by Damien Black
‘What – what happened, to the...’
‘The apparition?’ replied Horskram. ‘Twas a Gaunt, a wicked eidolon that lingers on the earthly plane to torment and afflict the living.’
Though his face was paler than usual he appeared to have recovered his composure. He placed his circifix back into the folds of his cloak, apparently satisfied that Adelko had not become tainted during his encounter with the ghastly shade.
‘But I don’t understand... I was so sure it – that you were the ghost,’ said Adelko. ‘Your voice sounded strange and tinny...’
‘That was the Gaunt’s way of deceiving you. Or the Fay Folk’s, for that matter. I told you before, this forest can play with your senses if you let it. Incidentally, I didn’t have my cowl pulled up either – another magic mind trick designed to confuse you.’
‘But,’ protested Adelko, ‘when I intoned the Psalm of Abjuration you recoiled...’
His master smiled grimly. ‘Yes I did – but not because of your holy ministrations! The real Gaunt had risen behind you, and even one as seasoned as I cannot look upon such deadly apparitions without feeling a chill of horror on my soul. In fact we were very lucky – I almost lost my wits as you did. Oh, here – ’ The older monk handed Adelko’s own circifix back to him.
Accepting it sheepishly, he asked: ‘So you banished it then?’
‘Yes, though not without a struggle. The ghosts of Tintagael are unusually strong: their essence is sustained by fay magick, making them all the more difficult to exorcise.’
‘What happened to us? One moment we were walking along, the four of us and our horses... the next thing we got swallowed up by mist and then... I started invoking the Psalm of Fortitude and we all got separated.’
Horskram frowned. ‘Yes well, that was your first mistake – the Fay Folk don’t like to hear the Redeemer’s words spoken in their realm. Our being separated was probably their idea of a punishment for your infraction.’
Adelko lowered his eyes to the ground, which was covered in thick emerald grass that sparkled with a deceptive beauty. ‘I’m sorry, Master Horskram – it’s just... the voices got louder and louder in my head – I had to do something to keep them out.’
Raising his eyes he saw his mentor looking at him strangely. He seemed about to say something and then changed his mind. ‘Well, perhaps it makes no difference anyway. We’re in the Faerie Kingdom, and only by their sufferance will we survive.’
That begged the question Adelko had been burning to ask. ‘So if they’re in charge, what can we do to get out of the forest?’
Horskram looked thoughtful as he sat down on the rock, oblivious to the thrill of horror this provoked in his novice.
‘I have a feeling we are being tested in some way,’ he continued. ‘The Fays have ever been capricious and mercurial, serving neither the archangels nor choosing to align themselves with demonkind – although they are most certainly closer to the latter. But if my suspicion is right then we have no choice but to go on, wherever they compel us – and hope that we pass their test.’
‘And... what happens if we do? What then?’
‘Then we must hope for an audience with the Fays. If we have... amused them sufficiently, we should hopefully be able to persuade them to let us go.’
Adelko was aghast, so much so that he forgot himself. ‘That’s it?!’ he exclaimed. ‘That was your plan when you led us into Tintagael?’
Horskram scowled. ‘In case you’ve forgotten, we were somewhat hard pressed – I hardly had time to draw up a treatise on how one survives being outnumbered threefold by bloodthirsty paid killers, Adelko,’ he replied acidly. ‘But yes, that was, roughly speaking, the adumbration of my intentions. Had we stood our ground we would almost certainly have perished. At least this way we have a chance of survival.’
‘But... after all the dark stories you told me of Tintagael! How can you be so sure?’
‘I’m sure of nothing,’ replied the older monk, unsmiling. ‘But not all adventurers have been so brazen, so foolish, as the Thirteen Knights – I know of at least one member of our learned Order who ventured into Tintagael and lived to tell the tale. I know of none who would have survived the odds we faced. You can barely fight, yon youth is bold but inexperienced... and Branas and I are getting too old to single-handedly despatch five berserkers each.
