by Martin Vine
So he hadn’t been out hunting cicadas.
“Lie number one!”
Nor had he been trying to get to Witherness.
“Number two!”
But of no great significance, surely? L would not have sent him to intercept his school friends without good reason. And if that reason involved a little spy work, then Bartrem would gladly play the game.
He’d never thought to question whether the reward would be worth it: Greighspan’s book! Two evenings ago, it had all sounded so clean-cut and uncomplicated.
But what if it wasn’t?
Craning his neck, Bartrem’s eyes found Hopskotch, who was skirting the upper ridge some twenty yards ahead of his own position. Again, he felt a pang of guilt. Bartrem was a Sylt who’d dedicated himself to exposing hidden truths, unravelling conspiracies and cover-ups. He’d never kept secrets from a close friend before. Dishonesty was not a part of who he was.
Was it?
“Hypocrite!”
The thought rang so loud and clear that Bartrem actually let loose a small yelp. The pinprick wound on his right forefinger began to throb with pain.
Dobbin turned his shoulder, one eyebrow raised.
“Trod on something,” Bartrem excused himself, clearing his throat. He waved Dobbin ahead, but declined to make eye contact.
Just concentrate on keeping up, he reasoned, grimly determined to block out all proceeding interruptions.
Showing no mercy, the voice returned, filling his head with accusations.
Filling his head with uncomfortable truths.
Beyond the first ridge beyond the valley’s top terrace, the land began to level out. This came as a great relief to the boys, and likewise Grandpa Rand, who took a moment to take a well-earned breather at the base of a very old, very dead tree.
Anchored to the exposed red clay flanking the trail, the tree stood as awe-inspiring in death as it must have been in life. Its massive trunk split close to the ground, twisting upwards into muscled branches marred with the cracks and fissures of decay. The limbs wrapped over and around each other, before splitting repeatedly into increasingly finer twigs grasping skyward. One might have described its canopy as umbrella-shaped, but only if you imagined an umbrella that had been put up in a hurricane.
As Hopskotch’s eyes wandered over the long-dead giant, he observed the wood to be strikingly similar to the staff he’d found by the Whirlpool, its smooth trunk mottled with the same faded shades of golden browns.
He followed Grandpa Rand around to the far side, and was surprised to discover hexagonal iron bars protruding from the rotting trunk. They looked beyond ancient, a curving row of rusting metal poles with decorative arrow tips sprouting right out of the tree’s flesh. Hopskotch figured it must have once been some kind of cage to protect the sapling. As the years passed, the tree had grown to swallow its iron shield before eventually choking on it.
It brought to mind a gruesome episode from school a few weeks ago. Cal and Gavel had found a dead water skink in the rushes behind the main oval. It had died with a summer beetle lodged in its throat, the insect half-exposed by a gruesome tear that had split the lizard’s underside from jaw to forelegs. The discovery had been the talk of the playground for a good week, at least, and not a boy in school had neglected to make the short trip at recess to gross themselves out over the corpse.
Something about the tree reminded Hopskotch of the beetle and the lizard: that they’d both fought desperately for life, and lost.
He forced the image out of his head. Hopskotch did not like to think too much about death.
On wilting legs, Grandpa Rand led the group across a sandy creek bed and onto a narrow path zigzagging steeply uphill. Once again, it became more of a climb than a walk. The rocks were large, the earth was slippery, and the forest seemed to grow taller and more rugged on either side.
Just as Hopskotch thought he couldn’t take another step, a light-filled opening appeared through the tangle, silhouetting Grandpa Rand, who was at that moment passing through it.
Wincing against the stitch in his side, the weary Syltling followed his grandfather onto a high, treeless ledge with a narrow strip of level ground. For the first time that day, the cloudbank appeared uninterrupted in the sky above his head. A sliver of Lake Whispermere appeared in the distance, winking silver-white reflections across its polished surface before merging into the grey horizon.
The sight of the familiar waters filled Hopskotch with a deep sense of relief. It was approaching midday and he’d neither seen nor heard a single cicada, but he now had an idea of where they were, or roughly thereabouts.
