The Bell Between Worlds (31 page)

Sylas raised a hand to his mouth. “My God...”

It was a landscape of utter devastation, depicted entirely in shades of grey. He saw now that the horizon glowed slightly paler, but above and below, the grey became thicker and more sombre, advancing towards them in waves of dreariness. He could just make out the gentle undulations of open country leaving the base of the hill on which they stood and setting out into the grey void. It rolled aimlessly, despairingly into the vast colourless expanse, broken only occasionally by streaks of blackness, as though the sun had somehow penetrated the greyness to char the fog-chilled surface. A gentle breeze blew up from the plains, cold and harsh, bearing the scents of Nature’s decay.

He shuddered. Such a place seemed so alien in this world of wonders, this world of Essenfayle and the Suhl. It was more like an old photograph he had seen in
Revelations
– the science book given to him by his mother – a picture of a landscape blasted by fire and raked by winds and cloaked in death: the aftermath of a nuclear bomb.

He turned to Bayleon, who was just stepping into the clearing. “What
did
this?”

“We did,” he said.

“Well, Thoth played rather a large part…” objected Ash, following close behind.

The great Spoorrunner adjusted his leather breastplate and looked out over the dreary expanse of grey. “We were there too. This place shames us all.”

For some time the small group stood staring out at the nothingness. They became so still, so silent, that it seemed to Sylas that the greyness was drawing their life from them. It was not only the cold, or the absence of light or sound, but a sense that something so terrible, so unthinkable had happened here that it had taken root, seeped into the earth and infused the air.

His thoughts went back to his conversation with Ash in the boat, about Thoth and his legions, about his war against the Suhl and all that they stood for, about his attack on their entire nation and way of life, their men, women and children.

“Is this where it happened?” he asked. “The Undoing?”

The Spoorrunner stared out across the Barrens.

“The Undoing doesn’t end, Sylas: it is not confined to a single place or time. But you could say that this was the worst of its horrors.” He drew a breath of the heavy air. “This is the place where our people made their last stand in a battle we called the Reckoning. This is where Merimaat fell and where we all despaired. The Barrens is a place of endings, Sylas. Nothing good happens here.”

There was a short silence, then Ash ran his fingers through his tousled crop of hair.

“Not the most
cheery
way to begin our journey across the Barrens, is it?” he ventured.

Bayleon shot him a withering look.

“What? I’m just saying that we need to be a bit more...”

“I know what you’re saying, Ash,” sighed Bayleon. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe this journey with Sylas will be the first good thing to come of this place, but for now, it fills me with nothing but dread.”

Ash drew a long breath. “Lunch! Lunch is what we need! As my rather portly father used to say, ‘Never despair on an empty stomach!’”

He walked to a nearby rock and laid down his pack. Sylas and Simia watched as he pulled open the drawstring and began unpacking some of his things.

Bayleon regarded his friend with the trace of a smile. He laid down his own pack and began emptying it, taking out a small axe and various objects that Sylas took to be the trail-finding tools of a Spoorrunner – something that looked like a compass, a glass orb, various measuring devices. Finally he produced a large chunk of cheese and a loaf of bread wrapped in a waxen cloth.

Soon they were all eagerly taking their share of bread, cheese, dried meats and a fruit that Sylas did not recognise. Ash made a show of taking out a small jar of a yellow substance and spreading it thinly on his piece of bread.

“Mustard!” he announced triumphantly. “The spice of life. Never cross a dismal wasteland without it!”

Simia wrinkled her sun-blotched nose.

They ate heartily and between mouthfuls found themselves discussing all that had happened on that fateful day.

“What exactly happened at the river, Sylas?” asked Ash. “When we were being attacked. Did
you
stop the Slithen? Or was that Filimaya?”

Sylas thought for a moment, then shrugged. “I’m not sure – I know I
couldn’t
have, but it felt like I did. It was like the river was in the bottom of my stomach... the fish and the reeds... the crabs, the eels... everything... Like they were all... it sounds stupid, but—”

“Like they were all part of you,” said Ash, grinning. “That’s exactly what it’s like!”

“Yes!” said Sylas excitedly.

“Well, I didn’t see you do anything except stand up in a boat,” said Simia grumpily.

The smile faded from Sylas’s face. “Well, it felt like that... for a moment.”

“Hang on, hang on,” said Simia. “You’re really saying that you stopped a whole legion of Slithen without anyone seeing anything?”

“I don’t know, but—”

“You think you’ve mastered Essenfayle in... what? A
day
?”

“Simia, you’re not listening,” said Sylas irritably. “I don’t know what happened, I’m just—”

“Well, it
sounded
like you were saying—”

“You didn’t listen long enough to hear!” snapped Sylas.

