The Quest of Narrigh (The Other Worlds Book 1)

by S. K. Holder

  Hiera collected his and charged up to one of the riders on horseback. His face burned with rage. He waved the Wings in the rider’s face, spitting and shouting in a foreign tongue.

  Osaphar exhibited a quiet reserve, but the two riders beside him began to cackle loudly.

  ‘What’s he saying?’ Connor asked Amelia.

  ‘I don’t understand gypsy tongue,’ she replied. ‘But he’s waving his arms about a lot, so I don’t think it’s friendly.’

  One of the mocking Rider’s sneered at Hiera. ‘Shut up!’

  Hiera removed his helmet and set it on the ground.

  ‘Tahark a sha dasamon!’ he cried, shaking his fist at the mounted rider. His auburn eyes were like flame.

  ‘Put your helmet back on gypsy nut!’ bellowed a man, squatting at the opening of a tree. ‘Nobody’s interested in what you’ve got to say. We’re following Shardner’s orders here not yours.’

  ‘Maybe Hiera doesn’t like what they’re doing to the Dal-Carrion,’ Amelia observed. ‘Gypsies are funny like that. They care for all living creatures, even the ones that can rip you to shreds.’

  Connor barely heard her. Another thunderous roar exploded through the shrouded forest. He couldn’t tell where it came from.

  Amelia dug her fingers into his arm, but not out of fear, he ascertained. She was warning him that the time had come to make their escape.

  Connor cast about frantically looking for an opportunity, a breach between men, trees, winged-beasts and horses through which they could charge their way to freedom. Silver Riders barred the way ahead, and through the roar came the thundering of hooves from another company of Silver Riders galloping up behind them.

  He glimpsed the blue light again skirting the edges of the enclosure.

  ‘Your Seekers-light!’ gasped Amelia, catching sight of the light darting back and forth among the trees for the first time. ‘Put it out! Put it out before someone sees.’

  Connor called to mind the streak of light that had burst from the pendant when the Dal-Carrion were trying to bury him alive. The Blue Light. The Blue Forest. He seized the chain around his neck. The light had been there all this time.

  Hiera’s blood-curdling scream broke his moment of clarity. He shot around to see Hiera’s Herming Moth Wings suspended in the air. The Wings had snapped apart and the head of the Dal-Carrion, minus its body, rose up from the mystifying depths of the open Wings, lunged at Hiera and impaled him on its ivory tusk by the neck.

  A fountain of blood spurted from the gypsy’s neck. The other riders looked on in morbid fascination. Only when they heard Hiera’s neck crack, did one of the Silvers Riders draw his silver barrel from his belt, release the squirming tentacles, and in one fluid movement strike the Dal-Carrion, cutting its head clean off. The lifeless head of the Dal-Carrion and Hiera’s limp body fell to the ground with a heavy thud. The Wings clamped shut and dropped lightly onto the tail of Hiera’s cloak.

  At that moment, hundreds of Dal-Carrion came charging from the sky, their enormous wings creating a canopy over the sombre forest.

  In the mayhem that followed, Connor and Amelia took their chance, sliding under the bellies of the horses, dodging flying hooves, and scrabbling over mounds of soil, until the cries of beast and men became an imperceptible noise in the distance.

  NINE

  There is a myriad of underground tunnels and caves in Narrigh. It is simple to lose your way in them. The lighting is poor and the air is rarely pleasant. Take a wrong turn and you can stumble upon a bundle of riches, discover a secret door, or meet an untimely end...

  Skelos found that the slope to freedom was more rocky than slippery. As he stumbled down a dark tunnel, he wondered if he would ever see the light again. Salt-water sludge and crystal formations hung low from the tunnel’s roof, forcing him to continue his journey stooping and shuffling like an old man. The sludge water stench had burrowed its way into his pores, curdling in his throat. There was no end to this tunnel it seemed and he found the trek dizzying.

  He came to a bend, which brought him to a lofty stretch of tunnel where he could walk upright. He took the next bend at full pelt and skidded into a limestone chamber where he was startled by an old man, dressed in a stained grey shirt and a pair of ragged trousers. The Old Man pressed a cold dagger to Skelos’s throat and clapped his hand over Skelos’s mouth.

