by Ian Irvine
Maelys sat up, dripping but too relieved to worry about the spectacle she must make. After what she and Thommel had been through together it didn’t matter at all.
He was crouched on his haunches, still holding the squirming, flapping slurchie out in his bloody right hand, and he wore the biggest, most beaming smile she had ever seen. It warmed her.
The creature was enormous – the length of her forearm and outstretched hand. Its small head, which was still burrowed inside the cord basket, was covered in feelers and sucker discs, and what looked like a ring of tiny, transparent teeth. Its black and yellow body was shaped like a stubby eel, with dozens of little legs ending in clinging barbs, and it had a row of raised spines down the centre of its back. The barbs on the front feet had latched on blindly to the cords of the basket, fortunately.
‘When it’s numbed by slugwort it likes to burrow its head into something, though …’ Thommel looked up at her, ‘… it doesn’t always burrow into the cord basket.’
She knew what he meant. ‘And I suppose it can pull out of it, too.’
‘So I’ve heard.’
She didn’t need him to say how fortunate she’d been. ‘It’s so big. How long has it been – in me?’
He shrugged. It jerked in his hand as if trying to get back to Maelys. She pulled away hastily. ‘I don’t know. A week or two? They grow quickly, feeding on your food, until their needs are more than you can eat. And then they start to eat you, from the inside. Do you want a closer look?’
That explained why she’d been so ravenous, and often felt ill after eating. She shuddered. ‘No thanks.’
‘I’ll get rid of it then.’ He got up and went to the fire, unravelling the cord from his wrist. The slurchie began to thrash in his bloody hand; more blood was running down his wrist. He leaned over the fire and tried to shake it off but it dug in its barbs, twisted and pulled its head free of the basket. Its head curled around on itself, squirmed at his palm and dug in.
Thommel let out a cry of pain and lurched backwards, trying to pull it off with his other hand. The barbs on its plump little legs dug in there too and the yellow markings on its back began to flash on and off like a firefly.
For once Thommel’s calm self-possession had left him. He was reeling around, panicking as he tried to fling it off, but it wouldn’t let go. Maelys scrambled up, picked up a stout stick and stumbled towards him.
‘Hold your hands away from you,’ she croaked, for the slurchie was flipping back and forth and she was afraid it would go for his mouth or his belly.
He did so. She crept closer, afraid that it might go for her, too. Don’t think; just do it. She took careful aim, whacked down with the stick, and her blow tore the sucker mouth off his palm, skin and all. It clung on to his other hand with its barbs, squirming its body around to get a better grip, and she had to whack it again and again until finally a lucky blow knocked it into the coals. She pressed the slurchie down with her stick until it stopped moving and began to char, then raked more coals over it just to make sure.
‘Don’t know what happened there,’ said Thommel, shaking his bleeding hand. ‘I just panicked for a moment. Ugh!’ He shuddered and held out his arms then, heedless of the vomit and slime all down her front, she went to him.
Things were never the same between them after that. They couldn’t be. When Maelys woke in the morning and looked across the embers to Thommel, it felt like she was seeing an old, trusted friend. They did everything together for the rest of the trip and it was a wonderful time, the best Maelys could remember since her childhood. She’d never been friends with a man before and, after all the bitter talk of her mother and aunts, had not imagined that such a thing was possible.
The remainder of the journey proved uneventful, however, and the only blight on it was her lost taphloid. She cursed herself for missing her one opportunity to regain it.
Fifteen days after hearing the news about Nish’s flight they stopped on a rock-crowned hill, staring at Thuntunnimoe peak. It stood alone, though many similar peaks rose singly or in scattered clusters out of the rainforest. All were sheer-sided and many needle-narrow, at least in their upper sections, more or less as Nish had described his vision in the pit. It was sunny over the rainforest, with just a few scattered clouds in a washed-out blue sky, but the plateaux were so tall that they created their own weather, and the tops of most were concealed by clinging cloud.
‘How can you be sure this is the one?’ said Maelys. ‘They all look the same.’
