by S. K. Holder
‘Rainbows Rock.’ Skelos gave a veritable sigh. For a short while there, he had truly been excited. With the exception of a minority group, employed in the Shardner’s service, the races of Narrigh knew only one use for Rainbows Rock and Skelos did not think it was a very good one.
‘Every colour of the rainbow shines within its core. Some refer to it as Black Rock. Black, is the colour it turns when it reacts with sunlight. They’re useless in sunlight. You need six of the best to get the same light you would out of an oil lamp. In the dark, the rock shines silver. Not a lot of people know that unless they’ve been in the mines and perhaps not even then.’ He eyed him dubiously before changing the subject. ‘What do you want in Undren?’
‘Business. I need to find something. If you help me get there, I’ll make it worth your while.’
The Old Man ran his hand over his flossy beard, his eyes saturated with greed. ‘Best keep that business to yourself. Now situated at the end of this tunnel is a ramp built from fallen rocks. It is a short journey, but a might slippery because of the seeping water coming in from the sea. When we reach the top, we remove the grate covering and run. I have a retreat not far from here where you can change into something more fitting. You won’t get into Undren dressed like that.’
TWELVE
Connor and Amelia tramped the short journey out of the forest. The sound of rushing water at their backs spurred them on. Connor knew what the sound meant. It was the sound of the Dal-Carrion.
The young companions picked their way through the undergrowth, stumbling over the many mounds of soil, which carved up the forest floor.
They had crossed Bluewood Forest.
The sunlight was fading fast on the horizon. Connor’s tired eyes met a sweeping grey desolate plain. It seemed to have no end. He had not expected to see such a dismal stretch of wasteland. ‘Where are the villages?’ To the south of Narrigh, there were lots of villages surrounded by high walls.
‘There are no villages in the North,’ said Amelia.
Connor stared at her in disbelief. ‘There has to be.’
‘No there doesn’t have to be. You can’t actually live in the North. The Dal-Carrion will eat you alive.’
He didn’t know whether to believe her. When he had played the game, he had done battle with Drone Elves, Gamnod people, and a great many monsters, but he was never far from a city or village inhabited by allies. He was never far away from anywhere.
He dug a shaking hand into his bag and pulled out the crumpled map of Narrigh, his fingers nervously tracking the wavy blue lines of estuaries running south to North on the page. Jagged brown lines depicted the next landmark on the map: the Great Northern Crater. His heart sank. Why would he want to go there?
‘Why indeed?’ said the Authoritative Voice.
‘We have to go back.’
‘It’s too dangerous. We need to hide below ground.’
They set off across the ashen plain in silence, encountering no one. A strong breeze blew in from the east. Connor felt his fever waning. There was no rest from the pounding in his head, but he could think clearly enough to dwell on the fact that he might never find his way home. You’ve no one to protect you. You’re all alone.
He had a sickening recollection of sitting in his living room obsessing about The Quest of Narrigh. Now he wished he’d never set eyes on the stupid game.
He felt a pang of fright. What if the Dal-Carrion had killed everyone in the North and they were the only ones left? He looked behind him to see the sullen forest trees fading from view, transforming to shadows as night crept in. A sheer face of rock opened up in the distance, like a black abyss against the night sky.
At last, they found what they were looking for; a rectangular pit covered with logs wide enough for them both to slip inside. Dry leaves littered the bottom of the pit. Connor climbed in and Amelia after him, their movements laboured.
Once inside, they dragged the logs across the pit to cover it, hoping for protection against the cold and anything else that cared to venture their way.
Amelia fiddled with her hair, coiling it in and around her fingers.
Connor traced with one finger, the raised skin on the bottom of his right palm. It held an abundance of questions, uneasiness, and dread. He broke the silence, recalling what she had said to him in the forest. ‘What’s Odisiris like?’
She cradled her knees and blinked at him in the semi-darkness. ‘You really can’t remember, can you? Odisiris is beautiful. There are no wars and no crime. It’s not grimy like it is here. And you don’t have to work. In Narrigh, children have to work. I’ve seen them. And you don’t have to do a lot of walking. You’d be happy there.’
