by S. K. Holder
Fleshy or withered, an Outsider was an Outsider. He could sense he was running out of time. By now, someone would have reported Eron missing and it wouldn’t take an intelligent Citizen more than a couple of hours to figure out where they had gone.
Drawing a breath, he fished out the Bolt-Shot whip he had taken, with ease, from his father’s study and gave it a quick pat.
Osaphar swallowed. Eron sucked in his breath.
‘Why the blazes did you bring that for?’ asked Osaphar.
‘Why do you think?’ said Skelos. ‘This is supposed to be an adventure, remember?’
‘You’re going to kill a Mutie?’ said Eron. He clenched his eyes. When he opened them, his irises were swamp-green.
‘No,’ said Skelos. They were missing the point entirely. He had three tasks he wished to accomplish. The first had been getting here. He hoped that his other accomplishments ran just as smoothly. ‘I’m going to capture a Mutie and kill an Outsider. No one our age has ever done it. I say let us be the first. Leave our mark.’
‘Right,’ said Osaphar, nodding.
‘I don’t know,’ said Eron, staring down at the Bolt-Shot whip. ‘Can’t we leave our mark in some other way?’
Osaphar and Skelos burst into fits of laughter.
‘You mean like leaving a stick in the sand?’ said Osaphar.
‘Not unless it’s got an Outsider’s head stuck on the end of it,’ said Skelos, wiping a tear from his eye. ‘You can’t get exiled for killing Outsiders and Muties, wet one. At least we can say we’ve spent our summer doing something worthwhile.’
‘You know most of what they say about Outsiders is fantasy, don’t you?’ said Eron. ‘Like the Map of the Other Worlds.’
There were Other Worlds, but the map was make-believe. Skelos eyed Eron coolly. They were children. Make-believe was all they had. Why was Eron trying to snatch the dream away? This was supposed to be fun. ‘I thought you wanted to be here?’
‘Sure I want to be here,’ his friend replied. ‘I don’t see why we have to resort to killing - things. What do you know about killing anyway?’
‘I think we’ve got ourselves a little Outsider lover here,’ said Skelos, daring to move towards the cave. He looked over his shoulder. ‘You coming Osaphar?’
‘All the way,’ said Osaphar jumping to his feet. ‘You going to stay here and eat dust or what Eron?’
Eron jumped to his feet. ‘Course not,’ he mumbled. ‘I’m right behind you.’
They shot towards the squat cave entrance where they saw the Outsider disappear.
Inside, Skelos saw the cave walls glow. It was as if they had a layer of gold painted beneath them, projecting an iridescent veil of light. Or was he becoming delusional in this deadly game? He could have sworn by the Palm-of-his-Maker, he saw a figure drenched in white robes scrambling out of the way as he whizzed past. And what was that noise? Wasn’t it the guttural screams of some caged being?
The smell of excrement and stagnant water washed over Skelos, momentarily stunning him. He blew out of his nostrils and coughed into a closed fist. It would take more than a foul blast of air to make him turn back. The Outsider was not tortoise slow as the rumours would have it and there was still fun enough to be had in the chase.
Skelos deliberately slowed down to gorge on the thrill of it all. He let his victim slip out of sight every now and again. Let It think It was safe, that It had lost him. He had a vocation here for sure; he was a skillful Outsider Hunter if ever there was one.
He observed how the tunnels branched off, connecting lateral caves and recesses. He heard strange distant grunts, felt the ground-bugs bounce off the tips of his boots and saw no one. How big was this place?
‘I say we go back,’ said Osaphar. He appeared like a gust of wind beside him.
‘I say you shut up,’ said Skelos, ‘and let me make my kill.’
Skelos had the whimpering creature in his sights again. He hesitated before activating the Bolt-Shot whip.
Five hot Lashes burst from the whip, hissing like a family of agitated snakes. The Lashes were so hot, they had turned from silver to a burnt orange colour. The temperature settings were broken. Two of the Lashes were slightly dimmer than the rest. His father had used the Bolt-Shot for sporting purposes: man to android. He had not used it for two years. Skelos, who had only ever seen his father and his father’s friends master the Bolt-Shot, was amazed at its weightlessness. How could a weapon this dangerous be lighter than a molecule of gas?
