“… So this is where you hold on, and this is where you rest once you’re in the…”
Simia put her hands on her hips. “We know, Sylas.”
“And you pull back to…”
“Sylas, if we don’t get moving, it won’t matter which bit we pull where,” said Ash, eyeing the throng of Ghorhund below.
“OK… yes,” said Sylas. “So it makes sense that Espen goes with you to keep it balanced…”
Espen reached over and placed a hand on Sylas’s shoulder. “We are the Suhl, Sylas. The winds are with us.”
Sylas looked at him doubtfully and drew a long breath. “Right. Yes. Of course…” He glanced from Espen to Ash and finally to Simia. “It’s just that I’ve never made these before… they’re much more complicated than kites.... please be careful.”
Simia reached over and squeezed his arm. “Don’t worry, Sylas,” she said with a grin. “Birds of paper and string, remember...? It’s what you do.”
His eyes met hers and he smiled.
Suddenly a chorus of chilling howls erupted from the Ghorhund as they caught the scent of their prey. They charged up the final steps with a renewed bloodlust.
A single harrowing scream sounded from the opening behind them.
They all looked from the Ghorhund to the opening and saw, standing just outside the threshold, the lone figure of Scarpia. Her burned face was contorted with hatred and agony. Her blackened arms were raised aloft and there, suspended above her by some unseen force, was one of the giant urns, its orange flames dancing wildly in the breeze, trails of burning oil pouring down its sides and falling about her.
Espen launched himself forward, vaulting with remarkable speed up the steps of the Dirgheon.
“Go!” he cried. “Now!”
For a moment his companions were startled and simply watched him go, but then Sylas started to climb after him.
Naeo reached out and pulled him back. “No!” she screamed. “If we don’t get away, it’ll all be for nothing.”
He tried to pull away. “But we have to help!”
She grasped his tunic and turned him round, glaring into his eyes. “My father’s torture would be for nothing! All Espen’s done will be for nothing!”
He glanced back up at Espen’s figure, leaping from step to step, moving with impossible speed and energy, ignoring the pain. Sylas shook his head and looked imploringly at Simia, but found her standing still, her face full of emotion, but firm.
“She’s right…” she said. “We can’t—”
Her eyes were drawn away, up into the sky. A look of terror formed on her face. The urn of burning oil was hurtling high into the night, travelling in a wide arc, trailing fire in its wake. It was heading straight for them.
As it glided through the air, it was tipping, sending down a shower of flame that cascaded over the steps of the Dirgheon, streaming down the steps towards them. Then they saw Espen, standing directly in its path, his hands already turning and twisting in the air.
“For Isia’s sake, go!” he bellowed, never taking his eyes from the sky above.
They looked beyond his flailing arms and saw nothing but the approaching curtain of fire. It seemed hopeless. Sylas wanted to cry out, to do something – but it all seemed too late. And then they heard a new, unearthly sound. At first a low moan, rising to a wail, and then to an ear-splitting scream. It was coming from somewhere near Espen – somewhere directly above him. The urn was sailing over his head now, tipped almost horizontal, gallons of fiery oil plunging down towards him.
But it never reached him.
Suddenly the urn seemed to stop, turn, then twist ferociously in the air, spinning around, flipping over and over, spraying out yet more of the burning oil. But this too was caught by some dark force and hurled around in a wild, swirling vortex. As it spread, it lit up the sky, forming a colossal inverted cone that even at this distance scorched their faces. It was a gigantic, twisting, scalding whirlwind, dancing at Espen’s command.
“He’ll be all right! We have to go!” shouted Ash suddenly, pointing wildly down the side of the pyramid.
Sylas turned to see that the foremost of the Ghorhund were now just ten steps below them, their bared fangs clearly visible, their yellow eyes glowing in the darkness. Reluctantly he sprinted with Naeo to the other contraption and there he looked at its wings and checked the frame. All was as he hoped.
Without any instruction, Naeo went to the far wing and then, as one, they hoisted it into the air. There they paused, turning to watch Simia and Ash preparing to launch, swaying backwards and forwards, counting down.
The great canvas bird plunged forward. Sylas felt a thrill of excitement as he saw it sweep out into the darkness, the broad wings creaking as they took the strain. It hung for a moment in the air. They heard Simia shriek triumphantly as the wind carried them upwards, but then it tilted forward, slewed to one side and began to gather speed, racing down the side of the pyramid. It dropped out of the sky and pitched towards the stone steps. Sylas watched in horror as the line of approaching Ghorhund began leaping into the air, thrashing their limbs, gnashing their teeth.
“Up!” he cried. “Push on the bar! Push on the bar!”
