by Kit Hallows
"No. I'm looking for-"
"Because if not," he continued, "the only other option is a dead man walking." He smiled and held his palms out to me. "Or, at least you were, until your own good fortune brought you to old Fuller's portable armory." He picked up a small ax and held the handle out toward me. "This should see you through the deeps. Thirty gold and not a coin less, or I'd be robbing myself."
"I don't have any money."
I was about to pass on, when he grabbed the sleeve of my sweater. "Everyone has something to trade. A favor perhaps? You look like a capable soul. I've got a competitor in the main hall, Simeon Charlton. A goat wanker of a man. Maybe you could...lessen the competition-"
"No. Thank you. I have to be on my way. I'm looking for a place. I was there a few weeks ago. A chamber like this one with campfires and...some kind of...uh...well, they were tall, long heads, swollen bellies." I tried to recall more details, tried to picture the tunnels near Hellwyn's hidden refuge or the chamber near the stairs, but those memories had become a blur. Like it hadn't been quite real, and in some strange way it suddenly seemed like all of it might be little more than a chapter from a storybook.
"That could be anyplace. The deeps are full of things like that."
"It wasn't in the deeps. It was above, there were stairs..."
The vendor shook his head. "Like I said, this place is full of-"
"I think I might know the place."
I turned to find a young man with curly black hair and dark roving eyes. His clothes seemed shabby, but he wore them well.
The vendor snarled and said something I didn't understand. The younger guy lifted two fingers in response, then clapped a hand on my shoulder and steered me away. "I'll help you," he said, as he led me to the other side of the market. "I think the beings you just described were likely Strigolums. Nomads from the east."
I nodded and as I looked him in the eye, I realized I didn't like a single thing about the man. But he was the only lead I had.
"Follow the tunnel at the end of this cavern. Take the first left you come to. Then at the end of that corridor, take a right. Continue on, you'll find a flight of stairs that will take you to the Strigolum camp."
"Thank you."
He shrugged. "It's nothing. I just know what it's like to be lost, and it's not much fun." He smiled. "We've all been lost in one way or another, have we not?"
I nodded.
"Good luck, friend," the young man said, before turning and drifting off into the crowd.
I headed out, grabbing a burning torch from the wall as I went, thankful to find its handle had already been sharpened to a point. I paused to gaze back into the crowd for a sign of my helper, but it seemed he'd gone.
The tunnel was long. Lamps and torches bobbed in the distance as all manner of beings came toward me, making their way to the market. I tried to keep my head bowed, and avoid eye contact.
I found a narrow tunnel to the left. There were no lanterns or glowing fungus, just impenetrable darkness. I glanced back to make sure I was alone, before stepping inside.
It seemed disused, its ceiling low and the floor covered in a wash of rancid oily brown water. I hurried on, eager to get to the other side. I'd walked for maybe a mile when I spotted the end and then a sharp turn to the right. This led to a narrower passage with a ceiling that was held in place by thick wooden beams.
Something stirred in the darkness behind me. I spun round and held the torch out but I couldn't see beyond the glare of the stark firelight. I half ran, splashing through the filthy water, as I searched for the staircase my guide had promised.
There was no sign of it.
I slowed as light gleamed ahead and the tunnel opened up into a chamber. The walls, riddled with yellow-white fungus, cast a glowing light the color of pus and rot. A copse of bent crooked trees filled the center of the vast space, their limbs bare and black. Jaundice-colored leaves were strewn around the chamber floor beneath them; like a disease-ridden autumn tableaux.
A sort of moon glow drifted down from the ceiling, where it arched over the trees, and at its peak a huge creature clung to the rough stone. It looked like a giant grub, its abdomen fleshy white and dotted with sickly blue spots the size of dinner plates. A droning pulse passed through the place as the revolting thing shook and stirred. Then it fell silent once more and its light seemed to brighten, nourishing the trees like a pale surrogate sun.
