A Minstrel’s Quest (The Trouble with Magic Book 4) (8 page)

Frix’s voice cut through his frantic thoughts. “Stay where you are.”

Another hissing scream pierced the acid-fume-filled air. Ejected from Reduia’s needle-like proboscis, a thin jet of steaming liquid hissed past Corlin’s face, flying droplets splattering over his mouth and nose. Gasping for breath, he frantically wiped it away, almost gagging on the acrid stench. The rustling and scraping of the seething mass of bodies in continuous movement beneath him grew louder, and he felt himself being lifted higher and sideways. He made a grab for a hand-hold as his mount teetered, plunged head downward, and fell on its back. Pinned underneath with only his head and one arm free of the writhing crush, Corlin fought to breathe as unseen things squelched and burst open under the combined weights of himself and his toppled ant-steed. He could feel wetness seeping through his clothing, and wondered if it was his own blood. Hard prickly feet trod on his face, and his eyes began to blur as the combined fumes of the ant defences and Reduia’s attack accumulated in and above a thick layer of leaf-mould. From somewhere above him another scream of fury and frustration tore through the sullied air. Something cold and slimy attached itself to his ear, pulled itself up, and began to crawl across his face. Corlin’s scream rose high, to follow the fading echoes of the other into the perpetual night.

Little by little, the noise of pitched battle eased, until the only sound was the industrious rustle of moving bodies. Corlin groaned as the weight of the ant’s corpse was lifted off him. With gentle pokes and prods, his body was investigated. He lifted his arm in an effort to push them away, and struck his hand against a cold hard surface.

Soft feelers tapped his arms and face. “You’re still with us. That’s good. Thought we might have lost you in that ruckus.”

Corlin sat up and stretched one limb at a time, checking that nothing was actually broken. “What happened?”

He could feel Frix’s face very close to his own. “Reduia. She got impatient. We sent her scuttling off to lick her wounds. Now, are you badly hurt?”

Corlin muttered through clenched teeth. “Not really; just a few bruises and twisted muscles.”

Frix tapped his feelers on Corlin’s face. “No problem. I’ve got a good idea where to find what you’re looking for. It’s not far, and then we’ll see about getting you out of here.”

The army of giant ants didn’t mess about. Corlin found himself hoisted onto a broad smooth back, tied securely with fine cords and through the pitch darkness the party headed into the forest. This time there was none of the clicking and high pitched noises which had accompanied them earlier, and Corlin felt the uneven but steady rhythm of the march surprisingly relaxing.

He woke to complete silence, in a darkness so thick it was only the touch of his own hand on his face that told him that the limb was there. The bonds which had tied him to the ant’s back had been loosened. Taking care not to slide off the smooth rounded carapace, he eased himself upright, stretched and yawned. He strained his ears for any sounds that hinted of something being awake, but the silence was so deep as to be almost oppressive. The Whispering Forest was sleeping. There was nothing he could do but wait.

Something prodded his thigh and instinctively he grabbed the curved edge of the carapace. The sudden movement shook him back to wakefulness, to see dark shadows all around him and the rippling motion of hundreds of ant bodies surging steadily between the trees. The pale light of a cold grey dawn filtered down through the canopy of half-naked branches, and he was able to see his guide and protector properly for the first time.

The sleek red-gold head and curved mandibles didn’t seem so terrifyingly alien in natural light, and Corlin even managed a smile.

The giant ant waved his feelers and gave Corlin’s thigh another prod with an angularly articulated and spikily clawed leg. “You and me are going off from the others, along with a couple more who know the way. This thing you’re after has been there longer than I can recall. Its story has been handed down through many generations. So, if you’re ready, let’s get going. You’re going to have to walk I’m afraid, but it’s not far.”

Corlin slid down off the smooth reddish carapace and felt his feet sink into the leaf-litter. With one hand on Frix’s back to steady his balance, he set off into the forest’s heart to retrieve the first part of Malchevolus’s clock.

He soon discovered that Frix had been right. Their destination was only yards away. At the centre of a circle of gnarled heavily branched trees that looked as if they had been there for centuries, stood a bark-less storm-snapped trunk pointing like an accusing finger up into the canopy.

