by Sean Heslin
There was a knock at the door and Rancha in his now clothed human form slipped into the room. Yrinmet hunted for a book and there was a brief squeak of mock distress from Pib’s drawer as he dipped his hand in by mistake.
One by one they shuffled downstairs to get breakfast, leaving only Rancha and the silently covered Perci. Rancha prodded the blanketed lump in the stomach region and was rewarded by a disgruntled grunt. He rolled his eyes and left to meet the others.
Perci, finally on his own, flipped over the cover off his face and stared at the ceiling again.
This was a great time for introspection and he really thought about deciding to do some. He considered who he was, where he came from and what he hoped to achieve. He wondered if riches and lots of women would be involved. And plenty of alcohol and food of course. And more than enough sleeping time. And the latest in home armchair entertainment. Was all that too much to ask for? He didn’t think so. Many people he had heard of and read about had achieved all this and more, and he was so much more deserving than they were. Wasn’t he? Yes, of course he was. Why was he stuck in this place? Something about a tree wasn’t it? Might have been that fountain…
His eyes shut and blissful sounds issued forth.
---
Downstairs the group sat down to a good, varied breakfast supplied by the landlady, Mrs Sunket, who had recently become ten thousand Stands richer, because Perci had not quite understood the kintstone to Stand exchange rate. She hovered round the edges of the room eager to refill the teacups as soon as a sip was taken and rebutter toast should it go mysteriously dry. There was four types of cereal, a porridgesque substance, fried everything, tea, coffee, orange juice, grapefruit juice, toast, muffins and so on. It all tasted rather nice so they all dug in and kept going non-stop without speaking for at least twenty minutes.
Eventually, Pib, having a smaller stomach than the others, resurfaced.
“So, what we all doing today? Anything particularly interesting? What do you think, Yrinmet?” She fluttered her eyelashes at him.
“Uh...” uttered Yrinmet, his mouth full of muesli.
Rancha wiped his mouth with a sleeve.
“It’s back into the desert I’m afraid. Having no other leads whatsoever, or even any idea what we are meant to be doing…” Perci showed his true Chosen One power by entering the room exactly on cue to be glared at. He glowered in response. “…I reckon we should get a sample of this apple tree and take it to a spiritual analyser or one of those boys so he can tell us what to do.”
Terand and Yrinmet nodded in agreement.
“What madness are you plotting?” said Perci. “I hope you aren't planning any devious pacts with spirits! We are not evil.”
“First of all,” said Yrinmet, “I am, by most definitions, evil. Second, you should always look after your spirit, you only get one and third, spiritual analysis is the name of a relatively new science, i.e, expensive.”
Rancha nodded. “It makes a lot of rich people very happy as it tells you exactly what you should be doing at any given time and what fate has in store for you to a pretty damn high degree of accuracy, I hear.”
“It isn't a pact with demon-kin or anything of the sort?” said Perci doubtfully.
“Ye' do know that the entire planet has a pact..?” began Terand, but was waved to shush by Rancha.
“Never mind that, you'll only confuse him. Give him a history lesson later. Yes Perci, it has nothing to with demons. It's not exactly clairvoyance, which has always been too vague to spot the event that you should alter the outcome of until it had gone past. It's more like...help me here?”
“It's like extending a line from a person or thing into the past and future,” picked up Yrinmet. “and keeping hold of the line so you can have a look at where it pulls along the many possibilities. It's all very technical, and most people don't exactly know how it works, apart from the sorcerously inclined geekish types who spent far too much time and effort inventing confusing jargon and talking to each other in silly abbreviations to explain the process accurately to anyone else. They are constantly reinventing and improving how the process works and those guys are quite harmless, nay overlooked. If exorbitantly expensive to hire.”
“Yes, but what does it do?”
---
Some time later, feeling somewhat bloated and after long slow explanations to Perci as to what a spiritual analyser actually did (he still didn’t know), they gathered up their equipment, purchased a tourist map and set forth back into the heat-riddled landscape known as the Deserts Of Trallis. They trailed over dunes and flats and occasional crumbling obelisks, checking the compass and swigging water at regular opportunities. The journey did not quite reach boiling point in the sunshine, but it came close enough, so when they finally all agreed that they were in the location stated on the map, they were quite grateful for the shade of a small shrine.
