The Fathomless Fire

by Thomas Wharton

  This web was only one of many like it that had been strung throughout this part of the Realm, in out-of-the-way places like the marsh. They had been spun and linked together with invisible threads like secret tripwires, to catch one thing only: a presence.

  At the same moment that Pendrake stood on the ridge above the forest and cut a hole in the darkness, the threads of this particular web quivered for the first time.

  The prey had returned.

  The web’s trembling threads did not bring a spider scuttling out of its lair to investigate the catch. Instead, the web began to quiver more strongly. Slow ripples and undulations crossed its surface, then ridges and hollows appeared, stretching and warping the web as if it was a gossamer-thin cocoon with something inside trying to tear its way out. But there was no inside to the cocoon: there was only the web, shaping itself around nothing to create a something. After a while the shapes of limbs could be made out, straining and reaching, then something that might have been a head appeared, slowly turning from side to side as if seeking an elusive sight or sound.

  At last the web that was now a web-thing tore itself free from the branches. The human-like shape fell to the wet, slimy earth and lay still. After a while it stirred, climbed slowly to its feet, and began shuffling forward through the marsh.

  The thing had no eyes. It felt its way as a spider feels the tremors of a fly’s struggle through the strands of its web. It sensed the drawing of power from the Weaving and it moved now towards the prey that had used that power, as though towards a long-awaited meal.

  The web-thing was still whitish-grey and almost transparent, but as it walked it grew more solid and opaque, and its human-like features became more distinct. It passed through a cloud of mosquitoes and a slit opened in the head, widening to a gaping maw. There was a sound of indrawn breath and the insects were sucked helplessly inside. The mouth swiftly ravelled shut. Not long afterwards it opened again and a thin, high-pitched whine came out. It was like the whine of a cloud of mosquitoes, if mosquitoes ever tried to form words. Aaaiiiii … aaammmm … ooooo… nnnnnng… the web-thing whined over and over. Eventually the whine fell in pitch, deepening and growing louder, until it resembled something more like a human voice. iiiiiii… aammm…

  The web-thing was practising speech. It would need speech later on, when it came to the places where humans dwelt. It would have to pass for one of them, at least until it found the prey.

  iiiiii amm looookinnng … for rowennnnnn…

  The thing made of spider’s web had no mind of its own. It was not alive, unless one thinks of words as having life. It was a being spun from words, a walking, breathing spell known as a thrawl. Rowen was one of the words that the thrawl had been woven from. Another word was find. And another word was the thrawl’s own secret name, given to it by the lord of the Shadow Realm. It would speak that name only when it had found the one it sought. Then the spell would be unleashed, and the prey would be caught at last.

  In the old days, if you owned a decent sword and a reasonably good horse, you could call yourself a knight-errant and off you’d go, defending the weak, slaying monsters, searching for lost magical relics … just generally doing as you pleased. The problem was that many of these so-called knights would blunder into worse trouble than they could handle, and if they weren’t killed outright, they would beat a hasty retreat back to Fable, usually bringing the trouble home with them, hot on their heels. Eventually it was decided that some sort of training was in order for these young, would-be adventurers, to help keep them alive a little longer, and to protect Fable from their mistakes. And so the Errantry was born…

  – The Recollections of Grimshaw the Elder

  WILL SLEPT IN HIS OLD ROOM at the toyshop that night, and early the next morning, after a quick breakfast with Edweth, he hurried to Appleyard. The Errantry had a network of scouts and riders all over the Bourne and in other lands, too, and his hope was that someone might have brought back news of the loremaster or Shade. As he climbed the rising stone path to the Gathering House, however, he found the same curious and hopeful looks directed at him from passing members of the Errantry as he’d had the night before.

  He was nearing the steps of the Gathering House, a huge structure flanked on all sides by great trees with spreading branches, when a tall boy about his own age called his name and rushed over to him.

  “It’s really you,” the boy said breathlessly. “They said you were back. I’m Peter, a friend of Rowen’s.”