"What the hell?" My voice echoed around me.
How had the man from the market failed to mention this abomination?
I gazed through the trees to the dark opening on the rock face beyond them. It was less than two hundred yards away. I started toward it, skirting the edge of the thicket, and doing my best to avoid the light shining down from the grub-like creature.
The ground softened as I headed further into the cavern. It turned from solid rock to a thick, spongy dark soil, its scent deathly and insidious, like walking through a charnel house. I wanted to hurry, to get the hell out of this place, but my movements became sluggish, and I felt like I'd aged fifty years. That somehow I'd become an old man, lungs tight, breath shallow, barely a speck of vitality keeping myself alive.
"Why am I doing this?" It took a moment to realize the despondent words were mine.
But they were true. What was the point in any of this? Even if I found Hellwyn's room, which seemed increasingly unlikely, how could I get back to the glass cells? It was almost certain Elsbeth Wyght, bone saw in hand, had gotten away by now. It seemed she always did. But even if I managed slay her, it wouldn't bring Willow back. Just as hunting down the shade who had called himself Stroud, wouldn't bring back Hellwyn or Tom.
No, my life was a constant, pointless battle against an endless tide of savagery and evil. And now I, like King Canute, could see that trying to turn back the waves was an impossible task.
A tree stood in my path and the scent from the soil it had rooted itself in grew heavy. I placed a hand against the trunk and its bark crumbled away like sheets of burnt paper. A wave of heavy fatigue washed over me. I lay my back against the trunk and slid slowly to the ground amid a tumble of ash.
I'd never felt so lost. So utterly, abysmally alone. A stranger lost to the universe, to himself, and to everything around him. I had no idea who I was, and I realized it no longer mattered. I was nothing. A hapless pawn swept up and used by the Organization to further Erland's Machiavellian schemes.
There were countless creatures and criminals who wanted my blood. Sooner or later one of them would have it, and I'd be lucky to be buried in an unmarked grave, forgotten and unmourned.
That was my future.
That was the truth I'd spent all these years running from.
46
"Hurts, doesn't it?"
I forced myself to look up from the ground.
The guy from the market stood before me. He wore a handkerchief that covered his nose and mouth, but I could see a smile in his twinkling, gleaming eyes. "It seems I accidentally sent you to the black orchard. Sorry."
"What is this place?" The words were almost impossible to muster, but I found them and forced them out.
"It's a place where dead things go." He nodded to the giant grub on the ceiling. "So they can feed the Parasythce. Soon everything beneath its glow will decay. The trees, the corpses lost within the grove. You. All of it will break down. Then the Parasythce will descend and feed. Its droppings will seed new trees and renew the soil, then the whole cycle will start again. I find this place fascinating."
"Right." I barely had the words to respond.
"Indeed." The man leaned down and pulled a small, crude knife from his boot. "Now, hand it over."
"I have nothing. I lost it all."
"No. There's a silver chain about your neck. And a ring upon your thumb. Give them to me."
I pulled Hellwyn's necklace out from under my sweater. It was glowing. "A friend gave me this-"
He snatched it from my hand and jabbed his blade toward my eye. "A
nd now the ring."
"I can't. It's important to me." Even through the fog of despair that had clouded my mind, I felt a swell of emotion as I remembered the Christmas morning Willow had given it to me. It was simple, not a thing of much value but it still meant the world to me. Or had. Because as I looked at it again it seemed to be nothing more than a tarnished golden band.
"I don't give a fuck what it means to you. Just hand it over."
The knife found the vein on the side of my neck.
A part of me wanted to fight. To take the blade from him and put him down, but what was the point? He was armed, and here I was, wishing for the ground to swallow me up. And maybe it would this time. I no longer cared. I pulled the ring off.
He snatched it away and held it before his eyes. "This piece of junk means something to you? I'd be lucky to get half a rancid stew for it."
