The Sword of Sighs

by Greg James

  “It's no good,” Jedda said between gasps for breath.

  “Let me help you.”

  Jedda made a face, gritting her teeth, stretching out her hamstrings and triceps. “Sarah, you can’t. You’re too weak.”

  Too late. Sarah was in the water beside her, leaning in and pushing already. Jedda smiled, despite her worries, and did the same. Ossen watched them, unspeaking. His eyes were on Sarah as she heaved her slight frame against the hull. Jedda could see how red her pale face was becoming, how shaky her hands were. A sudden tremor shook Sarah from the base of her spine to the nape of her neck. She swallowed a gasp.

  Then Jedda cried out, backing away from the boat.

  “What is it?”

  “The water! It is coming in. Look, it was around our ankles, now it is at our thighs.”

  She was right. Jedda had been so long in the water that she’d gone numb. The water was rising up the sandbar, buoying the boat somewhat. Sarah nodded at Jedda, a slight glow to her eyes. Or was that a trick of the light?

  “One last go. One last try.” She winked at Jedda.

  They ground their teeth, gnawed the insides of their mouths, their bodies rigidly pivoting, their feet sinking deeper and deeper into slimy sand. Even with the higher water level, it felt like it was not going to work.

  Then it happened.

  A giving, a release, a letting go. They both gasped aloud as the boat slithered down from the sandbar into the water. The edges of the sky were night-white. Soon, there would be darkness all around. Jedda looked at Sarah. She was weeping and exhausted, but hand in hand, they clambered back on board with smiles on their faces.

  ~ ~ ~

  “How did you survive?” asked Sarah through a mouthful of their evening meal—plain black bread, beef jerky, and water from their flasks. Jedda looked to Sarah and then to Ossen. He nodded.

  “It was a golem that burned. Not me. Ossen made it out of the dirt and moisture that clung to the walls of the dungeon. There is enough filth down there to make a hundred golems. A few scraps of memory and words that I had chosen made it believable. Posing as a Sworn was the easy part because most people are too scared of them to look too closely, and I was well-trained in fighting by father before … he died.”

  Sarah’s brow creased. “I’m sorry. My dad passed away as well. You miss him.”

  Jedda nodded curtly. “I miss him, and I hate the woman who killed him. I mean to kill her too, whatever way I can. Ianna will die by my hand, one day.”

