In an effort at keeping Cobrora’s spirits up, Ulran asked, “Do you know of the Marsh’s history, Fhord?”
“Not really.” She shook her head, eyes wide as she scoured the briefly visible patches of marshland. “Only that the battle of 1227 lasted a full two quarters. Oh, and the combined hordes of the Devastators were eventually beaten by the Lornwater forces. But wasn’t it a Khamharic victory?”
“Yes; many men lost their lives on both sides. And since that time the marsh, as you obviously know, has been given a wide detour by all.” He noticed Fhord shudder. “Did you sense something then?”
“Yes, a cold clamminess, but not of fear. Believe me, I know the feeling of fear well, and this was quite unlike anything I’ve experienced before.”
“I don’t want to alarm you, but since the battle repeated sightings of the dead warriors have been made. The walking dead... Could you–”
“–sense the dead spirits? Possibly, Ulran. It isn’t an area I would have normally ventured into. But...” She closed her eyes and relaxed to the swaying of Sarolee.
Tentatively, she opened her mind. There was indeed a presence, yet it always backed away as they neared it. No, she was mistaken. There were many, countless separate sensations, hovering, trying to close in yet always mysteriously repelled.
Sweat beaded her brow.
She paled to an almost alabaster hue. “The ghosts – if that’s what they are – they’re unhealthy, mean us harm, I warrant they do.” But the uncertainty was plain in her voice.
Courdour overheard. “Afraid of a little legend and rumour, Fhord?” he chuckled.
Ulran answered for her. “She mentally located a number of ghosts. She suspects they’re harmful and I believe her.”
The warrior raised an eyebrow, as though copying Ulran. “Interesting, very interesting. So the will o’ the wisps have some form after all, is that it?”
Fhord nodded, still reeling at the thought of Ulran not only backing her but also believing in her. “Yes. Their presence fills the air all around us – and yet – yet at a certain distance they back off, as though afraid.”
“Afraid?” Courdour grinned.
Ulran turned to Fhord. “I think Courdour Alomar is suffering from a little mortal pride. You see, he is also known in legend as the Deathless One. Is that not so, Alomar?”
“Aye, you have me sitting transparent before you. I imagine the spirits you speak of are leery of me – though the gods know why!”
Suddenly, without warning, the warrior reared his mount. “What – do you see that?” And he pointed ahead through a brief gap in the curtain of mist. “What do you make of it, eh?”
As the thing vanished behind a thick screen of mist, Fhord rubbed her eyes. “It looked like a tree – upside down!”
“Quite so, youngster, quite so. And I know every part of this marsh and there are no such trees here!”
“Then perhaps we had better investigate?” Ulran suggested, slightly amused at Courdour’s discomposure.
“We had better!” Alomar hurried Borsalac and the splashes quickly diminished as he melted within the surrounding mist.
“Come on, Fhord,” urged Ulran, “we can’t risk getting lost here – my stionery won’t be of any use and your mental eyes will hardly penetrate the interfering spirits, I shouldn’t wonder!”
It was a short though nerve-racking ride.
Courdour had dismounted and stood calf high in the muddy brown bog. He cupped his hands and called upwards into the strange tree: “Come out, show yourself!”
Truly, Fhord had never seen the like before. It resembled the roots of the tree family, all dark brown and gnarled, misshapen, twisting in all directions. And from these grotesque branches hung slimy green lianas and now, vaguely visible, she spotted a small, rather cramped wooden dwelling deep within the midst of the weird branch network.
***
Some of the branches had inverted their quest for sun and air and had turned down into the mire, thickening into secondary trunks. It was obvious why the branches had twisted and bent upon themselves: they would constantly be reaching for the few instants of sunlight that managed to filter through the enveloping mist, forever straining for a different beam of sunlight, a different break in the murk.
And now someone emerged from the shack, clothed in sackcloth that was burred and holed in many places, smeared liberally with patches of mud. The man’s face was little better: lined and pallid, somehow lifeless, the long white beard and eyebrows streaked with stunning silver threads of hair, the man presented a most unusual sight. His hair, matted and black, contrasted with his apparent age.