  Will remembered him now. He’d met Peter when Rowen had shown him around Appleyard not long after he’d first arrived in Fable.

  “I was actually on my way to Master Pendrake’s shop to find you,” Peter said. “You saved me the trouble.”

  “Find me?”

  “It’s the Marshal. He wants to speak to you.”

  Will nodded. He had known this would be coming. Last night Balor Gruff had no doubt reported directly to Lord Caliburn, the Marshal of the Errantry, who found out about everything going on in Fable, sooner or later. Will had met him before, and found him to be cold and unfriendly. He had wanted Will to stay in Fable rather than search for a way home, not because he feared for Will’s safety, it seemed, but because he had hoped Will’s gift for finding what was lost and hidden could be put to use in defence of the Bourne. Will didn’t relish the thought of seeing him again.

  “Thanks,” Will said glumly. He started to move away.

  “Will?” Peter said.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m glad you came back. We all are.”

  Will nodded again, too flustered to reply. He hurried on and climbed the steps to the Gathering House, giving his name to the guards at the door, then made his way through the busy corridors, keeping his head down in the hope of not attracting any attention. But as he passed the hall that led to the dormitories, a girl appeared out of nowhere and stood in his path. She was small and round-faced, and breathing heavily as if she’d just been running.

  “Are you Will Lightfoot?” she asked in a near-whisper.

  “Yes.”

  “You find lost things, don’t you?” she said, her brown eyes fixed solemnly on him.

  Will sighed.

  “Listen, I don’t know what you’ve heard about me but—”

  “My name’s Mairi,” the girl said quickly. “My ferret, his name’s Dart, he got out of his cage this morning when I was feeding him a piece of roast beef I’d saved from last night’s supper. I’ve looked everywhere but—”

  “Look, I’m sorry,” Will interrupted. “There’s nothing I can do.”

  “But if the prefect finds him before I do he’ll take him away,” the girl pleaded more urgently now. “We’re not supposed to have pets in the dormitory. Please, you’re the only one who can help me. You find what’s lost. You saved Balor Gruff. You’re a hero.”

  “Don’t believe everything you hear,” Will said, blushing and annoyed at himself for it.

  “But the other apprentices say you—”

  “Ferrets live in holes, don’t they?” Will said angrily, stepping around the girl. “Look for a hole.”

  Lord Caliburn stood leaning over his desk, a large map unrolled before him. Someone else was with him, on the other side of the desk, so that his back was to Will. There was a feeling in the room, Will thought, as if a thunderstorm had just passed through. He knew that the Marshal and this other man had been arguing.

  Will cleared his throat to announce his presence. The other man turned. He was middle-aged, very tall and broad-shouldered, almost as large as Balor Gruff. His face was craggy and weather-beaten, his eyes cold and piercing under thick black brows. It was a memorable face, but Will didn’t recognize him.

  “Will Lightfoot,” the Marshal said. “Welcome back to Fable.” His voice was as clipped and emotionless as Will remembered it, but the man had changed in some way, he thought. The look in his eyes was one of weariness, or perhaps even pain.

  “Thank you, sir,” Will replied.

&
nbsp; “This is Captain Thorne,” the Marshal said, introducing the man who stood at the desk.

  This was the captain of the guard who had given the new orders about strangers in Fable, Will remembered. Thorne nodded curtly to Will.

  “We owe you our thanks,” the Marshal said stiffly. “If not for you, our best tracker might never have made it home. I’ve sent scouts to find out where this dust cloud has drifted to, but it seems to have vanished. Which is good, but still, I don’t like mysteries. You don’t have any thoughts to offer, do you?”

  “It wasn’t a dust cloud,” Will said. “It was a place. Or no place. I don’t know how to describe it. All I know is, we weren’t in the Realm. I don’t know where we were.”

  “Balor Gruff tells me you’ve returned to the Realm to look for your friends. So this time your coming here wasn’t an accident.”

  “That’s right.”

  “I’d like to hear the whole tale of why and how you returned, if you don’t mind.”

