by Helen Gosney
“I seek justice for all those you have harmed for no good reason... I seek justice for those whose lives you have cut short and for those whose lives you have made a misery... and I seek justice for the land you have poisoned, and the creatures you have killed... I seek justice against you and your cruelty...”
“Cruelty...? But it is a game only...”
Rowan’s eyes blazed at such indifference. His smouldering anger flared into white-hot rage and he embraced it like an old friend as it dispelled the lingering nausea and pain.
“If we mean so little to you,” he said fiercely, “Then play your games elsewhere... don’t use Yaarl as your plaything!”
“You would speak so to me/us...?” the voices sounded surprised, and Rowan realised that this was almost the first emotion they’d shown. Well, apart from Beldar’s amazement at his dagger wound and Pleer Bon’s agonized shriek. And, of course, their consternation at his having freed the direwolf.
“Aye... I would. Do what you like with me. Kill me now if you will... but torment Yaarl no more.” Rowan didn’t bother to try and hide the anger and contempt he felt for these creatures that cared so little for the consequences of their actions.
“Killing you would achieve nothing...” the voices said blandly, “I/we have killed many thousands of your kind, and others... and found it to be... pointless...”
“Pointless! Does a life mean so little to you then?” Rowan demanded furiously.
“Yes... it is all pointless...” the tall beings shrugged. Again they whispered amongst themselves for a time.
“I/we will leave this place now... and I/we will not return...”
“But…wait, dammit! Are you truly the Gods?” Rowan insisted, thinking he could expect to be blasted where he stood if they were. And possibly even if they weren’t. He found that he simply didn’t care anymore. “And what of Pleer Bon?”
“That one has … ceased to exist…” the creatures stirred in renewed agitation for a moment.
“He’s what? Ceased to…? How could I possibly kill him when Beldar just walked away? The wounds weren’t so different…”
They were of course, but even so a wound such as Beldar had received should certainly have been lethal.
“Beldar has gained a lot of power in this place. He has many more supplicants than Pleer Bon. That one was feared, but was not worshipped in the way that is required to boost my/our abilities…”
“What do you mean worshipped? Are you truly the Gods then?” Rowan persevered but he thought they simply wouldn’t answer him again. They did though.
“I/we are the ones that your kind thinks of as Gods… or used to. While they thought that way, their prayers and supplications gave me/ us certain… abilities… in this place. These abilities are as the powers of Gods…that is how Beldar survived, and that is why I/we have lingered here for so long. But the devotion of your kind has lessened, and my/ our powers have waned…” the tall beings muttered amongst themselves again, and moved restlessly for a moment, “I/we would have left this Yaarl of yours soon in any case, but…” they shrugged again, “I/we will go from this place now... and I/we will not return... It is all pointless…”
The one and the multitude faced him for a moment, all of them appearing as they’d first been, their silvery eyes and long pale faces devoid of any expression. Then it/they turned and walked away into the misty distance, until Rowan could see them no more.
He didn’t know how long he stood there, leaning on his sabre and gazing into the swirling mists, trying to make sense of it all. His head drooped with weariness until, with a sudden start, he found himself staring at his own feet. The flagstones around him were cracked and blackened so he shuffled to one side a little, but his mind refused to think about it. He was very, very tired, so exhausted that he really thought he might fall over if he wasn’t careful. That would never do, he felt sure Rose would have something to say to him about it. If he could just get back to Rose.
“All gone, they are... now Yaarl can live as it should...” a shy voice said.
Rowan turned towards it, weariness forgotten as he raised his sabre instinctively. A young man with long brownish hair and mud-coloured eyes quickly stepped back to the edge of the mists. He’d seen Rowan wield that sabre and he wanted none of it.
“You are... you are Rill?” Rowan said slowly, relaxing a little, “I thought you’d all gone...”
“Rill... yes, I am the one some called the river god...” the young man said hesitantly, “The others have gone, but... but I want to stay here... with the rivers... there are no rivers where they have gone...”
