“To waste all our arrows shooting at ghosts, bo’sun? There must be dozens of them out there if not more,” he pointed out, looking back and forth across the glade where many more groups of the things could be seen. “I don’t even know if arrows would do any good against them.”
“Sir … Gudric–”
“I’ve seen … him. We can’t help him now. Not that way.”
“You knew about these things, sir?” asked Cædmon, failing to keep the anger out of his voice, although he was not sure whether he was more angry at the ensign, the Queen, or at himself. After all, it should have been no news to him that Drægland was the abode of unclean things, and discovering that they had slept a night in blissful ignorance while surrounded by a whole army of them was something he doubted anyone could ever be adequately prepared to cope with. Even so, he felt he was sorely owed an explanation. “What the fuck are they? Did she tell you?”
“She … mentions them … in passing.”
“In passing? I’d call them more than a trivial detail, sir.”
“She likens them to an old Lucinian folk story. Something about creatures called ‘Reapermen.’ They say that when the Lucinians took the land from the Alvere, they cut down most of the ancient forests to make way for their farms, and the spirits of the forest were left formless and angry. The legend claims that on the long nights around the Winter Solstice, the tree-spirits are able to take on ghostly shapes again. They seek out any farmers who fail to make the proper prayers, or rituals of protection, and they claim them and their families as their ‘harvest’ in retribution for the crimes of their ancestors. That’s the legend, anyway. From what I gather, the Lucinians still tell it to frighten their kids and suchlike, but it’s just a bit of quaint peasant nonsense to them these days. No more than a joke.”
“Sir, I ain’t fucking laughing. So what does she think about it, then? Is that what she really thinks these things are?”
“No, but she doesn’t seem to have a better name for them. She just brings up the legend because it suggests ways of repelling them – the elf-signs, sunlight, some herbs and crystals as well – and supposedly those are true. But if you think I was expecting these abominations and I’ve been holding out on you all, you couldn’t be more mistaken. When I read the Queen’s notes, I just thought they’d turn out to be some kind of drægmare, and give us all night terrors and cold sweats if we weren’t careful. I never pictured anything like this, never mind one of us standing there among them like … like that, Thalassa save us,” he declared, looking again at the shade that had been Gudric but almost immediately averting his gaze. In spite of the horror of the situation, Cædmon repented of his suspicions. Clearly, the ensign was as dismayed and repulsed as he was, if not more. If it was bad enough to think the lad died under his command, what must he be thinking now?
“I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to suggest–” he began, but Ashbyrn grimaced, shook his head rapidly, and drew a deep breath before speaking again, in a stronger voice.
“It doesn’t matter, Cædmon. Let’s just get this over with,” he resolved, then reached into his belt pouch and took out a rounded crystal, no larger than a big marble. It was of a light green hue, but so intricately multifaceted that it seemed to flash and glitter with every imaginable colour as it split the light from the elf-signs into a thousand tiny, shifting rainbows. In spite of the ethereal effect of these dancing lights, the crystal itself looked more solid than even their own bodies did within this washed-out limbo. Only the glowing sigils and the deformed, cadaverous shades, Cædmon could not help but notice, were as clearly in focus. “This is it: the artefact she gave me. I just need to take this to the top of that pyramid, and then …” he tailed off, as he turned to face the ancient temple. Cædmon’s attention had also been so consumed by the lurking horrors outside the circle that he had paid no attention to the ruins, but as he followed the ensign’s rapt stare he realised that the mind-screwing was not over yet.
Although the native ruins were still visible as greyish smears on a smudged, colourless, two-dimensional backdrop of the real world, other structures had appeared in their proper place: nameless forms in silver and white, transparent but vivid. They seemed roughly to follow the layout of the ruins, but were like no buildings of any culture that Cædmon knew of, and he had been on raids from Lucinia, to Seraquin, and even to Axuma, where he had seen temples, academies, and castles built of nothing but dried, hard-packed mud and straw. He was slightly reminded of those immense earthworks because, like them, the newly-appeared buildings seemed to have no visible blocks or construction seams, but that was where the similarity ended. Colossal, irregular shapes seemed to be supported by impossibly thin pillars that jutted up from the ground at odd angles like the half-buried ribs of giants. Towers with smooth, marble-like surfaces but without a single straight edge in their design seemed almost as if they might be giant stalagmites or leafless trees, except that their exact form was copied on the opposite side of the symmetrical plaza.