Eyes of flashing mischievous agate looked out upon the three travellers. “I have waited for your coming,” was all he said, the words croaking like a tree-frog yet quite distinguishable.
Taken aback, Courdour blurted, “But how came you here? To my knowledge this tree wasn’t here when last I–”
“You forget, Courdour Alomar: your sense of time is wanting, alas.”
“Never mind my lapses of memory, never mind how you came here, then,” said the warrior with impatience. “Who are you?”
“A friend. But our friendship is not destined to blossom just yet. I wished only to make an introduction. In time – in time, Alomar – we shall meet again. It is just possible I shall assist you with your quest for the Navel.”
At this disclosure Courdour splashed forward, reaching up, “How–? Tell me, old man, tell me!”
Then he was suddenly staring at mist clouds. Alarmed, he thrust his arm forward where the tree bole had stood, but there was no solid resistance. He peered and stepped forward, but the tree, dwelling and the old man had vanished.
Fhord was disturbed to see the consternation on Courdour’s face. Until now the warrior had been above all things, it seemed, disdainful of mortal feeling and foibles. But, at mention of this “Navel”, whatever it was, he became a trembling wreck of a man.
Kneeling in the mire, Courdour stared emptily into the swathing mist and cried, “Come back, old man, tell me, please! Tell me!”
Slowly, Ulran dismounted and splashed over to the stricken warrior. He laid a hand on Courdour’s shoulder. “Be easy, Alomar. Remember what the old man said – he’ll be meeting you again, at a time of his choosing. Then you will learn, perhaps, all you need to know.”
Gravely, Courdour nodded and, using Ulran’s arm for support, raised himself. “Yes, yes, you are quite right, my friend.” He turned, almost self-consciously, to face the unbelieving stare of Fhord. “I have good cause to be affected, young woman,” he said. “Soon, I think, I shall relate some of my sorry tale – then, yes, then you will realise how little your suffering is in comparison with mine.”
Wordlessly, Fhord nodded, uncomprehending, but sure that within the mind and breast of Courdour Alomar was locked some strange and astounding secret, some pain of immeasurable agony. But she could bide her time until the warrior saw fit.
“Enough of this!” barked Courdour. “Let us get on to my toran!”
***
First to appear were the battlements, irregularly poking through the mist ahead. As the travellers neared, the mist thinned and afforded Fhord a better view.
The toran was really a castle, although small by any standards, filling hardly more than a square launmark. Their horses stepped onto firmer ground, an island. Now Toran Nebulous stood before them in all its mysterious splendour.
The island’s sloping banks provided a suitable scarp and running round the island some way up was the first defensive wall of greystone; every ten marks along this was situated a square crenellated turret. Fhord half imagined curious eyes looked down upon them from the narrow dark archer’s holes.
Directly ahead was an earth ramp, the mud dried and compacted, which led to a double tower over the toran-gate.
On either side of the ramp was a stone revetment – its smoothness dangerously angled – making any sally on the barbican impossible. Fhord looked above the barbi
can, at the armorial bearings of Courdour – a black and white sekor, or so it seemed. She was startled by the sight and kept looking back as the heavy iron-shod oak gates closed behind them.
Their horses came to a halt in a small, quite confined outer ward, the ground unevenly paved. Here, the phenomenon of the The Lake’s Inn seemed repeated for her, with the weeds and grass – which asserted their presence in cracks and joins – disappearing disconcertingly when looked upon directly.
Towering above ahead was the rest of the hill, garbed in more dark greystone blocks, these walls likewise turreted at regular intervals. Some of the walls merged with the central building or donjon. From this hold buttresses and towers protruded in haphazard fashion, some interspersed with merlons and crenels of irregular shape and positioning. Loopholes and small arching windows betrayed no presence of inhabitants. Even the gate, she recalled with misgivings, had not opened with the apparent aid of man’s hand.
As Courdour halted before some stone steps that zigzagged up to another gate and defensive tower in the curtain wall, Fhord looked at the weirdly darkening sky.
