“Nevertheless, there was one attribute to Mysun Margyle which people found to be, how should we say…odd,” Stell continued.
“What?” asked Icrick, clutching onto the Symphogram with intrigue. “What was it?! For heaven’s sake, spit it out, will you?”
“Well,” said the Elf. “A story was told about how Mysun used to fight his battles. How he did not care for the stench of war. Or even worse…the stench of death! It affected his concentration, they said. So, prior to him walking out onto that battlefield, he would always drape something around his nose and mouth. Like a mask. After that, he would listen to the Banádh play, before resuming his place on the front line to contend with his enemies. Every time he would do this! In every single battle. Truly bizarre, to say the least. In saying that, without our oddities, the world would be a dull place, would it not?”
“Oh, I wish I saw him fighting.” moped Icrick. “I never even met him!”
“You’re not the only one, Phynno—” Khrum said, quickly freezing to an infuriated leer from Icrick, “Grogoch, I meant ta say. Sorry! It’s jusht a catchy word is all. But anyways, ya can hardly blame Mysun for not bein’ the sociable kind. Out there, day after day. Night after night. Trainin’ ‘n’ fightin’ for the likes of us.”
“Yes, well, that’s true as well, I suppose,” admitted the Grogoch.
Snuggling into her arms, Wren said, “I never saw him either, Icrick. As a matter of fact, save for a few close friends, not many people have seen Mysun Margyle, not counting generals and militia…and our Stell here. Particularly in his elder years. And none of them lived long enough to disclose Mysun’s identity to the rest of us. Come to think of it, I hear there is not even a portrait of him. As I understand it, we just go by what we see of him in our own imaginations.”
“Well, I think there was one portrait in existence,” Stell put in. “Just a small one, on the back of some parchment, sketched in squid ink. It shows Mysun standing beside four wolfhounds, two on either side. Yet nobody knows what happened to it. Some folk say it was misplaced. Others say it was destroyed. Either way, nobody truly knows. I would describe him to you myself, if only I could. But, as I told you before, I kept my distance.”
“Interesting. I should, very much, like to have seen that portrait.” Icrick pondered this, and, going into a world of his own, he quoted, “A hero like no other, who came to evil’s slay, and never sought the tribute, for his distinguished day…”
“…And always he will be, a saviour to thy heart. Never losing hope, our light within the dark,” Wren recited, in turn. “Gòr Thiias, was it?”
“Yes, indeed,” smiled Icrick, pleased that someone else knew it too. “Lord knows what made me think of it!”
“Humph, I surprised myself there, too!” said Wren, wondering.
Then Icrick went on, “I was always a great admirer of his poetry, I suppose. And seeing as he was the only seanchaí to have ever served in the war, I find his works to have a lot more meaning than any average sonnet.”
“And indomitable protectors such as Mysun truly deserve no less.” Stell nodded.
Herewith, they each went into pondering about different things, mostly involving heroes and wars. About how deteriorating worlds had often clutched onto the shores of faith, and would certainly have been carried out into the dark gullet of damnation had it not been for a brave few who sacrificed all that they knew to aid them, while putting their own lives at risk. And how they twisted every last droplet of belief out of every circumstance, no matter how devastating.
Returning to their circle with a yawn, William said, “I think I’m going to put my head down for a bit. I’m fairly exhausted after today.”
Fluffing his pack he laid down, closed his eyes, and said, “Feel free to keep talking. It won’t bother me. Night.”
Following these notions of theirs, they at first considered William, and then they looked at one another in silence, as if fully conscious of what the other was thinking, even without them speaking it.
Mindful of this insight, they all looked down at the boy once more, with Stell being the one to whisper, “Goodnight, lad. Sleep soundly.”
* * *
“Your foolish son should be fed to the swine, damn you!” roared Blackhead, before striking Deirdre brutally across the cheek.
William was stranded in the topmost confines of that frightful chasm. Only this time he stood upon a small islet of floating rock, surrounding which was even more suspended debris that carried on into the gloom.