Fear rose in his chest. He gasped. The Bolt-Shot whip could do that to you, even if you were the one wielding it. The Lashes travelled far and were said to slice cleanly through the flesh of any living thing unfortunate to receive its touch. It burnt flesh, but a dimmed Lash would lacerate flesh very much like a knife. So he had two blood-spillers and three burners. Interesting.
Ravenous for victory, Skelos levelled the whip’s handle with the Outsider’s head. The Lashes were bright and limp. They trailed the ground, turning it black.
Skelos caught some red dust in his left eye. It felt gritty. He rubbed it and felt it turn sore and watery. He had reached the very pinnacle of boredom now. He wanted to finish with this one, and then go catch his Mutie.
He brought the Lashes down all wrong on the first try. Missing his target, he hit rock, blowing a miniature crater along the wall. It was the eye rubbing that had done it and the boredom. There was a technique to it, wasn’t there? He should have brought the handle of the whip up, thrust it out and then brought it down upon his target. It wasn’t as easy as it sounded. The secret was in the upper-arm thrust.
The Outsider glanced over its shoulder. Long straggly hair partially hid the terrified eyes of a twelve-year-old girl. Hot tears ran down her cheeks. Her face was stained with dust, making it look as if she were crying blood.
‘It’s a girl!’ cried Osaphar.
‘It’s an Outsider,’ said Skelos, grinding his teeth, ‘and it’s going to get it!’
He drew back his forearm and let the Lashes fly. He brought the Bolt-Shot handle down fast. Is this it? Am I close enough?
Hiss!
Crack!
Black smoke rose from the hole he had blasted in the Outsider’s shoulder. He stopped and waited to see if the flesh would start sloughing off the bone, to see if It spilled It's red blood; to see if It took on an even more grotesque form than It did now. It slumped to the ground like a doll made of silk and feathers, a small whimper of defeat escaping Its lips for the last time.
There was a shout from behind him. Skelos spun round to find Osaphar gone. Eron stood to one side of him, staring down at the body. He looked as if he’d taken a whipping himself. His face was dark; his soul bruised. ‘What have you done?’ he asked.
What had he done? He shut off the killing weapon, and holding it tight to his chest, he made his way over to the Outsider.
The Outsider's eyes were shut tight, her eyelashes glistening with the forlorn tears she had squeezed out of them in her final moments. She had dropped her dinner when she fell; a little withered snake lay beside her. Her tiny mouth hung open in a silent scream.
Bone and flesh and blood. She was a girl, an Unmarked One, a child surviving - here - in the Red Caves and he had killed her.
‘You shouldn’t have,’ said Eron. His sobs filled the cave. ‘You shouldn’t have.’ He turned on his heel and ran.
‘Wait!’ Skelos shouted. He took one last look at the girl. Red blood streamed from her nose. He felt a sickness rising like waves inside him.
He sprinted after his friends. It would be two long hours before he finally caught up with them, and their friendship would never be the same again.
TWENTY
Yate led Connor and Amelia down a long rocky passage and into the Hall: an oval chamber in which the Sighraith Band held their meetings. It had two entrances: the Near and the Far. The Near led to thirty or so ashen-coated dwelling chambers and stone rooms that bracketed the winding, cramped underground passages. The Far w
as a secret labyrinth of perilous tunnels that ran through the whole of Narrigh.
Slow-burners, set in brackets, dotted the jagged walls of the meeting chamber. Poorly crafted benches were scattered around its perimeter. Large woven mats lay in the middle of the floor. On one of these mats sat a man with long copper hair. His head was bowed. He wore a leather vest knotted with string and trousers made from animal hide. His skin was streaked with ash.
Yate commanded Connor and Amelia to sit. Connor did as he was told. Weary from the walk up the long passage, he was desperate for a rest.
Amelia shrugged her shoulders. She remained standing, assessing her surroundings with large round eyes.
The Hall smelt of burnt toast and sweat, but Connor preferred it to the cramped cave he had left. He sat cross-legged, at a respectable distance from the copper-haired man. He hugged his bag to his chest. He was eager to learn anything that would help him find his way home.
