‘Yet to send your soul on a journey so far . . .’ Finwald breathed in open admiration.
‘And at the end, the well? ’ added Appa, who had woken up a few minutes earlier.
‘Bolldhe’s mind,’ Wodeman explained, ‘as deep and dark as a real well.’ He sounded disturbed.
‘So what now?’ Nibulus demanded. ‘Is Bolldhe aware of our predicament?’
‘And more to the point,’ Paulus added, his fey-induced fear now held in check, ‘does he care?’
‘I can’t answer that question,’ Wodeman replied. ‘All I can say is that he’d better care, or none of us is getting out of here. I’ve now done all that I can. I’m afraid, Finwald, that my magic has more to do with questioning answers than answering questions. Like your own religion, it is a search for truth, and truths change as constantly as do people.’
‘So our lives depend solely upon the whim of that wanderer,’ Finwald exclaimed. ‘Cuna help us all!’
‘Was it ever otherwise?’ Appa asked provocatively, and he of all of them seemed the least worried. ‘For that is the very nature of this Quest. Always was . . . But don’t be too quick to judge Bolldhe; people change as constantly as the truth, eh, Wodeman?’
‘They transform,’ agreed the nature-priest, ‘and with any luck, that’s just what I’ve helped do with Bolldhe.’
‘Don’t you dare meddle with my charge!’ Appa suddenly barked. ‘If there’s any transforming to be done with him, I’ll do it myself.’
Finwald laughed placatingly. ‘Don’t worry about him,’ he said as quietly as possible to Wodeman. ‘What I want to know is, how could you effect that spell – your transformation, if you will – when you are unable to work any other spell in this wretched place?’
‘Yes,’ agreed Paulus, ‘like getting us out of here?’
‘Because it is simply not possible,’ Wodeman protested. ‘My magic comes from tapping into the universal mind of the world, but here we are not in the world, not in our world. We are totally cut off from it.’ He hesitated a second. ‘I can’t be certain, but I believe that it was by a Ganferd, a waylaying spirit of fey, that we were led into this realm; and so in the realm of fey we are now trapped. I can change nothing in here, neither the bars, nor locks . . . nothing. I can only change my own soul. Our only hope, I’m afraid, now lies in help from outside.’
There was one further attempt at escape, despite what Wodeman had said. The soul-journey of their shaman had greatly inspired Finwald, and he decided it was time to try out something of his own.
‘Vocal, somatic and material,’ he explained to his audience, ‘are the components of any good spell. Hear the vibrations of my incantation, see the movements that tap into the power of my body’s median points, know the chemicals and fluids that course through my system . . .’
Thereupon he began to clench his stomach, wriggling and grunting, whilst simultaneously chewing upon a foul-smelling leaf he had extracted from some inner pocket. The others looked on with interest, but were not much surprised when all this produced was a sudden eructation from the magician’s backside.
Undeterred, he continued, and after a time, to everyone’s amazement, he actually seemed to be getting somewhere. There was an undeniable feeling of pressure coming from the cage he sat in, and a manifest aura of power, crackling and spitting, like a coiled serpent of fire writhing around the bars on all sides, about to strike. Sweat exuded from the priest’s forehead like blood, and his face became a twitching, contorted mask of relentless concentration. The build-up of energy was massive, awesome, even frightening.
Then with a silent explosion of arcane power, all four sides of his cage suddenly burst outwards, and slammed with a resounding clangour against the walls of their gaol.
And the roof of the cage, unsupported now, came crashing down upon Finwald’s head and knocked him out cold.
The watchers slumped back in their cells dejectedly.
A long time passed. It might have been hours, it might have been days. None of them was yet dying of thirst, so it could not have been too long. But the waiting, it felt that there would be no end to it. And all the while Finwald remained unconscious upon the floor, breathing shallowly but never stirring.
Gapp was reminded of that long night in the Blue Mountains, before the wolves attacked.
Throughout it all, the company neither saw nor heard any sign of their captors. No food or water was brought to them. There were no sounds from outside the dungeon. It began to feel as if they had been abandoned in this hole to die. They could only talk, they had to talk, to distract themselves from the crippling numbness and cramp increasingly afflicting their caged bodies. At times even this diversion was not enough to quell the feeling that they would go mad.