“DON’T YOU TOUCH HER!” William threatened.
Fumbling for Thérn, he saw that it was no longer there. Nor were his Lythial garments, for that matter. Instead, he was attired in his old school uniform again. Fearful of what was about to happen to his mother, William paced to and fro, trying desperately to conceive of a way of getting down to her. Suddenly, from the left-hand pocket of his shorts, he produced one of his father’s old Schofield pistols and, with it, he took aim.
Before he could squeeze off that one crucial headshot, he was interrupted by a hateful galloping. The hideous centaur was bounding from islet to islet, until eventually he sprang at him. Before he could hit, a bell suddenly tolled in the deep and the centaur, as with everything else, diminished into a freezing light. ‘Twas a bell of a peculiar ring which held within its wave a body of pitch, as if part of a melody, robust and authoritative. Amid the resonance of that dying note, he heard a final beckoning; his dear mother whispering, “My son…” and blackness finally reigned.
William sat up gasping, to find the funnel of the Symphogram staring at him. He could not tell if the bell had indeed tolled there and then, or in his dream. And yet all was silent, and he was back in the cavern, somewhere in the early hours.
Feeling silly again, he said to himself, “Get a grip on yourself, William! Icrick probably left it there before he went to sleep. Must’ve spotted it while I was dozing and now it’s playing mind games.”
He then glanced around. Nobody was awake besides him.
He couldn’t very well go back to sleep after that dream, so he stayed awake. He was also suffering another migraine. So he sat up alone that night, fixating on the sparks until the sun rose at dawn, and his companions along with it.
They asked if he was okay but, with gusto, William simply replied, “I’m fine! That was just the rest I needed! Slept like a log! Just felt like getting an early start is all.”
They saw no problems with that, so they packed up and moved on.
* * *
Three days trudged by after abandoning the cave. Their food rations were so slight that they had no other choice but to consume less. As such, their typical day now consisted of a single slice of cold rabbit for breakfast; one piece of whole fruit for lunch (or five berries); and a wafer-thin cut of venison for dinner. Even with that meagre spread, it wouldn’t have been long before they had nothing at all, save for a few piddling crumbs. And while that idea may have been too real for them, they needed to optimise whatever strength they had, ever hopeful that they may yet stumble across some food along the way. But it didn’t look promising. Not in those sombre counties.
William felt that the others could now relate to him, because of this. Not that it made him feel any better, to see them relating through such punishing circumstances. He simply felt more at ease. He could lessen his act of fervour somewhat and behave more in the manner in which he so felt; tired and downcast. But oh, how ravenous the others were by then, grumbling and groaning as their hunger accentuated their weighty ideas of ‘What if?’ Such fruitless concepts offered no benefit, however. So, they could do nothing else but preserve some sense of optimism and carry on.
That night was eerie and clouded, such that the moon could only just be spied through the sky’s roily terrain. William, after growing so accustomed to watching that same moon night after night, noticed how its face looked far different of late. It looked more alive, more sinister, with its miniature geographical imperfections shaping themselv
es into that of a wicked leer, with gleaming eyes which peered down over them, breaking no contact. It looked to be following their every move. But evil times were upon them now, having finally reached the border of the eastern land. Such devilry was expected.
It was a stark bordering region so named Halmàha, or ‘Friend’s End,’ where all splendour was left behind and the greenness of the world was swiftly fading into a blander hue.
A lonely place with a lonely wind, and everything upon their future road was desolate; but for the colossal mountain of Andin’s Shield, which stood within the ever nearing east. It was precisely this that William had spotted through the clouds before they happened by Ewval’s Bastion that day, and what a marvellous wonder it had the capacity to be. It looked beyond the monstrosities of any mount which had, through the history of time, been deemed worthy of measurement. Its magnitude was darkly and immense, and even though our heroes were many leagues from its foot at this point, they still couldn’t repress a shiver.
