Quest for the Sun (16 page)

That night, for the first time, Lyulf said we should take turns at keeping watch while the others slept. ‘We are deep in the wildlands,' he told us, ‘and still two days' journey from the first town. We would be foolish to rely on the safety of numbers alone, with so many wounded,'

Blade agreed. ‘If you leave your caravan at night, do not venture far from the fire — and if you hear anything unusual, wake one of us at once.'

The two of them carried on shovelling down their bowls of gruel as if they'd been discussing the weather forecast, but Jamie turned greenish-grey and pushed his bowl away unfinished. ‘What sort of anything?' he croaked.

‘Yeah,' said Rich cheerfully, ‘what exactly are these famous
dangers of the wildlands
? I thought Borg said the circus arts would protect us!'

Blade and Lyulf exchanged a glance. ‘Tell them,' said Lyulf. ‘It is better that they know.'

‘We are near the border of Limbo.' My heart gave a little
skip, but Blade set down her spoon and looked round at us gravely. ‘And beyond …' she lowered her voice to a whisper, ‘lie the Realms of the Undead.'

‘The Realms of the Undead …' I echoed, remembering the words that had come from the fire. ‘So they do exist.' I didn't want to ask, but I knew I must. ‘Do you know anything more about them?'

‘Only what I have heard — and even that I do not fully believe, for none who have been there return. Limbo lies at the edge of the world; the shadowlands we speak of, further still. Men say they are bordered by a vast forest, and that through the forest run two paths. One path leads to the Realms of the Undead; the other, to your journey's end — wherever that may be. Legend has it that the paths are guarded by two birds which speak with the voices of men.'

‘And they tell you which path is which, I'll bet …' said Jamie.

‘Yes — and no. One bird tells nothing but truth; the other, nothing but lies.'

‘So it's all a bit of a lottery,' chipped in Rich cheerfully. ‘Sounds like a load of rubbish.'

I said nothing. I was remembering
… the birds of the air will point the way … truth and lies will lead you there …
My heart felt like a stone rolling slowly downhill. We were close to Limbo — very close. In Limbo, we would find Zenith. Together we would take whatever final steps we needed … to wherever they led us.

‘Aye, Tornado, possibly none of it is true,' Blade continued sombrely. ‘But this I do know. Many of those who roam the wildlands are taken — I know not for what purpose. And though the circus arts protect us, they also put us most at risk. But be of good cheer: we have journeyed this route many times and come to no harm.'

‘These
Undead …
' quavered Gen. ‘Who are they?'

‘They are creatures of darkness, the evil and the damned, those who lie restless in unnamed graves.' Blade's voice was low.
‘Their bodies retain a semblance of human form; it is their souls that putrefy. They go by different names in different lands, but many know them as the Faceless.'

‘Lock and bolt your door,' said Lyulf grimly. ‘We will sleep with weapons by our sides tonight. Blade, you and I will take the darkest watches. And remember — if you hear anything, wake us instantly.'

 

I don't know what it was that woke me.

After my watch I'd roused Blade and fallen instantly into a bottomless sleep that should have lasted till morning; now suddenly I was wide awake, skin prickling, ears straining for the faintest sound. In the bunk below me I could hear Jamie's gentle snoring; across the narrow caravan one of the girls whimpered and was still again.

It was Blade waking Lyulf for his watch, I told myself; the sooner I went back to sleep, the sooner morning would come. Gradually my heartbeat slowed; I squirmed deeper into my sleeping bag and turned to face the door, closing my eyes and breathing deeply. My thoughts blurred gradually into dreams … and then the sound came again, jerking me awake. There was something outside the caravan.

I wriggled out of my sleeping bag and lowered myself soundlessly to the floor, padded bare-chested to the window and drew back the flimsy curtain. Night hung outside like black velvet … and through the stillness came the softest murmur of a voice.

I decided to fetch Lyulf; felt for my sword in the darkness, slid it from its sheath and held it ready by my side, my other hand steady but cold as ice as I unlocked the door and drew the bolt. I slipped through the door and drew it closed. Feeling the way with my bare feet over the rough ground, I edged round the side of the caravan towards the glow of the fire — and froze.