  Before he began his story Will glanced at the captain. Thorne was studying him with a cold, suspicious look that flustered him, then made him angry. Quickly, he told of his meeting with the shadow and the warnings it had given, then how he had set out to return to the Realm and encountered Balor. Caliburn listened without making any comment. When Will was finished, the Marshal and Thorne exchanged a quick glance.

  “But your friends aren’t here,” Caliburn said. “Even Finn is still away, searching for Balor Gruff. So what are your plans?”

  “I was hoping someone in Fable could tell me where the loremaster might be, but I doubt that anyone knows. The same with Shade. So I’m going to find them myself, somehow. After all, people are calling me—”

  He broke off, not wanting to bring up the fact that he was being hailed as a returning hero. But Captain Thorne nodded eagerly, as if he’d been waiting for this very subject.

  “The Marshal and I have heard the rumours,” he said in a low, hoarse voice, “or perhaps they’re better called legends – being told about you in Fable. About your journey with the loremaster and the others. They say you’re a hero.”

  “People have got the story wrong,” Will said hotly. “I wasn’t a … hero. We only made it through because of Master Pendrake, and Moth, and Finn Madoc.”

  At the mention of Finn’s name, the Marshal’s face seemed to darken a moment.

  “I am glad to hear that a member of the Errantry did his duty,” he said. “I would expect no less of him. And I am sorry about the archer of the Tain Shee. I know that he was a valiant warrior.”

  “But now they’re saying that the great pathfinder, Will Lightfoot, has returned to us in our hour of need,” the captain said, with what seemed to be a trace of a sneer in his voice.

  “I don’t know anything about that,” Will said. “I just came to find my friends. To help them, if I can.”

  “Well, one thing is certain, this is an hour of need,” the Marshal said grimly. “Storyfolk are flocking to the Bourne, fleeing war and disaster, and bringing alarming tidings of the world beyond our borders. Storylands all over the Realm, it seems, are vanishing. Drying up. Crumbling away. And as the stories die, Nightbane have been on the move in great numbers. Burning and destroying what remains.”

  Will remembered what the Lady of the Tain Shee had told him and the others before he returned home. She had warned that they had only a brief time of peace before the enemy’s forces would rise like a tide across the Realm. While he had been gone, it was clear that the time of peace had passed.

  “But why are Storyfolk coming here, to Fable?” he asked.

  “That’s a question best left for the loremaster,” the Marshal said. “I only hope he returns soon. What concerns me is the safety of the Bourne.”

  “That is my concern, too, sir,” Thorne said. “And although I’m not pleased about the way this boy was recruited without proper approval, this does seem an opportunity to—”

  “Recruited?” Will broke in.

  Thorne frowned.

  “Balor appointed you his knight-apprentice,” the captain said. “Do you mean to say you didn’t know? He didn’t even tell you?”

  “He did,” Will said, his thoughts whirling, “but … I thought he was joking.”

  A faint flicker of a smile passed across the Marshal’s face.

  “It isn’t always easy to tell with Balor Gruff. But in this case he was serious. No matter how impulsively it was done, he made you his apprentice.”

  “In which case,” Captain Thorne said, “you’re now a member of the Errantry, Will Lightfoot. With all of the duties and obligations that entails.”

  “But I didn’t ask Balor to do it,” Will protested. “I can’t join the Errantry. That’s not why I came back. I’m not staying in Fable.”

  “So you’re planning to search for your friends?” the Marshal asked.

  “I am.”

  “On your own?” Thorne said. “Tell me, where will you go? Which direction? What if the loremaster and his granddaughter, or the wolf, are hundreds of miles away?”

  Will clenched his fists and said nothing. The captain’s questions had gone right to the heart of his own fears. It had been one thing to set out into the unknown with companions like Shade and the loremaster, but to do so by himself was reckless and dangerous, and he knew it. He remembered that the Angel had tracked down Rowen only because he had been able to invade Will’s dreams and seek for her that way. Will had been a danger to Rowen without knowing it. If he charged off now on his own and got captured by Malabron’s servants, they might turn his gift to their own use. He could endanger his friends again. But what choice did he have? He couldn’t just stay here and do nothing.