The mist didn’t trespass over the castle’s walls at all.
The sky above was normal if ominously filled with storm clouds.
Ulran followed her gaze. “Yes, I thought a storm was brewing before we entered the mist. Yon marsh-warblers cried it plain enough before we had even neared the marsh.”
“We’ll leave the horses here – they’ll be tended for in good time,” said Courdour. He dismounted and climbed the first few steps, breathed in deeply. “It’s good to be home!” He must have given the old man in the marsh a thought, for he shook his head, murmured, “Wouldn’t have thought I’d been away that long, though...” He shrugged. “Follow me, please.”
Dust lay ahead on the stone steps.
Again doors opened without hint of servitors at work.
They passed through the archway, beneath the dark machicolations: dried tar and pitch still clung to their sides.
Courdour waved his hand airily. “Regard yourselves as my honoured guests.”
To left and right below them was the inner ward, paved just like the outer. They now stood upon an arching stone-built bridge that opened into the donjon.
The last door opened and then resoundingly shut behind them.
Before them was a tiled hall. Armoured pieces and swords and other battle accoutrements adorned the walls. Everywhere seemed deep within the clutches of cobwebs, though only glimpsed and not seen: here, Fhord realised, there was no mistaking the fact that Courdour Alomar’s demesne had fallen into disuse.
Abruptly, a shape appeared out of the shadows.
“Laorge!” exclaimed the warrior and both servant and master briefly embraced. Courdour winked. “Could you find apartments for my two guests? And,” he grinned, “arrange some decent food. We’re travel-weary and in want of some sustenance!”
The nervous Laorge nodded and shuffled towards a wide arched entrance. “In here, my lord?” He opened the tall double doors.
The place was a long hall, a dining table in the centre, the interior again appearing thick with dust and spiders’ webs, except when viewed directly. Light peeped through narrow loopholes and it looked quite uninviting to Fhord. She had suddenly lost her appetite.
“Yes, clean it up as best you can, Laorge. How’s Wral, your good lady?” Courdour enquired, rising on the first stair.
“As normal, my lord. Tired and always eating!”
“Good, good! Change isn’t always good for people!” He turned to Ulran and Fhord. “Laorge will find you suitable accommodation. I’ll show you around the toran then we’ll eat.”
Both nodded.
“Then, let us say, in half an orm, meet me on the dunsaron battlements. Laorge will show you the way.”
He turned and with the aid of the balustrade strode up the creaking stairs. Half-glimpsed dust fell on either side of the treads and then he was gone.
***
Dressed in woollen garments to ward off the draughts which she sensed rather than felt, Fhord tested the mattress; it felt incredibly yielding.
And, unlike the rest of the castle, this room she had been allocated was spotlessly clean and lavishly adorned with cheval-glass, gilt-edged furniture and chests; and she felt sure the shagunblend lamp-holders set in the draped walls were of solid silver.
There was a slight mustiness of misuse, but not unpleasant. Sekor pomanders hung in the oak cupboards and their fragrance helped dispel the odour.
From the glass-filled window in the casemate on either side of the bed she could look out across the rolling clouds of mist and see the Sonalumes. Below stretched the sheer toran walls down to the grassy mound on which the donjon was built.
Still no-one was about in the inner ward nor on the curtain walls. But why use sentries when the mist and legend would provide ample protection? If they had not had Courdour to lead them, she certainly would not have ventured even a step into the marsh!
The heavy wooden door opened, creaking on rusted iron hinges.
Startled, she pivoted round, her grey-wool robe swirling. While the floorboards had creaked on her own entry they did not announce any presence – and yet she saw Ulran standing in the doorway. “You startled me–”
“Sorry.” Ulran smiled. “Habit. If you’re ready, let’s find Laorge and seek out our host.”
Fhord inspected the hinges and they were neither rusted nor lacking in oil. “Yes, of course.”
True to his word, Courdour Alomar was waiting for them on the walkway of the dunsaron battlements, his whole frame concealed beneath a myrtle-coloured cloak. “Ah, my guests! What do you think of the view?” He swept his hand to encompass the panorama laid out before them.