And they would sleep. Fitfully. Never enough to give them rest, but enough to give them dreams. Disturbing dreams.
Eventually their confinement began to affect them so badly that it was as if the very bars of their cells were closing in upon them. There was then not a single one among them who would not risk his life for just one minute of freedom, one brief moment of running as fast as he could, stretching his giddy limbs and feeling the wind and the rain upon his face.
Finally, they did hear something.
There was someone just on the other side of the door. Right on the very edge of silence, so quiet that they could not even be sure it was there, they thought they could hear a chilling sound, a laugh perhaps, or a whisper, like myrrh-smoke trailing through the strings of an un-tuned violin. It was a sound that held within it the soft sibilance and assured patience of a spider’s chuckle, coupled with the wraith-like tread and hidden malice of an assassin’s footfall. It was the kind of sound to associate with trails of oozing silver on cabbage leaves.
A click – sharp and jolting to the heart.
Wheels and cogs, well-oiled in their casing, levering to.
A snap!
And the door creaked open. A feel of new air, oily and warm, wafted in through the portal. With it came a sweet, cloying smell, the scent of Huldre-Home. Paulus’s breathing accelerated hoarsely.
Then a voice as mellifluous as it was terrible:
‘My Spriggans inform me that you are on the way to the island at the top of the world, bent on awakening the Hell-Hound . . .’
Fumbling in panic for weapons that were no longer there, the men stared at the darkness at the top of the steps from where the voice sounded.
‘And I, Nym-Cadog, am to do nothing? Then shall my dormancy be rewarded in full.’
The speaker stepped from the shadows, and stood before them.
‘Nym?’ Nibulus whispered, too stunned to be any more eloquent. His throat felt blocked, an entire throng of words, it seemed, piled up behind, waiting to be spoken.
The figure before them was not Nym-Cadog – at least, not the plump, rustic little old lady who had invited them in for dinner the other day. About twenty-five years (and at least that many pounds in weight) had fallen away from her, revealing a vision of such stunning and unearthly beauty that even Appa was transfixed. Her skin, milk-white and flawless, now radiated a faint inner light that, like the moon’s reflection upon a still crystal lake, would surely vanish in ripples if mortal hands were to touch it. Her eyes were large, black and sparkling, all-enveloping pools of ancient knowledge and fey magic. To look into them was like gazing up at the vast firmament of space upon a clear night, causing the beholder to feel utterly small and insignificant. In her sharp features could be recognized a perfect blend of ephemeral yet timeless beauty, spritish mischief, animal cunning and back-stabbing cruelty. Black hair, bramble-spiked and lengthy as a willow’s fronds, tumbled around her shoulders and plunged on down to her thighs, while covering her sylphlike body was a close-fitting, one-piece garment of such blackness that it swallowed up all light that came near.
She appraised them as a scientist might study a collection of insects.
‘Well?’ she continued as she moved down the steps. ‘What do you
have to say for yourselves?’
At this point the prisoners became aware of two figures looming behind her. They did not remember them following her down the stairs, though the beauty standing before them was without doubt a sufficient distraction. In any case, there they were now, two great hulking bastards of such odious and brutish ugliness that it was a marvel how such a vision as Nym-Cadog could suffer to be seen with them.
Of basically human form, they stood over eight feet tall, but were so grotesquely muscled that their arms appeared almost as separate creatures, hanging down to the ground and terminating in spasmodically twitching fingers each the size of a cucumber. Each sprouted a bristling mop of ankle-length, ginger hair, under which a large, red nose stuck out like a marrow. Eyes that were no more than pink slits and a cavernous, slobbering mouth added the final touches to their comeliness, while yellow drool dripped from a jungle of misshapen fangs.
With a celerity the eye could not follow, Nym-Cadog thrust one hand into the nearest cell and grabbed its occupant by the arm. Nibulus did not resist, but could not help gasping at her remarkable strength.