Other mountains were present too, both to the near north and distant south. These peaks were actually more forbidding, and yet considerably smaller in stature to that of the majestic Andin’s Shield. The summits of which played residence to those whom William and his companions would never care to meet. Hence, any considerations for taking those ghostly alps were better left forsaken, so they continued on the way they were going.
The ground beneath their feet was of perished earth; cracked from when heat had clashed with frost. Misery truly did encumber the bleak atmosphere of Halmàha and, little did they realise, they had yet to cross paths with he who was to take them to where they truly did not want to be, to the dominion of Shillìg Bèg. Home to no known allies, and the fiercest of all evil.
None of them enjoyed that trek. And as time led them sleeplessly through the night, they longed all the more to be rid of it. They prayed that this barren way would look more pleasant during the daylight, but they were soon disappointed. For even daytime in Friend’s End was dreary, and seldom did they see any sun. It could only be described as forever waiting upon the brink of a grimly storm. Even the devilish clouds took the formations of hideous monsters as they gradually floated by, stirring slowly, as if animate.
Stell led on by William’s side. Wren and the others stayed close too, for fear of straying in the gloom. Cautiously they treaded. Ready for any signs of danger.
Creeping along with his senses attuned, William said, “I’m not liking this place one bit. There’s nothing here except for cold…nothingness!”
“I second that,” Wren added. “It’s so woeful. Almost helpless looking.”
“Don’t be so fooled,” Stell replied. “These borders are anything but helpless. You see before you a barren land, full of grief and shadow, yes? However, it is the inhabitants who make it so. They like it this way. And it is they who make it fatal. Lythiann’s east was not always like this, though. Heavens no. It was centuries of wickedness that stole its beauty from it. Believe me, if it were up to me, I wouldn’t let you cross this way alone. Halmàha is far too perilous for even the mightiest of legions to tread.”
“I don’t particularly want to hear those sort of details!” whinged The Head, and Ifcus nodded stressfully.
Speaking too for the now trembling Grogoch, Khrum said, “I agree with the Dullahan, lad. Ya might tone it down a notch with the aul’ ghosht stories, if ya don’t mind. Icrick looks like he’s about ta shtart cuttin’ loose here. Sure I think I’ve left a wee deposit in the seat o’ me knickers too!”
Stell obliged and they walked on vigilantly.
A creeping calmness overwhelmed the ambience. Suddenly, from the fissures of the ground, a curious miasma started to form. It drifted slowly from the depths, only to linger mere inches above the withered earth. At first, they didn’t take all that much notice of it. But this spectral mist soon spread out to the point where the group were compelled to sidle through it with no inkling as to what lay ahead of them.
That dead fog was well over Khrum’s head, so he said to the Grogoch, “Get me up there on your shoulder, lad. Can’t see my own eyelids from down here!”
Hunkering down and patting around sightlessly, Icrick eventually found him and helped him up onto his right shoulder. The miasma had gotten so dense that even the Grogoch’s woolly eyebrows were just about blinking over it, thus meaning that poor Khrum was still virtually blind.
More and more it thickened, until it had eventually engulfed them all.
Resting his fingers on Thérn’s grip, William whispered, “I know this isn’t exactly what you want to hear, but it’s almost too quiet out here. And I don’t like it!”
Just then Stell gestured a halt, and took a second to reflect. He felt the all too common sense of fear. Something had occurred to him, and he began paying closer heed to the growing mists.
“What’s the matter? Why have we stopped?” Wren asked, wishing they would just keep moving.
All of a sudden, they heard a fleeting whisper through the fog, which quickly stole back into nothing.
“Turn back!” it so hauntingly muttered.
“What in hell’s gates was that?” shivered The Head, shining ever brighter through that dead white.
Unsure of what they’d heard, they proceeded along. But now their terror had brought their minds to dreaded notions, and their steps to shorter treads.
“Oh, bother this. Bother it, I say!” whimpered Icrick.
Before he could moan another word, a vaporous face wafted before him, as if feigned from the fog itself.