Cædmon could see no doors, windows, or other common elements of practical architecture, although he noticed a few rounded, swirling structures that were reminiscent of immense seashells, and suggested some kind of interior space. Still, he was not at all eager to explore the sepulchral buildings, even had they not been mere phantoms, so this lack of entry-ways was no great loss. The only structure that remained familiar to him was the main pyramid-temple itself, although even that had changed from a terraced building of stone blocks to a smooth, silver, seemingly one-piece construction, the only variation in its mirror-like surface being the single flight of stairs moulded to its front face. While some of the buildings seemed almost as if they had grown like some ugly formal garden of blighted, leafless silverwood trees, the only, not-so-likely explanation he could think of for the pyramid was that it had been cast in steel by Gwythærn the Smith himself. Not that Cædmon had ever been a religious man, and today’s experiences were not making him feel that he had missed out on much.
“What was that you said she wrote, sir?” he asked, in hushed awe. “About things in the ‘dark world’ becoming more visible? Then would this place be like some weird mirror image of our world … or is this the real one and we’re the damn reflections? Begging your pardon while I lose the plot here …”
“I don’t think it is. It doesn’t look much like it,” said Ashbyrn, looking around the unearthly complex with some wonder and a lot of distaste. “I suppose it follows the basic layout, but … I think I know what might have happened, though. Supposing some of the natives once camped out here, and smoked something they probably shouldn’t have done. If, maybe, they then had a vision of this place, mightn’t that have inspired them to try to build something like it on the same spot? Trying to mimic their ‘gods,’ or tap into their power by imitation? People build temples and shrines where they think there have been miracles, after all. I’d say this bloody well qualifies, wouldn’t you?”
“I guess so, sir. I’d be happier to forget about it, myself, and swear off the bad shit for the rest of my life.”
“May you have the opportunity soon, Mister Cædmon. We’ve only one more of these wretched crystals to place, then we can set sail for home,” declared Ashbyrn, not disappointing Cædmon too seriously: he had already suspected it was too much to hope that they only had to do this the once. “Anyway, you keep watch over our friends out there. Take a walk around the perimeter, and make sure all of the elf-signs are holding. I’m almost certain those abominations can’t get in, and even if they could, I don’t think they can harm us in the sunlight. Still … if even one of them gets in, I’d sooner know about it than not.”
As Ashbyrn set off down the main avenue towards the pyramid, Cædmon began his long march around the inner edge of the glowing elf-circle, taking care both to remain within the perimeter and also to avoid coming any closer to the phantom buildings than he absolutely had to. All the while, though, he had to keep an eye to spare for the gaunt, shadowy figures. He saw s
everal of them as he made his recce, mostly standing around in small groups, somewhat resembling the charred skeletons of burned bushes, only occasionally stirring a limb. Other, solitary shades were loping around with a hunched, apelike gait, their clawed, spindly arms hanging limply, moving so slowly that they might have been walking through treacle. Thankfully, even these ones seemed incapable of approaching the elf-signs, and having failed in any such attempt they would usually drift back to one of the static groups. That’s the idea, boys, thought Cædmon, with deep loathing. Nice and docile. Maybe if we torch this whole fucking glade before we leave … On reflection, that was a bad idea, as it would be open advertising for hostile natives, but it was tempting nonetheless. Cædmon had lost his fair share of men and boys in his time, but Gudric’s horrifying fate was a new level of responsibility that nothing could ever have prepared him for. All he could hope for was that the lad was not conscious of his situation, as off-hand Cædmon could not think of a worse reward for his courage than spending eternity as a warped spectre in this eerie, ‘dark-shifted’ limbo, forever glimpsing two worlds without truly existing in either.