‘A big man . . .’ she said, licking her lips hungrily, then drew his arm out between the bars to sniff it properly, ‘. . . whose opulence smells unmistakably of the elite. I’ll warrant you are the leader of more than just this pack of curs that trail at your feet?’
‘Who – what are you?’ the warrior replied evenly, not attempting to retract his arm.
‘I am a lady of great estate . . .’ she replied with a knowing smile, then suddenly bit his arm, drawing blood, ‘. . . and taste.’
‘I am the laughter, spell-weaving, you might hear in the dark,
The rapist, soul-reaving, that lurks in the park,
A cobweb-spinner of pernicious lies,
An original sinner with malicious eyes
But delicious guise, to hold your attention,
The Siren of the Marsh, that you’re too scared to mention.
In some worlds they name me a vile seducer,
In others my fame is as a poison Medusa;
In this world, Chailleag Bheur, the Hag of Blue,
But I think that a trifle unfair, don’t you?’
She looked deep into the Peladane’s eyes, but he did not even flinch.
‘Civilian!’ he spat at her. ‘You may have us at your mercy, might torture or kill us, even damn our souls, but do we really have to put up with this poetry-crap?’
‘Ha!’ she replied, pointing at him girlishly. ‘The leader.’
She still held onto the arm, and in one sybaritic stroke of her tongue rasped his blood into her mouth.
She finally let go of him and turned instead to Finwald, awake now, but huddled with his back against the far wall. His expression was difficult to gauge.
‘I am the stab in the back,’ she spoke at him, swallowing him with her gaze, ‘the wind in the woods, the walker without rest—’
‘I am the pain in the backside,’ Finwald mimicked suddenly, ‘the whinger in the woods, the talker without rest.’
Nym hesitated a second. Then she simply said, ‘Your death, priest, will be unbelievable.’
‘Quite possibly,’ Finwald replied, ‘but at least you won’t be around to see it.’
She looked down then, and noticed the remains of the cage he had blown apart.
‘Look what you’ve done . . .’ she said, like a weary parent, and at a glance from her, one of her creatures approached the priest. The next moment Finwald found himself prostrate upon the floor of Wodeman’s cell, moaning slightly.
She turned away, leaving him to his pain. Walking on, she caught sight next of Appa, crouched at the back of his cage with a look of dread on his face. She began softly stroking the bars of his cell. The look of horror on his face redoubled when he noticed the length of her talons, and his eyes almost popped out of their watery sockets. As she glared at him, he groped for his amulet.
‘You don’t like me, do you?’
She waited for an answer, but none was forthcoming.
‘Cat got your tongue, old man?’ She laughed, then became serious. ‘We always were in your way, weren’t we?’ She looked from Appa to Finwald, then back again. ‘Two priests of the White Light,’ she went on, ‘two flambeaux of the Great Purger, and such finely arrayed lackeys. I am truly honoured to have you as guests. Have you come to cleanse me also?
‘Swift is my right hand in greeting, bearing a gift beyond price,’ she quoted from a famous Northlander prayer. ‘But swifter still my left, the one behind my back that holds a dagger. Your gift shall be returned to you, priests. The only question is, by whom? Hellhound or huldre?’
‘We have no quarrel with you, Blue Hag.’ Finwald spoke up from his dark corner. ‘We are bound for Melhus on business that does not concern you or your kind. We would have passed by your realm if your Ganferd had not led us here.’
Far from flaring up in anger, Nym-Cadog merely laughed.
‘You need not tell me of your task, pale one. My Spriggans have been with you ever since you came down from the mountains, and brought to me dispatches of your every utterance. I know what it is you intend to do, and, believe me, it has a great deal to do with my kind. Ever since you first emerged from the South you have encroached on our land; you have built over our holy places, destroyed our sacred woods and groves with your farms, and desecrated our barrows—’
‘Yes, sorry about that,’ Finwald muttered sarcastically.
