by Tom Lloyd
They lay there a while longer, staring at each other – as close as former lovers and just as awkward. Shell had always tried to avoid looking him too carefully in the eye; he might have got the wrong idea after all. It didn’t take her long to become self-conscious as she’d gotten good at that over the years. The strange white-before-her-years hair, the blackened hand-prints around her wrists – marks that she was different, that she’d not fit in anywhere she went.
More than once she’d considered taking Moss up on his many offers. The man was not unattractive, not after years of life around sallow-cheeked farmers, and had never pressed his suit in any manner she couldn’t deflect with a word. The differences didn’t seem to bother him and a little acceptance would have been nice, but he always managed to do something brainless and crass to put her off the idea. His timing had been uncanny at times, as though he played a complex game where the goal was something different than between her legs.
‘You thinking about kissing me?’ Moss whispered.
Shell gritted her teeth against shouting at the man. ‘No.’
‘Oh. Just me then. Fine.’
‘Are we going to lie here all morning then?’
‘Don’t see why not. Best thing is to hope the wisphounds don’t stumble across us.’
‘What about Lichen?’
‘Oh, balls! I forgot him!’
On cue, the green-stained man’s voice cut the still morning air. ‘What in the cold places is that?’
Shell winced and jumped up, spear in hand. She looked around wildly for Lichen and found him pointing off to her right. Following his finger, Shell saw the pale shapes advancing on them – low and slender, white hides reflecting the bloody tint of the sky while the foliage they stalked through remained dark and shadowy. They were fifty yards off, but their steady, deliberate steps ate up the ground beneath them, three of them spreading out to encircle the camp.
‘Kick the fire up,’ she croaked, mouth dry and unable to tear her eyes from the three wisphounds. ‘Moss, get a branch burning.’
‘They don’t fear fire,’ he moaned beside her. ‘They’re so fast – last time they killed the enchanters first and drank the fire from their fingertips.’
The wisphounds broke away from each other, two circling left and right around the small camp.
‘Lichen, get a weapon!’ Shell called.
He turned, bewildered. ‘What? A weapon?’
‘They ain’t here for tea,’ Moss snapped. ‘My axe, on the pack there.’
‘I . . . I can’t use that,’ Lichen stammered, half watching the wisphounds still as he fumbled for the axe.
‘Give it here then,’ Shell replied. ‘Throw it.’
He did so, but his enfeebled arms were unused to such effort and the axe gouged a furrow in the earth. Shell growled. ‘Here, catch this.’
She tossed the spear over as gently as she dared, trying to keep the blade away from Lichen. The man still managed to drop it, but once he got both hands around the shaft he looked a little more convincing in his ability to use it.
‘Might want to start working your way over here,’ Moss advised, looking left and right at the creatures as they closed in.
‘Why?’ Lichen sounded stunned and almost helpless, forgetting to even lower the point of the spear towards the nearest wisphound.
‘So we can watch your back, you damned fool!’ Moss snapped as Shell retrieved the axe and returned, standing with her back to him as she hefted the long axe.
It was a beast of a weapon, with a shaft that stood almost as tall as her and a blade that ran to a point at the top. She wouldn’t be wielding it with any great skill, but it’d chop through a man’s leg with ease and she was capable enough to run that point into anything coming near.
Lichen stumbled towards them as the wisphounds crept ever closer, silent in the pre-dawn hush. At last he managed to set himself with his back to Shell, spear pointing vaguely towards the otherworldly hunter. By now they were close enough for Shell to get a decent look at the one ahead of her as it wove a path forward, fifteen yards, ten, five – close enough to charge yet it waited, watching and considering with baleful yellow eyes.
It had a boxy muzzle and ragged ears that seemed to end in frayed mist, thin limbs and the shade of ribs showing in its sky-tinted flanks. Most apparent of all was a sense it stood only partly in this world, a half-translucent presence that only lightly brushed this plane. The wisphound was more a veil over the ground behind it than a living creature, but a veil with claws and teeth nonetheless.
‘What’re they waiting for?’ Lichen asked, teeth chattering.
