The Book of Never: Volumes 1-5

by Ashley Capes

  Where had the Bakar gone?

  Never rose.

  From any other point beyond the first wall – the grove would have been inaccessible, there did not appear to be any more openings. The Bakar knew where it was going – so why lead him here?

  He stood, spinning on his heel. “Is this all there is?” he called.

  Only his voice echoed.

  The others were moving slowly through the grove, examining the dead shrubs.

  Never stumbled along the walls – a hand trailing moss and old stone. The grove was larger than a typical garden plot but not a field – he soon neared the original entry point, breathing hard, and skidded to a halt.

  There was a second opening.

  It led to another spacious area – only this one was not enclosed, naught but the outer wall shrouded it from the rest of the forest. Before a stretch of weeds and yellowed grass dotted with stone lay a tiny pool, nestled under the wall, and at its edge were two plants, no taller than his shin.

  Each with deep Red Cloves.

  Chapter 15.

  Never fell to his knees beside the shrub with a groan of relief that unlocked a knot deep in his chest. His shoulders slumped with a smile. At last, at last. Red Clove. He reached out to harvest the cloves, leaving a few behind and dragging himself back to the grove.

  The sweat and searing heat no longer mattered.

  “Here.”

  The others raced over. Karlaf shook his head, but he was grinning. “Have to admit, I didn’t know if we’d find any – or if we did, I half-thought the Bakar would have got us by now.”

  “Well there’s one at least that could have attacked,” Elina said. She still held her bow and arrow.

  “How do we prepare the Clove?” Never asked. “Swiftly, I hope.”

  “Cook them down,” Karlaf said. “Drink what remains.”

  “That simple?”

  “That simple.”

  “Then let’s find something to burn,” he said.

  Once a blaze was going and the Clove boiling, a sharp scent rising from the pot, he was able to stop pacing. The fever had switched back to chills again – it was almost as if his limbs were still pacing, only without the rest of his body. As if the Moor-Sickness knew the Red Clove was close to striking back. Never sat before the small blaze, shivering beneath the flat sun.

  So close. If it didn’t work – would he actually die? Something about that sounded odd. His blood was yet to fail him. Aside from causing so much death in others, it had always shrugged off illnesses. Even the time he’d been blinded after a kill, his blood and his whole body had fought it off.

  Yet there was something different about the chill.

  The Moor-Sickness, however Harstas had arranged it, went deep. To the bone. Like it had attached itself to him. And no matter what his blood did, how often it boiled within his veins, he was stuck with it.

  Unless the Red Clove truly could help. He made a fist. No. It would work.

  “How long?” he asked Karlaf.

  “Be patient.”

  “Wonderful advice to give to a dying man.” His teeth chattered.

  Karlaf snorted and Elina rolled her eyes. “Never, you’re not dying.”

  “Hope you’re right.”

  Luis half-rose. “I heard something. Beyond the wall.”

  Never paused, straining to detect anything beyond the crackle of flames and toiling bubbles in the pot. A hint of wind in the leaves? No. The swish of feet through weeds, soft footfalls. “It’s not the Bakar,” he said. “We’d never hear them.”

  Elina stood. “Let’s see.”

  Karlaf drew his knife. “Be careful, My Lady.”

  She nodded, motioning to Luis. He flipped his spear into both hands and followed her to the passage through the wall. Never blinked sweat from his eyes. Damnable illness. If it were the Bakar out there...

  “Easy,” Karlaf said.

  Never released the rag he’d been gripping to stop shaking. His knuckles were still white.

  Elina soon returned, Luis on her heels. “Nothing,” she said.

  “We searched but there’s no sign of anyone, no tracks, nothing at all,” Luis added.

  “Be on guard – as usual,” Never said. He checked on the Clove. “Now?”

  Karlaf took up a small wooden cup. “Might be.” He lifted the pot from the flames and inhaled the fumes. Lines on his face eased. “It’s ready.” Tipping the water, which had thickened into a thin red ‘soup-like’ substance, he poured a cup.