‘Nay, lad, I have not spent the past forty years fighting the denizens of the Other Side to quail before a haunted forest, legends be hanged! Trust in the Almighty, keep the Redeemer in your heart, and by his bones we’ll find a way out of this accursed place! Now come! We’ve tarried long enough as it is. We must be on our way, and hope that the Kindred see fit to reunite us with our boon companions – assuming they are still alive and sane.’
Taking up their quarterstaves the two monks looked around the clearing for an exit. Creaking wordlessly, the twisting trees parted obligingly for them, their leaves rustling ominously.
Clutching his father’s sword in nervous fingers Vaskrian put a tentative first foot on to the rope bridge’s gnarled wooden walkway. It let out an elongated sigh as he did. Doing his best to ignore this phenomenon he put another foot forward, trusting his entire body weight to the mercies of the peculiar bridge. This time it let out an agonised groan, and for a split second Vaskrian was tempted to jump back onto the rock behind him.
Plucking up his courage he began to traverse the strange bridge gingerly. His every footfall was registered unpleasantly: sometimes the bridge sounded like a youth having a barbed arrow pulled from his flesh, at others it sounded like an old man dying of the plague. Vaskrian did his best to ignore it, trying to remember what Horskram had told him.
All the while, the white fog rose slowly from the ravine below; by the time he was halfway across it had risen to envelop his legs and lower torso. Resolutely he pressed on, his eyes fixed on the other side where a narrow path had opened up tantalisingly between the trees. The fog rose steadily higher, until he could see nothing but its ephemeral substance suffused with the silvery-green light of the forest.
Then from somewhere far below him he heard a myriad voices drifting up towards him, growing steadily louder.
Some of them spoke in unearthly tongues he could not begin to comprehend; others were recognisably in his own language and various other speeches of the Known World. All dripped with malice. Some mocked his very will to live, while others warned him of a dreadful fate he was doomed to share with them.
As he stumbled on blindly he felt panic rise within him as if in kilter with the awful voices, which had by now risen to his level and had begun to cohere about him with a horrid malignity.
And suddenly he was running, his heart pounding wildly in his chest, cold sweat pouring off his wiry frame in icy torrents, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
On and on he ran, the voices growing louder and more coherent, and yet there was no reassuring solidness of rock beneath his feet, only the springy surface of the groaning bridge as it bobbed up and down maddeningly. Finally, after what seemed an age, he fell to the walkway, his heirloom blade slipping from his hand and disappearing into the ravine.
In between his choking sobs he heard the voices chorus their command, its words now clear as cold crystal:
So far have you strayed
From the mortal vale
Now nothing remains
Come down and join us!
Our spirits shall wander
These cursed eaves
Until time ceases
Come down and join us!
Kingdoms shall fall
Loved ones perish
Our shades linger on
Come down and join us!
Twixt heaven and hell
The faerie bell tolls
Hearken to its knell
Come down and join us!
Come down and join us!
COME DOWN AND JOIN US!
Again and again the preternatural chorus repeated the words, their dark sibilance penetratin
g to the core of Vaskrian’s soul. He felt his courage draining out of him like lifeblood from a mortal wound; staggering to his feet he clutched at the rope bridge and prepared to haul himself over into the void below.
And then a sudden thought entered his fevered mind. He had a vision of Sir Rutgar, standing in the castle courtyard and mocking him. All of Rutgar’s friends were standing around him and laughing too. Next to them Edric, his nose bruised and swollen, exchanged knowing sneers with Derrick, who turned a hideously burned face towards Vaskrian, staring blindly at him across a lop-sided grin.
A hot torrent of anger coursed through him. It rose, quickly building to a rage. Before he knew it he was screaming into the thick fog, cursing the forest and its inhabitants, insanely challenging them to return his sword and take him on in a fair fight.
The chorus stopped, voices falling off again into a discordant cacophony that cursed him from beyond the grave.
The fog began to retreat downwards. Glancing about desperately Vaskrian saw he was halfway across the bridge, exactly where he had been before the white mist enveloped him. He was about to make a dash for the other side when suddenly there came a great rumbling and shaking that nearly knocked him off his feet.
