by Andy Roberts
The book was old and inexplicably heavy for something that fit comfortably in his palm. He’d handled encyclopedic volumes that weighed less, and yet this particular work contained fewer than twenty pages in total. He returned the chair to its original position and set the door open a crack. The custodian was nowhere to be seen, the library now cloaked in something that was deeper than silence.
On the table before him lay his whole reason for being at the library—yes he went there often—on the back of his thirst for knowledge, but more recently, a dream had directed him to the exact location of one specific book. But how could that be? Brae had no idea and doubted that he ever would. He hadn’t previously met the custodian, though was well aware of his unsavoury reputation through conversation overheard in the courtyard. Brae checked again and saw no-one sat at the main desk. He returned to his own table and studied the book.
The cover was faded like dry sand and equally coarse to the touch. He ran his fingertips over three words carved deep in its surface. ‘Yle Llun Dlalu,’ he said aloud. ‘What are you?’ The book refused to reveal its secrets, though it pages whispered as one paper leaf caressed another. He didn’t recognise the language, though confusingly could read it fluently. The druid had spoken in a similar tongue to calm Molly, but wouldn’t admit to what it was. He took a stick of black lead from the pocket of his linen shirt and copied the entire page so that he might study it further in the privacy of his room at the inn. He turned the page and frowned deeply, troubled by a pen and ink sketch he’d not seen before—a drawing that was inexplicably new. He sat and scratched his head with both hands, the book now in full control of which page opened next.
The image choked him, punched at his midriff and took his wind. Brae stood quickly, the chair setting a high pitched squeal loose in the library. He heard footfall approaching along one of the aisles, calm and measured, purposeful in every way. Brae knew at once that he had to get out and fast. He ran through the prisms of coloured light, his shadow catching up and quickly passing him by, only to fall behind again with monotonous repetition. He dug deep and won the race to the outside, descending the steps with a haste that attracted disapproving looks from more than one of the masters.
Elba Doss circled the table and reached for the open book, slid it towards him and caught his breath. The sketch took up most of the two facing pages, part of it hidden in the deep valley created by the tight binding. He leaned and used the palm of his hand to lay the pages flat. On the left leaf was a towering circle of stones—a figure almost matching their height stood at its centre swinging a long length of rusted chain. Opposite, were two distinctly smaller figures, both adopting a pose of unmistakable challenge, each instantly recognisable.
Doss used both hands to slam the book shut. ‘Gotcha, Brae of Brindmere.’
Chapter
— 7 —
‘In the name of Amaethon, slow down.’ Griff followed as quickly as his tiring leg would carry him. Another loud thwack sounded somewhere not too far away, telling him in no uncertain terms that they couldn’t. He wiped the sweat from his eyes and swung the crutch with added effort.
‘She’s close.’ Tamulan put his nose to the wind and turned into an alleyway wedged tightly between the baker and book-binder shops. A down-trodden war veteran sat at its corner, legs folded, near-empty hat resting on the pavement beside him. The man rocked gently, seemingly invisible to most of those who passed by without so much as a sideways glance. ‘Spare change?’ he repeated like a mantra.
Griff stopped and rummaged through his pockets. ‘Food, not ale,’ he said sternly and deposited a pair of flannings in the veteran’s beret. The soldier nodded his thanks and shrank from the cold wind, hands drawn about his shoulders like a monarch laid to rest.
The outer alleyways were lined with large, metal containers that held waste produced in the city’s shops and restaurants. One bin-lined alley made way to a second, and that in turn a third. The further they ventured from Main Street, the more the light and humanity appeared to be sucked from everything there was. Soon there were no bins, and finally no smooth and shiny cobblestones—only foul-smelling mud that complained with a repertoire of crude noises each and every time they laid their boots in it.
Tamulan was aware of the hireling’s presence long before the man stepped from the shadows and started following them. He stopped and leaned against Griff—offered a flame to a non-existent smoke and gave neither explanation or apology for his odd behaviour. The innkeeper played along, the squelching sounds behind them getting louder.
The hireling came around the corner, a look of complete surprise on his face when he saw the pair hadn’t travelled anywhere near the distance he was expecting. Griff hit the inner aspect of the man’s knee, sending him tumbling under his own bodyweight into a muddy puddle. Tamulan stepped on the back of his head, forcing the hireling’s face deep into the mud. A count of thirty and then sixty went by, the druid refusing to relent to the frenzied struggles. Sixty became ninety and the mud, at last, fell still.
Griff worried that a greensleeve might chance upon them and tugged on his beard as he checked up and down the otherwise deserted alleyway.
Tamulan took a handful of greasy hair and lifted his victim’s face from the mud. He slapped life into the man’s cheeks but couldn’t tell if he’d pinked under the dirty mask. ‘What’s your business with the dream-keeper?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ the hireling managed before receiving a dunking that was longer than the first. The druid wound the man’s hair tight to his knuckles and relented one final time. The man gasped and then spat. ‘Gendrick,’ he spluttered. ‘He wants her taken to the keep.’
‘To what end?’