  Silence followed Jedda’s words, and they ate the rest of the meal without another word.

  ~~~

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Sarah sat on the side of the boat as it steered itself downriver. Jedda was below, sleeping, and Ossen was at the stern. Sarah felt alone on the Path, even with them here. Even though she was dry and warm now, she still had not shaken off a chill from her struggle with the thing in the water. It was a cold worm, writhing inside her. Daybreak was painting itself over the remnants of night’s darkness. The waters of the river shone silver and white as the sun came up. Sarah knew it was beautiful, but she did not feel like seeing it right now. She was hollow, scraped out, empty. Three years of Seythe, away from her family, school, friends, and home.

  Could she ever go home again after all this?

  Live a life without fire and flames?

  She did not want to go on, but she had to. From inside the boat, she heard Jedda moaning. At least, she thought, I’m not the only one here who has bad dreams. She had to go on to the Fellhorn, across the mountains that seemed to grow on the horizon and which now took up the lower half of the sky. There is only one thing to do otherwise, she thought, looking down at the shimmering silver water.

  No. Not yet.

  ~ ~ ~

  Restless days went by in the boat. Sarah lapsed into sleep when she could, but the slightest creak or moan of the vessel brought her jumping awake. Odd, thatched bamboo huts lined the river. Encroaching trees, bent and old, crowded the banks like weary travellers desperate to quench their thirst. Their roots were warty, writhing toes sunk into the mossy water to drink deeply of the depths. More scattered houses could be seen through the trees, and occasionally a boat was grounded at the riverside. The houses looked empty and the little boats, unused. Decay and dank webbing decorated them, with lichen and mould settling into the damper resting places. The tree roots intertwined with the abandoned houses and boats, reclaiming wood that was once their own. The heavy air hummed with bugs, and Sarah and Jedda busied themselves swatting the little bloodsuckers away. Ossen ignored them. From the trees came a fibrous rustling. Sarah looked up, peering into the gloom. She saw nothing there. Nothing. But she still heard something—the rattling of hanging bones. Furtive eyes watched them from the sloping banks of the river as the sun sank away.

  "Where are we now, Ossen?"

  It was Jedda who answered. “Grah'na and its swamps. The Mother save us.”

  “Is there no other route?”

  “No,” said Ossen. “We must cross into a place they cannot follow. Grah’na is where we must go.”

  The lack of steadiness in the Wayfarer’s tone unnerved Sarah. She noticed his eyes flicker about, searching the curling fronds and soft hanging veils of Grah’na, and his steps were less firm, his posture less straight and assured.

  “Why can’t they follow us in here?”

  “Because there are things in the world that even the Fallen-born fear,” said Jedda.

  ~ ~ ~

  Sarah had been dozing when she heard fighting from outside. Without a second thought, she dropped down into the boat, listening to the whine and ricochet of missiles striking the wooden sides. Gruff masculine barks followed thunder-flashes of white and fire. The crack and bang of glass breaking. Hurricane lanterns mounted on the boat’s aft and stern went out, and the firing from outside intensified, wild and blind. Sarah crawled on hands and knees to the gangway and peered out. Were Ossen and Jedda okay? Were they dead?

  Sarah inhaled, tasting a burnt-metal tang on the air. She drew Fang free from its leather scabbard and ran her fingers over its smooth blade and hard angles, making sure she was ready in case they were boarded.

  The firing stopped.

  And then a miniature sun was born.

  For a frozen moment, Sarah saw the scene made still—scalding white, burning itself into her eyes. Things that resembled men, but were not, swarmed into the water; others clustered in groups on the riverbanks. They were cowering and shielding their eyes from the brilliance that burned overhead. A perfect sphere of light hung above the boat. She saw that it was the work of Ossen, who stood proud and bold on the deck, supporting the hovering sphere with Jedda at his side.

  Sarah’s gaze was drawn back to the bank, to the rough-haired, scruffy figures who milled about there and waved crude bows and crossbows at the light. They snarled curses in a guttural language she couldn’t understand. She could see nocturnal, shining eyes and ugly bared teeth. Their faces were feral, hateful masks stretched over bone, wanting to tear their enemies into bloody bits and pieces. Still whooping, shrieking and shouting curses, they retreated back into the trees.

  The banks of the river were soon silent once more. Ossen lowered his hands and the glowing sphere unfurled like a flower of woven gold and silver and scattered like shimmering dust onto the night breeze.

  “What were those things, Ossen?”

  "Those, Sarah, were the Molloi—sad, degenerate creatures but vicious and murderous too. The hail of arrows and crossbow bolts was a territorial act. They were telling us we have crossed into their lands, although I think they now fear us more than they did originally. They are nocturnal, so light blinds them. Remember that, should you ever have the misfortune to meet a Molloi again.”

  ~ ~ ~

  The temple came into view an hour after they passed the Molloi. The further they travelled into the close and creeping depths of the swamps, the more unease gathered in Sarah’s heart. The waters seemed to be t
urning sludgy and grey. The air too seemed to take on an indistinct quality. Neither mist, nor fog, but almost as if a dissipation of their surroundings was taking place, like the world was becoming translucent and washed-out or was slowly fading away. The cold in the air seemed not a mere change in temperature. It was difficult to describe. It got inside and brought bad memories bobbing to the surface, like dead bodies in the water.

  Like the first time she saw a corpse.

  It happened years ago, but Sarah still remembered it well.

  Dragged ashore and left behind when the waters went, Mom had said. They had been together then, Mom’s warm hand in hers, sadness in her eyes and a reassuring smile that made Sarah feel safe despite the damp horror of the dead man sprawled before her. Mom’s words from that day rang clear in her mind.

  “Poor soul. I wonder why he did it. Let himself get taken under by life.”

  Then, Mom turned her away from death and they walked back home in the dusk. Mom had called the police, who took the body away.

