A cold, sharp chill gripped at Brea’s throat. She began to cough, the damp of the cavern and her breathless state were becoming too much for her. “I need… water… first,” she said through short breaths.
“There’s water by the steps. You can use that silver goblet. Do not worry, it’s clean.” Tor nodded to his left, where a small spring bubbled up from a crack in the rock next to the steps. It was one of many springs fed by the Moon Pool.
“Thank you,” Brea said. She filled the goblet and then sputtered as she tried to gulp it down. The cold water rolled off her chin and dampened the front of her dress. Cursing, she pulled the fabric away from her skin. It was cold.
“Not so fast!” Tiama said. Brea felt the warmth of the dragon’s breath as Rek’s mother stepped down from the platform where they slept. “Child, please; you must calm down. You will make yourself sick.”
Brea sat on the step and settled herself, sipping at the water now. “There was a fight… in a gully—” She spoke between long draws of breath. “—by the Crenach’coi. The Salrians attacked them. All seemed lost… I think two of their friends died. At least… I-I saw them fall. I don’t know, maybe they—” Brea put her head in her hands, unable to continue.
The vision she had seen was cloudy and sporadic at best. What had stuck in her mind was the fear in their eyes, all of their eyes – the Surabhan and Salrians, both. Especially the girl. The girl’s face had turned ashen grey when she watched her two friends fall into the water. And the monster…
Rek jumped off the platform and came to her. When he saw her huddled up and upset, he bowed his head and nudged her knee with his nose. Brea lifted her eyes and hugged him tightly to her chest, stroking his cheek. “I’m worried for all of you. What if… what if our plan doesn’t work? It’s a wild animal; how can we hope to reason with such a thing?”
“What do you mean ‘it’?” Tor asked.
“The Cinné’arth. It has no control. It killed four men! And fast… I have never seen anything like it. What if I can’t control him?”
Tor looked to Tiama.
“My child,” she said, “if we are prepared, all will be well. To tell you the truth, the Cinnè’arth’s condition is not entirely unexpected.”
Not unexpected…? Not unexpected…! Why doesn’t that make me feel any better?
“You sound like my mother,” Brea said. “But you didn’t see it. If I bring him here and our study of the lore is wrong, you will have to kill him before he kills you, or my precious Rek.” She put her cheek against Rek’s chin. Tears began to well up in her eyes. She tried not to think of what might happen if that monster – and it was a monster – managed to find its way into the cavern. An image of Rek fighting for his life flashed through her mind. She struggled to suppress it, and yet could not help but shiver.
Tiama stepped over to the hearth and lit the fire. “Come, sit over here. Your hands are shaking. Come on, bring your drink with you and sit by the fire.”
“Thank you, Tiama.” Brea slowly got to her feet. Half at a stumble, she made her way to the now well-lit fire. She set her goblet down and sat on the edge of the hearth. Despite the warmth, she embraced herself and rubbed at her arms while gazing vacantly into the flame.
“You must not worry, my child. We have time. We can prepare ourselves.” Tiama lay in front of her. “There is a blanket there if you want it,” she said.
With that, Rek rushed over to the blanket, carefully picked it up with his teeth, and brought it over for Brea.
“Thank you, my darling boy.”
“At least one argument is settled.” Tor raised himself up. “I must fly to Crenach’coi. Tonight! And speak with Kirin’thar. Those Salrians could destroy all our plans before they have begun. I must persuade the Cren to guide the Cinné’arth to safety – show him the way to Bren’alor.”
“Crenach is only three days’ walk,” Brea said. “They could be here by week’s end.”
“Yes, but if they are by the river, they will have another two days before they reach the edge of the Coi,” Tor said. “But you are right. We must start preparing, now.”
The black dragon sat up on his hind legs, picked up a leather cowl from their sleeping platform and pulled it over his eyes. “Tiama, can you see that the others know what has happened? Maybe they have some ideas we have yet to think of. It will be dark enough soon, and I saw clouds approaching from the east that will cover my flight. I will leave in half an hour, flying east along the spur. I should only be in the open for an hour or so. And once over Crenach—”
“Even so, be careful,” Tiama said. “We do not want our enemies to learn of our whereabouts.”