These battlements were the highest of the toran, subject to strong gusts. Bracing against the wind, Fhord looked around. The view from her bedchamber was nothing in comparison.
From here was spread the plainsland, the silver shimmer of Salaor Teen, and vague on that horizon the forests of Oquar II.
To the dunsaron, Sonalume Mountains, to the varteron, a smudge on the horizon that must be Goldalese, and just below it the tip of Altohey and to the manderon of Ulran’s natal city was Astle, both volcanoes smouldering, thin brown-black smoke curling upwards.
And manderonwards, their goal, the Twin Peaks – Soveram Torne and Soveram Marle.
Short of the mountains and volcanoes, this vantage point must assuredly be the tallest. She was dizzy at the thought and marvelled at the incredible structure.
It seemed there was yet a long, long way to travel just to the Soveram peaks.
In spite of an unreasonable distaste of the man, Fhord hoped Courdour Alomar would consider accompanying them; until now, the warrior had only “toyed” with the idea.
Immediately above and casting its shadow on them, the black storm cloud gathered, unaffected by the winds.
This high up, overseeing so much of Floreskand, she should have felt like a powerful lord or even a god. But in truth she felt insecure, conscious of her slight size, minuscule in comparison with the rest of the universe and the creations of nature. Why, Scalrin, for example, was immense, obviously a bird designed for giants or gods.
She peered up and, yes, there was the red tellar, appearing from behind the storm cloud.
“He won’t lose us, have no fear,” Ulran assured her.
The innman eyed the scene. “Quite impressive – a view any king would envy, I’m sure,” he remarked. “But tell me, why is it that though the marsh can be seen from a distance, the toran and these battlements in particular cannot?”
Courdour grinned. “I was wondering if you’d notice! It’s a trick of the mist, I believe. One of my retainers has been attempting to analyse the mist’s properties for over forty years now. If you’ll come this way I’ll show you his little chamber.”
He ushered them through a small doorway that required them to duck. “But he’s no nearer the solution,” Courdour went on, h
is voice echoing as he led them down a narrow spiral stone stair.
Cages of glo-moths eerily illumined the staircase; obviously shagunblend fumes would have been too overpowering in such a restricted area.
They came upon a broad landing with a wider stair running further down and a doorway abutting onto the landing.
“In here,” Courdour said, and opened the door.
The chamber was musty and various odours met them like an invisible barrier. Shadows abounded. The air seemed thick with a faint purple haze.
“Meet Cas-sun Eron.” Courdour waved an arm vaguely at a wizened bent old man struggling to rise from a bench littered with glass bowls of every hue and all in some degree of fomentation.
“No, no, don’t rise, Eron,” said Courdour solicitously. “Carry on with what you were doing, please.” He eyed his guests. “He has also been employed on another puzzle for me, oh, it’s quite a time now, I think–”
“Seventy years, m’lord – and my father before me, as well, for almost five score.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” Courdour interrupted. “I’ll doubtless explain further over our meal later, but now, if you’ll excuse us Eron, we must be away as I wish to show them the rest of the toran.”
At the point of shutting the door after them, Courdour faltered as the ageing retainer looked up. “Welcome home, m’lord,” said Eron.
As they descended the stairs, Fhord asked, “How long has this toran been here? I’ve heard legend, of course, and that credits the place as being built at the beginning of time!”
“I built – er, it was built the year following the battle.”
“Over eight hundred years old, then?”
“Something like that, I suppose. Dates and time I found tedious... now I don’t bother with such trifles.”
As they penetrated deeper, the walls seemed to glisten wetly with mildew and the cobwebs reappeared and thickened; Courdour Alomar brushed them aside carelessly.
Fhord’s initial foreboding on entering Toran Nebulous returned with mind-numbing force.
“I have something here which I know you, Ulran, will be surprised to see.” Courdour Alomar stopped at last outside what appeared to be a dungeon, a small barred window set in a door. A rusted key was in the lock and after a few moments’ effort Courdour turned it.
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