Shell didn’t answer while Moss filled his lungs and bellowed an incomprehensible warcry. The slow-waking world seemed to shake at the unexpected sound and the wisphounds paused in their tracks, not driven off but made momentarily wary – or thoughtful.
Shell fought down the growing chill of fear in her belly and took half a pace forward, turning the axe through the air, but careful to keep the head between her and the beast, ready to twitch it one way or the other if it lunged.
The wisphound darted forward and she almost overcorrected, only just keeping the blade from swinging out of its path. The scuff of boots on earth told her Moss had done something similar, a moan from Lichen telling its own story. There came a growl as faint as a breath of wind and her foe lunged again. This time she didn’t react so strongly, just planted her left foot and tightened her grip as it kept just beyond the point of the axe, snarling terribly.
Wolves go for the weakest of the herd.
Shell swung as hard as she could to the side. Her axe caught the hound darting under Lichen’s spear and cleaved flesh, throwing it sideways. Lichen seemed to crumple inwards, terror draining his strength. He fell backwards while Shell spun around, anticipating the slice of cold teeth in her leg, but Lichen proved an easier target. The wisphound that’d feinted for her now pounced on Lichen, burying its fangs into his arm. Shell heard a roar as Moss kept the snarling third wisphound at bay, but before she could do any more there was a sudden blaze of light.
In the red gloom of dawn, Shell found herself dazzled. She staggered, barely keeping hold of the axe as she shielded her eyes. The wisphound she’d injured shone white as it struggled up, a glowing mist leaking from its wound in the place of blood. Before it could attack, Shell felt a searing slap of heat on her skin and the roar of flame. The light moved faster than she could follow and, dazed, Shell caught only impressions of what was happening around her. One thunderous crack echoed out across the savannah and the deep flutter of flames wrenched through the air. Then a wall of wind drove her back and an orange-white shaft cut a long arc past her face.
Shell tripped and fell, landing heavily on her backside. Before she could make sense of the blur of light and sound surrounding her, it all vanished. Through watering eyes, Shell saw a figure in the returned gloom – grey wings half-furled, cracked black boots steaming gently in the air and its sword levelled. The blade was porcelain-pale; unlike any steel Shell had seen and bearing no scars of the terrible flames that had wreathed it a moment before.
The angel held its pose a moment longer then lowered the sword, its wings tucking in as it saw there were no further threats. It turned and with a flourish, sheathed the long blade behind its back.
‘Where the fuck were you?’ Moss roared at it, storming forward with his own sword still drawn.
Shell found herself staring dumbly at Ice’s cold, expressionless face. ‘Thank you,’ she croaked. Her hands were shaking, she realised, and it took an effort to get her fingers to unclench from around the axe shaft. At last she managed it and the peaked blade tipped down to the earth.
‘Thank you?’ Moss snapped angrily at her. He sheathed his sword and snatched the axe up before pointing at the angel. ‘It was supposed to be watching over us! Where were you?’
‘High above,’ Ice replied. ‘Watching down over you.’
‘Fat lot of good that did then, you watching. Enjoy the view did you?’ M
oss brandished the axe – not threatening the angel, but his fury was such that he needed something to wave in its face. ‘Don’t fucking bother being on watch if you’re not going to do anything about what you see!’
‘I had believed they would not find you if I was far enough away. Wisphounds can scent servants of the God.’
‘And they can get a damn arrow in the face if someone with a brain’s on watch!’
‘It was misfortune they found you in that moment.’
‘Fortune?’ Moss echoed, incredulous. ‘And how the buggery do you reckon that?’
Ice pointed up. In the sky above, the last few dark, indistinct shapes moved with stately progress over the blood-tinted sky.
‘My view was obscured by the dragons of dawn.’
‘Well, since wisphounds only walk the earth at twilight, that ain’t much of a bastard coincidence. Dragons of dawn or dusk’s flock – one o’ the two’s going to get in the way if you’re prancing among the clouds.’
‘Angels do not prance.’