The hireling attempted to laugh, though it came as little more than a cough. He moved a piece of grit to the tip of his tongue and wiped it away with the back of a dirty hand. ‘You,’ he said clearing his throat. ‘He seeks to know what she’s shown you.’
‘Tamulan took a small, glass vial from his pocket and attempted to force its contents into the hireling’s tightly clenched mouth. He grabbed the man’s groin and squeezed, succeeding in delivering the potion almost instantly.
Griff looked nervous. ‘How soon will it kill him?’
The druid shook his head. ‘It won’t. But he’ll never again know who or what he is.’
Jopha trod close to the damp walls of the alleyway, to where the going was more firm and the shadows succeeded in deceiving one into believing it was already night. She reached the tavern and rested against a leaking downpipe, breathing heavily as she listened to the tell-tale sounds of her pursuers approaching.
A bald, pockmarked man dressed in a black leather jerkin smoked in the doorway of the tavern, the smell of patchouli oil clinging to him as closely as death does a corpse.
‘Two of Gendrick’s men,’ the dream-keeper told him. ‘Kill them both.’ Pockmark flicked his smoke into the nearest puddle and unsheathed a pair of curved blades—murder in the backstreets as common as vermin.
But for themselves and the scurrying rodents, the alleyway appeared otherwise deserted. Tamulan raised a quiet hand and slowed, his eye focused on a rusted lantern that swung above them with the repetitive squeak of metal on metal. A waft of patchouli oil signalled someone was on the move and preparing to strike at them in the dark. As the first knife appeared from the cover of the doorway, Tamulan caught its owner’s wrist and twisted up and away from his own body. Pressure to the inside of the left elbow had Pockmark drop the second weapon to the floor. ‘I mean you no harm,’ the druid said with a calmness unbefitting of the situation. ‘Take me to Jopha.’
The man stopped struggling, but as yet said nothing.
‘The hireling has been dealt with.’ Tamulan loosened his grip and repositioned Windsong.
‘There were two,’ the man said in a lazy, northern drawl.
‘But only one came this way.’ Tamulan used his free hand to pull the amulet from his neck. ‘Take this t
o the dream-keeper and tell her I seek audience.’
Pockmark pushed the hand away. ‘No need, she’s expecting you.’
The hostelry, if it could be called such, had no windows and many of its clientele, no names. The air was thick with the scent of illicit herbs and the puddle of vomit in the hallway could be smelled long before it was seen. Someone played accordion off to one corner of the smoky room, while a plump woman sang sea-shanties and arm-wrestled all-comers for the princely sum of another drink.
They followed as Pockmark meandered between a forest of wooden barrels that stood on end—the landlord knowing only too well their advantage over tables more easily broken during bar-brawls.
‘Would you look at that.’ Griff pointed to a full-size cartwheel suspended from the overhead beams on three metal chains. A bare-chested dwarf clung to the underside of the ceiling furniture performing pull-ups while his companion cheered him on.
A whale of a man stood with his booted foot resting against the broken-plaster wall. He tossed a shillbob and made his decision. A toothless whore caught sight of the coin, leaned close and whispered sweet nothings. The whale pushed the woman to the floor and gave the dwarf’s impressive chest his undivided attention.
‘Where the hell are we?’ Griff shook his head and kept his wits about him.
Tamulan side-stepped a drunk. ‘Welcome to the Rat.’
Pockmark led them to the far end of the bar and a low door that was all but hidden in the stone wall. He pushed on it and ushered them through without following.
The room was small and eerily quiet, a single tray of stubby candles providing most of the available light. Griff glanced at Tamulan and raised a wayward eyebrow. ‘Are you sure about this?’ he asked with an air of undisguised scepticism. He saw a glass jar on the edge of a small table, a wisp of bright-green light shifting around inside it. His attention then moved to a nearby shelf and several more jars: each containing light coloured from a rainbow of choices. He stood and watched a red one that was very much more agitated than the all rest. He leaned and tapped the jar with a fingernail. The light inside stopped what it was doing only momentarily, then pulsed violently and spun in anger.
‘Don’t.’ Jopha appeared from somewhere near the back of the room. She took a drag on a pipe that was nearly as long as her arm and blew smoke in their direction. ‘Dreams,’ she told Griff. ‘The red ones are nightmares.’ Her husky voice was educated and masculine in its delivery—not at all what he’d expected. She pointed at the jar that still held his interest. ‘Thanks to you, that particular sleeper might not survive the night.’ Griff puffed his cheeks, not knowing what else to do. ‘Sit,’ she told them.
Tamulan helped himself to the furthest stool and set Windsong safe against the wall. Griff took the one remaining seat, crutch wedged between knee and table-top, hands poised ready to strike should the need arise.
Jopha lay her pipe on the table and did nothing when it rolled onto its side, smouldering tobacco burning a new stain in the wood. She reached for a saucer and held it before the druid’s face. Tamulan leaned and spat, then sat back and drew a hand across his mouth as the dream-keeper held the crockery over the flickering candle-flame. The expectorate bubbled and hissed above the mounting heat, evaporating to leave only a dry and white powdery film. Jopha dropped the saucer to the stone floor and lowered herself to her knees, poking at shards of broken earthenware with a finger that was as crooked as an ambitious politician. ‘You seek the Dragon Lord, Eiyl.’
