by S. K. Holder
‘We know these men came from Shanistan, a village not far from here and that they had left by the Gate some six months earlier for no other reason than the thrill of adventure. We are still looking into how they were able to acquire their exit permits. I heard they were contemptible rogues, but nevertheless, they were killed by some man or beast not akin to our own.
‘We sent our men to Shile Point where movement was reported in the forest. The mines here have been disturbed. As you are the nearest village to the North, it is assumed that any invasion, if there were to be one, would strike here first.’
The congregation reacted with harrowing cries and there came screams from the few children, in attendance, old enough to understand what Osaphar had said.
‘We believe the three strangers are spies, sent from the North to assess the state of our land and peoples,’ he continued. ‘It is the Shardner’s belief that they belong to a new faction calling themselves the Sighraith Band. We have heard they have formed a pseudo-alliance with the Traceless. They are intent on taking over lands, which are clearly more fruitful than their own. We cannot let this happen.’
Heated voices erupted in waves. Some of the one-hundred-and-twenty-strong congregation trembled in their seats, while others leapt up shouting and bombarding the Shardner with questions, which none could hear above the noise.
‘QUIET!’ shouted Parr Lona, disgusted that they could behave so badly in front of the Shardner’s men, and in a place of worship.
Gradually, they settled down. This did not stem the flow of fear that continued to ripple through the pews like wind through a hornpipe. All of sudden, the sanctity of the church was of no consolation.
Skelos had never heard of the Sighraith Band. Did they even exist? Or was the Shardner trying to shield them from a truer, greater threat? Like the winged-beasts for instance? The Shardner liked to put fear into the people of Olvastan. It made it easier for them to conceal their mistakes and their secrets.
‘I repeat you are not any imminent danger,’ said Osaphar. ‘We have put a roof over their heads and for this they seem grateful. We shall be taking them in for questioning. For the time being, you will need to be vigilant. If you have heard or seen anything unusual in the last few days, be sure to report it to the Council or the church, however small it is, however irrelevant you think it may be. Please do not hesitate to come forward. And I beg you speak freely. We want to put an end to this Northern scourge. As I’m sure you all know, those who do venture North rarely return to’
‘Too bloody right they don’t. And what has been done about it in the past? Nothing,’ shouted a rugged-looking man in the seventh pew. ‘It takes floating bodies for the Shardner to come a-calling.’
Collis Gray had lost forty-five sheep, two horses and a half his leg to the windstorm. As Gray struggled to get up, his mortified wife tugged at his shirtsleeve in an effort to keep him down. ‘No doubt it’s them that sends us bad weather an’ all.’
Osaphar gave a stiff nod in Gray’s direction. ‘The Shardner do not neglect their obligations. We have been aware of the dangers for years. That is the purpose of the Gate, not to keep you prisoners within its walls, but to act as a protection against these insane Northern races and their relentless quest for superiority.’
Skelos knew the Northern races didn’t have a relentless quest for superiority, just a relentless quest for survival.
‘You may not know them by name, though you will know of them, and they are not to be trusted,’ said one of Osaphar’s comrades with brutal conviction. He stepped forward, pursing his wasp stung lips. His eyes roamed over the congregation, who responded by striking up further conversations amongst themselves for five minutes without interruption.
The word Skelos heard on everyone’s lips was war. They did not want to believe it. There had been no battles in Olvastan for generations and there were no trained soldiers to speak of. Not even the guards were trained for full combat.
‘Reckless!’ the woman beside him muttered under her breath. ‘Absolutely reckless.’
First Councillor Haydem stood up. He took residence at the pedestal, the muscles in his protruding jaw twitching. He was a short plump man with a crab-shaped face, excessively lined from too much scowling. His hair and beard were as wiry as a hedgehog’s.
No doubt, he’ll get plumper still, eating and drinking his way through the village coffers, thought Skelos.