  Lord Caliburn sighed, and Will looked up to see concern and even sadness in his eyes.

  “I must ask you to reconsider your plans, Will,” he said. “To go alone into the wilds, especially now, would be folly. You would be placing yourself in great danger, without any certainty of helping your friends. You must understand that.”

  “I do, but I can’t just wait here,” Will said desperately. “I have to get a warning to the loremaster, and to Shade, if there’s any way. I need to know they’re all right.”

  “You can be ordered not to leave Fable,” Thorne said. “An order that the guards at the gate will see is obeyed. After all, you’re a knight-apprentice of the Errantry now, and are bound by our rules.”

  “Will cannot be held accountable to Balor’s rash act,” the Marshal said, with an angry wave of his hand. “He didn’t truly give his consent.”

  “The boy’s apprenticeship is binding if you order it so, Lord.”

  There followed a strained silence in which the two men glared at one another without a word. Now Will understood what they had been arguing about. The Marshal was on his side, but against his leaving, while Captain Thorne wanted to keep him here as a knight-apprentice.

  “You have valuable knowledge and experience that none of our recruits have,” the captain went on, addressing Will now. “The way I see it, you could be of the most help to your friends right here in Fable, by training with the Errantry and learning to develop your gift—”

  “I once made the same argument,” Lord Caliburn broke in. “It was wrong of me then, and it would be wrong now. You may leave Fable if you wish, Will, even though I would prefer you remained here for your own sake and my peace of mind. I ask only one thing of you. Stay in Fable just one more day. After what happened to Balor, there’s no telling what other threats or traps might be lurking close by. Give my scouts time to return with their reports, which should be the day after tomorrow. Will you at least stay here until then?”

  Will pursed his lips. He was about to refuse, but something in the Marshal’s voice or manner reminded him of his own father. With a pang he remembered his last sight of his dad, standing on the back steps under the porch light.

  He took a deep breath.

  “I’ll stay,” he said with a nod, though his heart was si
nking. “One more day.”

  As Will came out onto the steps of the Gathering House, downcast and uncertain what to do with himself, a voice hailed him.

  He looked up. Running across the lawn towards him was the girl who’d lost her ferret.

  “It’s Mairi,” she said shyly when she reached him, brushing back her wind-tangled hair. “I found Dart, just where you said he’d be.”

  “What do you mean? I didn’t tell you where to look.”

  “Yes, you did. You said to look in a hole and I did and there he was,” the girl gushed, beaming. “In an old rat hole in the wall behind my bed. I don’t know how he fitted into it but he was in there all right, just like you said.”

  “Well, that’s great—”

  “I got him to come out with another piece of roast beef. He’s back in his cage now and the prefect never found out. Thank you.”

  She was standing very close, her big brown eyes gazing up at him with admiration. She was a pretty girl, he realized, and he felt suddenly uncomfortable.

  “You’re welcome,” he said.

  “I can’t wait to tell everyone about what you did. You really are the pathfinder.”

  “I hope so,” Will said under his breath, and walked quickly away.

  Will returned to the toyshop to tell Edweth what had happened, and that he was leaving the day after tomorrow, no matter what. She tried with various arguments to convince him not to go at all, but he wouldn’t let himself be budged by her entreaties.

  He spent the rest of the day wandering through Fable in a fruitless quest for clues as to where Rowen and her grandfather might be. He found some more of Rowen’s friends, but none of them knew anything that could help him. Late in the afternoon he returned dejectedly to the toyshop, and with Edweth’s permission, searched through Pendrake’s workshop on the top floor.

  The room was not as cluttered as he remembered it, and he suspected that Edweth had been unable to resist tidying up a little while the Master was gone. There were no papers or maps on Pendrake’s desk, and the many books piled and stacked around the room told him nothing. He lingered in the workshop for a while, though, remembering the first time he had come here, and how confused and terrified he’d been when the loremaster told him he was in a story now and he would have to find his own way out of it.