The Other of One: Book Two

by Brian G. Burke

  It was the fifth day and, ironically enough, were it not for the coarseness of their whereabouts, they might have been in for an appalling night. For Stell had found a sandy concave beneath an overhanging rock where they could recuperate. Up until then, their nights were pretty much spent out in the open; maybe stuffing themselves in behind small boulders and such, while the piercing winds churned in about them, keeping them awake. This particular hollow proved surprisingly warm, and was completely away from the dusty breezes which were again beginning to brew.

  The hollow alone would have sufficed that night, they thought, even without a fire. But The Head insisted on it.

  William took firewood duty that evening. Wren had long since gotten over her little mood swing, so she helped him with it. The young lad was still oblivious of how much he’d upset her, that night beneath the falls, but that’s William for you—ignorant in the ways of the female mind. Very well aware of this, Wren simply gave up being annoyed. She was only vexing herself, anyhow, so where was the point in keeping it up?

  Climbing out from the hollow, she thus went off in her own direction so as to help him gather. A short while later they both returned. William was dragging a preposterously thick limb of dead wood; like he couldn’t have been bothered searching for smaller sticks, so he just grabbed the first one he saw. It would have been too fat to ignite without some decent tinder, and a good lot of it at that. So I’m sure you won’t be surprised to learn that Wren had already thought of this, having spied him a bit away, cursing to himself as he foraged about, only to pick up a ridiculously large branch for them to make do with.

  She brought two hefty armfuls of crumpled tumbleweeds, which did the job nicely. Crosco chopped the limb into wieldy strips and, more sooner than not, they had a fine fire on the go.

  For the best part of the night they sat there, wondering about the trail to come. Stell had been away at one stage, monitoring the distant east, before returning with reports of their forthcoming travel, which didn’t sound pleasing at all. He was all talk of even more dreary territory, dull weather, and nasty bog land, and how it would probably best if they took an extra day to go around it. Poor Khrum felt like kicking himself for ever jumping into the satchel at all, way back when. Then again, the Leprechaun Association did mean a lot to him, so he wasn’t about to give up so easily.

  Besides Stell’s disheartening news, there was a great deal of intriguing conversation involving Redmun, which was imparted by William. He even went on to tell them all about his evolution, and a little bit about his previous existences, too. After he’d explained all about the warlock, they could appreciate why he was so thrilled about having him join their company, especially after learning about how proficient he was that day in the barn. He sounded like a valuable asset indeed.

  Come what may, they could but speculate on his arrival because none of them, not even William, knew when that would be.

  The following morning, they went south, over the last of the rangeland hillocks, where they waded through high winds of sand and cloud till mid-afternoon. It was terribly difficult work. Even more so when they were made to endure eyefuls of dust which, unfortunately, wafted in all too often. Once the gales died down to but a shrill draught, they found their way onto another trail of dull vegetation, much like the week previous. It was terribly boring, that place; housing little sight of anything but for the gravel at their feet, a hazy flat of southern skyline, and the smell of bog in the distance.

  Once again the atmosphere had won, hauling their spirits down to the very tips of their boots until they were almost treading on them, with not a single care for joy. But after some considerable hours of hiking, one distinct alp came into view ever so slightly eastward, behind the weather. It was the southern shoulder of Andin’s Shield, though Stell was the only one who knew that.

  “What mountain is that?” William finally brought himself to ask.

  “Why, that’s Andin’s Shield!” replied the Elf. “The Great Mountain, it goes by. More majestic than any other in existence. Yet only in the recent centuries did it come to being, so it is also considered the youngest mountain in Lythiann.”

  “The youngest!” said the boy, also recalling Redmun’s mention of this very same summit. “But it’s so massive!”

  “Isn’t it just. Myth says that a great king brought that whole mountain into shape in just three days. A king of the mountain, name of Thide. But I don’t believe these stories are true, as I’ve travelled the Shield many times in search of my father, carried to its highest pinnacle by the aid of the last cloud golem, Ord Nixous, God rest his soul. And never once did we get sight nor sound of any other inhabitants…other than the wild beasts, that is.”

