The Bell Between Worlds

by Ian Johnstone

  Sylas’s eyes followed those of the children to the teacher at the front of the class and again he blinked in disbelief. He had thought that the old man was walking to and fro on some kind of raised platform for he looked down upon his class from some height, but he saw now that there was no such platform. The teacher was suspended several feet in the air by the same unseen force. His clogged feet seemed to touch down upon something firm so that he was able to walk as normal, but as far as Sylas could tell, there was absolutely nothing there. At that very moment the teacher stopped in his tracks, turned to his class and bellowed a command in a language that meant nothing to Sylas. The students who were rocking on their chairs ceased at once and the entire class bowed their heads in concentration.

  Suddenly one of the students, along with her chair and her desk, rose into the air, reaching the same height as her tutor before starting to drift slowly round the stage. Soon all of the students were doing the same, sailing up into the air with their weird furniture, then drifting between and around one another until the entire class was in motion, forming a great swirl of students’ chairs, desks and gowns. The surrounding crowd burst into wild applause and a group of very proud parents began shouting the names of their loved ones as they drifted somewhere overhead.

  Sylas was about to leave Simia’s side to take a closer look when the sound of a commotion behind him made him turn. He saw a flurry of activity back across the square, near where they had entered. Then a new, awful sound pierced the air.

  Screams. Screams of unbridled terror.

  Suddenly everything was in motion. Simia took hold of the back of his sweater and heaved him with all her might in the opposite direction. At the same moment the crowds around them also broke into a run, scrambling desperately towards the exits on the other side of the square. The students suspended somewhere high above suddenly lost their concentration and fell out of the air, crashing down on to the stage amid a hail of splintering wood and shouts of pain and fear. Above this thunder of noise came a new sound, a sound that had become all too familiar: a haunting, canine howl. It rose from somewhere behind them, but then echoed from the walls of the surrounding buildings, resounding from every surface, filling the air.

  “They’re on to our scent!” yelled Simia at his side as they reached a full sprint.

  Sylas caught a glimpse of the terror in her eyes and felt a new surge of panic. They were moving as fast as they could between the mass of bodies and flailing limbs, turning this way and that to avoid capsized stalls and the clattering carts of fleeing traders. But they both knew that in these crowds they were moving too slowly. Far too slowly.

  Their eyes darted everywhere, looking for a way to escape, but all they could see was a mass of bodies, frightened eyes, broken stalls, careering wagons.

  Suddenly Sylas lunged to one side, grabbing Simia’s coat and pulling her along with him.

  “What are you doing?” she protested, trying to pull away.

  He headed directly for one of the rattling carts, which swayed under a heavy load of sacks filled with fruit. He pointed frantically.

  “Get in!” he hissed in Simia’s ear.

  He knew that in the cart the Ghor might not be able to follow their scent, especially if they surrounded themselves with the strong-smelling fruit. It seemed hopeless, but at least it was a chance. Simia seemed to understand. She quickened her pace, caught up with the cart, and then vaulted over the low wooden side and dropped to her knees between two sacks of apples. Sylas heard some yelling behind him, but dared not look round: he launched himself forward off his good leg, caught hold of the rear of the cart and hauled himself into position next to Simia.

  He was struck by the harsh, acidic scent of rotting apples and he saw that they were squatting in a mulch of crushed fruit that had fallen from the sacks. He pressed himself down as far as he could and they busied themselves pulling the sacks into a small circle around them – the perfect hiding place. Sylas looked up, wondering if the hunchbacked driver might have seen them, but he was too busy lashing his mules, trying to make his own escape.

  “Ghorhund!” hissed Simia suddenly, staring back across the square.

  Sylas’s blood ran cold. There, in a clearing where the commotion had begun just moments before, were two gargantuan black beasts, sniffing the air and prowling through the wreckage of a stall. He saw in them the features of the black hound that had pursued him the previous night: the cruel jaws bearing razorsharp teeth; the immense, powerful shoulders; and the long, sloping back.