‘Osaphar,’ said the First Councillor in a voice as brittle as dry wood. ‘May I suggest that we hold a general meeting in the church hall tomorrow evening to allow the people to voice any concerns they have. I, in turn, will put their questions to you. Your prime responsibility is to detain these men and find out exactly what they know before starting talks of war and the like.’
Osaphar’s bottom lip quivered with annoyance at having been interrupted twice: once by his colleague and the other by a First Councillor, who he did not intend to confer with on the matter at all. ‘As you wish,’ he muttered tightly. Noting an abrupt halt in the congregation’s racing speculations, he raised his hand and the four of them swept from the church.
Iyah Baines the greengrocer stood up to speak. He peered from beneath his mane of foppish brown hair. His hooded eyes flared anxiously. ‘First Councillor Haydem, I think I can speak for all us when I say we’re none of us fools. We can’t fight. We don’t know how. How sure are we that the Gate will hold if we come under attack if there’s never been a reason for us to come under attack before?’
‘You’ve just answered the question yourself Iyah - for exactly that reason,’ replied First Councillor Haydem. ‘The Gates have stopped any pre-emptive attack in the South for many years. Even when we had the storm, the Gates still held did they not?’ Gathering the skirt of his robes, he attempted to vacate the pedestal in haste.
There came vigorous nods of agreement.
Ephan Clarke sat on the adjoining pew to Skelos. The local butcher flung his fat behind from his seat as if he had been catapulted from it by an invisible spring. ‘Yes, but Osaphar already told us that the old mine shafts have been disturbed. Now anyone can come and go as they please. How do you know that these men did not come through the mines?’
‘What aren’t they telling us?’ boomed his daughter Clara, who had a habit of adding her opinion to everything her father said. She folded her thick arms under her buxom chest.
What indeed? Skelos asked himself. Why Undren? It was not the closest village to the North; it was one of the closest. There were settlements outside the village closer still. No, there was nothing to set Undren apart from any other village in Olvastan, aside from the mines. And Rainbows Rock was not a precious commodity here. He stroked his newly acquired beard. He had presumed the Shardner had secret headquarters in all the cities and villages. What if I’m wrong? What if this is the only one?
First Councillor Haydem stubbed his toe on the base of the pedestal. He grimaced. ‘Erm… thank you, Clara. I’m afraid the Shardner have sensationalised things somewhat. They are not used to public address such as ours. Once we rid ourselves of these north men, things will no doubt go back to normal. We are already in the process of checking the mines and resealing them where necessary. No one can enter the Shile flow from the North and come out in the South in one piece, so we’re safe on that score. However, other security measures have been put in place. I will hold a meeting here at seven, the day after tomorrow, in the church hall. Your attendance will be appreciated. And may I implore you, where possible, to leave your little ones at home. That is all.’ With these final words, First Councillor Haydem returned to his pew.
Parr Lona took his place back on his beloved pedestal to continue the church service, and although looks of uncertainty were in constant exchange, no one uttered another word on the subject until after the service, when tongues could wag more freely.
Skelos slid out from the pew, thinking about the three strangers and of how he would cope with another sleepless night in the barn.
TWENTY-FOUR
Just when Connor thought he couldn’t go any deeper underground, the Bray tunnel peaked and the Rogghorn shot upwards, leaving a trail of green slime behind it.
The foul stink made Connor’s eyes water. He scrunched up his nose and gave a loud sniff, stopping a trickle of snot running onto this lip.
The earth grew steadily warmer and the darkness fell away. A fiery red earth glared up like the blood-red sun on a dawn horizon.
Connor held his breath. His muscles tensed with anxiety. His hands burned where the reins had cut into them. The Rogghorn skidded to a halt at the mouth of the tunnel. He was tossed off the creature’s back and landed flat on his face. He eased himself up with his hands, spitting dry earth from his mouth.
‘Stay here,’ he told the Rogghorn. ‘Wait for me here.’
He breathed an infusion of clay and wet grass. He could see the square fortress from where he stood. Moss grew in the patches where the harsh weather had stripped the stone away. Escarpard Root enveloped the fortress like a giant spider spinning its web. The arched windows buckled under the ravages of time.