These thoughts were leading him nowhere pleasant, but they distracted him enough that he missed sight of an object on the ground until he tripped over it, at least after a fashion. For rather than simply colliding with the object, he felt a tingling like pins and needles in his right foot, and a sense of resistance that did not actually stop him from moving, but slowed him so suddenly and unexpectedly that he almost lost his footing. Fighting for balance, he regained it just in time to avoid trampling all over one of the elf-signs. With a sigh of relief, he turned to find out what had obstructed him. It was a small object, not part of the buildings but almost as see-through. Half of it was a short, thick silver tube, mounted on a curved grip made of the same whitish, bone-like material as many of the buildings were. At the front of the tube was a polished black surface, slightly concave. The whole object was about the length of a man’s arm and vaguely familiar to him, but in no way he could immediately pin down. The most bemusing part of it was that the object had managed to obstruct him, since he had assumed that none of these apparitions had any substance. Gingerly, he stretched out his foot and prodded the thing with just the tip of his boot. Though it passed through the object, it also succeeded in moving it, though only very slightly. It underwent another change, becoming more opaque, and the tingling in his foot intensified. He quickly withdrew it, not particularly wishing to become merged with the landscape, but the object was now barely translucent and his curiosity was getting the better of his fear. I wonder, if I just moved closer to it without actually touching it … He knelt down and carefully moved his hand near the object, until he could feel only the lightest prickle on his skin. Holding his position, he watched as the strange artefact slowly became even more clear and solid, until at last it was completely opaque and the prickling sensation had stopped. Still, not wishing to make any hasty assumptions that might end in horrible injury, Cædmon decided to test the water by touching the object with the tip of his seax. As the blade made contact with the silver tube, there was a metallic clink, and the strange object moved normally under the pressure. Satisfied, he sheathed his seax again and picked up the object.
A weapon of sorts, it’s got to be, he decided, as he took the cold, smooth mass in his hands, felt for its natural grip, and found it most comfortable to carry like a short carbine, the tube balanced in his left hand and the curved stock braced against his right shoulder. In this position he could even feel a ‘trigger’ of sorts in the handgrip, although of an odd and slightly off-putting kind: just a small, soft patch in the bone-like material, as if part of it had gone mouldy. Still, he felt slightly safer and more confident for carrying the strange weapon, even if not quite confident enough to try using it yet. Best to see what his Lordship has to say, first. Can’t imagine he’d be thrilled to have me blazing away without any orders, although the more he saw of the deformed shades, the harder it was to resist the temptation. He lowered the barrel of the curious ‘gun’ and quickened his pace.
As he completed the circuit, he saw the ensign already waiting for him, no longer holding the crystal. At first it seemed to Cædmon as if nothing had changed, but when he glanced up at the top of the pyramid he could see a threadlike beam of strange-coloured light extending from its summit to the east. Right towards Alvenheim, if my sense of direction ain’t off, which it ain’t, he thought, with mixed feelings. Before he could congratulate Ashbyrn on his apparent success, however, the ensign noticed the object he was carrying.
“What’s that? You actually picked something up?” asked Ashbyrn, astonished.
“Took some persuading it did, sir, but eventually I managed. Blowed if I know what in the Abysm it is, though. Kind of a musket, maybe?”
“I suppose it has kind of that look, or … That black lens on the front reminds me of something. Some sort of focusing … A pyronade?” he guessed, uncertain but with an air of epiphany. “A hand-held pyronade?”
“Sir, that’d be a tidy bit of loot and no mistake, and damn handy too,” declared Cædmon, enthusiastically. “You reckon we can take it with us?”
“Perhaps. If we can leave things like that crystal here, I don’t see why we shouldn’t be able to take them as well. Have you tested it yet?”
“No sir. Thought I’d better let you see it, first.”
“Good man … Would you like to test it?” he asked, with grave significance, and cast his eyes to where ‘Gudric’ was standing, hovering at the edge of his group of shades, the crossbow still dangling pathetically from his fingers. Wouldn’t I just, thought Cædmon, with grim satisfaction, as he levelled the barrel. Sorry we couldn’t do better for you than this, lad, but if there is such a place as the Halls of Thalassa, there’d better be a seat reserved for you down there, or else I’ll have to steal one of these newfangled Lucinian underwater-ships, pop down there, and beat the crap out of the head waiter. On that encouraging reflection, he pressed the trigger.