  Skelos observed that the man was shorter than him. The top of his captor’s head nudged his shoulder blade. He had a braided snow-white beard, which hung almost to his waist. His blotchy face was as dry and leathery as a lizard.

  On the floor of the chamber was an oil lamp and a flask.

  Skelos thought it best to negotiate first but found his attempts at conversation thwarted by the hand over his mouth. ‘Release me.’ He said the words inside his own head, hoping the old man had the ability to hear him. Was that how the Avu’lore worked? His mind was an open book and he could control all those who read it? It worked before, perhaps it will work again.

  His captor didn’t respond. He simply tightened his grip on the dagger’s hilt. ‘Don’t think I won’t stick your throat if you try anything. I’m old, but I’m quick.’

  Skelos pulled the dagger from his throat by the blade and shoved the man in the chest with his elbow.

  The dagger clattered to the ground. The Old Man’s jaw went slack.

  Skelos tugged down the sleeve of his robe and wrapped it around his hand, sliced through to the bone. The wound was gurgling blue blood.

  ‘You-you keep back!’ said the Old Man. His steely-grey eyes bulged as he stared at the blood seeping through the fabric of Skelos’s robes. He then began to scurry around in search of his dagger. Evidently, the shock had not left him paralysed with fear.

  Skelos saw the dagger wedged in a crack in the rock. The Old Man had stared in the same spot twice but had not seen it. ‘Who are you? What are you doing down here?’

  The Old Man’s eyes grew wide with indignation. ‘I ask the questions. This is my territory you’re on.’

  ‘You own the tunnels, do you? I’m sure the Shardner will beg to differ.’

  ‘It’s my patch, is what I meant to say,’ replied the man, though his voice had lost some of its edge. ‘Humph…well, my name’s my own business, so it’s sir to you. You shouldn’t be down here. Danger waits around every corner of these caves, but you’d know that by now I suppose.’

  Skelos flashed him a cautious smile. Until he learned the Old Man’s Profession, it would do to be cautious. And Sir may be of use.

  Skelos unwound his sleeve from his cut hand. His wound had healed quicker than he anticipated, save for a tiny patch of blue. He flexed his fingers.

  The Old Man passed a disconcerting eye over Skelos’s healed hand.

  ‘I appear to have gotten a little lost, sir,’ said Skelos. ‘Do you think you can help me find my way out of here? The name’s Gyan by the way, and I have coin.’

  TEN

  Connor ignored Amelia’s pleas to extinguish his Seekers-light. He was sure it would lead them out of the forest. It might even take me home. Home was a three-bedroom house in London, not a creepy forest with monsters, strange girls and no wheeled transportation.

  He didn’t want flesh-eating birds or the Shardner’s Special Army to decide his fate. He tried to explain to Amelia that he did not come from Narrigh and he had no idea how he arrived in the forest. She didn’t seem interested.

  ‘You’re very stupid,’ she said after a while. ‘And you’re sick.’

  ‘I’m not sick and I’m not stupid.’ He took hold of her wrist and stubbornly pressed on, forcing her to pursue the beacon of light without a thought to where it was taking them. He did not want to take his eyes off it, not even for a minute. His head was spinning. The blood gorged in his temples and his lungs burned. He swallowed hard, gulping the rising bile in his throat.

  The sphere of blue light flitted amongst the growing foliage. After some time, it expanded into a floating pyramid, which glided along t
he forest floor.

  The Seekers-light carried them to the Northern fringe of the forest where the ice had melted. A worm poked its head up from the cracked soil. The trees overflowed with dark fleshy leaves and the darkness unfurled around them. The catacomb of eeriness was broken.

  Connor collapsed against a crooked tree and threw up. Amelia stooped down beside him, resting her hand on his shoulder. He crumpled to the ground. The poison’s taking hold now, he thought. I’m dying and there’s no one here who can save me. His mum wasn’t around to take care of him and he had no medicine to make him feel better.

  He feebly pushed Amelia away and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. He snatched a few gulps of water from his flask. He offered the rest to Amelia.

  She took a tiny sip and handed it back to him. ‘We have to make it last.’