The tiny religious sanctum was a delicate sandstone affair, with a tough, windblown and sun-bleached fabric as a roof. By the general state of the interior – candles knocked over, pictures faded by the wind and sand, it was obvious that either there had been quite a nasty sandstorm recently or nobody had visited the shrine in quite some time.
The group, by unspoken agreement, did what they could, picking up stools, straightening decorations and the like, simply because most have them had been living on their wits and the grace of the gods for years and it was always good form to be respectful in places of religion, even if you, as an adventurer, occasionally stole from such places. Then they sat down and consumed some more water as they had no idea what to do next.
Perci went laps around the tiny interior, examining engravings. Pib sat on the roof supports and played with a pair of binoculars, occasionally letting her gaze drift downwards to where Terand and Yrinmet slumped near the doorway. Those two knew full well that if they were needed, somebody would mention it, but did not want to draw attention to the fact.
Rancha, sighing heavily, walked a little way outside and past the shrine, into the desert beyond, where he found a rock to sit on.
He really was starting to get fed up of the aimlessness of the “quest” so far. Many of his previous ones had been given their overlying direction, within the first hour. Go to a far-flung region, get an artefact, save the world, just like the man said. Sure, that basic outline had been related, but it would be nice to have known exactly what they were supposed to be saving the world from before they had even started.
For that matter, what artefact or whatever did they require, if any at all? Brute force in solving ancient mysteries occasionally did the job - he fondly remembered one occasion when a quest had lasted exactly thirty-five minutes. He had turned into a particularly vicious feathered horse thingy and scared the living daylights out of the evil lord at the time, making him instantly convert to goodliness. Fun times.
He espied a little rock pinscuttle staring at him from the ground nearby, waving its little poison tail and shifting weight on its six spindly legs. He smiled to himself as he considered how much simpler life was for any creatures who did not have to put up with talking and discussing and debating everything and did not have to worry about saving the world because they were too busy trying to find their next meal.
“You and me both, bud,” he said to the pinscuttle, and then wondered why he bothered to say it because it was such a stupid thing to say to a pinscuttle.
“What you on about?” asked the pinscuttle, flicking some dust from one of its pincers, flexing them a little.
“I have absolutely no idea,” said Rancha, “Just trying to make conversation.”
“Fair enough then, ‘preciate it. It gets very boring out here, specially when nobody visits,” said the pinscuttle, encompassing the boring area with a wave of a pincer.
“I can imagine there's not a lot to do then?”
“Not a lot to do? Not a bloody lot to do? We’re in the middle of a sodding desert! Course there's nothing to do!” The pinscuttle turned around
on the spot disgustedly. “N’t a lot to…oh dear, oh dear.”
“Sorry,” said Rancha “Only trying to be friendly, it's uh, not often I meet a god.”
The pinscuttle turned back again and regarded Rancha with a faintly impressed expression, which given its insectile features was an impressive feat in itself.
“You can spot it can you? Huh, first one for the best part of three decades. Though I hate to spoil your fun, I’m not a god really, just an official Guardian. Hello!”
Rancha made an ‘ah’ noise and nodded. Guardians were a well-documented phenomenon. They were indeed regarded by many as gods, although this was generally through lack of any actual deities turning up that often, since the Demon Wars a couple of thousand years previously.
The usual story went: Man finds a talking animal that either kills him or directs him to wonder and riches. Not believing ordinary dumb animal could talk, man blames possession by a god. Guardian smites man for being a stupid bugger. Home tribe find mysteriously dead man and found a religion, usually ignoring the nearby animal radiating innocence.
Since few people ever actually admitted to having seen a real god these days, and with science and sorcery shoving more and more worldly wonders into podgeanholes (even though gods very much existed and were well documented), people craved religion wherever they could and the godlike Guardians usually filled a gap. Some of the more powerful ones were rumoured to be able to move mountains, so it all worked out about the same.