  “It’s hot.”

  Never accepted it and inhaled. A shiver ran across his face, widening his eyes as they watered. But the fumes opened his lungs and he breathed deep before blowing on the liquid a moment.

  He sipped at the medicine. The Clove-water was sweet on his tongue, tingling. He took another sip and then another, drinking the rest with a single gulp. He handed the cup back to Karlaf. “Do I need more?”

  “No idea. A few more cups to be sure.”

  “Gladly.”

  The next mouthful eased the tightness in his shoulders and back, spreading warmth through his chest and along his limbs, easing the chills. By the fourth and final cup his heart beat so fast it stumbled and he blinked often. But when he stood and strode about the grove, testing his balance, he laughed.

  Steady.

  And his blood no longer seemed to steam in his veins.

  “I think it’s working,” he said.

  “We won’t know right away,” Karlaf said. “The Clove is supposed to be one of the most powerful healers in the world. Maybe it’s just wiped away your fatigue?”

  “Maybe.” Never paused. “We’ll just have to see. In the meantime, let’s find the twin gods. The Bleak Man seems lonely and I want you to meet him.”

  After the last of the Red Clove was harvested and camp broken, Karlaf led them along a once-paved, overgrown road that ran through ruins rising up between the trees. Stone had sunk into moss everywhere they turned, many buildings no more than a room or sometimes only two walls.

  Within one, a skeleton lay in a corner, slowly being devoured by more dark green moss. Victim of the Bakar, Never assumed. Another ruin was tiled like the first on the outskirts, only this time the faded colours were once red and orange.

  “Another ritual,” Karlaf said.

  Elina pointed. “Those pillars would have held small bowls for forest offerings.” She approached one, then bent to pluck a few tiny flowers from the moss, speaking softly as she dropped them within. A prayer? “A gesture only, perhaps.”

  “Can’t hurt to thank Helinir,” Karlaf said.

  The deeper they walked the more flagstones covered the earth, many erupting with the force of shoulder-high thistles, whose purple flowers were sharp with spikes. The ruins were more complete here, though all windows were empty, all doorways dark. Vines climbed many of the buildings, spreading across and between the rubble in green canopies. Some of the buildings were intact enough for two storeys.

  Within one that appeared to be an inn, Never’s feet crunched through the rotten floorboards, thudding to the ground below. Luis pulled him up and he proceeded with more caution, pausing by the fragments of a table. At its sunken centre rested a tarnished dish, empty of all but dust.

  Something crashed to the ground in an adjoining room.

  He paused, listening a moment, then moved toward the sound, knives drawn as he entered the room. Empty – except for a broken vase beneath a mantle. That and footprints in the dust, heading to a patch of light where the wall had crumbled to the forest floor.

  “This way,” Never called. He leapt into a grassy courtyard open to the elements with the walls – like all walls in Sarann – bearing great holes. Gouges in the grass revealed the stranger had taken the nearest exit.

  He followed but the streets and ruins stretched
as far as he could see, with no-one in sight.

  Elina joined him, arrow nocked. “What is it?”

  “I never even saw him. Or it.”

  But within the inn Karlaf knelt by the tracks. “Whoever it was isn’t wearing any boots.”

  The distinct shape of toes and heel were visible in the dust.

  “No shoes?” Elina asked.

  “What does that mean?” Luis asked. “Harstas?”

  “Maybe. Maybe he or one of the others escaped the Bakar and are lost here,” Karlaf answered.

  Luis rested the butt of his spear on the floor. “We thought it might be a possibility.”

  “Let’s hope the Bakar finish off whoever it is, then,” Never said. He strode into the common room then back to the street, shading his eyes. Stone and moss, vines, weeds everywhere he turned. Even the stump of a tower rose in the distance, but no clues as to where the statues of Kathar and Christi would lie.

  “We should try closer to the landslide,” Karlaf said.

  “Did your party of pilgrims come this deep before?” Never asked. “Did you ever see the statues?”