The ant-leader scurried up it, poked and prodded for a while, then turned and peered down into Corlin’s face. “We may need a little help.”

The minstrel stared up at Frix then down at the tree-stump. “You mean, it’s under there?”

Frix clicked his mandibles together as he scurried down again. “No; inside it.”

Corlin moved slowly round the jagged timber obelisk, running his hands over the dead, dry surface. “But there’s no cut marks, no cavities. If it’s inside, how did it get in there?”

The mandibles clicked again. “It was hidden in a natural hollow at the bottom of the tree when it was young, and the tree grew round it, sealing it inside.”

Corlin frowned, beginning to feel a little overwhelmed. “How can you be sure?”

Frix reared up and waved his front limbs around. “It is why this colony is here; the event is part of our inherited memory, as is the storm which broke the tree.”

A dozen questions tumbled over each other in Corlin’s brain, but he knew there was only one that demanded an answer. “I’ve heard that others have entered this forest. What happened to them?”

Frix wiped his front feet slowly over his face, as if he was giving the question some serious thought, then lowered them to the ground. “Reduia got ‘em.”

Corlin digested that stoical observation for a moment. The next question followed as a matter of course. “So, why was I given help, and not the others?”

Three sets of mandibles clicked and chattered, interspersed with barely audible high-pitched chirps as the giant ants held a brief debate.

Frix waggled his head, reached up and placed a spiky forefoot on Corlin’s chest. “You were given admittance and assistance for the simple reason that you followed protocol.”

Lost for words, the minstrel’s mouth curved in a smile as, for just an instant, Frix’s manner reminded him of Duke Ergwyn before he was overwhelmed by Malchevolus’s curse.

He looked into the ant’s face. “I just did what I thought was good manners. The forest had already spoken to me. I didn’t want to be rude.”

Frix’s jaws clattered. “Exactly. Protocol. Now let’s set about what we came to do.”

The first rays of sunlight were slanting between the half-clad trees, glinting off Frix’s broad head and brown-red body. He seemed to sparkle as he moved towards the minstrel. As Corlin took a step backwards, Frix lowered his front limbs and uttered a short stream of high-pitched piercing notes. The two ant-workers who had accompanied him moved forward, prodding Corlin towards the tree. Uncertain of what they wanted, he watched as the three giant ants stood on their hind legs and examined the timber for a few moments. More high-pitched messages were exchanged along with much limb waving and head-wagging. Then, as if a decision had been reached, the three began to attack the stump with their strong pincer-like jaws. In minutes a deeply inscribed line had been worked into the wood, about a foot long and three feet from the base. Frix turned his huge helmet-like head in Corlin’s direction, held the glance for a moment, then turned and joined the two workers in tearing at the hard timber.

Corlin smiled, feeling a little guilty for not having understood sooner. Taking the knife from his coat pocket, he pulled it from its sheath, checked the edge and, gently shoving his way between the two workers, he knelt down and began to excavate chunks and split away large slivers of wood from the area the ants had marked. Half an hour later he was beginning to feel the effects of the humid heat and had removed his jacket. The knife was also losing its edge and the ants were doing a far better job than he was. On top of that, his stomach was grumbling and his mouth was dry, but having no idea what ants ate or drank, he carried on and said nothing.

Slowly the pile of wood-dust and chippings grew and Corlin’s hopes rose with it as the cavity in the ancient tree-stump was enlarged. Suddenly the constant noise of chipping and chewing was interrupted by a different sound as Corlin’s blade split the coarse-grained timber and thrust through into a void. He jiggled the blade out and ripped the piece of split wood away from the hole. There was just room for him to push his hand in and feel around. His fingers touched something hard and cold. It felt like metal. He withdrew his hand, sat back on his heels and grinned at Frix who was looking on with his big triangular head cocked on one side. “I think I just touched it Frix, but I really need to stop and sharpen my knife.”

The ant leader waved his antennae and clicked his jaws. “You carry on Corlin; we will too.”