Yate squatted beside the man. ‘This is Wolth,’ he said. ‘One of the few Gamnod among us. This was the boy I was telling you about,’ he told the Gamnod man.
‘I thought you could help this one out,’ said Yate. He seems to have lost his memory. Got it into his head that he’s not a Citizen. Doesn’t know how to use his natural instincts.’
The two men locked gaze.
‘Sure it’s not the Plowman’s Touch?’ said Wolth. ‘The book of Uom says the Touch can hit you like a blow to the head.’
‘Quite sure,’ replied Yate. ‘Connor, show Wolth the rod and the stone. He’s a hunter. He’s travelled all over Narrigh and seen many things.’
Connor placed the glass rod and the stone in front of Wolth.
Wolth looked from the stone to the glass rod.
Yate whispered to Connor. ‘You’ll need to pay him.’
‘Right,’ said Connor. He gave the Hunter three gold coins and immediately wished he had given him silver. He couldn’t see himself making any more money. In the game, he had gained his wealth from striking down his enemies, but in the real Narrigh, he didn’t have the strength or bravery to swat a fly.
He was relieved when Wolth gave one of the coins back to him.
‘Two pieces of information. Two pieces of gold,’ said Wolth. He plucked the stone and rolled it around in his fingers. ‘This stone represents uniqueness and danger.’ He placed the stone back on the mat. He then picked up the rod. He peered at it for some time before putting it to his ear and finally between his teeth.
‘This glass stick has no use on its own. It is one part of a whole. Hold on to it.’
Yate gave Wolth a sharp nod of approval. Connor’s brow furrowed in confusion. He whispered in the Sentinel’s ear, ‘I paid two pieces of gold for this?’
‘You don’t like what I’ve told you?’ said Wolth.
Connor didn’t care that the man had overheard him. He was thinking of asking the Hunter to return another one his coins. ‘I thought you were a magi or something.’
‘I can offer you counsel,’ said Wolth, ‘not spells. I have never seen the items you have presented to me before.’
That was painfully obvious to Connor. He had hoped for something more: a spell or potion that could spirit him home, or the location of a magic portal leading to his bedroom. ‘Do you know a place called Earth?’
Wolth held out his hand. ‘A coin,’ he demanded. ‘A coin or no answer at all.’
Connor scowled at Wolth. He was being cheated out of his money. It wasn’t fair.
‘Pay him,’ said Yate. ‘He will always have an answer.’
An answer full of riddles, thought Connor, but gave the Hunter a coin all the same. He made sure it was a silver one this time. He had learned his lesson.
Wolth placed the coin on the mat beside the gold ones.
‘I met someone in Bluewood forest some weeks back who claimed to have come from this Earth world you speak of. Yes, I am sure that’s what he called it.’
‘Was his name Riley?’ Connor asked eagerly, ‘or Luke?’
He reflected it on this a while. ‘A peculiar name he had,’ replied Wolth. ‘Ho-wood or Herwood. He had a wild look about him and jumped at the sight of his own shadow. Didn’t seem to have a clue where he was.’
‘Ho-wood’ was not the name Connor had been hoping to hear. ‘Do you know where I can find him?’
‘Rotting in the soil,’ the Hunter replied. ‘Got caught in the mounds, didn’t he.’
Connor sighed. He was no nearer to learning anything about how he came to Narrigh nor how to leave it. ‘So what now?’ he asked Yate.
‘You can talk to the Past Teller,’ said Wolth, before Yate could form a reply.
Yate glared at the Hunter. ‘No one has ever gone there and returned with their senses intact. How could you even think it?’
‘What’s a Past Teller?’ asked Connor, looking at both men.
‘A Traceless One,’ growled Yate, ‘who dwells in the Fortress of Shilemoor. One of the vanquished from the Age of War. They cannot be trusted. A Past Teller can return your past memories to you for a price that not even you can afford. It’s out of the question.’
Connor knew then that the Sentinel had not gone through his bag. He didn’t know he had plenty of gold and silver. He had more than enough to pay for his past memories. If he had his memory back, he’d know how he arrived in Narrigh, and hopefully, he’d be able to find his way back home.
He packed the rod and stone away.