Two figures were silhouetted against the soft wash of
firelight. Lyulf and Blade. It was their voices I'd heard. They were speaking in whispers, but with an intensity that carried their words further than they intended — across to me, standing stock-still in the shadow of the caravan.

‘What are you running from? Just tell me that — trust me that far, at least, for friendship's sake!'

Lyulf's growl: ‘I trust nothing and no one.'

‘Can you truly say you care nothing for me? Look me in the eyes and tell me.'

‘Lower your voice — you will wake the others.'

Blade dropped her voice, and I caught only snatches of her next words: ‘… when last we spoke of this … held to the hope … followed you here, and now —'

‘Yes — and you should not have done! The evil I battle is mine alone to face or flee, my curse mine alone to carry!'

Blade reached out to him, arms slender and fragile in the firelight. Her next words were a whisper too soft to hear. I watched helplessly, paralysed by the knowledge that I'd stumbled on something so private, yet terrified to move a muscle in case I gave my presence away.

A mumble from Lyulf — a word or two, broken, indistinct — then Blade's voice, pleading and desperate: ‘
… whatever the enchantment …
'

‘No!'
The single word cut through the night like a sword, so full of anguish that for a second I thought Lyulf really had been wounded, somehow, by some hidden enemy lurking in the darkness. He spun and staggered away from the fire towards the dark circle of caravans, moving at a stumbling run as if he'd been cut to the bone.

My heart was in my throat. I was a second away from stepping from my hiding place to help him … and then I saw his face. He passed less than an arm's-length away and never saw me; slipped into his caravan and snicked the door shut. I waited for a sound, for a light to flicker on, for something … but there was only silence.

By the fire Blade stood like a statue, arms by her sides, head bowed.

I crept back into my caravan, slid into bed and lay, my mind spinning, waiting for dawn.

Morning came, and with it the first hint of autumn. Till now the days had been long and golden, what clouds there were gathering swiftly into sudden thunderstorms that left the world scoured to a shimmering brightness. But today we shivered awake and huddled in our cloaks by the fire, the wood sullen and slow to burn in the damp air.

Blade was at pains to seem her usual self, chatting away in a bright, false voice, though never to Lyulf. He was quieter than ever, keeping his eyes low and his mouth shut. With the Masked Man as silent as always and Borg and the others speaking in grunts if at all, breakfast was a dreary affair. I was glad when my porridge was finished and I had an excuse to wander down to the river and rinse my bowl.

My mind was full of what I'd heard the night before. I couldn't make sense of any of it — not just the words themselves, but the rip-tide of emotion that surged beneath them. Should I tell the others? No — every instinct told me what I'd stumbled on was private, not mine to tell. But could it be important in some way — have some bearing on our quest? I couldn't see how.

I stood gazing out over the water to the riverbank beyond, shaking the last drops from my bowl and drawing the cool, damp air deep into my lungs … and that's when I saw it. Way distant, almost invisible against the dull sky: the faintest twist, like a ghost of tattered lace faded faint as a dream.

Grey smoke on a grey horizon.

My mind snapped shut on every thought but one. I turned and headed back to the others, my blood singing.

With the excuse of washing up I hustled Rich, Jamie and the girls to the riverside to see the smoke. They were quick to agree on what it was, but that's where agreement ended and a heated argument began.

The girls wanted to sneak off into Limbo without a word to anyone. But Rich was all for confrontation: ‘I say we tell Borg we're going, and let him try to stop us!'

‘I don't think we should burn our bridges,' Jamie objected. ‘Let's talk to Blade and Lyulf, and see what they say.'

‘And tell them what? Once you start talking, you never know what might slip out,' retorted Rich.

‘I guess you're right,' Jamie admitted. ‘They're bound to ask …'

‘They won't ask anything.' I was certain of it. ‘Not Lyulf. He already knows we're looking for someone in Limbo, and he hasn't asked a single question. It's not his way. Let's show him the smoke, tell him we need to investigate, and see what he says.'

 

Now, side by side, Rich, Lyulf and I stood staring at the smoke. I'd been right — so far Lyulf hadn't said a word. He'd followed us to the river without comment, listened to my brief explanation, and then stood silent and focused, staring at the horizon with narrowed eyes and head raised as if he was sniffing the air.

When at last he spoke it was almost as if to himself, and not with questions at all.