Oh yes, definitely a pyronade, he thought, as his eyes recovered from the momentary but glaring flash, and his ears rang from the deafening noise, but it had not been the gun that had been mainly responsible for the noise. The worst of it had been a shrill, somewhat bird-like cry from the shades, as if a thousand vultures were having their necks wrung in unison. Seconds passed until Cædmon’s vision cleared, by which time he could see that the group of spectres had dispersed and were loping off in all directions, slowly but determinedly. A tangled black mass remained where ‘Gudric’ had stood, but it was rapidly fading. Just before it vanished completely, Cædmon had a fleeting but ghastly impression of it being more than a mere shadow. He could see human limbs and joints twisted out of all proportion, muscles exposed, pieces of strange material grafted into the tortured frame, and worst of all, the pale, eyeless, blood-streaked face of Gudric, frozen in pain and terror. Fortunately, in the next moment, the corpse disappeared altogether. Cædmon tried firing another shot at one of the fleeing shades, but the hand-pyronade only hissed at him, almost with an admonishing tone.
“No good,” declared Ashbyrn, matter-of-factly. “It takes time to charge, just like the big ones. Still, those things seem to have got the message. How much longer do you think till our comedown, Mister Cædmon?”
“Not sure sir. Half an hour, maybe. Not easy to judge time when you’re on the trickster caps … even when you’re not using them to pillage limbo itself.”
“Perhaps I’ll take a look around here myself, then. See what I can learn. Maybe see if there’s any more of those weapons lying around. In the meantime, if you get a chance to take another shot, don’t hold back on my account.”
“With pleasure, sir,” replied Cædmon, surveying his potential targets as Ashbyrn strolled off into the ghostly complex. Come to daddy, lads, he thought, pressed the trigger again, and was rewarded with another dazzling flash and an ear-splitting screech, although much more satisfying to hear on this occasion. Yeah, t
hat’s the stuff. For all of the Brythons’ courage and fierceness, Drægland had long held a special, uniquely shaming place in their imagination, being a land full of ill-defined but deadly threats that could not be frightened, decapitated, stabbed, shot, or otherwise dealt with by any of their time-honoured methods. Although he did not share his commanding officer’s fascination for this otherworldly realm, with each blast he fired Cædmon’s mood was improving dramatically. Almost like it’s business as usual, he thought, cheerfully immolating another of the creeping shades, and it looks as if our new queen isn’t raving mad after all. Who’d have thought it? But helmets off to her. With gear like this to fight with, we’ll soon show those arrogant Lucinian fuckers who’s got what it takes, and all the rest of them. With a sense of finally getting to enjoy a well-deserved high, Cædmon continued firing.
CHAPTER NINE – DANCE OF GENESIS
The written portion of the Queen’s journal was thankfully of no epic length, but it still took Maradith the better part of an hour to memorise it well enough to have any realistic hope of recalling it hours later, and she feared even that might not be enough. Much better if I could get in here again for a refresher, although damned unlikely, she thought, pessimistically. I wonder if they’ve got a fire alarm bell … Probably ripped it out with all the rest of the galvanics, worse luck. Saskia kept watch by the door, which did not do a great deal for Maradith’s confidence, as she was certain that the priestess’s woeful acting skills would alert the suspicions of even the apathetic house servants. Thankfully, none of them came. The entire household, high and low, seemed to have taken the afternoon off to celebrate, judging from the sounds of laughter and revelry that occasionally drifted up the corridor. Guess that’s a positive sign, if they’re in a good enough mood for a knees-up … just as long as they’re not planning on serving Lord Citizen Kasimir as the main course. She had gravely disliked having to let him attend the audience alone, but orders were orders, priorities were competing, and it was reasonable to suppose that he had known what he was doing. Still, I’ve never seen a man look more like a lamb going to the slaughter …
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