“What should I do?” Brea asked.
“I’m afraid it is back to the books for you, child,” Tiama replied. The dragon gave her a sympathetic look, she knew well and good Brea hated sifting through the old books. “I will send for Altor. He knows much. He will be of great help.”
“Oh no, not Altor the grump.”
Brea felt her shoulders sink. The old dragon was nice enough, as long as you did not have to talk to him about ancient lore. Start that subject, and the old grump could lecture for hours, seemingly without taking a breath. And if she were fool enough to argue with him… Well, she did not argue with him, not anymore.
Rek let out a little hoot and bobbed his head up and down in agreement.
“Grump or not,” Tiama said, “he has forgotten more than I know about the Oracles and the Gan tribes.” For a moment, Brea thought Tiama sounded remarkably like her mother. “Just be patient with him. You know he is likely to test you.”
“Yes, I do. And by test, I assume you don’t mean asking me questions.”
Brea began to feel better. The snug blanket and warmth of the fire did the trick. She wrapped the blanket around her shoulders and started to make her way towards the platform. At the top of the steps, and to the left, there was another curtained-off nook where all the “old” books were stored – texts of ancient lore and the journals of past guardians.
She took a deep breath as she stared around at the seemingly endless array of books, scrolls and letters. “So, where to start?” she asked.
“The blue ones,” Tiama said. “They’re from the Kel’mai, back before the Eiras Witch turned them. There should be something of the curse in there. If not, then the large yellow one is the journal of Aleria Loian, your great-great-great-grandmother. She was wise, and doubtless knew a thing or two about calming potions. If nothing else, we can at least make him feel that there is no threat here.”
Aleria Loian. Brea had heard many stories about her ancestor but had never had the opportunity to read her journals. “They’re too precious for idle fancies,” Altor had told her when she asked for permission to take the large yellow book from the store. She could not help but feel excited at the prospect of reading it. And a little nervous, what if there were things in there she did not want to know?
“To be honest,” Brea told Tiama, “the calming potion makes the most sense. I doubt we would have the means to perform a Kel’mai ritual, even if we knew which one to use.”
“Yes, you may be right. Anyway, you get started, and I’ll go find Altor and tell the others of Tor’s plan.” Tiama sighed and shook her head. “This should be interesting.”
* * *
Tor made his way to the top ridge above the high entrance of Aldrieg. He stood a moment, nervously looking down. Below, he could see the village of Braylair stretched along the stream that ran east-west through the centre of their valley. Lights flickered in the windows of the thirty or so houses. He wondered if anyone was watching. He was not worried about them seeing him; he just didn’t want to make a fool of himself in front of anybody he knew.
A hundred years had passed since he had flown beyond the vale. A hundred years without properly stretching his wings. He took a deep breath and made a few practice flaps, trying to pull his wings back as far as he could. Even that small effort pulled at his chest. The valley
suddenly seemed plenty big enough. With his keen eyes, he could see the route he must take. Indeed, he could almost see the Crenach border, although it was little more than a dark haze on the southern horizon. Even flying straight, it was a long way off, and his route took him around the spur and east towards Aldregair.
Pulling in a deep breath, he backed up a few steps. There was no point staring at the horizon, worrying; long way or not, he had to go. He lunged forward over the cliff edge. Gliding, he tipped back his wings and skipped along the treetops. Then, with a few huge wafts, he rose. Slowly, he circled the village until he was high enough to clear the southern ridge. Once over it, he made his way east. It took a little under five minutes to fly to the Spur. And once there, he turned south.
Tor could have howled with excitement. After so many years cooped up in the valley, the joy of flying, really flying, was almost overwhelming. Keep to the plan, he thought. He rose higher and higher – he did not want a passing traveller to see him. On the far horizon, he could see the outline of the Kingdom of Crenach’coi. Couple of hours, maybe three, he thought. Fixing his eye on the horizon, he settled into an easy glide. The first part was over; perhaps this would not be as bad as he thought.