‘You said Nish kept talking about his luck turning, and riding his fortune while it lasted.’
‘Yeees,’ she said dubiously.
‘In my wood-cutting days I walked around every one of these peaks, searching for the rare timbers that grow nowhere else. The other needle plateaux are circular in outline, or oval, or have ragged edges, but Thuntunnimoe is in the form of a cloverleaf and I always felt lucky when I was here. I was lucky.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘I came to the plateau country searching for the precious red amber tree, whose timber is more valuable than gold. The base of Thuntunnimoe peak is one of only three places on Lauralin the red amber tree grows, and no one knows it’s here but me. That’ll change once Monkshart follows Nish here, of course. He brings ruin wherever he goes.’
Nish was the one topic she didn’t want to raise, for she didn’t want Thommel’s bitterness to blight their friendship. She assumed there was a good reason for it but since he still hadn’t told her and it was his only failing, she made allowances. ‘How did you get the timber out?’
‘I cut part of the trunk’s heart into slices and carried it on my back.’
‘All that way?’
‘You don’t need much. Red amber-wood isn’t used as timber – it’s too valuable. I stacked the rest carefully so it would season, for I planned to come back for it.’
‘But you never did,’ she guessed.
‘I fell foul of one of Jal-Nish’s labour gangs – slave gangs, really – and spent two years of my life on it, though it felt like twenty. They drive you until your bones crack, Maelys. The other slaves were dying all around me and I wanted to die too, just to escape. How I envied Nish, idling his sentence away in a comfortable cell.’
Maelys felt that she had to defend Nish, though she was coming to think that he wasn’t the man he’d been made out to be and, guiltily, that Tulitine had been right and her previous feelings for him had just been a romantic infatuation arising from reading his tale so many times as an impressionable child. He didn’t compare to Thommel and that troubled her, for even now she only knew one certain way to secure her family’s safety.
‘It was a stinking hole,’ she said mildly. ‘I could still smell it on him days after he’d bathed.’
‘We slept in stinking holes too, and ate slops.’ He wasn’t bitter now, just matter-of-fact. ‘Then we were whipped awake at dawn, seven days a week, and broke our backs in hard labour, hauling gigantic logs out of the forest.’
‘What’s red amber-wood used for?’ she asked.
‘All sorts of things. The wood dust is steeped and mixed into potions, salves and unguents to fight infections; also in the subtlest of perfumes and as the rarest and most tantalising of spices. It’s considered to confer good luck; many people also think that having it in their house is a blessing on their family and all their endeavours. I wouldn’t know about that, though I was always lucky when I carried some, and I felt cursed as soon as it was taken from me.
‘But the greatest value of red amber-wood, from Thuntunnimoe at least, is as a ward against unwanted spells and charms. Perhaps the trees take up something of the native magic of this place as they grow, for red amber-wood from other places is far weaker.
‘I would have made my fortune from it, if only … Anyway, just a splinter will do, worn on the body. Or burnt in a brazier it will protect a household for a day or two.’ Thommel sounded like a fairground spruiker now, though she loved to see him so animated.
‘It’s not proof against strong Arts – only a king could afford enough red amber-wood for that. But if you could,’ he looked over his shoulder then lowered his voice, with an uneasy smile, ‘It’s said that you could walk past a wisp-watcher carrying a sign, Death to the Tyrant God-Emperor, and the watcher wouldn’t see you.’
‘Really? I could use some of that. Wait a minute!’ she cried, staring eagerly at the peak. ‘Thommel, if there is something uncanny hidden at the top, what if it’s surrounded by red amber-wood? Maybe that’s how it’s been hidden from the God-Emperor all this time.’
He raised an eyebrow and Maelys realised that she’d said too much, and perhaps given Nish’s secret away. She prayed that she was right about Thommel, and that he could be trusted.
They trudged across to the base of Thuntunnimoe and circled the peak twice, but found no human footprints save their own. They trekked to the other needle peaks nearby in case Nish had gone to the wrong one, finding no sign there either. A week of agonisingly drawn-out days went by. Nish failed to appear. Finally Maelys was forced to conclude that he’d either been taken or had fallen along the way.