"Then give it back. Please." There was a part of me, a distant stranger, who would have grabbed it from him and broken every single bone in his hand. But that seemed like a me from a faraway past. One that had existed long before my essence had been stolen and I'd ended up stranded in this terrible place.
"Listen," the man said. "I'm no sadist. You want to die and I can help with that." He leaned close, his blade cold against my jugular.
I was about to push in and hasten the conclusion, when Hellwyn's necklace exploded with light.
"What in the three hell's is this?" The man cried. I could him backing away through the blaze of light, holding the necklace away from him like it was cursed.
The sheer brilliance of such a light in this cold, dark place was enough to jar me from my stupor. I climbed to my feet and lunged at the thief, determined to get the necklace and ring back.
And then, to make him pay.
He evaded my ill-timed blow and shoved me back into the mud.
Its deathly scent began to take a hold but I pulled myself up, using the tree trunk for support.
The man began to back away, fear and doubt crossing his young face.
"Come here," I said. "We've got unfinished business."
He stumbled and then took to his feet, hurtling toward the darkness, Hellwyn's necklace lighting his way.
The scent of the ground and the thrum of the grub on the ceiling conspired to slow me, but I broke through the stupor and ran, pursuing the thief as he flitted into the tunnel.
47
I chased him down the murky corridor. The deathly stench of the orchard was drowned out by a scent of must and damp. The only illumination I could see was Hellwyn's necklace as it swung in the thief's hand. It was bright enough to reveal the panic in his eyes as he looked back and found me in pursuit. Then he thrust the necklace into his pocket, causing darkness to spill around him.
All I had to go by was his hoarse, ragged breaths, and the sound of his footsteps as it bounced off the walls and echoed around me.
Habit forced me to reach for a crystal from a bag that wasn't there.
I ran harder, utterly focused on catching up and taking back Hellwyn's gift and the ring Willow had given me. And then snapping his thieving, murderous fingers.
His footfall faded into the distance and my hopes were once again swallowed by the gloom.
And then they were silent, gone.
I slowed.
Was he lurking in the shadows, knife in hand?
A muffled grunt came from the darkness.
I walked carefully, listening hard, preparing to defend myself.
"Shit!" My foot struck something. I fell, flipped round, and was about to leap up when I froze.
Something cold and sharp dug into my throat.
A sword.
And then I saw the silhouette near the tunnel wall. It murmured words I couldn't understand and its cloak opened, flooding my eyes with blinding light.
48
I lay motionless as the blade rested at my neck. The man before me wore a grey hooded cloak and long coppery-brown hair framed his face. He had quick, sea-green eyes and a slight grin within his well-groomed beard. The dark wooden bow and quiver of arrows slung across his back shifted as he brought a lantern out from below his cloak, and I was blinded once more by its glare.
"What do you want?" I demanded.
"He's not from the Hinterlands." A woman's voice echoed from the shadows. I glanced past the man and saw her holding the thief, her arm locked around his throat.
"I-" Words failed me as I peered up at her.
It was Hellwyn – or a dead ringer for Hellwyn, only thirty years younger, and still alive.
She was beautiful, even though her hard iron-grey eyes regarded me with ill-concealed disgust. "Stop struggling," she growled as the thief squirmed below her arm, then she shoved him to the ground. He tried to stand, but she kicked him back down with a long boot.
The cloak above her leather armor fell back and light spilled from a necklace, almost lost within the fall of her raven-dark hair. It was a perfect match to the one Hellwyn had given me. "What's wrong with you?" she asked as she gave me another distasteful scowl. "Why are you looking at me like that?"
"I-"
"Fucking thief," she said, cutting me off.
"Now, Astrid," the swordsman said, "not all thieves are bad. Some of us are actually quite friendly."
She ignored him and nodded to me. "Keep hold of him while I finish with this one." Astrid turned on the thief and yanked Hellwyn's necklace from his hand. "Where did you get this?"
"From him!" The thief pointed my way.
