully, hugging walls, for his movement amongst the statues would stand out to the other Wardens. He saw no one on the streets, however, and soon reached the open square before the castle. Here was where the real danger lay – Yalenna and Karrak were most likely somewhere nearby, for what would be the point in venturing anywhere else? And if they happened to be overlooking the square – not that he expected them to be maintaining vigil, as such – but they might just happen to be looking …
He loitered under the leaves of a tree on the square’s edge. He wished he could trust the dark of night to cover him, but the cracks in the sky were growing larger, spilling out the light of day – or even several weeks’ worth of days! Even Despirrow had to fear what he had done, though he told himself it was just concern that the world would be ruined before he had a chance to enjoy it.
Then he noticed movement on the castle roof – two figures, one of them pointing upwards. He smiled with relief, for it was easier to avoid them now that he knew where they were. Once they receded from the edge, he broke into a run across the square. Through the open archway of the main entrance he went, past guards, making straight for Braston’s quarters. Being all too familiar with this place, he found his way easily, and indeed a touch of nostalgia tweaked him as he went. Castle Althala had been his playground for many years.
One room in particular gave him pause as he passed it, recalling it from his final night here. He had undone the lock, snuck in upon a sleeping Lady Jariss while her husband was away, and proceeded to have his way with her for hours. He had stoppered her voice so she could not cry out while he pinched her hard in all the wrong places, and took her upright, mercilessly thumping her posterior against the wall until it was bruised all over. How woeful, to have been interrupted in the midst of such pleasure – to sense someone outside reversing the changes he had wrought on the door. He had flung the lady aside and stalked into the wardrobe, where he had parted wooden backing and the stone beyond to escape the room. As the wall closed up behind him, he had heard Braston bursting in, and known there would be no hiding what he had become, anymore. If Braston had previously suspected foul play, now he would know for sure. Despirrow had been forced to flee, and had never seen the horror of realisation in his old friend’s eyes, because abhorrence had so quickly replaced it.
You leapt so quick to condemnation, Braston. You didn’t even try to understand.
As he entered the corridor that led to Braston’s chamber, a growing excitement threatened to make him giggle. He passed a silver framed mirror on the wall, admiring it briefly as he went. All this time it had hung there undetected, a gift that was no gift at all. Would Forger be ready to watch what happened in the next few minutes? He had no way of knowing that Despirrow had finally arrived.
The treacherous ‘healer’ and guards stood outside Braston’s door, one of them on the verge of tu
rning the knob. Despirrow briefly inspected the healer, and the cup he carried. It did not look suspicious at all, but in fact, quite inviting.
By the Spell, he would toast Braston’s memory with lily water soon enough, and laugh.
Suddenly the door’s keyhole seemed like an eye, and Despirrow experienced a horrid worry that Braston, with nothing better to do, had taken to watching from it. He hurriedly withdrew around a corner into a stairwell, but after a few moments he relaxed. No sound came from inside Braston’s room to indicate that Despirrow had given himself away. Just his anxious mind, making him jumpy. He slumped down on a stair.
Well, here he was. All he had to do was let time flow again.
Strained as his grip had become, now that it came to releasing it, he found it to be difficult. It was as if he’d held a hand in the same position for too long, and now it was unresponsive, and bent out of shape. Concentrating hard, he took a deep breath, and forcefully let go.
Out of view down the corridor, he heard the door open, followed by Braston’s exclamation of surprise.
‘My king,’ came the healer’s voice. ‘Excuse me, I did not mean to startle you.’
The healer coughed a little – no doubt it smelled truly ripe in Braston’s quarters.
‘You didn’t!’ came Braston’s reply. ‘It’s just …’
Don’t try explaining it to him, thought Despirrow.
‘Never mind. Suffice to say I am glad to see you! To see anyone, indeed.’
‘My lord is looking better than I expected,’ said the healer.
Not too much better, I hope.
‘Don’t shut that door!’ barked Braston.
Despirrow could well imagine that he did not fancy being trapped in the room any longer.
Come on, give him the damned drink.
To Braston, the fresh air entering his room through the open door was more welcome than he’d even imagined.
Healing had been slow, due to the deprivation he had experienced. Nonetheless he felt like he had passed a certain point, that the worst was behind him and he could at least stand. His body still ached, but he rose determinedly from the tangle of fetid sheets. His eyes found the cup the healer carried, and, had he any saliva left, his mouth would have watered. Thirst had been the most vocal of his needs, and he had dreamed of lakes and rivers as he lay, mouth as dry as paper.
‘I have brought you some lily water, lord,’ said the healer, extending the cup.
Strange light played into the room. Braston turned to the window, which had remained closed all this ‘time’, and wrenched it open. Across the heavens, great lines rippled with the brightness of day, pulsing as they tried to dispel the night. Meanwhile he heard distant gasps, saw people below pointing and staring.
‘Despirrow,’ he muttered. ‘What have you wrought?’
He turned back to the healer. His instinct was to ask what had happened while he’d been locked away, but of course the man could not answer that.
He needed to find Yalenna.
The healer stared past him out the window in amazement, as did the guards at the door.
‘My lord,’ said the healer, ‘what is happening out there?’
There was something about him, Braston realised – something in the network of threads wavering about him that seemed important, to do with justice.
‘You’re going to do something, aren’t you?’ Braston asked.
The man paled. ‘Pardon, my king?’
‘You have something planned, don’t you? Of great consequence.’
The man seemed to shrink back into himself. ‘I … I’m not sure what you mean, lord.’