Yate let his gaze drift to the Far and then back to Connor. His eyes revealed a quiet desperation. ‘Never fear,’ he said. ‘We are rallying an army to march on the Baruchian Kingdom. We will demand freedom and land. If the Shardner does not give us what we want, we will fight.’
‘That’s just great,’ said Connor with an exasperated sigh. He had no plans to be around when the fighting started. He suspected he’d be the first one to die. And he was certain fighting would break out. The Sighraith Band lacked decent armour and weapons. They were no match for the Baruchian army.
Seven members of the Sighraith Band came charging through the Far led by a bare-chested man with shaggy hair and a bony face.
‘They got Bel,’ he gasped. His long neck and hands were splattered with crimson blood. ‘We have to get to the forest before dark!’
Yate leaped up to join the thickening Sighraith Band, pouring in droves from the Near, then scurrying to the Far, brandishing oil lamps and slow-burners, knives and axes.
‘Take the biggest Rogghorns we’ve got!’ Yate hollered, his conversation with Connor forgotten.
There were children among them Connor saw, children not much older than himself. He watched an old man hobble by with a bloody rag wrapped around his head and a wooden pole in his hand. It looked as if every day for the Sighraith Band was a fight for survival.
Connor scrambled to his feet to avoid being trampled. The Sighraith people shoved him out of their way in earnest. Their only concern was to get to Bluewood forest and rescue Bel. Connor considered offering his services out of courtesy; after all, Bel had saved him from the Bakusa snake. How could he not offer to fight?
‘You’re weak and you don’t know how to fight,’ said the Authoritative Voice wisely. ‘Best run while you still can. Time is of the essence.’
For once, Connor agreed with the Authoritative Voice.
A man brandishing a dented sword, and a woman wearing green scaly armour, were jostling Amelia between them. Connor grasped her hand, dragging her free. ‘We’d better get out of here.’
He saw the Sentinel cutting a swift path towards them. He caught them by their elbows and steered them into a small alcove.
‘You’ll have to go on ahead,’ he said. He thrust a small leather pouch into Connor’s hand. ‘Binding Dust, should you run into any trouble. In the hands of a child, it’s safer than a dagger. We shall meet again.’
He nodded to the Near where two identical brothers in green tunics stood waiting. They had wispy white hair and startling emerald green eyes.
Yate herded Conner and Amelia over to them. ‘Take them through the tunnels.’ He instructed the men. ‘Head for the Kingdom.’
Then to Connor’s amazement, the Sentinel morphed into a vicious-looking cat with a shimmering multi-coloured coat and bright orange eyes. The big cat sprung into the jostling crowd, growling and swishing its tail.
‘You can close your mouth,’ said Amelia. ‘It’s not that impressive.’
Connor gave her a scowl. He tucked the Binding Dust into his pocket, wishing he could morph into a big cat. He wouldn’t have minded a dagger as well. In Narrigh, you could never have enough weapons, armour or potions. ‘I don’t want to go east,’ he told the twins. ‘Can you take me to the Fortress of Shilemoor?’
The twins looked at each other. ‘That wasn’t our instructions,’ said one.
Amelia planted one hand on her hip. ‘You heard Yate. You’re not supposed to go off by yourself. We need to travel to the Kingdom of Baruch.’
‘There’s nothing for me in the Kingdom of Baruch,’ said Connor. ‘Nothing worth fighting for anyway. I need to get my memory back. You can stay.’ He turned his back on her.
‘Fine,’ she snapped, stalking off.
‘I can pay you,’ Connor told the twins. ‘I have silver.’
‘Show us your coin and we’ll show you way,’ said the other twin, grinning.
TWENTY-ONE
Built from shabby rock and choking in rivers of moss, Callawly Castle stands on a steep hill overlooking Undren village - all the way down to the Gate - but scarcely over it. Clumps of evergreen grass sprout up from the shallow soil-filled moat. An old yet sturdy drawbridge leads to a broken twisted iron gate that once acted as a formidable shield against intruders. From here, a dull stone path continues to a set of wide oak doors, reinforced with more craybine to protect against the ferocious northern storms and the odd intruder…
A breach in the castle wall delivered Skelos into the arms of the cellar. Wood snapped and glass cracked under his feet. Vermin squeaked and scurried beneath the clutter of crates and old sheets.