  “No. But if they survived, they’d be nearest the rubble. It’s like a massive hillside. And it’s where the Bakar usually concentrate their attention.” He shrugged. “Usually at night – we have a few hours of daylight left at least. And if night falls we build a fire, a big one.”

  “Grand.” Never waved. “Lead on, Karlaf.”

  The ruins soon bunched closer, blocking more of the falling sun and casting long shadows. When they passed the tower Never paused to peer within – naught but a crumbling staircase and assorted debris – most of it animal droppings.

  “There.” Karlaf pointed.

  A rocky hillside dotted with trees lay before them, its slope gradual. Buildings rose from the earth as if peeking above muddy water, until only the tips of regular stonework were visible. One particularly tall birch rose above the others atop the slide, branches spreading for the sun. Leaves fluttered down when a breeze picked up, taking the edge off the heat.

  Never put hands on his hips. “How long does it stretch?”

  “Helinir’s Wrath covered the centre of the city and spread for miles. Beyond lies the Tindrea Mountains, which were once significantly taller,” Elina said.

  He scratched at his cheek. Hadn’t had that chance to shave – yet, he might not live to see tomorrow, let alone get a chance to return to the comforts of civilisation and razors. At least he wasn’t sweating anymore. “Do we head left or right?”

  “Right. We’re coming at Sarann from the west, the centre of the city will be further along,” Karlaf said. “My Lady, does that sound right?”

  “Yes. And statues of the sun gods would have been plentiful. If any escaped burial, we should come across them.”

  “How will we know it is the right pair?” Luis asked. His eyes were on the streets, scanning the buildings.

  “Never?” Elina asked.

  “I can only assume the Bleak Man has a solution. Either it’s the only pair uncovered or he’ll let me know.”

  Never led them this time, sometimes climbing over the fallen remains of buildings and sometimes the very edges of the landslide; once-jagged rock whose edges were now worn from centuries of wind and rain, stopping to search around any walls that remained standing – but no statues.

  “We’re running out of time,” Karlaf said as the afternoon wore down toward dusk.

  “We are,” Never said. He tossed a piece of stone at the landslide. Then he shrugged. “We’ve survived this long, right? And we found a cure for my illness at least – we don’t have to rush like before. And I think the Bleak Man has asked the Bakar not to attack.”

  “There’s still the barefoot stranger,” Luis said.

  “True. Let’s keep looking.”

  On they searched. Daylight held, even with the deep shadows beyond each pile of rubble, lurking within every empty building and pouring from beyond the white, mottled trunks.

  And finally, Elina called to them.

  Never had watched her drift away from the ruined flagstones and skeletal buildings toward the landslide, combing the face of packed dirt, rock, and creeping shrubs, when she knelt and waved them over.

  A stone foot protruded from the wall of rubble.

  Higher along the rock-face there was another protrusion – maybe the shape of knuckles.

  “We haven’t been checking the slide close enough,” she said.

  “In pairs. We’ll take the wall, you the street,” Never said. He moved ahead, Elina following, keeping near the rubble. Some of the slide was broken up while other parts were smooth as the natural hillside it emulated. Leaves and dirt filled any cracks in the ancient rubble so that shrubs and young birch or hazel could grow. Beneath an overhang of the wall, roots thrust down, exposed. The scent of old earth filled the air.

  His heartbeat quickened.

  Something was near – the twin gods, they were in the wall. Something... the Bleak Man... was sending a message. Urging him forward. Never leapt over a fallen column and skidded to a halt, trampling a patch of young thistle.

  There.

  Set deep in the wall, where streams of the landslide had flowed out like a two-pronged fork, rested a pair of statues. Untouched by the rubble, the slender figures stood linked by the arm – opposite arms open, each hand gripping a staff capped by a small orb complete with spikes, set as blazing rays of the sun. Stern expressions, eyes lifted toward the sky.

  Was it an accident the statues had survived?

  Elina joined him. “Kathar and Christi; the young sun gods.”

  “And the Bleak Man lies beyond them.”