  Cutting himself short, Stell suddenly realised that, before the slopes of Andin’s Shield, a new domain resided. One he’d almost forgotten about. One where the perception of sin was all the more potent. A haunt that neither he nor his companions would dare see any closer. The bog county of Sruthaìr, and home to a bleak metropolis best left uncharted.

  - Chapter Seven-

  Ministry of Insects

  “Is it gone yet?” whispered The Head. “If I don’t move soon I’m going to seize up.”

  “Not quite sure but…um…what say you poke your head out and have a quick gander?” Wren answered.

  “You already know my answer to that, so why are you even bothering to ask?” Crosco muttered angrily.

  “I know, but it’s funny to see you getting all worked up over it,” she sniggered.

  “Well, one of us is going to have to look,” whispered Icrick. “Suppose I just pluck six hairs and we’ll see who draws the shortest one?”

  Revolted by that concept, Khrum scowled. “I’ll take my chances with death, thanks very much. Here I go!”

  Sticking his nose out from behind the monstrous skull—where they were now hiding—Khrum caught sight of the nauseating slug creature that was slithering around in search of those fiends who’d recently given him the slip.

  Emitting sickly sounds of its slimy movements, this multi-eyed monster scanned the dragon’s boneyard for the one who insisted on mocking his hideous appearance. Khrum!

  “I think he might be givin’ up ‘n’ goin’ home,” muttered the leprechaun. “Lads ‘n’ lasses, I’m goin’ ta have ta shtep up ‘n’ be the leprechaun I know I can be ‘n’ say this: I really have ta cop-on when it comes ta shootin’ my mouth off. Sorry. I swear I’ll try harder in future.”

  “Yeah, yeah! I’ve heard that old chestnut before,” tutted Icrick. “What did you really think was going to happen by saying, ‘Oi, spectacles! How many eyes are there in ugly bastard?’ Bastard, you called him! Of course he was going to try and jab us with his trident!”

  “Yeah,” said William, “and there aren’t any I’s in ‘ugly bastard’ either; presuming that’s what you were going for. It makes no sense.”

  “Ha? No I’s?” Khrum gasped, counting his fingers. “Ara, details, details! ‘Twas shtill a laugh, shpellin’ or not. Ye jusht need ta go off ‘n’ grow a sense o’ humour for yourselves; tryin’ ta make sense o’ things the whole time. Ye dreary aul’ fogies, ye. Gettin’ all serious over a harmless bit o’ craíc!”

  “Well, it wasn’t harmless…or craíc for that matter!” Icrick snapped. “It was darn right stupid is what it was!”

  Watching out as that disgusting blob furthered its hunt, Khrum raised an eyebrow and retorted, “Look, I said I was sorry. What more do ya want? Me ta dance a jig like ‘the good little leprechaun,’ is it?”

  “You could always give Icrick a kiss on top of his fluffy little head to show him how sorry you are, Khrum,” Wren said with a chuckle.

  “I may be sorry…but I’m not suicidal!” he stated, referring to the Grogoch’s hygiene once again. “Anyways, he’s gone now…the bug-eyed meatball. Can’t take a bloody joke either, by the looks of it! C’mon, let’s make tracks.”

  Breaking from the cemetery, they scurried down a sharp, grassy bank till
they met with the lonesome fenland of the eastern territory. They’d come far enough to cut through the bog, so at least they didn’t have to deal with that. For all they knew, a whole village of those slug creatures could have lived there, and nobody liked the sounds of that.

  What a bland and heartless place it looked to be. A flatland of earthly hues which only continued to darken beneath the sombre sky above, with nothing up ahead but for shallow hummocks and the menacing shoulders of the formidable Andin’s Shield.

  Their steps were unpredictable and clumsy upon that boggy terrain; all except for Stell’s, who managed to dash along quite readily. That tussock-ridden ground was pocketed and guised, sometimes making them step off into nothing before quickly stomping down again, which gave them a fearful start. All it did was add to their weariness, and test their patience unceasingly.

  ‘Twasn’t long before Stell had come to yet another curious stop. He was examining the patch of ground at his feet.