  He returned the flask to his bag. ‘How do you know about the Seekers-light?’

  ‘Because I used to have one. It’s called a Seekers Egg. It’s supposed to keep you out of danger.’

  The Seekers-light hovered close by, giving off a warm sensuous glow.

  ‘Then it’s working?’

  ‘The Seekers Egg obviously doesn’t belong to you, seeing as you know next to nothing about it,’ she said, combing her fingers through her hair. ‘It will take you to its owner. If it wanted to lead us away from danger, it would take us South where it’s Dal-Carrion free, not further north.’

  Connor knew the North was bad. The Dal-Carrion were not their only enemies. Gamnod people, Darque Goblins, Drone Elves, and Traceless Ones all lived in the North, not that he had seen any. It was possible they were hiding, lying in wait, and ready to attack. He glanced over his shoulder. He didn’t know how far they had come, let alone from which direction. It was too late to turn back. He was too weak, too tired. ‘Where do you come from?’

  She showed him the palm of her right hand. Beneath her thumb was an inky blue tattoo of the letter ‘I’, or it might have been a ‘1’, he wasn’t sure. ‘Same place as you.’

  He felt a sudden tugging sensation in his temple. ‘You’re from Earth?’

  ‘No stupid, Odisiris.’

  He supported his weight against the tree. Fighting the tremors in his legs, he staggered to his feet. ‘Don’t call me stupid, and I’m not from Odisiris. Where’s Odisiris?’

  ‘A whole other world, a long way from here.’

  ‘I’m from a whole other world too, but not that one.’ To his mind, his world was small. It consisted of his house in London, the school at the bottom of his road, the local shopping centre and his friend Riley’s house; five streets along from his own.

  ‘Okay. Show me your right hand.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Just show me stu Connor.’

  Reluctantly, Connor showed her his hand.

  ‘There,’ she said pointing at the scar. ‘You have the Mark.’

  ‘That’s not a mark,’ said Connor snatching his hand away. ‘That’s a scar.’ Where the poison is seeping through and driving me mad. And yet he couldn’t help but notice the inky blue in his scar was the same colour as Amelia’s tattoo.

  She crossed her arms. ‘How did you get it then?’

  Connor hugged himself. Amelia was good at making him feel stupid. ‘I don’t remember. Who cares? How do you know my name anyway? I never told you.’

  ‘It’s written on your left ankle.’

  ‘It is not!’ Connor yanked off his left boot in a flash. He peeled off his damp dirty sock and lifted his foot up to his face. Below the knobbly bone of his left foot was his name, tattooed in the same inky blue as his hand. He frowned at it. How did it get there?

  Amelia handed him his sock. ‘You’re a Citizen. A Marked One. Your Status is determined by the colour of your blood.’

  Marked One? He didn’t like those words. They suggested you were a slave or you were earmarked for assassination. If anything, he was a warrior from Undren village. And his blood was red. He kept quiet. He didn’t have the strength to argue with her. He put his sock and boot back on. He steadied himself against the tree trunk and tied a rough knot in his bootlace. He was feeling light-headed again. He watched the hovering blue sphere. Cracks had begun to appear in its rippling stream. ‘What’s wrong with it?’

  ‘It’s running out of energy. You have to shut it off for a while or you’ll lose the light forever. That’s what happened to mine.’

  ‘Isn’t it magic?’

  She rolled her eyes and smoothed down the hem of her skirt. ‘Don’t be silly. It’s not magical. There’s no such thing as magic in Odisiris. Seekers Eggs are the property of Sentinels. When we find the Sentinel who gave it to you, they’ll tell you how you got here. They’ll tell you everything.’

  Connor didn’t know if there were Sentinels in Narrigh. He certainly didn’t remember one giving him a Seekers Egg. He clutched the Egg in his trembling hand. He turned the stone band in an anti-clockwise direction. The Seekers-light vanished with a pop.

  The trees were starting to cast shadows, making strange beast-like shapes Connor did not like. He saw teeth, claws, eyes and jaws.

  It was getting dark and they were on the wrong side of the forest. ‘We’d better go.’ He took a few faltered steps. ‘We need to get out of the forest and find shelter before night-time.’