  To his relief they seemed to have lost the trail of scent, for as he watched, one of them let out a howl of frustration, its breath clouding the air, and then launched itself at an abandoned cart. It crashed into the cargo of boxes and crates, sending the entire load flying, some high into the air, some off the opposite side of the wagon and on to the plaza. Most of the boxes were smashed into pieces, and lengths of timber and splinters of wood flew in all directions. The beast erupted from the cart amid a cascade of debris, leaving it rocking precariously from side to side on broken axles. But before it could settle, the second Ghorhund struck from behind, propelling the rear of the wagon high into the air until it slewed to one side, tipping its remaining contents on to the paving. There was a sharp crack as the yoke twisted and snapped. The ponies broke free of their harnesses and ran screaming, the whites of their eyes flaring as they galloped through the fleeing crowds.

  The Ghorhund tore at the sides of the cart with their huge jaws, pulling away great mouthfuls of timber and metal, then hurling it away with a sharp flick of their powerful necks.

  “That could have been us,” murmured Sylas.

  Their cart was accelerating towards the edge of the square and they could hear the driver shouting at people to get out of the way and cracking his whip at the mules, trying desperately to make them run faster. The sight of the fleeing ponies had now set them at a full gallop so that the cart was swaying dangerously on the slippery surface. The two children clung on to the sacks, desperate to stay hidden.

  “Look!” hissed Simia, her face betraying a new fear.

  Sylas followed her frightened eyes and saw three huge figures entering the square, then jogging towards the Ghorhund. They bounded lightly in a way that seemed unnatural in men so large, taking huge strides with ease. He recoiled in horror as he saw why: their powerful legs bent backwards at the knee like the rear legs of an animal, giving them an aberrant, predatory stance. In truth they seemed as much beast as man, with dark, matted fur rising from clawed feet up sinewy legs and appearing again above their black tunics in patches across their shoulders and down their arms to long, hooked fingers. Bristles gathered around the back of their necks to form a thick mane that covered most of their massive heads, which hung low between their shoulders as they ran. Their faces were difficult to see, but even at this distance Sylas could make out areas of pale human skin covering parts of an elongated jaw that rose to what looked almost like a snout.

  Almost, but not quite, for there was not one thing about these creatures that was neither man nor beast, but rather a mixture of the two: they moved with the agility and power of an animal, but with the precision and intent of a man; they had the stature and gait of their human cousins, but their manner was of threatening, rapacious hunters.

  “The Ghor,” murmured Simia, her voice full of dread.

  They drew near the Ghorhund, slowed and then, with a single purpose, fanned out across the square, one loping along each edge, the third jogging into the centre, stooping low at times to examine the paving. Suddenly, just a short distance past the Ghorhund, it stopped and lowered its head to the ground. It paused there for a moment as though sniffing the stone, then raised itself up and looked directly towards the fruit cart.

  Sylas could feel its keen eyes searching among the sacks.

  Then, in one swift movement, the hunter threw its head back in the air and to his horror it let out a bloodcurdling, canine howl. Moments later it started forward and began s
printing at an astonishing speed towards them. The others changed direction and fell in behind, soon moving as one, striding perfectly in time, their massive claws beating out a single terrifying rhythm. Just moments later they were overtaken by the two Ghorhund, which flew across the square, baying lustily as they rejoined the hunt.

  At that moment the fruit cart skidded round a corner into a busy road lined with shops and stalls. The smell of smoke became more powerful and Sylas could hear the chatter and bustle of crowds, but he was hardly aware of his surroundings. Instead his eyes were fixed on the corner that they had just turned, watching for the first sign of their pursuers. Simia pushed herself up on her hands to peer cautiously over the top of the sacks.

  “We’ve got to get out of the cart,” she said. “Wait for me to move, then do as I do.”

  Sylas nodded and eased himself a little off his haunches to make sure that he was ready. They passed a hanging sign bearing the words The Mutable Inn written in large ornate lettering.