  Only when they approached him could they identify the first true indication of civilisation since they’d arrived there on Lythiann. At their boots were the beginnings—or the ends—of a volcanic, glass-bricked path. Broken and brittle, it progressively grew wilder with nettles and weeds as it concluded its travels here, in the openness of nowhere.

  Respectfully, and with a sympathetic air, Wren said, “This must’ve been where construction had stopped…upon Drevol’s coming.”

  “It appears so,” Stell replied. “I expect we shall be approaching the Barren City soon, so keep your eyes open at all times, for dangers lurk everywhere in the east. Under every rock, under every stone. Also, my acquaintances with these regions are hazy at best from here on in, so be on the lookout for alternative routes. What I wouldn’t do to have an Artisan in our company right now.”

  “An Artisan?!” Crosco spluttered. “What bloody use would an Artisan be right now?!”

  “Not the sort of Artisan you would be accustomed to, Crosco,” the Elf explained. “The Artisans to which I am referring are ones who are highly skilled in uncovering passages often kept secret, or hidden, around Lythiann. They were born with these talents. It’s a gift which could neither be taught nor learnt. Back in the day, one could find Artisans by the dozens within every square mile. The last known Artisan was actually a burrower. An earthworm named Nimmy. Unfortunately, she was found dead about a century ago.”

  Disgusted, Wren said, “Drevol again I suppose?”

  “No. Trying to cross a stone path on a hot day,” Stell answered, making the girl feel a little silly. “But Drevol did play his part, dear Rose. For he, since then, had one of his…um…followers…find and barricade all of their secret tunnels for him. There were so many! Networks upon networks, beneath the ground. Now they’re all gone. Nor can a single Artisan be found within a thousand-league radius of here…if there’s any remaining at all. But, lift your chins, my friends. We shall find our way through this place, if we put our heads together. Pardon the expression, good Crosco. And right now, I think it wise to avoid this city unless we have absolutely no other choice.”

  Because the Symphogram straps kept loosening of late, Icrick was giving them a quick tightening, when he asked, “Why must we avoid the city? What sort of dangers reside within? Ogres? Devil hounds maybe? Oh, say it’s not more Gremlins!”

  “Sidell du Pòrveth,” William answered ominously, gazing suspiciously into the distance, and everyone went silent.

  Deliberating on the likely appearances of these ill-reputed walls of that black city, William considered the road since travelled in the hope of catching the allaying sight of Redmun in close pursuit, with his crook in hand and an influential desire to overcome these odds and win this terrible war. But there were no such indications and, thus, William felt his knees weakening on the gallows of anxiousness once more.

  Gazing back east, his breathing heightened intensely by the overwhelming encounters which may yet come to pass, either of good or immoral. Then, all the more, the question of, “What am I fighting for? Why am I here?” resounded in his mind as, time and again, he considered the Symphogram, hoping that an answer would just fall into his lap and rid him of this nightmare once and for all. But it was getting to the stage now where he was just habitually repeating that question over and over, without giving it any valid thought. “What am I fighting for? Why am I doing this?”

  This torturous routine couldn’t be helped. His anxiousness was slowly prevailing over his rational mind-set, causing all fair reason to back down to the armaments of his fear. He reiterated those words, obsessively, over and over again, as if it would somehow lessen his angst. It was like he had to prove to himself that he was, at least, making that effort to understand it; believing that he wasn’t betraying himself by not considering anything at all. He fought perpetually, minute after minute, time after time, to keep these thoughts at bay, knowing full well that panic had, in the past, only made him feel horrible and scared. These were two shortcomings that he certainly did not want to relive so close to the end of his quest.

  Those words, however, replayed regardless of his stubborn will to give in. “Why am I supposed to be doing this? What’s the answer? What am I here for?” to the point where he was counting them recurrently in thought. Nothing ever came of this, I regret to say. For the Symphogram otherwise rested there, upon the Grogoch’s shoulders, with its great, impenetrable padlock peering at William through those limp eyes, waiting for that one, true revelation to shatter the boy’s confusion and liberate the glory of the mighty Banádh, freeing him from this scourge and, likewise, that dreaded insight.