All around him he could see nothing but trees. With not a rock or stone in sight, Corlin dropped to his knees and scraped handfuls of leaf litter aside until he reached the bare gritty soil underneath. It wouldn’t give his blade a razor edge, but it was better than nothing. After thrusting the blade fifty times or more into the hard ground, he checked the edge, gave it a few more just for luck then returned to the ants and the hole in the tree-stump. The progress the ants had made amazed him. The hole had been enlarged and Frix was inside, curled almost in half on his back and chewing furiously at the wood above his head. His body and thorax were covered in wood-dust, and Corlin wondered how he could possibly breathe; or did ants breathe? He knelt and peered into the hole just as a narrow shaft of sunlight found its way through the tangled canopy and struck the hole’s outer rim. Corlin knew enough about metal to recognise the greenish-blue tones of verdigris when he saw it.

Frix twisted himself round, tumbled awkwardly out and flipped upright as he wiped wood-dust off his broad head. “The rest is up to you. It just needs a good tug. If I do it, the thing’ll probably crush me.”

Corlin felt like picking up the big ant and hugging him. Instead, he yielded to discretion and pushed his hand into the now much enlarged cavity, feeling around until his fingers touched what felt like an angular frame with smoothly rounded edges. His gimalin-string-hardened fingertips clung to the metal and he pulled gently downwards. Something gave a little, and Corlin increased the pressure. He couldn’t explain what happened next, only that he found himself flat on his back, with his arms wrapped round a large, strange-looking cage-like object. The stump which had kept its secret for centuries was now shattered into hundreds of large splintered chunks and tiny chips which had been strewn for yards in every direction, and there was no sign of Frix or the other ants.

Corlin scrambled to his feet and leaned against the nearest tree, intending to take a closer look at the hard-won prize. Hearing a soft rustle and hiss behind him, he smiled and turned towards the sound, a greeting for Frix hovering on his lips. The smile fell off his face and his blood ran cold, as round multifaceted eyes glared back at him. Reduia’s feet pattered on dry leaves, and Corlin braced himself for flight, just as a single mellow note sang through the warm air. The huge bug paused, torn wings half raised, her palps quivering.

Another note sang, followed by three more, before they were joined together in one lingering and harmonious chord. Another chord sounded, followed by another in a higher register and a different key, as the unmistakeable voice of a gimalin sang through the Whispering Forest. In a haunting minor key the melody continued without change or pause. Stunned, Corlin stared open-mouthed as a quivering and squirming Reduia began to get progressively smaller. He watched in disbelief until she had shrunk to half her original size, then took a stumbling step backwards as she skittered unsteadily towards him then stopped. Even at only half size, Reduia was still dangerous, and Corlin crept behind the tree, peering cautiously round as his mind foraged through a jumble of conflicting thoughts. The gimalin’s song continued, the deadly bug was still shrinking and Corlin wondered not only who was playing but how this was happening. Was it some enchantment in the music, or the result of his getting his hands on the artefact which Malchevolus had hidden so carefully? He watched until Reduia was no longer a giant but a tiny insignificant insect that scurried off into the safety of the leaf-litter, then he looked around for Frix and the ant colony. The feeling that he might never see them again hurt him to the core.

His voice rang out through the forest. “Thanks, Frix!”

Stepping out from behind the tree and only half-hoping he wouldn’t tread on Reduia, he wrapped his prize in his coat and stumbled towards the music.

There wasn’t a part of him that didn’t ache. Being bounced around on the hard backs of giant ants and getting caught up in their battle with the marauding Reduia, had left him with a whole raft of bumps and bruises which were now beginning to make themselves felt. As much as he wanted to stop and look at the object wrapped in his coat, even more he wanted to get out of the forest. What only amounted to a night and a day felt as though he had been in here forever. Despite his aching legs and limping gait, with no stick or staff to support him, he was making good time through the seemingly endless trees, and the continuing music of the unknown gimalin kept him from losing heart. A few minutes later, whoever was playing struck a rippling chord and stopped. The sudden silence covered the forest like a blanket. Leaning against a tree and trying to judge how far he was from the forest’s edge, he heard leaves rustling and twigs cracking.