“So,” said Rancha “What are you guarding then?”
“Pardon?” said the pinscuttle showing confusion with a rattle of pincers.
“Guardians guard, yes? So what are you looking after?”
“Oh right! Get you now. Er, I was supposed to be watching the Sacred Branch Of Galunsich but erm…” the pinscuttle looked uncomfortable.
“Let me guess, it got pinched.”
“That’s about the size of it yes. It was just over the other side of that dune there, where some guy put it, oh about a decade ago. Said he was returning it after the demise of the Yansul family. Weird fella.”
Rancha frowned. “I heard about him from a little old lady. Were you around about, oh, two thousand years ago when the tree first got taken by any chance?”
The pinscuttle looked impressed again. “You know your stuff, boyo. But that was my Uncle Albirte. He was one day from retirement and decided to play a prank on some idiot who tripped over the damn shrub. Didn’t realise the guy would actually take it, thought he’d run away at the disembodied voice. His pension got cut for that, poor sod.”
Rancha made a sympathetic noise. “So, what happened this time then?”
“Well, the middle of last week a bunch of guys trashed the shrine looking for the Tree, when muggins here started threatening them with smiting. One of them figured out it was me that was doing the threatening and whatnot and held me by the tail over some boiling water until I showed them where it was. Gits.”
Rancha tutted in commiseration.
“Reckon they were Undyings too with the amount of venom I put in them. That's just bloody cheating if you ask me.”
Rancha made more noises to show sympathy.
“Still, I expect it’ll turn up eventually, I’ve got another thousand-year shift to do and there will always be idiot historians who put preservation of tradition over making a bloody fortune by selling apples.”
Rancha made a non-committal noise. “Can you show me where it was, in case there’s some clues or something hanging about?”
“Sure, why not? ‘snot like I’ve got anything better to do. Come on then.”
The pinscuttle scuttled away across the sand with Rancha in tow. Yrinmet lazily noticed his departure in the distance.
“Rancha’s gone,” he said.
“Yup,” said Terand
“Think we should follow him?”
“Nope.”
“Get some kip?”
“Yup.”
They started snoozing in the warm air while Perci blustered away in the background.
Chapter 29
“Don't get me started on horrific breath'ed thingies from the dawn of time. One of them ate my favourite stick.”
- Old Doberi, sending his audience to sleep with tales of adventure, 1264 C.M.
At the edge of the Deserts of Trallis, a red scaly beast rears on its hind legs and bellows at a sword-waving figure far below. Razor fangs glisten in the blistering sun. Claws flash, again and again, driven by the fury of blood lust. Acidic breath spews forth, the vapours intended to paralyse any who dare stand before it.
The impudent mortal at its feet stands ready, destined to be nought but a red smear on the gritty sand. The beast focuses three of its slitted eyes on the prey’s movements, judging the pattern of the flashing blade, analysing the possible dangers of the fighting style, a skill gained from long experience of being the true Alpha.
This is a beast of old, who learned at an early age to never underestimate an opponent; the untimely and grisly disappearance of his brethren to the hands of opportunistic adventurers a constant reminder of the imperative to survive. The forever heat has hardened its scales, claws have been sharpened on the winds themselves. Anywhere this beast has roamed, it dominated all. Here, in its element of the barren desert, it truly is the master of all predators.
A gap appears in the tiring meat's defences, and quick as lightning the beast exploits the advantage. A mighty talon spears the figure right through the gut, and hoists the flesh into the air, blood dripping and sizzling on the gritty, baked ground. The beast roars defiance, knowing it will feed well on this meal. It brings around one of its many other arms, intending to rend the victim into bite-size pieces, when something impossible happened.
The prey reached around with both arms, taking a grip either side on the talon and, pushing hard, eased the failing body off the savage claw. As the last bloodstained inch slithers out from its torso, the meal drops hard to the desert floor, causing the beast to pause and take a step back, uncertain as to what is happening. There is no screaming. It is strange.