  Not yet had he recognised anything from that awful premonition through his journey thus far, and Redmun still had time to show up and assist him with his troubles. And even if the man didn’t arrive on time…one other proposal dawned on William. A final course of action which had the potential to bring clarity to his vision; to shed some light upon it so he could possibly gain the advantage and conquer that which he’d seen. Then again, this action would involve dishonouring the wishes of a dear friend, whilst going against his very own better judgment.

  Icrick, also glaring east, was pale from terror at the sheer recognition of that callous name, ‘du Pòrveth.’ But because they’d travelled so far, they could but ingest their worries and proceed, heedless of these misgivings. How bitter it had gotten, in those past hours, and the stoniness of the atmosphere was more than unsettling. Not even the distant bleating of lambs could be heard anymore. Even the winds were dead.

  William readied his staff, and with eyes dead ahead, he plodded into the gloom. He hadn’t gotten more than five paces when he too halted to a brief, godly breeze and the fresh sound of that familiar whisper in his ear; a vision of her bright, gilded hair in his mind.

  “Greetings, Lord William. I have returned to you, though my time is short,” her voice uttered, calming his worries for an instant. “Up till now you have done well in your journey. Proved your strength beyond all expectations. But beware, in these midlands; Armoured Spincers are known to roam the once vacant passes into Lòr. No route shall be truly safe at this stage in your quest and, as unwilling as I am to admit this, I fear that the Barren City may just prove to be the safest option in an otherwise vindictive selection. Do what you will with this guidance…and may God be with you.”

  William turned to Stell and said, “Armoured Spincers…have you heard of them?”

  “Yes. They were a prehistoric colony of nomadic beasts. Giant insects with rock-hard shells and stingers loaded with the most toxic venoms ever known to this land. It was used to coat arrowheads for a time, until it was discovered that even the fumes induced long-term noxious effects upon those who crafted them. But the Spincers are all believed extinct. Why is it you ask?”

  “I don’t think they’re extinct just yet. I was told that they may be hiding in the empty passes into Lòr. I think we might just have to go through the city after all,” the boy grimly suggested.

  “William, ho
w do you know of this?” asked Icrick.

  Glancing at the Grogoch, the boy answered, “A friend told me,” and Icrick understood that well enough to not ask any more about it.

  “You’re absolutely, positively, certain of this, William?” Stell asked, who was quite distraught about cutting through the metropolis.

  “I’m fairly certain…yes.”

  Not at all pleased by this, the Elf said, “So be it…the Barren City it is,” and they meandered that sinister pathway.

  Flocks of ghastly ravens, partially rotten from the residing evil, pursued them long into the afternoon, cawing and cackling at them, sometimes swooping in to peck at their ears or claw at their hair. Stell dropped several of them with his bow, teaching them a lesson in courtesy. The rest retreated swiftly thereafter. But it would take a lot more than skill with a bow and arrow to rid their hearts of the wretchedness of that lifeless bog land. So detestably silent. So stagnant. A dozen times worse than the woeful Nether Realm all that time ago. Sruthaìr just felt wrong, nefarious, sinful. A mistake in creation. A body of land which, in itself, played more of nemesis than any threat of beast or demon thereabouts. It was waiting before them like a gateway into crueller and more odious places. And that’s precisely what it was.

  Later, into the comings of early evening, something happened upon Wren’s attention.

  Looking inquisitively ahead of their road, she said, “I don’t know if I’m seeing things or not, but, does that look like a windmill to anybody else?”

  She wasn’t even sure if she should ask at all, lest she be laughed at, but she asked anyway.

  “Where do you see that?” William asked, strolling up beside her.

  Pointing ahead with a squint, she replied, “There! Just there. Look! Follow my finger. Am I going daft or no?”

  William could distinguish the very elusive rotation of four blades upon a distant hilltop, outside of which he noticed a long, pewter structure…as of a great wall. It was no surprise as to why Wren didn’t spot it when she spotted the windmill, because it was hidden, slightly, behind the rolling highlands of the foreground,