But instead of climbing, the glider seemed to dip even lower, diving into the midst of the Ghorhund, the tip of a wing striking one of the beasts and sending it tumbling down the side of the pyramid. The collision righted it a little and then, as the great wings bowed and the nose lifted, it swooped upwards, slicing miraculously past the leaping Ghorhund and claiming its place in the sky. Ash whooped; his hand was no longer on the bar but in the air, conducting a great updraught of wind, which sent them far out over the city below.
Sylas and Naeo watched it drifting away until it was swallowed by the blackness, then they lowered their eyes to the baying horde, now just moments away. They turned to one another, catching each other’s eyes, and smiled.
“Three, two, one…” they said in unison.
They stepped backwards, took two quick steps and threw themselves into the void. For a moment all was silent as if they were floating in nothingness, but then, as they struggled to lift their feet into the sling, they began to fall. Their stomachs turned and the air rushed in their ears as they accelerated: down into the great sea of darkness; down over the ragged stone face, towards the Ghorhund.
One terrace passed below them and then a second and a third. Sylas gasped at the night air, closed his eyes and pushed with all his might against the bar. Suddenly he heard a whip-crack of canvas as it became taught, the creak of timbers as they took the strain. The nose began to lift and then, with a gut-wrenching jerk, they were heaved upwards, gathered by Ash’s great current of wind.
They swooped over the clamour of teeth and claws, over the swarming mass of dark, angular bodies, out into the night.
They let out a whoop of triumph as they shifted to one side, changing the balance of the glider and taking them in a long, banking turn. The Dirgheon came back into view, and above it the whirlwind of fire, snaking up into the dark clouds. In its midst they saw the tumbling, glistening urn, whipping around in wider and wider circles as it ascended towards the heavens. Below there was something else, something solid but on fire, long and thin, twisting and flailing as it whirled about in the wind.
It was a human figure, thrashing about as it burned, shrieking as it tried to break free.
“Scarpia,” said Naeo, turning her eyes away.
Sylas followed the wretched figure for a moment longer, then winced and drew his gaze back to the Dirgheon. He scoured its surface for Espen, but already it was a hopeless task. The steps where he had been standing were aflame, engulfed by burning oil. Between, above and below, the Ghorhund were now leaping and snarling, clawing at the air. They poured into the openings, charging into the chamber while others turned and swarmed on to the other sides of the pyramid, searching its every crevice, examining every stone. There was no escape.
They watched in silence, saying noth
ing, their eyes searching desperately, hopelessly. They turned the glider in another wide circle, scything around the Dirgheon one more time. They squinted into the torrents of flame, but could see no sign of him. They let the enchanted winds carry them upwards so they could peer into the openings, but they saw that the lavish chamber was now smothered in black bodies: its hangings torn, its tapestries ripped from the walls. They climbed still higher, spiralling up into the night sky until they were above the army of beasts, until the baying and howls faded far below and they were left only with the wind and stone.
Finally, higher than they would have thought possible, they saw a dark, angular pinnacle: the very top of the pyramid.
There, on a narrow, square terrace, stood a lone figure. It was completely still, a long cloak billowing out behind it, the head turning with the sweep of their glider, following its every move. In that fleeting moment they were filled with hope; their hearts rose and Sylas opened his mouth to cry Espen’s name.
But then he stopped. A shiver passed through his body and a terrible cold flowed into his veins. The figure was not dressed in black, but scarlet; it was not broad, but frail and crooked and stooped. Its shoulders were drawn forward towards its hanging hood and, as the wind lapped at the folds of the gown, he saw the outline of wasted bones and twisted limbs. Suddenly the wind rose a little, lifting the hood just a fraction so that the moonlight slanted inside. There was no face in the shadows. Nothing but a mask of scarlet cloth.
“Thoth,” breathed Naeo.
A wave of horror and fear passed through them, drawing the air from their lungs, clawing at their throats. They were seized by terror and despair, as if the night was closing in and pulling them back to earth.
As they rounded the apex of the pyramid, they saw something else. Something lying at Thoth’s feet. A large bundle of rags.
It was moving.
“What... what’s that?” mumbled Sylas.
But he already knew. He could see the shape of a man’s body within the folds of clothing. A hand curled into a fist. A bald head, glistening with sweat, covered almost completely in tattoos.
“No...!” whimpered Naeo, raising a hand to her mouth, her eyes filling with tears.
But then, as they both wavered, as the great canvas bird faltered in the air, Bowe moved. His body straightened, his limbs straining, his back arching. Suddenly he was looking straight at them, his vivid green eyes clear and bright, glistening with the light of the city far below.
His voice came to them on a silent wave. It entered them unexpectedly, powerfully, as though he was speaking at their ear. But his words resonated somewhere deeper, in their minds, their hearts.