‘—And with this you bring your lies, your sweating confessions, your puny, weak-eyed austerity. For countless ages we had lived in these lands, enjoying the wild, free life that burns like fire through our veins. Now even this our last haven of wilderness is threatened, for you go to stir up an evil long dead and bring him down upon us all. But I will not be harried by a Hell-Hound! Seen off by a Sea-Wolf! Flung out by a Fiend! Driven away by a Daemon! And definitely not ridden down by a Rawgr – he of the fetid breath, the flaming eyes, the noisome stench and the black finger—’
‘Your shoelaces are undone, did you know?’ Wodeman commented.
‘—And you should know better!’ she spat, spinning round to face the Torca. ‘Would you dig up an evil that others once had stilled? Exhume a cadaver just to see if it yet stinks?’
She turned back to them all, and her ranging expression was now one of pondering with a hint of sadness. ‘Could I not just have anointed you with the fairy-ointment, to take away all knowledge of this place, and of Nym, of your misadventure to the North? Sent you back home with nothing but bemused smiles on your soggy faces, nothing in your cabbage-heads but vague memories of pretty ladies?’
She hesitated but briefly. ‘Only to be reminded of your quest as soon as you spoke again with your masters? No, I have thought on it; and my thoughts are this. Any that can overcome yon Ganferd in the swamp are too dangerous to be set free. You must face the Afanc, one by one.’
‘The Afanc!’ Wodeman hissed. His face blanched in disbelief.
‘Trollmollet! Trollapluck!’ Nym turned to her massive henchmen. ‘Bring the boy; we’ll start with him first.’
Leering dementedly, the two huldre-creatures wrenched open the cell door and plucked Gapp out. Between them the pathetic jabbering bundle of rags and bones was carried, kicking and screaming, up the steps and out of the room. Amid seething cries of vengeance from his companions, he disappeared through the door leaving nothing behind but a last echoing wail of utter despair.
As Nym-Cadog reached the top of the steps, she turned and faced her clamouring prisoners.
‘I should save your strength, if I were you,’ she said, then glared steely-eyed at the mage-priests. ‘Especially you two, vile purgers! You will need it if you are to stand any chance against my two Kobolds. Trollmollet and Trollapluck are no friends of the White Priests, having been driven into the hills by the raucous and unhallowed din of your steeple bells. The boy’s fate, bad as it may be, will be merciful compared to yours.’
And with that, sh
e disappeared into the darkness whence she had come. The dungeon door thudded hollowly, sounding as though it had shut upon their lives.
With a shuddering cry of anguish, Gapp was flung through the portal to sprawl upon the floor.
For a while he just lay there, too terrified to move, his face pressed against the floor. It felt like cold sand, but had the colour of charcoal, and smelt of rotten jasmine. There was also a strong animal smell in here, blending unpleasantly with fragrances reminiscent of the leafy, green vegetation that grows over quicksand.
Gapp could hear the Kobolds close behind him, hear their ragged breath and the irregular patter and hiss of their saliva hitting the floor. The witch was there, too: he could sense her, though she made no sound. All three of them were just standing there, waiting.
Slowly he raised himself up on all fours. He shook his head in an attempt at clearing it of the dizzying effect of the sickly smell. With a nauseous knotting up of his innards, he slowly raised his head to look about the room.
It was small, and reminded him of those little chapels of the Lightbearers back home. Indeed, it did have a certain air of sacredness about it: the austerity, the simplicity, and sanctity. Tallow candles burned in each corner.
Yet somehow it seemed all the wrong way round: perverted, desecrated, brooding; like being on the wrong side of a mirror. The black candle-smoke stung his eyes, and the very air was infused with darkness, sickness and a hidden primal dread . . .
. . . And then there was the Thing that emerged from the shadows.
Gapp’s face froze, his chest became tight. His throat closed in on itself, almost strangling him. He stared in wide-eyed horror as the figure began to reveal itself, a great shape clothed in a robe with both the smell and hue of rain-sodden ashes, and his gagging sobs became ugly, heaving rasps.
Slowly, savouring the torment it could see in its victim’s face, the thing approached. Claws like jagged shards of steel reached up and drew back the hood as it came on, and finally Gapp cried out aloud as if he had been speared through the head.
It was like a creature that had stalked from the dark places in his mind but that he had never suffered himself to acknowledge before.
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