Rowan stared at him. “And that’s why you’d stay? For the rivers? We want no more of your ‘games’...”
“But... But I played no games such as you speak of... I tried to help Yaarl, I... I...” Rill’s voice faltered and he hung his head.
Rowan felt his quick temper flare again, in spite of himself. He was simply too worn out to be bothered trying to be polite.
“And how exactly did you try to ‘help’? Was it you who turned the rivers and streams to a jelly, so that the water couldn’t be used...? Was that how you ‘helped’? Or perhaps it was you that made the waters burn...?”
“No! No... that was not me. I tried to help by making the rain, but at first I thought that all water should have frogs and fish in it, as the rivers do. And Hui was not pleased with me: he threatened to hand me over to Pleer Bon. I was lucky he did not,” Rill sighed, “When I cross the bridge, I will lose my powers... I will be no more a god than you... please, let me come with you...” tears sparkled in his mud-coloured eyes.
Rowan’s anger could certainly be fiery, but it was generally short-lived. He looked at Rill closely. He seemed a very young man indeed. Rowan shook his head slowly, thinking hard as he resheathed the sabre. He tore part of his shirt into strips and bound the worst of his cuts and picked up his shortened staff. It was still long enough to serve its purpose. He looked around for his dagger too, but couldn’t see it. He had a vague feeling that Beldar had taken it with him and he found that he really didn’t care any more. He just wanted to leave this place. Preferably now, before he fell in a heap and stayed there.
“If you really want to come, then I probably can’t stop you... at least, not here... and not right now,” Rowan said at last, “But, if you are telling the truth... if you truly mean no harm to Yaarl, or its people, or its creatures... then you’ve got nothing to fear from me. Come, the bridge is this way...”
He set off without looking back.
Behind him Rill gave a sort of strangled gasp as a horrible realisation struck him.
“But we cannot reach the bridge…we cannot get there … the gates are locked and I have no key and no map of the maze! Pyenar the Mapmaker is the only one who knows the way…”
Rowan laughed.
“No, he’s not. I came through the bloody maze and I’m here, aren’t I? It doesn’t change, does it?” He didn’t see how it could, but nothing would surprise him right now. And even if the cursed thing did somehow alter its configuration, he’d found his way through it once and he’d do so again. He might not really know where he was, but his instinctive forester’s awareness of which way to go had never let him down and he didn’t think it would now. “… Oh, and don’t fret about the locks on the gates,” he added. “Don’t fret yourself about Rasa either…”
Rill paled. How could he have forgotten the dreadful direwolf? There was no way past it unless it was whipped into submission, and even then it was very dangerous… and what had this strange warrior said before…?
“Er, er, about the direwolf… Rasa… you did not really free her, did you?”
“Of course I freed her.” He couldn’t and wouldn’t have left her chained like that.
“Then we cannot leave that way. We must enter the mists, and quickly if the door is not closed…”
“No. I’m not doing that. You can if you like, but I’m going back to where I came from, and ‘tis thi
s way,” Rowan said and set off again. He smiled as he heard an unexpected obscenity from behind him, and then the sound of Rill’s reluctant footsteps. “Have faith, laddie. ‘Twill be all right,” he said quietly, hoping it was so.
“The door was not open,” Rill said as they reached it.
“No, apparently not. Silly me, to think it might have been,” Rowan smiled at him, “But it is now…” he bent carefully and put a good-sized rock against it to hold it. “And now, shall we go?”
**********
40. “Rowan...? Is that you...?”
They came out of the building that was so small on the outside and so enormous within. It was very dark, and so misty that Rowan still couldn’t see the stars. He wondered again where he was exactly... what had Moss meant by ‘not in Yaarl’?
“Rill, where is this place? What is it called?” he asked curiously as he headed back into the great maze. Anxious to return to the others, he was going as quickly as he could, but he was struggling with his injured knee. After giving way during the fight with Beldar it would scarcely support him at all. Rill strode nervously at his side, his eyes wide at the severed chains and open gates of the labyrinth whose secrets Pyenar had guarded so jealously, wider still as he saw the marks Rowan had cut into its walls. All the same, his worry eased a little as he saw Rowan’s quiet confidence in where he was going, and it eased quite a bit more as he realised that Rasa truly was no longer in the maze.