‘Dancing then. Sure I’ve got a pin somewhere you can dance on the head of, if it keeps you down here where you’re actually useful. I’ll be glad t’shove it somewhere you can’t lose it.’
‘There is no time to dance; we have many miles to cover today.’
Moss threw up his hands in the face of Ice’s placid incomprehension. He stamped back to his bedroll and hurled his axe to the ground.
Shell tore her gaze away from the angel and went to Lichen’s side. The man was keening softly as he cradled his injured arm, spear abandoned at his side. His sickly-stained skin was torn in a dozen places, but no blood spilled from the wound. The flesh looked dead and Shell snatched her hand back before she could touch it. Where there were rents in Lichen’s skin there was only pale, bloodless meat exposed.
‘What’s happened?’ Shell breathed in horror before her wits caught up with her. She turned to the angel. ‘Can you heal him?’
Ice shook its head. ‘The wisphound is anathema to my power. Such wounds I cannot heal.’
‘There must be something you can do.’
Ice drew its sword again. ‘I can cut off his arm.’
The injured man yowled and scrabbled backwards through the dirt. ‘No!’
‘Will he die?’ Shell demanded.
‘Perhaps. Such wounds may heal over, but the mist is in his flesh. It will never be the same.’
‘How can he be healed?’
‘Time heals. He must come with us.’
‘What? Why?’
‘In the other lands, the wisphounds cannot venture. Their curse is similarly weakened and cannot advance through his body while he is there. His flesh will have the time it needs to heal and be strong enough to resist the curse.’
Shell shook her whitened hair. ‘He just needs to travel through the dead lands? That’ll be easy enough then. The man can barely hold a spear straight and you want him to come with us to a place of unearthly horrors?’
‘It is his best chance. The Temple of the Airs is too far to travel - he will not live long enough. We are far from the God’s divine heart here, so close to the border of realms.’
Shell didn’t answer, she just stared at the angel as she tried to find words that would not come. A flash of movement made her flinch, but it was just a white roll of bandage tossed towards her by Moss. She caught it awkwardly and looked down at Lichen.
‘That arm needs wrapping,’ Moss said, busying himself with his pack. ‘Blood or not, you should cover it before we set out.’ He gave a click of the tongue. ‘Horse, come here.’
‘Does that make it a woman’s job?’ Shell replied acidly.
‘No, pennant o’ my heart,’ Moss said, teeth bared as though trying to smile through his anger, ‘but he’s your pet so you got to clean up after him.’
‘I . . . I can do it,’ Lichen said through chattering teeth. ‘Give it to me.’
Shell couldn’t tell whether it was the cold of the wisphound’s bite or shock of the attack, but Lichen’s hand was trembling as he took the bandage. She watched him fumble at his arm a while, but shook his head when she tried to help. With a sigh, Shell went to gather her meagre possessions. By the time she had finished, the corpses of the wisphounds were dissipating in the morning sun and the angel had set off down the ridge of road that cut through the savannah. Lichen stumbled along behind it, unencumbered by baggage and moaning softly as he cradled his arm. Moss, standing beside his warhorse with his bow strung and slipped over one shoulder, merely offered her a courteous bow before following along.
Shell slapped the rump of her mule and got it moving, well aware they had several days of travel ahead of them. Their destination, she presumed, was a ramshackle town that loitered uneasily a mile or so from the great divide. Song’s End had been the place she’d found herself in when she escaped the other lands. It was a haven for slavers who used the other world to transport their wares, in addition to the more crazed adventurers and those self-appointed priests who surpassed the rest for madness. It was a place where blood was spilled on a regular basis and the bridge beyond it was a law unto its own – a trial for the worthy where worthiness meant nothing.
‘And then we get to the real horror,’ she couldn’t help saying under her breath as she went to catch up the others. Though she whispered the words, Ice still paused and looked back at her, the angel’s expression as unreadable as ever.