CHAPTER 29
Gialyn’s Night
Dark had fallen heavily. Above the trees, a thin mist obscured the moon, and with it, any hope of light. Gialyn struggled ashore with the dead weight of his father in his arms. A few inches at a time, he lurched up the shallow bank, the mud and shale slipping away with every push of his legs. He wondered if he would ever escape the riverbank.
Eventually, he came to a grassy area beneath a dark overhang, where the roots of a large tree had been exposed, making a shallow wooden cave. With one final effort, he pulled his father the last few feet onto the dry ground. And then collapsed, his father half-lying on top of him.
Daric had remained unconscious since hitting his head in the fall. For almost an hour, Gialyn had struggled to keep his father’s head above water. Fast flowing eddies and churning white rapids threatened to pluck Daric from his arms. More than once, Gialyn had had to pin the two of them against a rock and wait for debris – broken branches, mostly – to float by.
It had been a long hour – if it was only an hour – but finally, the river had finished toying with them. At the elbow of a narrow bend, Gialyn had managed to place his feet on the riverbed and pull his father’s limp, lifeless body towards safety.
Now here they lay.
Ominous shadows loomed over Gialyn as he tried to see along the river’s steep banks. From what he could make out, the tree under which they now lay was the only spot giving low access to the water. If he had missed this opportunity, there would have been no telling where they might have ended up. The Aralan planes, probably. Although he doubted they would still be alive to speak of it, had they drifted that far.
Gialyn was shivering. He knew it was more from fear and physical exhaustion than the cool breeze that blew downriver. Now that he was safe – relatively – the fear he had been holding inside washed over him. His thoughts turned to the others, to Elspeth. The last thing he had seen, as they fell, was her hand outstretched towards him, and desperation in her eyes. Then he heard her cry, “They have fallen, they have fallen.” He hoped someone had heard her shout, hoped someone was alive to do anything about it. Gods, what a mess! He sat up and tried to form a plan… Nothing. They would have to be alive, somehow. He decided there was nothing he could do but care for his father, wait, and hope.
The kindling box in his pocket was made of brass and had a tight-fitting lid. Gialyn was overjoyed to find the contents remained dry and in good order. “Thank you, Gobin.” He muttered praise to the air for the Albergeddy blacksmith who had made it.
He pulled his father out of the wind and set off to gather wood for a fire.
There was plenty about, for they had paddled near two miles into the Crenach’coi – the immense forest kingdom of the Cren’dair. As imposing as it was, Gialyn paid it little attention. He scurried quickly around the forest’s floor for twenty paces about, collecting all the loose dead wood he could put his hands on. He returned to the overhang, his arms full to the chin with dozens of dead branches. Once set, he cast the flint on some dried moss and built the fire.
I wonder what Elspeth would think. She always used a tupstick to light her fires. Those stinking, sulphurous sticks made by Alchemists were all well and good, but get them wet, and they were good for nothing but toothpicks. And they were expensive: one krùn for twenty. One silver bit for twenty tiny twigs – ha! Stupid idea.
Once the fire was set and grew strength of its own, Gialyn pulled his father in closer to the heat. He removed Daric’s boots and opened his shirt so the heat might warm his heart… rather than dry his wet clothes. He checked his father’s head wound. All he could feel was a bump – no cut. Pulling Daric’s eyes open, he made sure the pupils reacted quickly to the light from the fire – they did. For a moment, he wondered how he knew he had to do all that. He laughed when he realised it was something his father had once taught him. With that task done, with warmth restored to the pair of them, all that remained was to wait. No point looking for food in this dark.
Gialyn listened to his father’s breathing, it seemed shallow but steady, same as when he was asleep – minus the snoring. He wondered if he should try waking him up, slapping him or splashing water about his face. Alhough, having just climbed out of the river, he decided that would be pointless. If an hour in the cold water had not roused him… Gialyn wanted Daric to wake so he could tell him all would be well, that Elspeth was going to be all right. Surely the Salrians would not kill them. No, they could have killed them easily without all the talk. But if they were alive – and they were alive – had they been taken prisoner? Was anyone coming to help him?