Looking back towards the outcropping he saw with horror that it was crumbling away, great chunks of grey rock tumbling into the bed of fog to be swallowed up by the chasm below. The ghost of Sir Mablung had vanished altogether.
With a mighty crack, the outcropping split in two, the foremost half plunging into the ravine – taking the rope bridge with it.
Desperately Vaskrian grabbed hold of the bridge as it swung wildly downwards towards the far side of the chasm. Gritting his teeth, the squire braced himself as the bridge slammed into the rough unyielding rock. The thick boards of the walkway and his brigandine shielded him from the worst of the impact, but even so it was all he could do not to let go as his body jarred painfully to a halt.
The enormous chunk of rock attached to the other side of the bridge dangled ominously for a moment or two, before plummeting into the ravine. With a tearing sound that was strangely wet nearly half the bridge went down with it – another man’s height and Vaskrian would have shared its fate.
Yet even so he was far from out of danger, for he now found himself smothered again by the hateful fog. As he clung to the mangled rope bridge for dear life the voices began once more to afflict him.
This time they spoke in a hideous medley of accents and dialects, some long forgotten. Over and over again, they hissed the last words of their eldritch chant: Come down and join us! Come down and join us! Come down and join us!
Beneath them he could hear the gurgling of the river, only down here it was louder. It sounded like a hundred men choking to death.
Shutting his eyes tightly Vaskrian began to pull himself up by the bridge’s ropes, praying the remaining fixtures would hold his weight long enough to make the climb.
One hand at a time, he yanked himself up. As he did he fixed his mind on thoughts of his past life – anything that would not remind him of the awful place fate had brought him to.
Come down and join us! He thought of the day he had fought Rutgar in the castle courtyard the previous summer. Bright sunlight glinted on their full armour as he parried his arch rival’s crude strokes effortlessly...
Come down and join us! Two summers ago. He was lying naked in a hay bale with Adisa, the tanner’s daughter, his first love. The warmth of her ample body was like a second sun, meant only for him. She kissed him softly on the neck and ran a coarse hand appreciatively across his toned chest...
Come down and join us! Last summer again. He was riding to Linden with Sir Branas. Mounting the crest of a hill overlooking the fabulous white castle, his heart leapt as he saw hundreds of tents pitched, their varied pennants a riot of colour in the morning breeze. Among them he recognised the standard of the White Valravyn...
Come down and join us! He was eight years old. His father had just pressed a wooden sword into his hand for the first time. His face, stern yet kindly, was intent as he showed his only son how to grip the hilt properly...
Come down and join us! He was fourteen years old. He had just been squired to Sir Branas and was in the stables at his manor house Veerholt in the eastern marches of Efrilund. He hummed a cheerful tune to himself as he fed his prickly new master’s charger. Its glossy chestnut coat was smooth to the touch as he stroked its neck...
Come down and join us! Winter just gone. It was the Year’s End feast at the Jarl’s castle. Thoros was singing a merry tune, about the misadventures of a fictional wizard who tries to save the world... the great hall was a riot of debauchery, everyone was drinking and laughing. His guvnor was so drunk he could barely stand...
Come down and join us! A rest-day in spring, he couldn’t remember which year. He was riding a swift courser across the fields and meadows of his master’s estate. He spurred the horse into a gallop, the cold brisk wind flinging his long hair in a steady stream behind him. The green sward shot past him as he rode at a breakneck pace. He felt high-spirited and free. Anything seemed possible, his whole life was in front of him...
And suddenly he was hauling himself over the knuckled lip of the ravine with aching arms, his breath tearing from him agonisingly. Rolling over onto his back he stared sightlessly up at the hideous branches, exulting in the solid feel of cold hard rock beneath him. From the chasm below the sibilant voices could still be heard, their malice subsiding into resentment as they repeated their mantra ever more weakly: Come down and join us, come down and join us, come down and join ussss...