“It has no name that I know,” Rill replied, shaking his head as he remembered that Rowan had asked him something, “It is only a place between other places...”
“A ‘place between other places’...? What do you mean?”
But Rill couldn’t explain, and Rowan realised that he would simply have to accept that he’d never know the answer to this or any of the other questions that still nagged at him.
When they finally reached the bridge, all seemed much the same as it had been before, though it was so dark on the other side that Rowan couldn’t see the campsite. They made fairly good progress until they’d covered about a third of the distance across.
“’Tis like walking through damned treacle!” Rowan muttered.
“It will not be easy to cross this bridge,” Rill replied, “There is a nexus in the centre... and I think they will close it. We may not be able to pass through...”
“There was nothing like this when I came across before,” Rowan said, looking around him. There was nothing to see except some faint wisps of mist, but he could feel the resistance in the air growing with every step he took, “... Only a bit of mist in the middle...”
Rill nodded. He was beginning to look worried, very worried.
“It is like that, coming from Yaarl... but going this way it is always a bit more difficult...” Rill was panting a little with the effort of walking forward but they kept going as best they could.
“You said it wouldn’t be easy... but... this is... almost impossible...” Rowan gasped a little later. Now he was struggling to breathe in the thick air and even by using his staff he could barely force his way forward.
“The nexus is closing, we cannot cross! We must return to the island and enter the mists while we still can! Already it may be too late!”
Rill sounded close to panic. He grabbed at Rowan’s arm, trying to turn him back to the island.
“What...? No... I’m not going back there... and I’m not going to be stuck out here like a damned fly in amber either!” Rowan said vehemently, shaking off Rill’s hands. He swore fluently to himself for a moment, and then an idea came to him.
“Maybe Moss was right...” he muttered, fishing in his pocket for the piece of stone he’d been given. He found it and gripped it tightly, thinking of Rose and his friends.
The pressure against him lessened and he staggered forward a few paces into bright morning sunlight. He still couldn’t see any trace of the camp, but Moss was emerging from a creamy stone building near the bridge. The troll stopped abruptly and stared towards him, shading his eyes against the morning sun’s glare.
Rowan turned and looked for Rill. There was an odd glimmering patch in the air behind him. It almost seemed like a huge soap bubble with wisps of mist streaming around it. He thought he could see a faint figure struggling feebly in the centre of it, and he reached back and grabbed at it and pulled with all of his strength. A moment later Rill collided heavily with him and both fell in a tangle, but they picked themselves up and sorted themselves out and kept on going as best they could. There was no resistance at all now, but Rowan was saying some words that would certainly have sent his old Gran scurrying for the soap as he hobbled over the end of the bridge, Rill beside him; even with the staff for support he could barely walk at all.
**********
Moss yawned and stretched as he came through the doorway, pleased to see that the previous night’s rain had gone. He was hungry and he thought he might make an early start on breakfast. Perhaps pancakes, he thought.
But… there was something wrong with the bridge; he could sense it even from where he stood. He turned quickly. A strange pearly radiance danced and shimmered across the light mist at the bridge’s centre, seeming to be expanding and contracting as a tall figure staggered abruptly from it.
Moss wondered frantically if he should rouse the others and run, as Rowan had said. He shaded his eyes against the glare of the early morning sun, trying to see more clearly. The man, for man he thought it was, turned and seemed to search for something; then he reached back into the mist and pulled strongly. A heartbeat later a shorter, stockier man cannoned into him and both fell heavily.
“Rose, Cris, come quickly!” Moss called, “I think...”
“Is he back?” came Rose’s excited reply. She hurried out of the building, followed a moment later by Cris, who was not really awake. It was still very early.