A dilapidated tower reached out at every quarter. The fortress was surrounded by a lush green landscape, dotted with clumps of trees and shrubs. Hills faded off into the distance.
Connor stumbled up the rampart and onto a fractured courtyard, where there stood a lone figure, wearing a hooded cloak that concealed their face. Connor’s heart beat faster. The Traceless don’t wear cloaks, he thought, without being completely sure. He reached for his gift from the Sentinel, the pouch of Binding Dust.
The figure came towards him. It threw back its hood. Connor saw it was a female Drone Elf. Black antennae sprouted from behind her pointed ears. Her red hair was gathered in a bun upon her hand. Her skin looked like wax. Her glassy black eyes were as hard as a beetle’s shell.
‘I’ve come to see the Traceless One,’ he shouted at her. He stopped where he was hoping she would do the same. ‘My name’s Connor. I’ve come for a past-telling. I won’t harm you.’ His fingers dug open the pouch. He took a pinch of dust between his finger and thumb, fervently wondering if a pinch was enough.
‘I’ll take payment for the Traceless One.’ She continued towards him, making a buzzing noise as she went. Her feet had left the ground and her fragile wings poked out from beneath the bottom of her cloak. ‘One payment for one past-telling, those are the rules.’
He started to back away. ‘I’d rather p-pay them in person if you-you don’t mind, but-but thank you all the same.’
‘Manners can get you far,’ his mum had often told him, and he was not likely to forget it.
‘How will you do that?’
He tripped over a broken stone. He put out both hands to stop himself from falling, releasing his pinch of Binding Dust back into the pouch. ‘I have gold,’ he said.
He marched backwards, taking care to look over his shoulder this time. He didn’t want to fall and break his neck.
He saw the Rogghorn was no longer sitting in the mouth of the tunnel, which gave him fresh terror.
‘The Traceless have no need for gold,’ she said.
‘Silver then?’ Though he didn’t think that’s what she meant. ‘You-you can stop moving now. You’re making me dizzy.’
The Drone Elf landed eight paces away from him. ‘The Traceless will accept your soul for payment.’
Connor came to a halt. ‘My soul?’ He gulped. Yate had said the price asked for a past-telling was too high for him to afford. He hadn’t been talking about money.
‘Do you take anything else? I have items to trade.’ He would hand over everything in his bag if he had to, little as it was. Just please don’t take my soul.
‘Do you have a Profession?’
Connor puffed out his chest. ‘I’m a warrior.’
She laughed. ‘You’re the strangest looking warrior I’ve ever seen. Seldom does a warrior have items that the Traceless need.’
‘I’m also a Gifted One.’ He was certain Drone Elves wouldn’t know about Citizens, but the word ‘gifted’ made him sound important.
‘A Gifted One you say?’ The Drone Elf dipped her head. ‘A Citizen?’
‘Erm…yes that’s right,’ said Connor. ‘I have great power. If you get too close to me, I can cause you great harm.’
‘What power do you have?’
His bravery disappeared as quickly as it had come. ‘I-I don’t know. I’ve sort of forgotten. That’s why I came for a past-telling-’
‘Your soul then.’ The Drone Elf drifted back towards the fortress. ‘Follow me.’
I’ll go back, thought Connor. The Rogghorn will take me.
‘If it’s still around,’ broached the Authoritative Voice.
The idea of travelling to Baruch with the Sighraith Band suddenly appealed to Connor. He could travel among them and wait for the opportunity to escape…or use the Binding Dust now?
‘Use the Binding Dust,’ said the Authoritative Voice, ‘then run. You won’t get another chance.’
‘Shut up,’ said Connor. The Voice was making it hard for him to think straight. What should he do?
The Drone Elf had reached the doorway to the fortress. She looked back at him. ‘This way,’ she said.