A world with no wars and no crime. It sounded too good to be true. ‘What does that mark mean?’
‘I for Indigo. It’s one of the colours in the spectrum.’
He tried to figure out in his head if Indigo was purple or blue. He quickly concluded it was neither and the scar on his hand definitely looked more black than inky blue. ‘The spectrum?’
‘A rainbow. Indigo is the mark of a First Status Citizen.’
Connor had seen more rainbows in the books his mum used to read to him when he was little than he had in real life. There was a substance called Rainbows Rock in Narrigh. You could trade it for items such as clothes, food, and drink. Connor won two pieces of the Rock once. They were next to worthless. They glowed in the dark at night, but not very brightly, so he had traded them for food in a village inn. But he’d only been playing then. ‘Do all Citizens have a Mark?’
‘All Citizens.’ Amelia left her hair alone and went back to cradling her knees. ‘To be a Citizen is to be marked.’
Connor chewed on a piece of dried meat. ‘How did you get here?’
‘I came with my uncle on a ship.’
‘What sort of ship?’
‘A spaceship.’
A spaceship? That can’t be right, thought Connor. He now wished he had read the game’s back story. The world of Narrigh was supposed to be set in the olden days. They didn’t have spaceships in the olden days. They didn’t even have electricity. She was probably making it up. Anyway, what did Citizens have to do with Narrigh? Why was Amelia here? Why was he here? He stored these thoughts away with the many other unanswered questions he had whirring around in his head like flies.
He hadn’t thanked Amelia for helping him escape the Silver Riders and the Dal-Carrion. He didn’t know if he ought to be grateful just yet. The Silver Riders would have protected them from the Dal-Carrion and may have taken them to safety if they had been patient and stayed. Could he trust Amelia? She answered his questions bluntly, if at all and given the impending danger, she spent an awful lot of time daydreaming. He wondered what was going through her mind – very little – he imagined.
‘I wish I could remember how I got here,’ he said fiercely. ‘Someone must know.’
Outside the wind howled threateningly and Connor felt the pain of loneliness for the first time. He got no companionship from Amelia. He rubbed his eyes, feeling the tears well up. He had been alone before, countless times, but loneliness had never tormented him as it did now. Overwhelming sadness gripped him. He was a whole other world away from home. He missed his mum, his brother, and his friends. What if he never saw them again?
‘Don’t cry,’ said Amelia. ‘We’ll find the Sentinel. He’ll know what to do. He’ll help you.’
She then closed her eyes and did not speak another word.
THIRTEEN
The Old Man’s hut sits on the brink of a cliff. It is a misshapen thing, built from wood and a mesh of leaves. The sands of the Pynes Ocean are near enough visible amongst the thicket of trees that attempt to conceal it. There are no other dwellings situated along the stretch of coastline.
The windstorms have taken their toll on the cliff face and the bank is beginning to slide. In another decade, the Old Man’s coastal side retreat will almost certainly crash off the cliff’s edge into the murky depths
of the ocean below.
The Old Man hurried Skelos in and then latched the door shut. He had been decidedly jittery since leaving the cave, and yet he had led them, competently enough, through the lowlands where sprawling Escarpard Root[5] devoured the footpaths from sight.
The Old Man rummaged inside a box under a blackened window. He retrieved from it, a worn black cloak. ‘Here put this on,’ he said, throwing the cloak on the floor.
Skelos’s eyes wandered up and down the cracked and sunken walls of the Old Man’s coastal retreat. The air of the place, or lack of it, had rendered him speechless.
The Old Man went to a wood-splintered table. It was stacked with books and keys of various shapes and sizes. A Rogue, Skelos should have known. Rogues were good at sneaking about, getting in out of places they had no business getting in and out of.
The Old Man started to go through the books, picking up one and then dropping it onto the floor before homing in on another. His perusal of the books was overzealous and desperate.
Skelos had wanted to sit down, but soon realised there were no chairs, devoid of litter, on which he could make himself comfortable. Sacks, boxes, sheets of metal, and heaps of inexplicable junk lay strewn across the cabin, reaching the ceiling in some places.