‘We’ll give him a few more days,’ said Thommel. ‘I knew where I was going, remember? Let’s climb up a bit. We might be able to see something.’
The cloverleaf-shaped peak was somewhat broader at the base, and its cliffed walls were indented by four precipitous clefts, though only one of them looked climbable. They scrambled up it for a hundred spans, struggling on wet, mossy rocks which often moved underfoot, to a point where they could see back over the rainforest.
‘Hey!’ cried Thommel, staring.
Just a few days’ march behind them, a flight of flappeters were circling. Maelys sprang under the fronds of a tree fern, though the flappeters couldn’t have seen them from such a distance.
‘Only two things could bring such valuable creatures here,’ said Thommel, who hadn’t moved. ‘The Defiance, or Nish.’
‘They’re circling over a big area,’ said Maelys after watching for a while. Her heart leapt. ‘They’re following Nish.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Thommel. ‘Or the Defiance. And whoever it is, the God-Emperor’s forces must be shadowing them.’
So even if Nish did turn up, and found what he was looking for on the plateau, there wouldn’t be time to get away with it. What if he were out there now, desperately searching for this peak among dozens of similar ones? That could take weeks, since the cloverleaf shape wasn’t apparent from a distance. Was there any way to signal him without the flappeters seeing it?
‘Oh, Maelys?’ said Thommel.
‘Yes?’
‘If we do find Nish, please don’t say anything.’
‘About what?’
‘About my meeting him in the war.’
‘Why not? That’s why you came all this way, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, but it’s between me and him, and if he’s going to refuse me – well, just don’t mention it.’
THIRTY-NINE
Nish and Zham trekked north then west, following a zigzagging path during which Zham had to use every ounce of his bushcraft to throw their pursuers off the track, though Nish couldn’t be sure they had. Monkshart would never give him up; he’d exert all his powers to find Nish, and sooner or later he must. Jal-Nish would be equally unrelenting, and how could the Deliverer hide when the whole world was looking for him?
Unfortunately Zham didn’t know of any plateau resembling the one Nish was searching for, and Nish was reluctant to tell him the details in case he was captured and the truth tortured out of him. He couldn’t send Zham into the towns to ask, for the giant was too easily recognisable.
Nish had to go alone, in disguise, though through judicious questioning in a number of inns he learned that plateau formations like the one he was searching for could be found at just one place in Crandor – deep in the rainforest fifty or sixty leagues west of Guffeons, not far from the steep rise of the legendary and ill-omened Wahn Barre, the Crow Mountains.
Once they reached the sparsely populated rainforest Nish breathed a little easier, for the chance of accidental discovery was slight here. Conditions were more comfortable, too; it wasn’t nearly as hot, though it was stiflingly humid. They were drenched in sweat night and day.
Only one event of note occurred on the journey, and it happened on their third day in the rainforest, late in the afternoon, as they were trekking across a winding valley where the spaces between the tall trees were dotted with head-high patches of aromatic mintbush and thickets of small, red-leaved lotion trees which Zham said were poisonous to humans, though the white gum seeping from their trunks helped wounds to heal more quickly.
He had been stalking a small twist-horn deer through the forest for an hour and had shot it, but it had not yet fallen.
Zham was approaching the thicket where it had taken cover, bow in hand. ‘Quiet now, surr, and be careful. Even a small deer can be dangerous –’
He broke off. Nish heard a thin bleat, a furious scrabbling, a grunt, then a thud and more scrabbling.
‘Stay back!’ Zham hissed, sweeping Nish behind him with one arm. ‘No, climb a tree.’
‘What is it?’ Nish whispered, staying where he was but readying his own sword. He’d defeated lyrinx in hand-to-hand combat; he wasn’t going to run away from a wounded deer.
Zham loosened his sword in its scabbard and drew a different arrow. It was short but heavy, with a broad steel head sharp enough to shave with. He fitted it to his compact bow, which could have been carved from the rib of a mammoth, and drew back the twisted cord until his arm quivered under the strain.