  Amelia gave him a surly glance that suggested he didn’t have it in him. Connor grunted, pushed out his chest and marched past her just to prove he had.

  ELEVEN

  The undergrounds of the South consist of a heady mix of truncated tunnels and passages, connecting a web of sinister chambers.

  The glowing jewels of the cave emit a light of their own from their craggy walls. However, there are chambers where the light has gone out, dug away by man or swallowed by the cave-dwelling beasts. These chambers sit dark and brooding, waiting to be occupied by whatever species the tunnels throw their way.

  Some of the chambers are dank muddy ventricles, while others ascend into dry bone cavities, harbouring fierce draughts, their floors eroded by the natural forces of nature.

  Skelos clambered after the Old Man in a tunnel that was becoming increasingly treacherous as it was narrow. The pools of water that had collected in the pitted ground embraced the nauseating reek of death.

  His mind played tricks on him. He would see smouldering lights where there was none. And grotesque shadows that were not his own, appeared to jump from one rugged wall to the next.

  The Old Man had climbed through a draughty orifice in the rock: the last winding passage, he advised, that would deliver them safely from the labyrinth of tunnels.

  The section of the tunnel widened and Skelos and the Old Man walked abreast.

  There was always the possibility he was walking into a trap? But what is life without possibilities? Yes, there was no end of possibilities and no end of trouble. And with this thought in mind…

  ‘Where does this tunnel lead?’ he asked. He had asked the Old Man this question before and he had chosen to ignore him. It could have been because he had not added the word ‘sir’ or the word ‘please’, or it could have been because the Old Man was short of hearing. Needless, he tried again without the pleasantries.

  ‘The route we are taking leads to Olvastan,’ said the Old Man, holding his oil lamp aloft. ‘Home to me and my kin.’ The deep furrows in his forehead rose significantly. He increased his steps in a reckless attempt to boost the distance between himself and Skelos.

  ‘Olvastan is days, if not weeks away, surely.’ At least for you.

  ‘The way is shorter through the tunnels.’ The Old Man gave him a brief sidelong glance. ‘You’re dressed mighty strange, I must say. Are you from the North?’ He cut through a dark muddy passage, snatched up a sackcloth bag from a hollow in the wall and lowered it onto his shoulder.

  Skelos had found no suitable attire to change into. He was still wearing his fine robes. ‘No, the Bleak desert,’ he replied.

  No one in Narrigh was entirely sure if the nomads that dw
elled in the desert were human. And he would rather say he came from the bottom of the Pynes Ocean than mention the North, not in the Age of Trepidation. Moreover, he would be a fool to mention he had travelled from Baruch. The Shardner had spies everywhere. He pressed a gold coin into the Old Man’s hand to help ease both their anxieties.

  ‘I don’t know what you want from me,’ said the Old Man. Stowing the coin away, he focused on the winding passage ahead. ‘Cause I’ve nothing but the clothes on my back.’ He picked up the pace, weaving between columns of rock and the slippery ground with ease, in a levelled off segment of the tunnel. ‘We’re not fond of foreigners here you know. Never have been. Courtesy is as much as we can manage and we’re a rare breed for doing that.’

  ‘I need to get to Undren village.’

  ‘We’re not far from it.’ The Old Man came to a halt inside a small dry chamber. He pulled a round metal instrument from his shirt pocket. ‘We need to wait here for a bit,’ he said returning the object to his pocket. ‘There are guards about. They won’t be off duty for another ten minutes.’

  ‘You never mentioned guards before?’

  ‘There are bound to be guards, aren’t there? Like there’s a sun and two moons. It’s not getting past the guards that’s the problem. It’s getting past the Gate. There are high walls surrounding every village in Olvastan. The Gates are made from timber, craybine[4], and iron. Very sturdy. You can’t get over them, for love nor barter, without a permit. You could access the village via the mines much easily of course if there were no danger.’

  Skelos knew about the Gates and the permits required to go in and out of them. He had no such permit. His gaze fell on the bulging sack the Old Man had swung over his shoulder. ‘The caves we’ve come through are mines?’

  ‘Yes, some of them,’ the Old Man declared, clutching the bottom of the sack to his chest. ‘Did you not see the shining rock?’