The Old Man became exasperated. ‘Put the cloak on, please.’
Skelos stared at the cloak on the soiled timber floor. ‘It’s too hot for these rags. Have you anything else?’
The Old Man dropped the book back onto the table. His movements’ jerky, he turned to face him. ‘I have water.’ He took up a watering can from a shelf above a tiny-basin-of-a-sink. He then collected a chipped mug and filled it to the brim with water. The water slopped lazily from the mug as he cupped it in his unsteady hands.
Skelos took the mug from him and passed it directly under his nose. ‘It’s not seawater is it?’ From the Hizsen Sea?
‘It’s water from the well, equally refreshing warm or cold. I would drink it if I were you. The cloak is made from lambs’ wool.’
Skelos didn’t drink water if he could help it, but he couldn’t pretend he was not thirsty. He had just completed the longest walk of his life. He sipped on the liquid, gingerly at first, and then in avid gulps until his mug was empty.
‘Palatable enough,’ he said with a shrug once he had finished.
‘Please, you have to hurry.’ The Old Man snatched the mug out of Skelos’s hand.
Skelos gathered up the cloak. Dust and threads of fabric flew up his nostrils and into his eyes.
‘You’re not out to hurt anyone are you?’ asked the Old Man.
Skelos answered him with a succession of sneezes. He pulled on the cloak.
The question struck him as bizarre. Everyone was out to hurt someone no matter what world they lived in. He secured the cloak clasp and noted it was embellished with a skull.
‘No that is not my intention, though as I recall, it was yours not too long ago. Had you forgotten?’
Judging by his bewildered expression, it seemed as if the Old Man had forgotten. He regarded Skelos with new scrutiny. Donned in his black robe, Skelos must have looked like a giant bat.
The Old Man directed him to a large book he had left open on the table. ‘See here,’ he said, pointing a trembling finger at a faded map on the page. ‘This is a map of Undren, a secret map of Undren I might add. It shows another way in.’
Skelos came to stand over the Old Man’s shoulder studying the layout. The Old Man backed away.
He went on, lingering in the background. ‘There’s a tunnel north of the Gate. See? Go through, all the way through. You’ll come to Levistan Woods. Once within the village walls, go to the Gate and present yourself to the Undren Guard. They’ll recognise you as a priest and you’ll be treated honourably. Tell them you’re on a pilgrimage. Tell them that the guard, who was on duty when you arrived, gave you right of passage and granted you succour. Don’t delay in saying them words, those exact words mind, or they’ll likely be suspicious. They’ll understand that to mean you paid the guard off with prayer, coin, or cloth. They’ll not ask questions.’
Skelos raised an eyebrow. A priest in black? That’s a new one. He gazed at the sack the Old Man had brought with him from the caves.
The Old Man talked faster now, eager to be done and be gone. ‘Rip the maps out if you want. Don’t matter to me. You can easily slip through at nightfall, without being seen.’
‘How did you acquire such a book?’ Skelos unrolled one of the parchments. He held it up to his face, turning it first clockwise, and then anti-clockwise in an effort to decipher the encryptions upon it.
‘I brought it,’ the Old Man replied boldly. ‘There is plenty to buy on the black market, and to sell.’
‘You’ve given me no reason to trust you. This tunnel you speak of, how do I know it will lead me to where you say it will?’
‘I speak the truth,’ said the Old Man, his voice rising in desperation. ‘The tunnel’s good and clear. No one will see you’
‘And the guards? Won’t they talk? Realise I did not come through the Gate.’
The Old Man shook his head. Suddenly aware he was cowering, he stood tall. ‘The guards change watch every six hours. If you’re quick about your business, you’ll be gone before anyone realises anything is, nooo!’
Skelos snatched the frayed sack the Old Man had slung over the back of a chair.
‘Give that back, it's mine,’ he cried. He lunged to retrieve it and tripped. He toppled to the ground, spitting a tirade of abuse.