After the shadow-filled valley, the clearing looked like paradise itself. Only a few yards across, the land fell sharply away to the lake on its right shoulder, the drop-off framed by a curious mound of lichen-covered grey rocks cushioned by clover. On the forest side, a mixture of brambles and tower-like boulders carpeted the looming hillside. Everywhere in between was blissfully flat and carpeted in a soft, thin grass that felt wonderful underfoot.
It was a temptation too great by far. Freeing themselves of pack and pouches, first Hopskotch, then Dobbin and Bartrem, found a suitable space and flung themselves to the ground in exhaustion.
Grandpa Rand found a quiet spot away from the boys and collapsed onto his back, packs and all.
The explorers had not spotted any Golden Dukes, but the day yet held promise. Somewhere beyond the curve of the next spur was Saddleslip Gorge. It would soon be afternoon, when the forest would come alive with the hum of cicadas. They were the only team within miles; there was no competition.
And all Hopskotch could think about was the fresh loaf of pumpkin seed damper Grandpa Rand had tucked away in his sling-pouch.
Excerpt From The Secrets Of The Ancients
by Tulloch Greighspan
Sedition 7.1
Trail of Traitors
It was at the height of the pestilence known as Skyfire Blight when the grey hag walked the lands of Sylt. What only came to light much later was far more intriguing, for it was said that she was of another land entirely, and spoke not with the voice of Sylt, yet the sound thereof, and the magic in her words was as seductive as it was repellent.
And it is also known that the she did bring with her a strange obsession for a rare quartz stone that came to be known as geolyte.
For many years following the end of the plague, the Druhirrim were greatly troubled over what had happened to their former colleagues, those who had turned their backs on their order and their god to follow the grey hag. Under pressure from the royal household, it was decided that these renegade priests must be tracked down, and their new intentions uncovered.
The path of this investigation led a small party of faithful Druhirrim to the edges of Western Geldonia and into the rift cut from the Fellensian Plateau by the great sky rock. Leading this expedition was a man not of the holy order, but a scholar who had gained favour of the new king, Truestep Delgard II, for his brother was the court’s Sol Mage, Albreck Stormsonne.
And this man’s name was Dewbreck Stormsonne.
Through great adversity did Dewbreck lead his men to the newly created gorge, and the entire party were shocked to witness the destruction wrought by the sky rock. For even in the foothills before the grey granite cliffs of Calverslope, the forests for miles around had been flattened. And as they drew nearer to the gorge, the land beneath their feet did yet smoke from the impact of many years prior, and it was not long before the travellers had to fashion moccasins – like the swamp-dwelling Flormeerians wore – to protect the pads of their feet.
Such a journey was hard on the scholar from Sanufell, and likewise on the Druhirrim who accompanied him. Many were forced to turn back short of their destination, but Dewbreck’s steps were fuelled by a burning curiosity. And despite the horrors of the surrounding landscape, and the heat underfoot, and the foulness of the smoke-filled air, did he battle his way deep into the heart of the Calverslope seam.
&
nbsp; As the party moved further uphill and into the canyon, ever were they harried by ravens which had, for reasons unknown, gathered in great numbers in the high ridges. And their death-like caws and beady, staring eyes did haunt the travellers’ footsteps, and stir thoughts of fear and uncertainty in their minds.
And despite the best efforts of the Druhirrim to shield their breath within the folds of their Padow cloaks, the noxious gas did slip through, infecting both lung and blood. Their numbers thinned rapidly under the scourge, and in less than five days after entering the gorge there remained, going forward, only Dewbreck, who would be turned from his course by neither fatigue, nor fear of death.
And just when he thought he could not physically take another step, nor bear the infernal heat, nor draw another breath from the poisoned air, did the solitary explorer spy the opening to a narrow cave hidden behind the shadow of a fallen rock. And when he did enter the cool sanctuary, revealed therein was a muted glow highlighting the walls of a cramped chamber sloping into the earth. And from somewhere deeper still, a seductive voice whispered into his thoughts, drawing him onward.