  “Now!” exclaimed Simia, and she stood up and launched herself into the air, falling quickly out of sight. He hauled himself to his feet and saw her land some distance away, staggering slightly and bracing herself against the wall of the inn. He heard the cry of the driver from behind and saw a number of faces turn in the street, but dared not look: he braced himself against the side of the cart and threw himself into the air. He cleared the muddy road and landed next to Simia on the stone terrace of the inn, grimacing from the pain in his knee.

  Simia drew close to him. “Follow me inside,” she said under her breath. “And, for the sake of Isia, cover up your trinket!”

  He glanced at the bracelet shining brightly on his wrist and, with a glance up and down the busy street, he covered it with the muddy sleeve of his jacket. He saw Simia disappear through the large wooden door of the Mutable Inn, and he quickly followed her.

  As he pulled it closed behind him, he heard a noise in the street. He was tempted to ignore it, but could not resist peering out through the small glass panel mounted in the door. Once again people were running, screaming and shouting as they glanced anxiously back down the road. Soon their cries were drowned out by the vicious howls of the Ghorhund: and then they came, their massive paws pounding into the dirt with such thunderous force that the door rattled on its hinges. People threw themselves to the ground, against walls and through doorways, as the two black beasts streaked past the inn, crashing through abandoned stalls and boxes, knocking those who moved too slowly to the ground and tearing the road into a shower of mud and grit that splattered the window. They sped on, driven wild by the hunt, oblivious to the pale face peering out at them from the inn.

  Sylas watched as the poor people in the road stared fearfully after the Ghorhund, then slowly turned and looked the other way – their faces filling with a new terror. Those who had been thrown to the ground roused themselves and scrambled to the side of the road, heads lowered as if fearing a blow. He heard the Ghorhund reach the fruit cart in which they had escaped, announced by the crash of splintering wood followed by a chilling howl of triumph and the screams of the unfortunate driver.

  Then, as a woman whimpered outside the inn door, three silent shadows moved in front of the window.

  11

  The Mutable Inn

  “… such is their power to change the very fabric of the world.”

  THE DARK, ALMOST-HUMAN shapes were stooped forward, their heads sweeping low as they bounded lightly along the street, making so little sound that, were it not for the gentle fall of their feet in the mud, he would have thought them ghosts or apparitions. Sylas knew instinctively that even as they ran they could hear the slightest noise, and he found himself holding his breath as he watched. Their movement was wolfish and hungry, but they moved with remarkable control, striding in perfect unison and in precise formation. They took no notice of each other, their disfigured heads swinging from side to side as they took in the pale, fearful townsfolk at the sides of the street.

  For the first time Sylas saw their faces and he felt his stomach turn. Their pendulous, hooded brow and monstrous jaw and cheekbones were almost canine, yet amid the patchwork of pale human skin and dark matted fur were quick, intelligent human eyes, seeing everything with a deliberateness and menace that was far from animal-like. They were both the handler and the hound: measuring the situation, scrutinising every detail of the street and all the while hunting as a pack. He felt the same creeping terror that he had seen in Simia. His chest tightened, the blood drained from his face and he took an involuntary step away from the door.

  None of them seemed to see him at the window, or hear his short breaths, or sense his fear. As quickly as they had come, they were gone.

  Sylas exhaled, his breath clouding the glass.

  “What are you doing? Come on!”

  He turned and saw Simia standing in the inner doorway.

  She beckoned to him urgently, then disappeared into the room beyond.

  He gathered his nerves and followed her, leaving behind a distant sound of splintering wood, shouts and wails issuing from a neighbouring street.

  The strong scent of smoke filled his nostrils as soon as he walked into the dimly lit interior of the inn. It was not the smoke that he had smelt on the street, or the smoke of cigarettes or pipes, but one with a weirdly sweet and fresh aroma. So strange was the scent that it took him a few moments to identify it as that of common, freshly cut green grass, spiced with burning tobacco. He looked about the gloomy room to try to find its source and saw scores of men huddled low over tables, most smoking long pipes, others gulping from metal tankards. Some raised their heads as he entered and stared at him steadily for a moment, but they soon lost interest and returned to their conversations. The low drone of voices was broken only by an occasional cough and peals of laughter from a table at the end of the room.