Skelos wrenched the sack open and spilled its contents onto the floor. Sizable fragments of luminous Rock shimmered on the grubby stack of books on which they had landed. The Old Man looked on aghast as Skelos reached for a fist-sized fragment. Skelos had no need for Rainbows Rock. What he needed was the Old Man’s cooperation. He couldn’t pull out the Avu’lore every time he needed to take control of someone’s mind, not if he didn’t want to leave a nasty bloody trail through Narrigh that would lead straight back to him.
In amongst the Rock was a small leather pouch. Skelos checked its contents and was pleased to see there was a little Binding Dust inside it. Now here is something I can use. He deposited the pouch and Rock fragment into his cloak pocket. ‘You’ll take me there.’
‘I can’t.’ The Old Man hurriedly scooped the remaining rock back into the sack. ‘I need to get back home. I’m expected.’
‘You’ll take me there,’ Skelos repeated. He helped himself to a handful of keys from the table. ‘You know full well what this cloak means. A sorcerer cannot get pass any Gate in any city or village without arousing some suspicion. And as we shall be in each other’s company a little longer, I think we should at least be on first name terms.’
The Old Man watched his precious Rock fragment disappear inside Skelos’s cloak. Skelos regarded the Old Man closely.
Like rogues, sorcerers usually worked alone. Occasionally, their conjuring skills were sought after by races stupid or desperate enough to procure their services. Sorcerers didn’t swear allegiance to anyone but their own kind and were known to cast spells on the unwitting just for the fun of it. His path through the Gate would run more smoothly if the rogue were to accompany him, and they both knew it.
The Old Man nodded, realisation dawning on him. He levelled his gaze at Skelos and passed him the sack. ‘I’ll take you there and then you can give me back what’s rightfully mine. The name’s Barnabas, Barnabas Spinks.’
FOURTEEN
‘Don’t move,’ whispered Connor. He crouched at one end of the pit, his back pressed against the rutted wall, his chest heaving.
Amelia’s eyes snapped open. She gave a low squeal, pulled the skirt of her dress over her bare legs and tucked in her feet.
There came a noise, both familiar and grotesque. Connor fixed his gaze on the bed of leaves. Something was moving beneath them.
Now here was a creature from the gaming world with which he was familiar. He had seen the dark scales of
the poisonous Bakusa snake as it burrowed its way through the leafy heap. He had watched its quivering, yellow forked tongue shoot up from the ground several times during the night. Bakusa snakes were easy to kill with a Lightning Sword. But he didn’t have a Lightning Sword. He had a possible enchanted stone, which he had no idea how to use, and a Seekers Light drained of energy.
He had not slept. Gripped in the throes of fever, he wrestled Dal-Carrion whenever he closed his eyes.
This wasn’t a pit, he realised. It was a trap, not made for humankind.
He stared wide-eyed at the ground. His body was drenched in sweat. He clenched his fists in readiness.
The snake smashed through the leaves, rearing its spoon-shaped head. It glared at Connor with red slit-eyes.
Connor felt a rush of new fear, cold and heavy in his stomach. He shifted his body weight, afraid his legs would buckle.
The snake bared its three dagger-shaped fangs and swayed, weighing up its options. Its gaze never left his.
Any sudden movement and he was for it. He didn’t have the strength or the fight left in him to outwit any snake, and certainly not one as deadly as this. A small bite from a Bakusa injected a slow releasing poison into the victim’s bloodstream. He knew that much, but little about the pain that went with it.
The clamouring of urgent voices above him interrupted his silent panic.
‘I’m telling you there’s someone in there. Hurry, lift the logs!’
Connor craned his neck, peering through a gap they had left between the timber. He glimpsed soiled skin, tattered sweaty cloth, and a curved blade.
No sooner had he lowered his head, the Bakusa dived, advancing towards him, tossing leaves into the closeted space. Connor drew his knees to his chest and cried for help.
Someone shouted, ‘Stones! There’re children in there.’
The logs were hurled aside. Light poured into the trap.
The snake lunged for Connor, its jaws wide open, preparing to sink its fangs into his ankle. Connor’s heart galloped. The blood pumped hard in his veins. I’m going to die!