SONG’S END. JUST like any other grubby little frontier town except for one thing – the frontier itself. Pretty much everything else, from the dilapidated buildings to seedy saloons and dissolute brawling inhabitants, was as mundanely awful as a thousand stories portrayed. You could almost forget where you were with enough whisky, but once you left whichever of the five saloons you’d left your money in, one look at the sky would prove as sobering as a kick to the crotch. Moss scowled and looked over at Shell, preferring the sight of her to the wondrous madness above, but she seemed caught up in her own thoughts.
Trailing behind Shell like some sort of starved puppy, was Lichen. After years of unlife, subsumed by the empty will of the diaspore infecting him, he was like an infant faced with the new. He clasped his injured arm tight to his chest, like a child with a cloth doll. Overhead, Lichen saw only the richness of the black, starless sky, the bands and loops of oil-shimmered colour, the blaze of ancient eyes staring blind through the dark.
Moss wanted to hit him for that, that awe and adulation radiating out from Lichen. He saw nothing of the cold and hungry intent in that sky, the shifting, warping clouds of unnatural dark that sucked at the eye and sickened the belly – the great malevolent nothingness that existed between realms and was so much more awful than mere absence. Moss hadn’t been to Song’s End before, but he knew its like and he knew what it did to a man; what it stole from a man and what lay beyond that shimmer-tinted bridge in the distance.
‘I am weakened here,’ Ice stated from up ahead. ‘The God’s reach is lessened at the fringes of the real.’
‘Oh great,’ Moss spat. ‘Just when we might need a flaming protector with a holy sword, turns out he’s gelded round these parts.’
‘Think you got those two the wrong way round,’ Shell said. ‘The sword burns, not him.’
‘Sure.’ He tried to force a grin, but the sapping misery of the horizon defeated it. ‘So – no picking bar fights then. Should be easy enough.’
Ice didn’t notice his tone and turned to face them. ‘The inhabitants of Song’s End are unfriendly to all. They may invite a fight themselves.’
‘Yeah, I know, feather-boy. These are my people. I know ’em well enough.’
‘You are from Song’s End?’
He shook his head. ‘Nope, but they’re wanderers and fighters. Ain’t none of them got a monk’s spirit inside that soldier’s body – they’re all bastards or been treated shittily enough that they act like bastards to strangers. I’ve seen that enough all my years to call ’em my people. I know not to trust ’em cos I could�
�ve been one of ’em easily enough.’
‘But you were saved from that life?’ Ice said in a tone that sounded infuriatingly pious to Moss’s ears.
He shook his head. ‘Got luckier than some, that’s all.’
‘Off you go then,’ Shell snapped at him. ‘Go be with your people and find us a room for the night and something to eat and drink.’
‘We’re staying?’
‘You can’t cross at night.’
‘Why not?’
‘Cos everyone who crosses it in darkness does so alone. It’s miles to walk, all by yourself, no matter who you started out alongside. While you won’t meet any people on the bridge at night, it’s not the people you got to be looking out for. And the bridge sometimes wanders, I’ve heard; takes you to other places and worse places than the far side. But looking at your face right now – aye, the one you pull every time you look at the black - I’m guessing you’re one of those who really doesn’t like the void and folk like that, folk who get sick just looking at it. They’re the ones who never come back. The ones who find they’ve lost the bridge in the darkness.’
Her face went pinched and cruel all of a sudden. ‘Sometimes it takes you other places, sometimes it just goes all by itself and leaves you where you are above the great divide. So be my guest if you want to cross at night. I’ll try when it’s at least day on this side. It’ll still be gloomy enough anyways; the sun don’t get much further than the frontier.’
Moss looked her straight in the face for a long while, not speaking. At last he forced himself to shrug her words off and head into the outskirts of Song’s End.
‘Seeing you to bed, my queen,’ he called back to them, ‘is always my first thought. Plying you with sweet meats and liquor comes a swift second.’
THE ANGEL FOLLOWED Moss through the cramped, untidy streets of Song’s End, aware of the curious faces turned its way. The God’s word rarely reached such border towns, far from the cities and temples where pious folk lived. It felt weak so close to the void, its body lighter and the air in its lungs thinner. That the eyes watching were as sharp and hungry as those of wolves only added to the sensation of vulnerability.