  He looked for Simia and soon saw her balancing on the first rung of a stool at the bar, talking excitedly to a tall barman, who looked with interest over her shoulder towards Sylas. He had an odd appearance, with massive, clumsy-looking limbs and a long, doleful face that was made even longer by an overly long nose, a narrow mouth and a redoubtable chin that hung far below. But his most striking feature was the great shiny dome of his head, which at first seemed to bear some sort of hat or skullcap but, on closer inspection, revealed itself to be emblazoned with a vast array of tattoos: shapes, symbols and markings that encircled his crown to astonishing effect.

  The barman leaned his large frame forward and rested his elbows on the bar, his piercing green eyes taking everything in. Sylas could feel them interrogating him, exploring his every feature until he had the distinct impression that they could even see what he was thinking. The strange man seemed to be looking into him, layer by layer, peeling them away like the pages of a book. Sylas shifted uncomfortably and, not knowing what else to do, smiled. The man held his gaze without responding, then turned back to Simia, said something and walked quickly to a door at the rear of the inn. As he opened it, he glanced back at Sylas and gave him a brief nod that looked almost like a bow, then disappeared into the darkness beyond.

  Relieved to be freed from the man’s penetrating gaze, Sylas turned to see Simia beckoning him to join her at the bar. To his surprise, she looked almost as cheerful and relaxed as she had before the chase: her cheeks had regained their ruddy colour and her eyes some of their lively sparkle. As he drew close, she leaned forward and whispered in his ear.

  “We’re safe, for now at least. Thanks to the cart we’ve broken the trail,” she said with reassuring confidence, but without acknowledging that it had been Sylas’s idea. She nodded towards the door at the rear. “Bowe is a friend. He’s gone to check that the way is clear.”

  “Strange... it was like he could see right through me,” said Sylas.

  She laughed. “Oh, don’t mind that – he just has a way of seeing things. It’s what he does.”

  “What he... does.”

  “Yep,”
she said matter-of-factly, pushing herself up on to the barstool to peer out of the window to the street. “Now we should have some time for a real drink, if you fancy?”

  He looked at her, bewildered by her calm – only moments ago they had been fleeing for their lives. But he could not deny his thirst.

  “Sure,” he said, heaving himself on to a neighbouring stool.

  Simia reached over to an abandoned tankard on the bar and peered into it with interest, then held it out to him. Sylas looked at the dark green contents doubtfully, sloshing them around and sniffing at them, then raised the tankard to his lips. Carefully at first, then with increasing abandon, he drank down the contents. The flavour was decidedly odd but delicious: a mixture of lemons, rhubarb and woodsmoke. The combination was surprisingly sweet and refreshing. He finished it in large satisfying gulps, then set down the tankard with a loud belch. He was dimly aware of Simia watching him with keen interest and a suppressed smile.

  “’Scuse me,” he said. “That’s great – what is it?”

  He clamped his hand over his mouth.

  With each word, clouds of pungent, sweet green smoke billowed between his lips. Simia shrieked with laughter and banged the counter with glee. He stared at her with a mixture of alarm and embarrassment, then parted two of his fingers and spoke quietly, trying in vain not to exhale as he did so.

  “What is this stuff?” he mumbled, breathing out a succession of smoke signals depicted in glorious greens and yellows.

  Simia was still heaving with laughter. “Oh, it’s… sorry... your face!” She let out another shriek of delight, then worked hard to gather herself. “It’s called Lemon Plume,” she said, drawing a long breath. “It’s a favourite with this lot – the Muddlemorphs.”

  “Muddlemorphs?” repeated Sylas with interest, seeing to his relief that the smoke was growing thinner and less noticeable.

  “Pretty much everyone here is a Muddlemorph,” she said. “They can change things – play around with stuff – change it from one thing into another. It’s a weird kind of Kimiyya – the Third Way. They come here to work on the farms: making the soil better, cleaning the water, that kind of thing. Problem is, they love their tricks so much that they spend all their time showing them off to each other in taverns like this.”