And so began Dewbreck’s descent into darkness.
Forgotten
It could have been a scene from any regular school day. Hopskotch and Dobbin lay sprawled on the grass, backs against their rucksacks, joking with each other between mouthfuls of pumpkin seed damper. Bartrem sat, legs crossed, off to one side, stuffing large chunks of the doughy bread into his mouth. The thirsty Syltlings had drained their water skins to the last drop. Hopskotch had graciously shared his with Bartrem who had, much to Dobbin’s disgust, apparently nothing in his shoulder bag other than a notepad and some pencils, rolled parchment and drawing charcoal.
After making sure everyone had had enough to eat and drink, Grandpa Rand returned alone to the quiet spot by his packs. Hopskotch couldn’t tell whether his grandfather was eavesdropping or if his mind was somewhere else entirely.
Free of the ‘Deathwood’ (as Dobbin had named the forest valley) and a little closer to home, the Syltlings felt their spirits cleansed and refreshed. Even Bartrem appeared uncharacteristically jolly. He resumed teasing Dobbin about the mysterious Shriven, pointing out that they would most likely be lurking deeper in the Deathwood, waiting to pounce.
Dobbin refused to take the bait, nor suffer excess nonsense from Bartrem. Feigning disinterest, the tubby youngster waited for his antagonist to drop his guard, before sending a moist wad of ginger cake slamming into the side of Bartrem’s head.
A verbal joust erupted between the pair, barb for barb, unflattering nickname for unflattering nickname. Dobbin thought he’d got the best of the contest. Bartrem thought he had.
By the end of it, Hopskotch was giggling so hard a pumpkin seed actually flew out his nostril.
“Let’s see you do that out your bottom, Hoppy,” Dobbin quipped with a straight face. “Then I’ll really be impressed!”
Bartrem guffawed wildly. Hopskotch turned and aimed his rump at Dobbin, who backed down immediately, throwing his arms around his head in surrender. The youngsters continued to trade mock insults, running through an imaginative variety of burp, fart and bottom jokes. Hopskotch felt if they didn’t stop soon, his sides would surely split.
Then Dobbin reset his sights on Bartrem. With a mischievous grin, he began sniffing around everyone’s gear, complaining loudly that he could still smell something off. After making a grand show of turning everything over, upside down and around, Dobbin finally accepted their packs had not been ‘bat-poop bombed’.
So where was it coming from?
Though he was the only one complaining, Dobbin was adamant a stink was about. He winked at Hopskotch, before accusing Bartrem of stepping on something unpleasant.
This time Bartrem held his ground. Stubbornly refusing to check the pads of his feet, he shook his head and went to get up.
Before he could properly rise, Dobbin surprised everyone by declaring Bartrem could join Team SnapTalon after all.
Hopskotch’s jaw dropped. Then he was forced to suppress a giggle as Dobbin explained the conditions of entry.
Bartrem appeared likewise stunned. Words of gratitude formed on his tongue, but only two made it past his quivering lips: “O—okay, then.”
Hopskotch couldn’t believe Bartrem would agree to wear such a nickname. He knew Dobbin was testing the newbie’s loyalty, and making sport of it in the process. That Bartrem would so readily say yes came as the biggest surprise. Of course, Hopskotch knew that the eccentric Syltling had been called much worse in the playground.
Much, much worse than Fartrem.
A smile formed on Grandpa Rand’s lips as he watched the youngsters spar with one another. The sound of Hopskotch giggling echoed inside his head, snagging a memory.
Another had once laughed with the same voice, pitch-perfect identical.
So much time had passed: a childhood swept away. Now there would be little cause for laughter in his life. Rand had been thirteen years younger when those events had ripped his family apart. The proceeding years had not been kind.
And here we are again, he sighed quietly, risking it all. Trying to break a fool curse, trying to prove it a myth.
But what alternative? If he just walked away from his duty – his very purpose for being in Broken Meadow – the suffering would catch them all. None would be spared, unless—
A child of the blood awakens the gift of Aethelron.