  But that didn’t stop the dreams. Night after night, for weeks, the dead man was in Sarah’s dreams. His face cut up. His soaked clothes—a well-made pinstripe suit—and his hands decorated with finely crafted feminine rings. The lake’s water had not cleaned the nail varnish from his fingertips. Sarah remembered what the cop who came to their house had said.

  “One less faggot is no great loss, ma’am.”

  The words had made Mom throw him out of the house, badge or no badge.

  “Human nature’s such an ugly thing sometimes,” Mom had said afterwards. “Don’t you become like that now, Sarah. Not like him. Wearing a uniform like that just gives him power. It doesn’t, and never will, make him right.”

  Sarah closed her eyes for a moment.

  The boat made her feel woozy—that was all it was. Nothing else. There were no faces in the high grass by the banks. No dead men with bloodied teeth and beaten-in eyes. No rotten fingers trailing in the water, decorated with finely crafted feminine rings. No tongues lolling like slippery pale slugs through torn-up lips. There were no voices whispering to her.

  No, there’s nothing there, only the night's wind, nothing more.

  The boat drew up against the bank. There was no dock.

  “Why are we stopping here?”

  “To pay our respects,” said the Wayfarer. “Come on, both of you now. Quickly.”

  Sarah and Jedda followed Ossen off the vessel and onto dry land. Sarah couldn’t resist a look back. There was nothing there. The boat. The ebbing grey waters that had lapped against mud, grass, and soil. Nothing strange there. No, nothing at all.

  A temple stood before them. It was a two-tiered rectangular structure of pale yellow stone that reminded Sarah both of a pagoda and a pyramid. The outer walls were decorated with ornate hieroglyphics made up of slanting and circular characters that Sarah did not recognise.

  “Are you okay?” asked Jedda.

  “I’m fine.”

  “No more bad dreams?”

  “No more bad dreams.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Within the temple was a simple courtyard bordered by crumbling stone. A semi-circle of women waited for them inside. There were women of all ages, from adolescent girls to mothers bearing children, to an old woman who stood apart in the centre of the semi-circle. All of them wore plain black tunics and pantaloons. All of them were barefoot and bareheaded. The three companions entered, Ossen removing his cowl, and Sarah and Jedda their shoes. The stone was smooth and surprisingly warm beneath their bare feet. They approached the patiently waiting semi-circle. Sarah could feel their eyes on her. Her skin prickled and pimpled with gooseflesh. She could not help staring at the old woman whose bowed face was lined with countless wrinkles and whose eyes were pursed between twin clefts of wrinkled tissue. Her robe seemed too big for her as her slender, liver-spotted hands emerged from the cavernous sleeves to grasp Ossen by the hand. She shook it with strength. A young woman separated from the semi-circle and approached. Across her upturned palms lay a scarf of black silk threaded with filigreed jade. A little girl also approached, bearing a mound of shimmering silver dust in her cupped hands. The old woman began to speak, a low croaking and clicking that Ossen translated. It was like no language Sarah had heard from a human mouth before.

  “In honour of your courage in coming this far and your promise as a Daughter of the Flame, Sarah. You are to be blessed by this gathering.”

  “But, Ossen, who are they?”

  “The Daughters of Yagga.”

  Sarah froze on the spot at the name of the old witch from the Wood Beneath the Worlds.

  “I do not want to be blessed by them. Not in her name.”

  Ossen turned his one eye on her. “It is a blessing not to be refused, Sarah. Yagga is as sacred as Gorra in Seythe. I’m sure he told you as much. To his spring blossom, she is autumn’s long twilight. To his bright summer day, she is winter's coldest and darkest night. One cannot be without the other—”

  “I don’t care! She hurt me, Ossen! Don’t you understand that? She kept me like a pet and beat me with a stick! I will not be blessed by women who follow her! No way!”

  Sarah locked eyes with the old woman. She felt a slight fuzziness, a tingling at the base of her skull. There it was again, that cloudiness, that fading away of everything around her. And her face, that old face, it was the one Sarah had tried to dream away. The dead man reaching for her with limpid hands and lily-white fingers, barnacles crusting over what were once fine, shining feminine rings.

  “Come here to me, child. Take my blessing. Yea, though he said that one less faggot is no great loss. Amen.”

  The scent of dirty water and weeds clung to her. She could hear the glub-glub-glub of fluid in the dead man’s throat as he tried to speak.

  Momma ... where’ s Momma? … Momma!

  The slippery, twitching fingers were almost touching her.

  The wretched thing stumbled towards her. In her mind’s eye, she saw the Flame within her—a flickering, fluttering shadow that gave off no heat and danced on in silence. She imagined drawing it up into herself, like taking one breath after another, letting it flow out and fill her being from head to fingers to toes, flowing out from a space just below her heart. She could feel the Flame this time, its movement within, those breaths she took were becoming more regular. Shorter, sharper, harder, quicker. She felt it turning from a flow into a flood, surging through her limbs and generating a heat and fury that made her toes curl and her fingers clench. And then, she let it go—not as a raging torrent this time, but a great golden river of light running out of her and into the dead man, the old woman, and on into the other Daughters of Yagga. On and on and on it went, until she was spent. The light of the Flame evaporated, leaving her gasping and wanting to fall. And the old woman and the daughters were all ash and stains on the ground ...

  ~ ~ ~

  ... Sarah came to on the boat deck, blinking and staring as Ossen steered the boat downriver past the temple without stopping, leaving the ancient, empty structure behind.

  “Aren’t we stopping here, Ossen?”

  “Why would we do that?” he asked, turning. “There’s nothing in there but old ghosts and ashes.”

  A slight smile tugged at his lips and was followed by a wink before he turned back to steering. Sarah looked back at the temple before it was lost amid hanging vines and tangled trees. In the doorway, she saw a figure watching them go by. Stooped old hag? Young woman? Virgin child? It was hard to tell in the gloom, in the ever-shifting shadows. Soon, the temple was lost to her.

  She knew, somehow, that she would never find it again.