“Oh! Oh!” he panicked, grabbing whoever was beside him at the time. “Something is here. Something is in the fog with us!”
Awoken by the Grogoch’s alarm, Thérn whistled from its sheath, and Wren already had her knives out.
“Please! Put away your weapons,” Stell implored, almost angrily.
“Why? What’s in here? What’s going on?” quivered The Head, when another murmur roused from the mist beside him.
“Turn back!” it uttered again, yet this time it sneered with a vile conviction.
“It’s a warning,” Stell explained, and a face glided by William’s eyes like a ghost who’d been bound to some scourge of the mist.
Taken by surprise, William held his arm out in front of Wren, and said, “I saw it! Just now! In the fog. There is something here!”
“This is no fog…” whispered the Elf grimly. “It is the Mist Sheerie of Friend’s End. A ghost of neither good nor evil. And it is here to give us our final warning. To warn us away from Shillìg Bèg!”
“Warn us? Why would it even bother? We already know we’re stone mad for going this way!” Wren panicked, twisting about.
“Precisely!” said Stell. “Once you cross that border, all signs of hospitality will be no more, and you will get no such counsel from now until the end. Briggun’s spawn is all you shall find there! Now, I bid you again, sheath your weapons. For the Sheerie may be our ally now, but if we threaten it, then it will not hesitate in leading us into unseen danger. Please, do as I say!”
They sheathed their blades. No sooner had they done this, than the fog grew thin. And just before them, mere inches from their steps, was the verge of a massive chasm. Spotting the rift, Stell skidded and blocked the others from taking another step. Stones crumbled by his feet and plunged into blackness. Then the final warning was given.
“Turn back!” it muttered for the last time before evaporating into whence it came.
As the voice withdrew, it was replaced by the calm swishing of water. Through the fog, they saw something approaching from the far side of the crevice.
On a black boat it travelled, looming from the shadow. A being caped in a sullied, old cowl came floating through the mist, steering his way with a long, wooden pole. A phantom of shade, with an intense air of dread about him, almost like the death bringer himself. But it was he who carried the souls who were sure to be damned across the gorge, to the land where none would ever willingly stride.
Rahn Oícht the Old, was he. Also known as the Ferryman.
None of them had ever experienced his likes before, and they shuddered when they saw him drawing near. It was so spooky, the manner in which he came. For the sounds of the encircling tide seemed so unhappy and slight, yet there was no water, just the deep emptiness of below, and the mild misty residue of the since departed Sheerie.
The others may have been clueless of this foul figure of a man, but Stell recognised him instantly, yet he’d never encountered him before, and he was certainly taken aback by his chilling arrival.
With his gaze set on the lantern as it rocked against the bow, he whispered, “It’s the Ferryman himself. Yes, yes, it is he who will take us across this gorge.”
“Us?” William repeated, still distraught by what he was seeing.
“I’ve decided,” said the Elf, as he watched the Ferryman sailing closer. “You will no longer face this burden alone. I shall do what I can to help you along your journey…but I cannot promise how useful I will be. Still, something tells me you will need all the help you can get.”
Stepping in on their conversation, Wren declared, “No! We can’t ask you to do this, Stell.”
“Sounds like a fine plan ta me!” Khrum squeaked, from behind Icrick’s shoulder.
“No, Wren’s right,” William agreed, to the others’ dismay. “You’ve done so much for us already, Stell. And you said it yourself…you need to guard Ewval’s Bastion. It’s your duty. It wouldn’t be right, asking you to help us more than you already have. We’ll get by somehow, honestly.”
Regarding him with genuine assurance, Stell uttered, “Sometimes, William, we must choose what is right over our own desires. I am going with you, whether you approve of it or not. Besides, not once in the last ninety-six years has the Bastion so much as caught scent of peril. So I trust it will be safe for a little while longer.”
They were all indebted to the Elf for his noble offer. However, William was feeling a bit bad for involving him in the first place, and yet, he was so tremendously thankful for his concern.
The Other of One: Book Two Page 18