The dying prey flips over onto its back and gropes around blindly in the sand around it. The beast panics and comes to a decision. It lurches forward, foot raised to grind the meat to dust, food or no. A flurry of movement occurs - an arm fluidly moves back and forward in one smooth motion.
Time stops briefly. The figure pauses with an arm still in the air, the other clutching at soon to be spilt guts. The beast stands perfectly still, foot held in midair, not shifting a muscle.
Then, infinitely slowly, the beast tips to one side and still frozen in pose, topples to the ground in full rictus. Muscles finally relax and the many limbs fall. The beast's eyes all close except for the one which cannot – the central eye, which has developed a long-bladed knife right through the pupil. The eye starts to leak goo down the side of the beast's face which smokes and spurts when it touches sand.
The recently speared figure on the ground also lies still, bearing grimace of pain. Hands are clenched around the wound in its belly, trying to stop intestines from spilling forth and adding to the blood already on the ground. So tightly the innards are being held, that the skin surrounding the tear is knitting together. After a few minutes of agony, the hole is much smaller. Then, the warrior sits up and winces as internal organs rearrange themselves into their correct positions. Taking out the needle and thread, damage to clothing is calmly repaired with only minor effort. Then, more wincing as a tooth regrows. The warrior had not even noticed that the original tooth had been removed and looks around for it, spotting the pearly whiteness lying on the sand a few metres away. A shrug. Patching tended to, then to lie back down again, to recover fully and cook gently in the sunshine.
Half an hour later, skin becoming the colour of a coconut husk, the warrior rouses, and after brushing off and checking their bearings, so continues the long, sifting walk to Franchick.
Chapter 30
“Hard work and dedication mea
n about as much as the thanks you get.”
- Polip Orani's final words before his execution over the débâcle 2 years previously, 4155 C.M
Rancha crouched down with the pinscuttle, examining a small hole surrounded by a low fence. He was eating mint sweets from a paper bag, mostly for the extra sugar, but also because he liked them.
“I would have expected a divot like this to have filled in by now, out here,” said Rancha.
The pinscuttle's pincers waggled in agreement. “True, the wind can get pretty nasty, but this ‘ere is sacred ground. Protected. Holy.”
“How long does it take you to dig it back out?”
“Most of the day,” said the pinscuttle, miserably. “Why I couldn’t be a, I don’t know an iguanot or something else bigger at least is beyond me.”
“Nobody you can ask about it?”
“Well, yeah, like I have a direct link to the higher entities.”
“Do you?”
“Well, yeah, but that’s beside the point, they don’t like people asking for transfers. Bloody bureaucrats.” The pinscuttle waggled its tail at the sky, looking truly upset. Rancha offered him a mint.
“No, ta, allergic. Anyway mooch around, do your investigating. I’ve got to go and keep an eye on your buddies. Sacred duty and all the rest of that guff. See you later.” It waved its tail genially and scuttled off back over the dunes.
Rancha watched the little Guardian go, sucked thoughtfully on another mint and examined the immediate area.
After ten minutes nothing was forthcoming, and he was covered in sand from sifting vaguely. He needed an alternative plan.
Checking he was unobserved, not that it really mattered, he just felt self-conscious at times, he stripped and folded his clothes neatly. Then with a shimmer, bone crackle and a ‘foomp’ he grew into the urglon that he was born as. He paused, considering a moment, then shimmered once more turning into what for all the world looked like a reptilian bloodhound, a rare creature known as a wifflemare, native to deserts exactly like this one. He liked wifflemares as a concept, in the same way that exotic animals in a zoo were intriguing, but being one was a different experience, a wrong feeling experience. Like a lot of creatures, they were scent orientated, rather than sight, but wifflemares had flaring noses, that tapered into five frondy extensions. And then there was the moist fur. The things had a strange adaptation to help keep them cool in the form of a coating of gooey fur constantly kept clean and cool by a gel that was exuded from their skin. Rancha truly hated the sensation of wearing the damp hair. Still, needs must.