Braston frowned. ‘Maybe you don’t even know it yet, but the Spell likes you.’ Sight of the cup reminded him of his thirst. ‘Now, give me that – my tongue is dry as tinder.’
He took the lily water from the healer’s unresisting fingers and raised it to his lips. Oh, he was thirsty, and, as he gulped the drink down, he was amazed by how sweet it was. It tingled in his mouth and danced down his throat, so thick with deliciousness that it made him, for a moment, forget every other thing. Then, slowly, he lowered the cup.
‘What was that?’ he asked.
‘Er …’
‘What manner of tonic? Answer me, man!’
‘Just lily water, lord … although, by order of Loppolo, there was some curltooth added.’
‘Curltooth!’ Braston smacked his lips. ‘Well, that explains it. An odd gesture, but perhaps he seeks peace between us – I will thank him for it when I see him.’
Pain coursed along his ribs.
‘What …’ he gasped, clutching his chest, but got no further.
The pain converged on his very core, burrowing into his heart. He cried out, hardly recognising his own voice. I do not sound like that, he thought distantly, so full of fear and horror. He always hid his hurts well, gritted his teeth, carried on.
He went to his knees, to the floor, onto his back, where a surreal upside-down view of the doorway greeted him. The guards were falling, blood spraying from their throats … and past them into the room walked Despirrow, slamming the door behind him. The healer, trapped as well, backed away into a corner.
‘Well,’ said Despirrow, grinning malignantly, ‘how does poison feel, Braston?’
‘You …’
Even if he could have choked them out, there were no words to convey the measure of his hatred. The heat of it mingled with the heat running through him, and he tried to rise, tried to ignore the deep burning within.
Despirrow cackled and booted him in the side.
‘I dearly wish,’ he said, ‘that I could stand here and bathe in the joy of this circumstance. Unfortunately,’ he raised a sword, taken from one of the guards, ‘your friends are no doubt on their way to save you.’
The light of the maelstrom outside flashed over the blade as it travelled downwards. Braston tried to raise a hand, but his strength no longer matched his will.
On the roof, Rostigan and Yalenna watched the cracks breaking over the world, as day struggled for supremacy over night.
‘This,’ whispered Yalenna, ‘is so very bad.’
‘It will settle,’ said Rostigan, trying to sound certain.
‘Braston!’ Yalenna exclaimed.
They turned and ran to the stairs down from the roof. In the corridors below doors were opening, disconcerted occupants emerging in their bedclothes.
‘Have you seen the sky?’
‘The end has come!’
‘The Spell is broken!’
‘Priestess! Tell us what has happened!’
‘Not now!’ said Yalenna, pushing through.
They arrived outside Braston’s door, where they saw the bodies of his murdered guards.
Despirrow drove the bloodied sword through Braston’s chest.
‘Don’t look at me like that,’ he told the man’s severed head. ‘I’m trying to do you favour – stopping your heart from pumping poison through you.’
He gave it a kick, so it wasn’t looking at him anymore.
Impatiently, he waited for a sign that beheading, stabbing and poison had proved enough. Braston was a stubborn bastard …
There! Braston’s pattern began to unwind, his threads lifting to fade into the air – except for one twisting bundle, which hovered above him, as if in indecision.
‘Here I am,’ said Despirrow, holding out his hands in a gesture of embrace.
The bundle flew toward him, heading for his arm. It curled around the limb like smoke, and he felt the foreign threads suddenly dig in, breaking his pattern as they wriggled into place. For a moment it was uncomfortable, and felt very wrong. His vision flickered … and then new strength flowed through his veins.
Laughing, he reached to grab the cringing healer by the neck and haul him to his feet.
‘This is wonderful! You did a good job, sir, poisoning the king!’
‘I … I didn’t …’
‘Come now, you don’t have to lie to me! I am g
lad you did it – don’t I seem glad? Long live Loppolo!’
He sensed someone trying to undo the spell he’d set on the door – just like old times. Shoving away the healer, he glanced around. He did not really fancy taking on Rostigan, Yalenna and whoever else they had at their disposal, especially whilst trapped in this confined space.
He went to the window and poked out his head. Only a few slivers of night now remained, the day very close to winning. The ground was some hundred paces below, but there were other windows nearer than that. As he clambered out, he summoned the sheets from Braston’s bed, lengthening them to form a fabric rope. He sent one end to knot around the bed frame, then lowered himself down to a window beneath. Once there, he wrenched out glass and frame with one swipe of his hand, and swung into the lower room.
He found himself in a noble’s quarters, deserted with the door lying wide open. He wasted no time dallying, and ran out into corridors filled with frightened, gabbling people.
It would not be difficult, he imagined, to disappear into the turmoil.
Salarkis rested his hands on the rail of one of the keep’s high balconies, watching the display in the sky.
‘Despirrow has put us all in danger,’ he said.
‘We were already in danger,’ replied Forger.
‘Well, then, he’s made it worse. I shall go and find him immediately.’
‘I don’t want you interrupting his mission.’
‘Ah. So you do know what he’s doing!’
‘I admit, I do.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
Forger sighed. ‘Come, Salarkis. There’s something I want to show you.’
He stepped aside and held a palm up through an archway.
Salarkis dithered for a moment but, ‘Very well,’ he said, and allowed himself to be ushered through.
Something heavy smashed across the back of his head. He pitched forwards, bruised under his scales, bright lights flashing before his eyes. As he fell he turned, tried to use his tail to catch himself, but it scraped along the floor and he landed unceremoniously on his buttocks. He blinked rapidly, trying to clear his vision.