Nish felt a twinge of unease. In Zham’s hands, that bow could send an arrow in one side of a buffalo and out the other. Perhaps he should have climbed a tree after all. He scanned the area behind him, though none of the nearby trees were climbable.
Something crashed through the head-high band of mintbushes to his left. ‘Tusker!’ Zham roared. ‘Look out!’
He’d whirled and fired before Nish sighted the beast. It burst out of the deep shade, coming low and fast. All he saw was a blurred shadow with red eyes and two pairs of yellow tusks – one pair upcurved, the other pair arcing to the sides – and a foam-covered snout.
The arrow disappeared into its chest and went straight through, for Nish saw bark fly off a buttressed tree root further on, but the tusker kept coming, its hairy trotters making little sound on the soft earth. It was no more than twenty paces away when it swerved towards Nish with an ear-piercing squeal.
Zham had already drawn a second arrow and was nocking it when another tusker shot out of the undergrowth where the rustling had been coming from. It was much bigger than the first; as long as Zham was tall, and the upcurving tusks were almost the length of his bow. There was blood on its snout. Zham turned to face it, putting himself between it and Nish.
Nish couldn’t allow him to fight both of them, alone. He heaved out his sword and waited for the smaller tusker to come to him. It was slowing now. Blood ran down its chest from the arrow wound; red foam erupted from its mouth and nostrils with each breath. He didn’t understand how it could keep going after that heavy arrow had carved right through it.
The tusker shot around in a curve then leapt forwards, right at him. Nish dragged his sword blade through the air, trying to get it into position and knowing that he was too slow. He caught a foot on something and overbalanced, flailing at the air and realising in the last terrible second that the tusker was going to impale him through the groin or the belly.
He couldn’t do anything in time. He was bracing himself for the impact when Zham’s sword flashed between Nish and the flying tusker, carving both its right tusks off mid-way and slicing the end off its snout. The bloody tusker slammed into Nish’s hip so hard that he was sent flying five or six paces through the air.
He landed heavily on his back and shoulder and the sword jarred out of his hand. The tusker skidded around in a circle and came at him
again.
There wasn’t time to get up. Nish scrambled for his sword and held it out in front of him, though on his knees he was no higher than it was and at a terrible disadvantage, for he wouldn’t be able to move quickly.
He tried to brace himself, to aim the sword for its open mouth, but his numb elbow wouldn’t hold the point straight. It carved a bloody streak down the hairy flank of the tusker as it hit him again, though fortunately with its severed tusks – it hadn’t yet understood that they were gone. They slammed into his shoulder, knocked him flying and this time the sword skidded out of reach.
Nish looked for help, but Zham was busy with the second tusker. He’d put two arrows in it but it hadn’t fallen either. It was circling Zham, who bore a bloody streak on the left thigh.
Nish was dragging himself after his sword when the tusker attacked a third time. It was moving slowly now, wobbling on its feet, with clots of bloody foam oozing from its open mouth. Blood was streaming from its side and dripping from its backside, but it was still deadly.
He was exhausted and felt as though he’d been beaten with hammers. Those days in bed, recovering from the arrow wound, had robbed him of his hard-won strength. He lunged for the sword and forced himself to his feet. It took an effort to hold the blade up this time. Nish felt as weak as a child.
The tusker darted forwards. He swung the sword at it and it propped on its front feet, coughing up clots and regarding him malevolently with its red eyes.
Zham was still busy with the big tusker. It was a matter of endurance now. Nish had to hold out longer than the beast, for if he fell it would savage him with its remaining tusks and teeth until it took its last breath. It came on slowly, stopped, then darted at him. Nish strained his shoulders getting the sword in position, but this time the wobbling point slid into the neat slit below its throat where Zham’s arrow had entered.
He forced the sword in, but still the tusker kept coming, its trotters tearing at the earth as it strained to get at him, all the way until it was stopped by the hilt. Nish’s feet slipped, he was forced backwards, then suddenly the light went out of its eyes and it toppled sideways. It was dead.