‘So, the tales of the Lost Tribe are true … yet this is the first sign I have seen of them. They must not often stray as close to the Borderlands. It is smoke from a wood fire — karas, by the scent of it. The change in weather has taken them by surprise — dry, the wood burns clean, but dampness makes it smoke.' He was quiet for a moment, thinking. ‘A hunting party rather than a permanent camp, I'll wager. And if it is, they'll strike camp within the hour and move northwards away from the border, travelling fast and far.' Our eyes met. His were a clear greenish-gold, flecked with chips of brightness like sunlight. They held a smile. ‘You will have to move swiftly, Whistler. Blunderbuss would slow you, and the girls too … take Tornado, keep the sun on your right and meet us a day's journey to the east by nightfall.'

Rich didn't even try to wipe the grin off his face. ‘But won't Borg —' he began half-heartedly.

‘I will deal with Borg. Go now — and good speed.'

Rich raced off to tell the others the plan, and I hurried to the caravan and threw a few things into a pack. Cloaks, a crumpled bag of dried fruit, a handful of spicy smoked meat, water bottles filled to the brim — and my larigot. Down the steps in one bound — and I just about smacked straight into the Masked Man. ‘Sorry,' I mumbled, ducking round him — but he reached out and grabbed my arm.

‘If you travel to Limbo, you should not go alone,' he growled.

I gaped at him. I'd almost forgotten the few words he'd spoken
before; like the others, I'd become so used to his silent, brooding presence that now I scarcely noticed it. I cast my mind back to the riverbank — had he been lurking nearby?

I pulled my arm free. ‘I'm not going alone. Richard — Tornado — is coming with me. I'm surprised you didn't hear that too, if you were listening. And anyhow —' it sounded rude, but then he shouldn't have been eavesdropping — ‘what's it to you?'

‘Something and nothing — the
brotherhood of the arena,
perhaps,' he replied with ironic emphasis. ‘I offer you the protection of my sword and the arm that wields it. The choice is yours.'

So he wanted to come along! Why? What made him such an expert on Limbo — and why was it was only ever me he chose to talk to? I opened my mouth to ask any one of the dozen questions that had bobbed to the surface of my mind, but I knew I'd never get a straight answer. Instead, I gave him a grin. ‘Thanks, but Tornado and I'll be just fine.'

With what I hoped was a comradely wink and a nod, I dodged round him and pelted off to where Rich was hopping from foot to foot on the riverbank, desperate to be away.

We ran and walked and ran again, keeping the sun on our right as Lyulf had told us. The misty cloud soon burned off and the fuzzy smudge became a ball of fire beating down on the bare earth and burning our cheeks. After the first half hour or so I realised with a sickening jolt that with all the talk of swords I'd forgotten my own; another half an hour, soaked with sweat and puffing like a steam train, and I was thankful not to have it.

On and on we jogged across the shimmering desert. ‘Nothing but dust and emptiness' was how the sandwich-seller had described Limbo, and it was true. It was hard to believe anyone could live here — impossible to imagine what kind of existence they'd have if they did.

Not just anyone — my twin. This arid, inhospitable landscape was home to him. For the first time I felt something twist deep inside me. What kind of man would grow from this harsh soil? I pushed the thought aside and ran on.

When we couldn't go another step we'd stumble to a halt, doubled up and groaning; swap the pack over, have a swallow of water, catch our breath and then push on. I didn't dare think what would happen if we were heading in the wrong direction; just hung grimly to the belief that Lyulf was never wrong — about that kind of thing, anyhow.

We ran for the most part in silence, exchanging no more than the odd glance of encouragement or grunted word. Exhausted as I was, I knew I could run all day. Because soon — today — I'd meet him. That thought was a bottomless fuel tank of energy I knew would last as long as it took to find him … and every stride was bringing us closer. Zenith — my brother.

I was grateful to Richard for not talking. What I was feeling was way beyond words.

 

When at last we reached the campsite we almost ran right past. But I'd become so used to the sameness of the drab landscape — grey-brown undulating earth pocked with scrub and boulders — that my eyes snagged instantly on the fragment of blackened firewood half-buried in a drift of sand.

We stumbled to a halt and together we unearthed it: a scatter of charcoal and ash, still warm to the touch. Now even I could pick up its scent: a sweet, woody fragrance with a hint of burnt cloves.