“Moss, what’s happening to the bridge? And who is that?” Cris was waking up fast but the sun was very bright in his eyes and he couldn’t really see who or what was coming from the strangeness in the middle of the bridge. He thought it might be two men, but there was something not right about the ungainly way one was walking. Certainly Rowan didn’t walk like that, even with his injured knee.
The two came over the bridge, the taller one barely able to walk at all, even leaning heavily on a staff as he was. He was muttering something the three friends couldn’t quite hear. As he came closer, it resolved itself into fluently creative profanity. His suggestions as to how the Gods might more usefully employ themselves were helpful, inventive and physically challenging if not downright impossible, Cris thought admiringly, trying not to laugh at the vulgar sacrilege and the very red ears of the shorter man. Truly, the taller one, whoever he was, was a Master of Blasphemy.
“It must be Rowan...” Cris said as he squinted into the sun, “I’ve never heard anyone swear as well as he does.”
“He was a Guard, after all... and our father is a timber cutter...” Rose said absently. She stepped forward, shading her eyes, but came to an abrupt halt.
“Rowan...? Is that you...?” she said, her voice uncertain.
“What do you mean ‘is that you’?” Rowan said irritably, stumbling as his knee gave way beneath him again with another searing stab of pain. He really wasn’t in the mood for this. “How many folk do you know up here with hair this colour?”
“But...” she said, wide-eyed.
“But what? Rose, what is wrong with you? Cris...? Moss...? Why are you...?” he stared at them, baffled at their odd behaviour.
All three were standing very still, gaping at him.
“Rowan... what has happened to thee?” Moss managed.
“Have you all gone bloody mad? I’m away for a few hours, and you’re all acting like I’m a... a damned ghoul of some sort!” Rowan said, exasperated, “Nothing has happened to me!” He thought Rose and the others were making a lot of unnecessary fuss over a torn shirt and a bit of spattered blood; it wasn’t as if all of it was his. And noth
ing much had happened really, he told himself, so long as you didn’t count a meeting with a direwolf and a swordfight with Beldar the Warrior - if he was actually Beldar the bloody Warrior. Oh, and an argument with the Gods, if they were in fact the damned Gods. And Pleer Bon… No, he didn’t want to think about Pleer Bon again just yet.
“Rowan... this is the fifth morning since you left us, and...” Cris said very carefully, still not absolutely certain that his eyes weren’t deceiving him. The tall man was more or less upright, but he looked like he’d fall over and not get up again if he let go of his bloodied, lopped-off staff. His friend didn’t seem to be much help to him either. And the fellow did look like Rowan, even if his handsome, battered face was grey with exhaustion. He was tall and strong looking, well muscled as Rowan was, and dressed the same apart from a couple of ragged bandages that looked to be torn from his shirt. And he carried a sabre on his back and daggers at his hips as Rowan did. No, only one dagger, the other scabbard was empty. Cris couldn’t quite see if they were the distinctive g’Hakken blades or not, but he could see the bone handle of the clan knife thrust down the side of a boot. And certainly the man sounded like Rowan. But even so…
“The fifth morning? It can’t be the fifth bloody morning…” Rowan shook his head in disbelief, and his long braided hair slipped over his shoulder.
It glistened silver in the sunlight.
**********
41. “ It is stealing the life force from you…”
“It is the touch of Pleer Bon...” Rill said, “I did not think one of your kind could endure it.”
Neither did I, Rowan thought to himself, and I damned nearly didn’t. And never mind that maniac Beldar. He looked at Rill intently, but he said nothing as Rose deftly wove his hair back into its thick braid. His shoulder was so stiff and painful now that he simply couldn’t do it for himself. He’d managed to loose his hair one-handed and brush it, bewildered, and then he’d stared at his reflection in the water in disbelief, once again absently twisting his reclaimed ring. His face was unchanged, apart from his newly-torn lip and obvious exhaustion; the cuts with their stitches and the grazes and bruising were all still there, and his hair tumbled down his back, thick and heavy as it always was... but now it was completely silver.