  “In the landslide?”

  “So it seems.” He placed his pack against the wall. “I can feel it, Elina. Maybe Karlaf can help?”

  “I’ll get them,” Elina said, leaving her own pack behind.

  Never nodded, though he didn’t break gaze with the twins. The Bleak Man had been frustratingly vague. If the man needed help, couldn’t he have offered more clues other than the feeling of ‘rightness’ about the place? The wall of stone, dirt and greenery was formidable. Did the old man mean ‘over’ rather than beyond? The landslide was enormous but maybe a depression lurked over the hill? Or a passage somewhere hidden in the rockface?

  Heavy footfalls approached. Uneven – as if someone limped. Had Luis twisted an ankle? Never turned and fell back, reaching for his knives.

  Harstas; and clinging to him, face bloodied, Dimaya, both men breathing hard.

  And beyond them, stalking figures of the Bakar.

  Chapter 16.

  Some of the Bakar were thin, ghostly as the night before, and others were the flesh and blood and fur type. Claws hung from long arms, edges tinged with a cold glow. All walked with soundless footfalls.

  So tall.

  Something in Never’s gaze must have alerted Harstas to the Bakar.

  The man spun, his red cloak fluttering in strips – the rest of which had been used to bind wounds on his legs and arms. Parts of his armour were missing and his breastplate bore a great dent in the side. Dimaya grunted as he slumped to one knee. Harstas cursed and shoved Dimaya back into the path of the Bakar.

  The man screamed but did not rise as the creatures bore down on him.

  Never narrowed his eyes. Coward. And typical of Harstas. Dimaya was no loss to the world but Harstas had tried a similar trick back in the palace with another of his men.

  “That the best you can manage?” Never shouted.

  The commander turned to charge, drawing his sword and parrying blade as he ran.

  Never flipped his own knives up and bounced onto his toes. Even without the Bakar nearby, it would be a tough fight. At least the others were safe for now.

  But the odds needed to be evened. How the Gods mo
cked his hundreds of broken promises, especially those made to himself. He’d always be a slave to the curse. He flicked one blade across the back of his hand, a tiny cut, but enough. By the pause in his stride Harstas obviously noted the act, but he came on, leading with a slice.

  Never leapt back, circling away from the twin statues. The more space the better; there was going to be a lot of ducking and weaving. But all it would take was a single nick. Maybe the cheek? Though, if he got that close, he’d just as soon as jam a blade into Harstas’ neck.

  “I’m disappointed that you seem so healthy,” Harstas said. “It cost my priests much to ensure Witha reached you.”

  What had the priests done? Slowed the illness? Never feinted and withdrew. “You sure you want those to be your last words?”

  Harstas grinned as he leapt forward, sweeping a horizontal line. Never dropped to one knee then twisted when the Vadiya followed up with a jab from his parrying blade. Never slashed at the man’s extended wrist but Harstas was already withdrawing.

  “You really are feeling well, aren’t you?” Harstas said.

  Never circled wide, waiting for a sign of attack. Stop waiting. Counter!

  Harstas swung his sword again and Never charged across the stones between them, deflecting the blow before it completed its arc and elbowing the man in the chin.

  Harstas fell back and Never leapt away. “All that running seems to have made you tired and slow,” he said.

  The Vadiya commander swore and started forward again. They traded attacks, crossing and re-crossing the space between the statues, feet stirring dust. Never jumped upon the rubble then dived away, rolling to his feet before the twin gods. Harstas’ blade followed. Sparks exploded when steel met stone and Never fell aside. He dodged and slashed with both knives in a spinning pattern, slicing and weaving closer, deflecting the sword and aiming cuts at the man’s limbs, slashing faster and faster.

  It kept Harstas off balance. The man had to protect every inch of his body – even one cut would spell the end for him – yet he himself had to land a killing blow. Further, with the bandaged wounds starting to seep blood, the man couldn’t get too close. He’d already failed to take several chances to inflict bloody wounds upon Never.