As the minutes passed, the darkness grew deeper. What he could see of the moon remained hidden behind mist and the Coi’s dense canopy. Even the water seemed black, save the odd ripple reflecting their fire.
Ripples aside, the forest was still. No night birds broke the quiet with a familiar hoot or holler. However, there was something there, scratching around in the thicket. One sound in particular worried Gialyn, and it was getting closer: the sound of scurrying feet. Not light, like a squirrel; deep and determined, like a boar or hound. Gialyn tracked the sound through the shadows, following the scratching from left to right as it moved around and behind him. Whatever it was, it never came close enough to the fire for him to get a good look at it. He followed the sounds for some minutes until it moved off to the right and vanished. Sighing, Gialyn sat back against one of the large roots that made their shelter. But his back had no sooner touched the wood, than the sound started up again, to the left this time.
So, there are two of you, whatever you are.
A long ten minutes later, Gialyn had still not seen what was making the noise. The scratching sound came and went half dozen times. At the seventh, Gialyn did not even bother tracking the sound. He was leaning over his father, listening to Daric’s steady breathing, when they attacked.
The first came from behind, pouncing from the overhang onto Gialyn’s back. The other from the front, snapping and snarling at his feet and hands.
“Get off me!” Gialyn wailed, as the creature on his back scratched ferociously, repeatedly butting its teeth against the back of his head. Gialyn managed to stand. Guarding his face against the sharp claws and teeth, he ran to the overhang. Turning sharply, he rammed the creature into the thick root. After three attempts, the creature jumped off his back and landed on the ground by the fire. It was some kind of giant rodent: rat-like, but with longer legs, about the size of a dog.
The two rats stood either side of the fire, snarling at him. He kicked out at one, and then picked up a rock and threw it at the other. The rat on the left backed off, out of sight. Gialyn picked up one of the sticks he had gathered and began stabbing at the other creature. The rat kept dodging, diving left to right, sna
pping at the stick, not really attacking. Gialyn realised he was fighting the decoy, as two other rats had taken hold of his father by the trouser leg, and were trying to drag him to the water. Gialyn leapt over the fire, took a long stride, and kicked the larger of the two rats square in the gut. It turned on Gialyn, snarling and snapping. Gialyn kicked it again, right in its throat. The creature hacked and balked, then backed away towards the river.
The remaining rats backed off too, as though deterred by their leader’s surrender. Gialyn watched as they followed the injured animal into the river, then continued to watch as they swam downstream, and out of sight.
Gialyn grabbed as much wood has he could find from around their “camp” and placed it all within easy reach. He knew he could not keep the fire going all night but had to stretch it out for as long as possible. He could not risk searching for more wood, not knowing what the rats had in mind for his father. He would just have to sit and hope – pray – that help was on its way.
He wondered for a moment whether the rats were river animals, whether it would be worth dragging his father deeper into the woods. It might work. Then they could just as easily be forest rats, and maybe the river was his best means of escape. Maybe they were not good swimmers.
No. They would not have tried to drag Father into the water if they weren’t good swimmers. Gods, I can’t just sit here.
Gialyn looked with dread at the dwindling fire. The wood was old and burned quickly. There was enough left to stoke it maybe one more time, and then they would be in darkness.
The tap, tap, tapping sounds of the rats filled the air once again. More this time, or at least it sounded like more. Gialyn dragged his father behind him and put the rest of the wood on the fire, saving the largest of the sticks to defend against the attackers. The rats appeared to be toying with him. He followed the sounds through the darkness as they crossed paths behind and to the side. Every so often, one would come to the flank, run in close enough to “take a look” and then dart off again. The creatures called to each other, their shrill cackle echoing from side to side in repeating patterns as if they were instructions of some kind. Occasionally, a loud cry would tear through the darkness. One of the creatures would come closer, testing the area from another direction, as though challenging Gialyn to follow. They were pack hunters, and they were very good at it – too good for rats.
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