A prophecy of the final days, like so many others. Unsurprising that this one resonated so deeply. He repeated it to himself, as he’d done many times before when doubts came to plague him. Of course, this time it would be different. The gift, still dormant, was in safekeeping; the mighty dreigh willows guarding Giant’s Prayer Circle, their one slim hope. This time there would be no second chance; no thirteen-year gap to plan and prepare. This time there would be—
No second son.
Eyes locked on his grandson, a pang of guilt rose inside Rand’s gut. His thoughts leap-frogged to his daughter. What would Cordella do to him?
When she sees the waking world, she will know.
The rational part of his brain objected to getting so far ahead of himself.
Should it come to pass.
He had to believe that it would. He had to believe that the world the children grew up into would be different to the one they knew.
A deep snorting noise courtesy of Bartrem echoed across the ridge, followed by more giggling from Hopskotch. It brought tears to the corners of Rand’s eyes. He flipped his lens up to save the glass from misting over, and his mind conjured a snapshot of the other.
But this time he did not allow the pain a let-in, would not allow his thoughts to rise up and curdle inside his head. His focus reset on the moment, Rand closed his eyes, blocked out the sound of raucous schoolboys and sought out the Wilden Sylt. It took only seconds.
“Dapple?”
“Where are you?”
“Double Chin Ridge, first spur.”
“Waste no more time. He’s here, on the lake, I think. His eyes seek you out.”
“How?”
“Beyond me. That is why I fear.”
“The Syltlings?”
“In danger. Perhaps more so for your company.”
“Then what course?”
“Meet me halfway. When he finds you, you want me by your side; the young ones, elsewhere.”
“I can’t just leave them.”
“Safer for them with you gone. He is Wilden, remember, and with such a bag of tricks. We’ll challenge him together, shoulder to shoulder, then pave a safe trail forward. Forget not, I have eyes of my own. My kin are already on their way.”
“It kills me to do this, Tannen.”
“He longs to see you, old friend, but take faith: we are strong and many. Leave them now, whatever excuse. Just before the first spur there is a northbound trail uphill. Take it. With wings on your heels.”
Rand slumped his shoulders, his thoughts in conflict. Wit
h great reluctance, he spoke the words inside his head. “Aye, Dapple.”
“With wings on your heels.”
Dobbin was the first to hear it, the muted background note of cicada song. He shushed his companions with a wild flapping of the arms. Silence settled over the ridge, slowly replaced by a steady chorus rising off the forest-covered slopes. Low clouds blanketed the surface of the distant lake but the light was strong. The cool mountain air set their skins to tingling, filling their heads with the promise of many chirruping, colourful – catchable! – cicadas awaiting them in the gorge ahead.
It was Grandpa Rand that brought them back to reality.
Fully kitted up, the old Sylt materialised suddenly before the boys. “Likely we’ll not make it back to Bridgetown tonight,” he announced.
A knot twisted inside Hopskotch’s gut. He noticed his grandfather’s eyes flicking constantly to the far side of the ridge. It looked as if he carried the weight of the world in his overstuffed packs.
A bony old hand reached out, ruffling his crested hair.
With his other arm, Grandpa Rand pointed out a small hole in the brambles shielding the inland shoulder of the ridge. “I’ll scout ahead aways,” he said, nodding. “Somewhere through all that is a trail to Witherness. You can bet on it!” Withdrawing his hand from his grandson’s head, he began vigorously rubbing his chin. “I think we can get there before dusk.”
Hopskotch tried to conceal his disappointment. “Will you, umm, be gone long?”
“What? Eh? Gone long? Hmm, I don’t expect so.” The old Sylt attempted a smile, but the scar running the length of his face twisted it into a grimace. “You lot just put yer feet up for a spell. And don’t think about wandering, not for nothing!”
“Just rest a while and, well—” Grandpa Rand’s eyes found Dobbin. “I’m taking my packs with me, so forget about scavenging the rest of the damper.” He cast a suspicious eye toward Bartrem. “Or anything else of mine.”