Astrid gazed back at me. "Tell me where you got this, or I'll cut his throat."
"Be my guest," I said. "You'll save me the trouble of having to do it myself, but when you're done, I want the necklace back. And the ring he stole too. They both belong to me."
"You don't get to make demands," the man said, as he wiggled the tip of his blade against my throat.
I held my hands up in a placating gesture and he glanced to Astrid. I moved hard and fast. Shoving the flat of the blade away, I scurried back, jumped to my feet and held my hands outstretched. "Lower your sword. I don't want trouble."
"Then what are you here for?" Astrid asked. "And why do you have my mother's necklace?"
"I'll be on my way if you're done with me," the thief said from behind her.
Astrid held out her hand. "He said you took his ring. Give me it."
The thief reached into his pocket and dropped it in her hand. "It's not worth a goat's teat."
"You're lucky we're pressed for time," Astrid said. "Now get out of here." The thief scampered off into the gloom. Astrid tossed the ring to me. "Now, answer my question. Where did you get my mother's necklace?"
"She gave it to me."
"Why should we believe you?" the man with the sword asked.
"Because it's the truth. She was my friend." I matched his glare and then my voice fell as I turned back to Astrid. "My name is Morgan Rook. I knew your mother. For a short while."
"Lower your blade, Samuel," Astrid said. He nodded, set his lantern on the ground and sheathed his sword in the scabbard under his cloak. Astrid stood beside the lantern, her gaze intense as she looked me in the eye. "How did you know her?"
"You know she's..."
"Yes. I know she died," Astrid said. "I felt her leave. Even though she was a world away when it happened. But then again she was always a world away, even when we lived below the same roof. How did you come to know her?"
"We had a common problem, an assassin. She called it a hexling."
Samuel and Astrid shared a short, meaningful glance before Astrid turned to me once more. "Where was this?"
"My world. Earth. Do you know it?"
"No. But there are plenty of worlds I'm yet unaware of. So that's where she went?"
"Yes."
"Was she happy?"
"I don't know," I said. "Is that why you came here? To find out what happened to her?"
"No. We're searching for a man who jumped worlds," Samuel said. "A very dangerous man bearing a ver
y dangerous-"
"Samuel." Astrid gave him a foreboding glance, before rounding back on me. "Did the hexling kill my mother?"
"No. It tried but she was killed by a man from The Order. Prentice Sykes."
Astrid glowered and said something I couldn't understand. "Why?" she demanded.
"Sykes made a pact with a shade called Stroud."
Astrid glanced at Samuel. He looked like he was about to say something when she cut in. "We're acquainted with someone who went by that name. What do you know of him?"
"We discovered he'd been the one behind the hexling that murdered our friend, Tom. Other than that, I don't know much."
"Tom?" Samuel asked.
"He was also a knight of The Order," I said.
"I knew him," Astrid said. "For a time at least. He was a good man."
"He was," I agreed. "Which is why I'm going to find Stroud and avenge him. Just as soon as I've dealt with a more urgent situation."
"Will you?" Astrid asked. She said it without mockery, but there was certainly doubt in her voice. "Where's Stroud now?
"I don't know. He escaped, vanished through a portal embedded in a painting."
"A painting?" Astrid asked.
"Yes, a huge canvas stashed away in an asylum. You know what that is?"
"Of course. A shelter where lost and broken people are cared for," Astrid said. "Who made the portal? It must have taken great power."
"I don't know. Yet. I intend to find out, but right now I need to arm myself and get back to where I came from. Fast."
Astrid stood before me and peered into my eyes. Her gaze was so intense I was almost forced to look away. "You're a man of two halves, Mr. Rook."
"So I've been told."
"One's admirable, the other isn't. But I believe your story and intentions are true, and blind trust will have to suffice for now. Come, I'll take you to my mother's armory; it's less than an hour from here. She stored weapons there. You can take what you need and on the way you can tell us everything you know." She turned and strode into the darkness.