Gazing defiantly up at the branches, which now seemed to writhe with displeasure, he silently mouthed a single beautiful word.
‘No.’
CHAPTER IV
Riding the Nightmare
Sir Branas was slumped against the bole of a thick oak tree when the two monks found him at a crossroads. He was weeping, his eyes staring sightlessly before him as he mouthed unintelligible words. The tears streaked a bearded face that looked even more haggard than usual in the eerie light. Horskram and Adelko tried to lift the knight to his feet, but he sullenly resisted all their efforts.
‘It’s hopeless!’ he cried in despair. ‘Alas, I’ll never see her again. Oh, my poor Etta, I’d always hoped to meet you in the Heavenly Halls, but now I know I shall not. Our shades are doomed to rot here in Tintagael till the end of time!’
‘Ghosts don’t rot – only corpses,’ Horskram corrected him firmly. ‘And Tintagael hasn’t sundered our spirits from our bodies yet – heavens, man, don’t give in! The Fays are playing tricks with your mind!’
‘I saw her!’ the old knight replied, his eyes suddenly focusing with an unsettling intensity. ‘I saw my Etta, as radiant as the day I married her, thirty years ago! They told me I’d never see her again... we’re doomed! Ah, what a curse you have brought upon us, Horskram! At least against the brigands we might have been spared our souls – you have condemned us to eternal damnation!’
‘There will be no damnation if we keep our wits about us and survive!’ snarled the old monk, growing angry now. ‘So pull yourself together – we haven’t fallen foul of Tintagael yet! Curse you, Branas, show some fight! Or is the bold sir knight nothing but a craven?’
Just at that moment the trio were distracted by the sound of someone approaching. Lurching out of the gloom came Vaskrian, looking wild-eyed and exultant, clutching a long dirk. His sword scabbard was empty at his side.
‘It’s you! You’re all alive too!’ he exclaimed breathlessly. ‘They tried to get me on the bridge – they almost had me too, but I survived them!’
‘Good!’ replied Horskram briskly. ‘See if you can impart your master with some of your youthful courage then – the forest has poisoned his mind, and I’d rather not risk angering the Fays with another Psalm of Fortitude unless I absolutely must!’
The old knight had resumed his piteous lament. ‘Oh Etta... Etta, I shall never see thee aga
in... Reus has forsaken us!’
‘That’s his wife – she died of consumption three years ago,’ said the squire sadly, lowering his voice. ‘When he’s had too much to drink he often says the only thing that allows him to live without her is knowing they’ll meet again in the afterlife... he loved her so.’
‘Then if he loves her, he must pull his mind from this black abyss – if he succumbs to this madness his fate will be sealed!’ said Horskram unrelentingly. ‘Branas, hear me if you will – we can escape this forest, but we must not let our minds fail us. All of us have been tested – you must pass yours, or else the worst you fear may prove true!’
The old knight merely shook his head and groaned again.
‘Wait,’ said Vaskrian, addressing the monks in a low voice. ‘Let me try and talk to him... after all he knows me best.’
Sheathing his dirk and kneeling before his master, the squire looked him square in the face. ‘Sir Branas – can you hear me? The monk is telling it true – not half an hour ago I was ready to throw myself off a bridge into... I don’t know what! But I survived, and so will you. Etta’s waiting for you – you’ll see her again one day, just come back to us… In the Redeemer’s name, come back to us!’
Something in his plaintive tone must have caught the old knight. Slowly, ever so slowly, he regained a semblance of lucidity and stared back at Vaskrian with eyes not quite bereft of hope.
‘What… what did you see?’ asked the old knight in a faraway voice.
‘I saw one of the Thirteen, he said I’d never escape the forest. But I didn’t believe him – and I passed where he failed!’
A cunning look entered Vaskrian’s face then.
‘You wouldn’t want to be outdone by your own squire would you?’ he asked pointedly.
The old knight’s eyes narrowed. ‘Outdone...? By a common rakehell like you? That’ll be the day!’
Some of the usual prickliness had returned to his voice.