Apart from that there was nothing — no sign that anyone had been there. In the back of my mind I'd imagined we'd track them once we got closer: follow a trail of footprints and bent blades of grass till we found them. But there was no grass, and not a grain of sand out of place that I could see.

North, Lyulf had said. Fast and far.

We ran on.

 

At midday we panted to a stop and flopped down into a sliver of shade under a rock. The sun beat down like a mallet. ‘My water's pretty much finished.' Rich gave his bottle a shake and didn't look at me. ‘I'm sorry, Adam, I'm not sure we should go on. We may never catch them, and we promised —'

And suddenly they were there.

There was no sound, no movement, nothing: just a presence where before there had been emptiness. Men — five of them — grouped round us, holding evil-looking spears with fire-hardened tips. Rich and I were on our feet in an instant, shoulder to shoulder, hearts pounding.

Their skin was brown as leather, their heads shaven and tattooed. White paint streaked the skin from cheekbone to jaw; their flat black eyes watched us, unwavering. Their bodies were naked except for a skin breechcloth and a couple of strings of cream-coloured beads circling wrists and ankles; their feet were bare. Something about them — the flatness of muscle, the stillness of eye — made me think of animals rather than people. Animals, wild and free.

Rich had turned several shades paler; now he slid his eyes sideways to meet mine. But for me, shock and fear were tinged with a fierce excitement. These were
his
people — they would take us to him. If they seemed savage, it was because they had to be, to survive. But once they realised we came in friendship … I was suddenly even gladder I hadn't brought my sword. I stared from one face to the next, searching for something — a glimmer of warmth, a glint of humanity …

One was younger, a year older than me perhaps, his tattoos a brighter blue than the others', his body still holding echoes of the contours of boyhood. But his eyes were as hard and cold as the rest. One was an old man, shrunken and skinny, white powder caked in the deep wrinkles of his cheeks. The other three were warriors, hunters in their prime. One seemed taller, stood straighter … I turned to him, holding out my hands
palm-upward. My mouth felt very dry. ‘We come in peace,' I said quietly.

Without taking his eyes from me he jabbered something — a string of harsh, meaningless syllables. Somehow I could tell his words weren't directed at us; the old man replied: swift, sharp words like stones.

The tall man's eyes bored into mine.
‘Quicksheeottle?'
he demanded.
‘Shannagalore?'

I stared at him stupidly, my brain in a tailspin. Why hadn't we thought of this? What now? What if none of them spoke English — what if Zenith didn't? What would we do then? You didn't have to be a genius to figure out what he was asking.
Who are you? What are you doing here?
But how could we answer them in words they'd understand?

‘Hasta!'
snarled the man beside him.
‘Nga!'

‘We … I …' A trickle of sweat ran into my eye. I brushed it away — and instantly the youth leapt forward, teeth bared, the point of his spear digging into my neck. It felt sharper than it looked. Now he was close enough to smell: a gamy pungency that caught in my throat.

I raised both hands and took a slow, careful step back, out of range. ‘Settle down,' I told him, keeping my voice low and even. His eyes flickered, and I saw something in them I recognised: the glitter of bravado I'd seen a million times in the playground — and only ever in the eyes of boys in a group who knew they had the upper hand. I traded look for hard look. ‘And keep your stick and your BO to yourself, OK?' His gaze wavered; sullenly he lowered the spear and took a single, shuffling step back.

‘Don't insult them!' hissed Rich.

It's OK — they don't understand …
But as the words formed in my mind I knew it wasn't true. They might not be able to understand the words, but they could understand the sense behind them — just as I'd understood the tall guy without knowing a single syllable of his language.

I turned to face the old man, and took a deep breath. ‘We …' I said, gesturing to Rich and then to me, ‘come …' — I made my fingers into a little man, walking — ‘from the river.' I pointed south, and made a rippling motion with my arm. ‘I … look …' — pointed to my eye — ‘for brother …' I held up one finger, then two, hoping that wouldn't be the one thing that meant the same in their language as in ours. ‘Baby …' I made a cradle of my arms and rocked it; ‘long, long ago.' I swept my arm up and over from one horizon to the other, again, and again.

And then I waited.