  ~~~

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The boat sailed on in a subdued but pleasant manner for the next few days, although the swamps of Grah’na remained a forbidding sight with their canopies of warped, twisted trees robed in sour, watery mist. Sarah could feel the sodden swamp air like a lukewarm sweat on her skin. She sometimes felt as if the s
weltering shades were observing her, but Ossen swore no Fallen-born would enter the swamps and that the Molloi were not nearly so subtle as to be able to creep about unseen in the shadows. Still, his promises made Sarah feel no easier in her gut as the boat drifted on and the dark green depths around them seemed to close in with each passing day.

  ~ ~ ~

  A sound in the night woke her.

  Ossen and Jedda were asleep below. Sarah was on watch and had dozed off. When she opened her eyes, she saw a light like campfire flames not so far away. The swamp was quiet but for the humming of insects. The boat was stilled for the night against an outcrop of loamy turf. Sarah’s gaze followed the outcrop, noting that the gangly tree roots and accrued silt made a natural bridge to where the fire flickered in the dark. That sound again—yes, hushed voices. She was sure of it.

  Kay’lo? Molloi? Some servants of the Fallen-born discussing what they meant to do to them whilst they slept?

  She closed her eyes and saw the Flame still there in her breast, dancing its shadows. Taking deep breaths, she thought, I can bring it out of me again. She crossed the bridge of roots and mulch, ducking between the serpentine tree trunks. The fire was closer, she could see that, and the forms squatting around it were more defined. They did not look familiar, and their voices were peculiar. They were not the first strange voices she had heard in this World, but they were still strange compared to all of the others, even the sibilant speech of the Fallen-born.

  Closer and closer she came, until she was peering through the undergrowth at the creatures huddled around the fire. They were draped in clothes that were little more than tattered rags, but she could see that their bodies were not only made of flesh. She could see arms and legs of crude iron, jointed and riveted. Their skin was bleached, dirty, and grey. Their faces were wan, with limpid eyes staring fixedly into the flames. But as the small gathering moved around the fire, she saw that they were not huddling in for warmth, they were cooking something.

  Sarah saw what was turning, dripping, on their roasting spit.