He knew the Authoritative Voice was right. He could still have his past-telling. He knew how to get his own way with his brother, his mum and his friends. So why not one of the Traceless? The Look of Awe may not work on them, but there had to be another way to talk the Traceless One out of not taking his soul. And if not, the Binding Dust would distract It long enough for him to escape.
The Drone Elf disappeared from view. Conner broke into a jog, afraid he would miss the opportunity. He ran through the open doorway and stumbled upon a circular stairwell forged of stone. The Drone Elf had gone.
He heard her call down to him. ‘Come.’
He cautiously climbed the spiral staircase, growing woozy as he went round and round, and up and up. When he reached the top, he found a small door of polished wood and no Drone Elf. He leaned on the wall for a moment, catching his breath.
The door stood ajar. He pushed it all the way open and slipped inside. The door clanged shut behind him.
A key snapped in the lock.
Connor hammered on the door. ‘Let me out!’
There was no answer. His eyes were strong enough to make out the shapes of an assortment of objects that in the ordinary light of day would not have worried him in the slightest, however, in the looming darkness, they became like hideously deformed creatures lying in wait.
He cowered by the door, unable to pluck up the courage to tear himself away.
The monstrous winged-beasts sprung to his mind. They would find him here because it was dark and eerie. They would sense that he was more afraid than ever.
He expected to encounter, at any moment, some formidable horror.
His breathing became shallow and his eyes widened in panic. He felt something brush against his leg, a rat or a mouse, no doubt. Whatever it was caused him to leap up and hurl himself among a stack of musty crates. He swivelled back to the door trying to regain his footing by standing on a pile of cloth sacks.
‘Don’t be stupid Connor,’ he said, breathing fast. ‘I’m here for a past-telling!’ he called out.
He heard a light tapping sound on the stairwell outside. It grew louder and eventually stopped outside the door. There came one final tap and the door slowly creaked open.
Connor’s throat tightened. A chill crept along his spine. Three bony pink claws appeared on the inside of the door. One…tap…two…tap…three…tap.
The smell of decay whooshed up his nose. He doubled up, retching, and then straightened up, scanning the room for a way out. An icy draught blew in from his left. He twisted madly, searching for a window or a hidden door.
He could sense his nightmare creeping up behind him. He spun around, petrified. Never had it been more terrifying. Never had it seemed more real.
The Dal-Carr
ion lumbered towards him, its beak honed like a steel sword, protruding from between its two great tusks. It fixed him with menacing eyes, which seemed to penetrate his very soul. Maggots oozed from under its half-raised glistening wings.
Connor took one deep shuddering breath and squeezed his eyes tight, willing the beast to go away. ‘There’s nothing there. It’s not real.’
In the darkness, a ring of white light drifted towards him and he focused all his attention on it. He felt the bird’s rotting breath on his neck. The maggots crawled on his boots and wriggled along his hands.
He watched the light grow bigger and bigger. Its glow intensified until it flooded his whole vision. He reached out fearfully and pushed the light away with his hands only to see a Dark Window lying behind it. His eyes flew open. He saw the door locked before him. The Dal-Carrion was gone.
He had been dreaming. It seemed his own fear had brought the winged-beast to life; the fear of not knowing what was to become of him, the fear of never finding his way home, the fear of the cold, dank room.
He went to the door and struck it with weak blows. His cries caught in his throat. There was something in the room with him. His hands shaking, he went for his pouch of Binding Dust. He poured some into his hand. Most of it went on the floor.
‘You passed your first test Connor,’ said a hollow voice. ‘The Traceless can expose your fears. I showed you one of yours and you made it go away.’
Connor gave a mad leap and ended up tripping over a wooden block, dropping his pouch, spilling the Binding Dust. He tried to scrap up what he could see of it with his fingers. ‘Don’t freak out,’ he told himself. ‘None of this is real.’
A halo of blue light fleeted across the wall. A small bulky creature, which looked like a cross between a bird and a platypus, glided towards him before fading from view.
The Hollow Voice sneaked up on him. ‘You’re not going anywhere. We made a deal.’