‘But you knew that already,’ Tamulan nodded towards more jars stacked high in the corner of the room.
‘It was only right that I warn you.’
‘You had no choice.’
Jopha let her eyes wander from one scar to the other. ‘You may well have met your match this time, Eiyl. There is history between the two of you after all.’
‘Who called upon the wind?’ Tamulan asked, ignoring the remark.
‘You did.’ Jopha lit a stick of cinnamon incense from a candle, its fire-elemental properties making it the perfect choice for such an occasion. ‘It answers to you,’ she said laying the stick on a brass boat.
‘You know I mean the Foolish Wind.’ Tamulan leaned on the table, closing the distance between them.
‘You speak its name?’
‘I do not fear it.’
‘Then perhaps you should.’ Jopha faltered a moment, as though someone had placed their foot on her grave. ‘The one born of Alu,’ she said righting herself, ‘though he has no idea what he’s done.’
‘And who had you show him such things?’ Tamulan reached deep into his shoulder bag and removed an object that was no longer than his shortest finger. Griff wore his frown as easily as noble folk do their finest clothing, and so absorbed was he in the conversation, that he failed to notice a dark shadow creeping silently across the ceiling just above them. Tamulan raised the rattle to Jopha’s face and shook it, the beads inside shushing hypnotically. ‘You will tell me,’ he said. ‘And you will leave nothing out.’
Griff forced himself from his stool when the dream-keeper had finished. ‘Brae wouldn’t do such a thing.’ He grabbed the table and used it to catch his balance. ‘Do you hear me?’ he shouted.
‘She doesn’t.’ Tamulan’s eye followed the shadow that had no explanation for its presence in the room.
‘What’s wrong?’ Griff looked at the same patch of ceiling but saw nothing out of the ordinary.
‘We must leave.’
‘Not before killin’ her. You heard what she’s doin’ to poor Brae.’
‘It’s not her fault.’ Tamulan shouldered Windsong and took another object from his bag. ‘Something has control over her.’
‘Somethin’?’
The druid raised a finger to his lips in warning. Griff watched the dark shape creep along the back wall, disturbing the jars, rattling them like early morning milk bottles. Tamulan took a pearl inlay lid off a small tin and offered it. Griff shook his head and stepped away. Tamulan sprinkled a pinch of the tin’s contents on the back of his hand and raised it towards the innkeeper. ‘Powdered dragon bone,’ he said. ‘The only thing that will get us out of here alive.’
Chapter
— 8 —
Brae emerged from the library so hurriedly that he took the sun by surprise. Frightened by the boy’s urgent manner, it fled and hid behind the nearest cloud until completely sure that it was safe to return. Then, when return it did, a second figure startled it equally.
The man was of slim stature, dressed in black and wore a tall hat on his inclined head. Elba Doss descended the steps quickly, his cloak following close behind. He trailed an ungloved hand along the spiralling balustrade and kicked at a discarded apple when it got in his way. The flying fruit missed the head of the oncoming master of artificing by a few inches only, landing in the square below with a wet thump. The master appeared to not notice and with his prey in clear view, the custodian slowed and followed a line of students out into the busy street beyond.
Brae cut awkwardly through the slow-moving crowd, unbalancing shoppers and beggars alike as they reacted to what they thought to be a fleeing pickpocket.
‘Stop him,’ someone shouted.
‘Thief,’ another cried. A merchant sprawled on the ground, chasing after spilt and spoiled goods.
A city guard leaned against a shop wall, polishing leather boots on the calves of black, regulation trousers. He flicked his smoke high into the air and lifted his lightning-staff from its charge-point. He set its glow-light to a pulsing blue—an indication to other guards that he was now on a chase.
Brae saw the emerald tunic of the greensleeve even before he did the flashing light. He pushed beside a brazier of hot coals, the sweet smell of marshmallow inviting him to stop a while. Someone fried sausages, another melted toffee and offered him an apple to dip in their cauldron of scalding molasses and butter-mix. He longed to stop, salivating, yearning for a quick sugar-fix.
‘Halt,’ came a call from the ch
asing greensleeve. Brae saw the burly man bearing down on him and heard the unmistakable whine of the lightning-staff being prepared for discharge. He knew he couldn’t outrun it and that he wouldn’t get across the bridge without being arrested. The guard called one last time and came to a full stop, posturing with his weapon like a pike-man at war. Brae ducked as a chunk of lime-washed plaster exploded just inches from his shoulder. He squealed and lowered his head. Behind him, the charging process repeated itself and he knew that once hit by the zig-zag of white light, he’d manage nothing other than to wriggle around on the floor incapacitated until the guard caught up. He had to think quickly. There was another way, one that would be dangerous and take him through the forest of Tal-Ghundi. He had no other choice and ran in the direction of the Oval.