Fearing another encounter with a giant bug or worse, he was poised to creep behind the nearest large tree when a voice called out “Corlin! Corlin. You in there?”

The minstrel choked back a sob of relief. The voice was Otty’s. With Corlin limping and stumbling, and Otty pounding at full speed towards him along the forest floor, the two men just managed to avoid crashing into each other.

Bent over, hands on knees, Otty gasped for breath. “Thank goodness you’re all right!” The stocky man reached out and tugged Corlin’s sleeve. “Come on; let’s get out of here.”

He turned away, not waiting to see if the minstrel was following. Too tired to protest or make excuses, Corlin hobbled along in Otty’s wake. It was only when he caught a glimpse of moorland through the trees that his mood began to lighten, and he wondered for the first time what Otty was doing here, instead of helping his father with the first lambs. As Corlin limped between the two great sentinels which guarded the forest’s portal, Otty waved at him from the top of the rise. Standing at the head of a chestnut horse he held a water canteen high in the air. Corlin mimed grievous thirst and was halfway up the slope when he remembered his gimalin.

As if he had read the minstrel’s mind, Otty called down “It’s up here...on your saddle.”

Corlin stuck up a thumb in acknowledgement. At the top of the rise he flopped down on the coarse grass and Otty pitched the canteen down to him. As he drank, enjoying the sensation of the cool water bathing the inside of his parched throat, he studied Otty’s chestnut cob. He was sure he’d seen the animal somewhere before.

Otty crouched beside him and nodded towards the bundled coat. “So, you got it then?”

Corlin stretched aching muscles. “To tell you the truth, I dunno what I’ve got.”

He fumbled the coat open, and the two men stared at the object which lay in front of them, the afternoon sunshine glinting off small places that verdigris had not marred.

Otty rubbed at his round chin. “Erm...I don’t think that’s a clock; not a whole one anyway. I think there’s more to a clock than that.”

Corlin lifted the object with both hands, turning it over and around. His first impression was of the case of a large square lantern, but a little taller than it was wide. Every inch of the front and sides was covered in a richly ornate design of leaves, tendrils and scrollwork, homage to the metalworkers craft which seemed to ripple and swirl, and made Corlin feel rather nauseous as he looked at it. He turned it round to look at what was obviously the back, a square frame of flat and perfectly finished planes undecorated but for a few words etched into the horizontal piece of metal which formed the base of the frame. Unable to make out the words clearly he rubbed at the verdigris with his sleeve but it made no difference.

Otty peered over to see what Corlin was looking at. “Pour some water on it.”

To Corlin’s surprise the effect lasted long enough for him to read the words.
“Whoever dares to make me whole shall himself be made complete.”

The two men frowned at each other. Otty scratched his head. “I wonder what that’s supposed to mean.”

Corlin put the object back inside his coat and wrapped it securely, hoping the weather wouldn’t turn again and he’d wish he had his coat on. “Well, as I understand it, there’s some more of it somewhere.” He scrambled to his feet, and began tying the bundle onto his saddle. “Now I have to figure out where I go from here.”

He gave Otty a sideways glance. “Anyway, what’s your story? How did you find me?”

His companion gave a shrug. “Simple really. I knew where you were going so I carried on ahead of you.”

Corlin gave him a long flat stare. “Did you meet anybody?”

Otty chuckled. “You mean the old busybody with the straggly beard? Yeah, I met him. He seemed to turn up everywhere. He told me one or two useful things though.”

Corlin relieved himself on the grass, adjusted his clothing and clambered into the saddle. He swung Megan round to face Otty. “What sort of things?”

The stocky man shrugged again. “Oh. Just ‘things’. But chiefly that I was to go with you for the rest of the way.”

Corlin gave a knowing grin. “I thought it might be something like that.” He felt under his saddle flap and grimaced. “Blast it! I lost my hat in that forest.”

Otty swung himself into his cob’s saddle and turned him to face the forest. “You never know; we might find it on the way through.”

The minstrel eased Megan alongside. “Are you serious? D’you think it’ll be safe now?”