“Fly, my child...” he said. “Fly for us all!”
His voice surged through them, lifted their eyes, burned in their veins. Suddenly they came back to themselves, and they knew what they had to do.
Together they pulled on the bar and shifted their weight, banking sharply, allowing the glider to pull them swiftly away. The great frame creaked, the canvas fluttered and moments later they were sailing out across the city, leaving the Dirgheon, Bowe and the terrifying figure of Thoth far behind.
They flew in silence, the image still fixed in their minds: Bowe straining to look up at them and above him, Thoth stooped over his prey. In some ways it was as though they had seen nothing of the Priest of Souls, and yet they felt that they had seen too much: that somehow they had connected with that hollow, broken figure. They felt that they had seen into his blackened eyes and, in the same moment, Thoth had looked into them. He had seen their warmth and their bond; he had seen their hope turning to despair; and in that one glance he had seen Sylas’s long journey – the Shop of Things, his passage through the Passing Bell, his flight, the Barrens, Simia, Filimaya…
The glider moved gracefully through the night, borne on magical winds, occasionally turning or tipping slightly on a current, its timber skeleton bending and creaking on eddies of air. And, as they flew, so they were soothed by the gentle motion of the wings, the play of the breeze, the twinkle of torchlight far below.
The cold started to leave Sylas’s limbs and slowly, as they came out of their darkest thoughts, he remembered Simia and Ash. They scoured the darkness, hoping beyond hope to see a hardly visible shape, black upon black, turning and swooping at their side.
For some moments they saw nothing, then a dark silhouette shifted in the blackness ahead of them.
For an instant it was gone, but then it reappeared, twisted in the air, then sailed steadily towards them, growing larger and larger. It was too dark to see at first, but then the moonlight caught its wings, its angular shape, its gliding motion. Sylas was about to call out, but his breath caught. He stopped.
Its wings were not fixed and broad like a glider’s – they were moving: rising and falling, twisting and tilting in the wind.
It was not a glider at all, but a giant living bird with a proud, angular head, piercing eyes and smooth downy feathers. It was one of the great black eagles he had seen circling the Dirgheon.
It banked, turned and disappeared into the darkness. Even as it did, two others appeared, and then another. Soon they could see six or eight eagles circling and wheeling above the city as though calling them on. And although they took their own path, they did not leave; instead they came together, gathering around them, swooping and turning, diving and climbing. Sylas’s heart pounded, blood coursing through his veins. The great birds were flying with them, sharing in their journey. They drew ever closer, the sound of their beating wings floating on the wind, their pale grey eyes shining in the moonlight.
“There!” cried Naeo.
She pointed a short distance ahead of them and there, drifting just below a line of cloud, was the other glider, silhouetted against the lamplights far below.
Sylas and Naeo banked, gathered pace and descended towards their friends, watching as the giant eagles glided ahead of them, behind them, above and below them. They called out to Simia and Ash and their friends yelled their greetings while the great flock looped playfully about them, matching human cries with their own, dancing lightly through the air, welcoming them, leading them.
Simia shrieked with delight and leaned out towards a passing bird, her hand touching the velvety feathers; Naeo and Ash exchanged smiles and looked ahead, across the city to the dark, winding river, the broad estuary and the open sea beyond.
Sylas gazed out at the silent beating wings, at the majestic eagles dancing their dark ballet, and he smiled. He reached out, took Naeo’s hand and together they headed out over the carpet of light, flanked by the birds of his dreams.
Table of Contents
The Bell Between Worlds
PART ONE - The Bell
1 Gabblety Row
2 The Shop of Things
3 The Third Thing
4 Sundown
5 The Lie
6 The Chime
7 Flight
8 Passing
PART TWO - The Other
9 The Groundrush
10 The Ghor
11 The Mutable Inn
12 The Lord's Chamber
13 Sanctuary
14 The Other
15 The Say-So
16 The Chosen Path
17 The Water Gardens
18 The Two Worlds
19 The Den of Scribes
20 The Ravel Runes
21 Burned, Scourged, Forgotten
22 The Wave
23 To the Hills
Part Three - The Truth
24 Our Darkest Shame
25 The Chasm
26 Tales Untold
27 The Glimmer Myth
28 Deceit
29 Of Myth and Legend
30 Betrayed
31 What Cause So Great?
32 The Centre of Everything
33 The Sound of the Moon
34 Here or There?
35 The Name of Truth
36 Nature's Song
37 Council at Dawn
38 Magruman of the Suhl
39 Through Ending's Gate
40 Where None Have Gone
41 From the Darkness
The Bell Between Worlds Page 44