Otty nodded. “Your gimalin saw to that. And before you ask, it wasn’t me playing. I just found it where you’d left it and picked it up. I
was
going to play it, to let you know I was here, but it played itself. I nearly wet myself when it started, but then all I did was hold it until it stopped. You know the rest.”

Corlin was at a loss as to what to say. He shook his head and made a show of studying the sky and the lengthening shadows. “We might be better making some kind of camp here for the night, and make an early start in the morning.”

Otty also looked at the sky. “We can get a fair way in before dark, then we can camp amongst the trees; better than being out in the open.”

The pair sat side by side at the crown of the slope and contemplated the now peaceful forest, its semi-naked branches swaying gently, dappled sunlight glancing on the sparse undergrowth. Making the sign in the air for good luck, Corlin kneed Megan forward. Otty sketched the same sign in the air as he followed the minstrel down the slope.

* * *

Although he had no idea where Corlin was ultimately heading, Otty was relieved that at least he was going in the right general direction. Not yet knowing the minstrel all that well, Otty had had some misgivings when the old man more or less lumbered him with the task.

He had been quite adamant. “He might be considering returning to Tregwald, but he will only be wasting time. You have to persuade him to head up country, either through the forest or round it.”

Otty was not well pleased. “I only wanted to make sure he survived the forest. It’s coming up lambing time and father needs me back with the flock.”

The old man had seemed unconcerned. “That won’t be a problem. All you need to worry about for now is staying close to Corlin Bentfoot.” He held up a restraining hand as

Otty opened his mouth to object. “He can’t do this alone. If he tries, he will fail, or worse.”

Otty wasn’t easily convinced and glared at the old man. “Why don’t you go with him then?”

He looked uncomfortable and averted his gaze. “I can’t, for various reasons.”

Otty’s face was slowly turning red. “Well, if I hadn’t taken it into my head to follow Corlin, what would you have done then?”

A flicker of self-satisfaction crossed the old man’s wizened face. “I would have dealt with it, but I knew it wouldn’t be necessary.”

Otty gave a derisory snort. “Now you’re talking rubbish, so if you don’t mind, I want to catch up with Corlin.
I’ll
decide what to do, not you, if and when I meet up with him.”

Not giving the old man chance to say anything further, in high dudgeon, Otty had mounted up and turned his horse’s head in the general direction of the Whispering Forest.

Now, with Corlin trotting a few yards ahead, Otty was quite content to follow. He felt assured by the mysterious singing of the gimalin, that the forest was now safe, but even so he kept his ears and eyes open, and made sure he didn’t lose sight of Corlin or the bundles that the minstrel had tied at the back of his saddle. Otty estimated that if they stopped to rest at moon-rise and started again at first light, they should be through the forest by mid-afternoon.

He called ahead to get Corlin’s confirmation of his thoughts. “When were you thinking of stopping?”

Corlin called back “I’m not. Megan will find the way, and I can sleep in the saddle. What about you?”

His stocky companion thought for a moment. “I suppose so. Egg can follow Megan and I’ll probably end up dozing in the saddle too.”

Corlin reined back until Otty was alongside. The minstrel’s eyes sparkled with amused disbelief. “Your horse is called
what
?”

Otty found Corlin’s grin infectious, and grinned back. “His name really is Egg. My da is to blame for that. When he was a day-old foal, his hoof crunched on something in the barn. Da looked to see, and just said ‘egg’. He’s been Egg ever since.”

Corlin chuckled, gave an appreciative nod and urged Megan forward into a trot.

Peering through trees while there was still light to see, Otty hung back. Everything seemed quiet and unthreatening, although the absence of birdsong made him feel uneasy and he wasn’t too happy about the prospect of spending the night in the saddle. He was also very hungry, and he felt sure that Corlin was faring no better. The possibility of there being anything to trap in this barren forest was less than remote, so he knocked the idea on the head, and set off at a trot after the minstrel. So far this whole quest business didn’t seem to make a lot of sense, but for now he was going to have to work out how to get the minstrel to where the old man said he had to be. Otty still felt a bit miffed that he hadn’t told him everything. Not to his way of thinking, anyway.