There was a silence. Ash and Bayleon exchanged glances and raised their eyebrows, then deftly changed the subject.

They talked about their friends travelling to the Valley of Outs, about the fate of Fathray and Bowe, about the Barrens. Soon conversation turned to Paiscion, the man for whom they were making this long journey, the man in whom they had placed so much hope.

“Do you really think it’s worth it?” asked Sylas, his eyes travelling across the great expanses of the Barrens, picturing the dangers he and his companions might face. “Crossing the Barrens just to see this one man?”

“Well, there isn’t anything to go back for,” said Ash. “There’s nothing left. The mill, the work of the Scribes, the community – it’s all gone and what’s left is hidden in the Valley of Outs. The only way is forward now. Your journey, wherever it leads us, might be our only hope.”

Sylas looked at Ash’s youthful face, set firm, brimming with vigour and determination, and he knew that he was right, that somehow his journey was now as much theirs as his, that his questions were their own.

Simia looped an arm through his. “Where’s your sense of adventure?”

It was difficult to tell where it first came from. It began quietly like the solitary hoot of an owl, then gained volume, rose in pitch and hung ominously in the grey air until there was no doubt what it was.

A howl.

Even as it reached its crescendo, it was followed by another, this time almost certainly to their left, and then another behind. As more joined the devilish chorus, the entire forest seemed to resonate: the leaf-strewn ground, the dark trees, the hanging canopy, all of them seemed to moan and tremble. It was a savage, canine battle cry.

Sylas rose to his feet and glanced about the clearing, but all he saw was the forest.

“We have to run!” hissed Simia.

“Yes, but
where
?”

There was a slight movement ahead of them, at the edge of the clearing, and everyone froze. Their eyes searched the undergrowth until suddenly leaves parted and a broad black shape appeared, striding boldly from the shadows, directly towards Sylas.

Its predatory figure was thrown forward, its hood drawn low, its powerful shoulders swinging from side to side. As it reached the middle of the clearing, the shadows shifted, making the trees move darkly, and then more shapes emerged and began to advance in unison, silent and purposeful. As they prowled into the murky light, Sylas saw that they were larger and carried themselves lower to the ground, so low that their grisly canine jaws brushed the colourless grass, leaving trails of drool behind them. Their pale yellow eyes seemed to glow as they sighted their prey, and their manes of matted black fur rose menacingly on their shoulders, adding to their terrifying bulk.

Ghorhund. Scores of them.

He was vaguely aware of Bayleon and Ash stepping forward to stand at his shoulder, but his eyes were fixed on the lone figure, now just a few paces away. Still it came on, moving deliberately, steadily, like a hunter.

As it drew near, it reared up to its full height, raised a black hand from beneath its cloak and slowly drew back its hood.

The single barred window gave little comfort to the huddled captives, for the view that it offered was quite terrifying. It showed the sweating, bristling, arching backs of the Ghorhund as they bounded along the road, straining at their yokes, baying and snarling to clear the road ahead. So fast were they moving now that sometimes an unfortunate peasant or travelling tradesman was caught unawares, only to be snatched up in powerful jaws and tossed aside.

This was the scene the Suhl feared the most, because it drew them ever closer to the things of the Undoing: the city, the Dirgheon and Thoth. Nevertheless almost all of the pale faces in the carriage were turned to that window, for at least it offered a meagre shaft of grey light, and the world outside helped them to forget the dark, silent presence of the two Ghor crouching just a few paces away.

The only prisoner who took no interest in the window was a large powerfully built man who crouched at the rear of the carriage. He had a strange appearance, with a long, sad-looking face, rangy limbs and a glistening bald head, which bore strange markings and symbols. His doleful green eyes moved slowly around the shadows of the carriage, looking from face to face, taking in the expressions of fear and failing hope, then beyond, into thought and feeling. He saw the thick blacks and amorphous greys of hopelessness, the angular, purple sharpness of terror and the gaunt, thin blues of grief. In most he could still make out the dimmest glow of companionship, though even this was fading.

But one of his companions caused Bowe more concern than the others, for in him there was no glow, no purple sharpness, no greys or blues. Galfinch sat huddled in a corner, his knees drawn up to his chest, his eyes fixed ahead of him. He was chanting something to himself, rocking backwards and forwards in time with his murmurings. His voice was sing-song, almost carefree, though Bowe knew that to be far from the truth. The Scribe’s voice became louder and as it did so the words became more distinct.

Bowe flinched.

“What rule is there, what law, but gnashing teeth and grasping claw–” muttered Galfinch– “what rule is there, what law...”

“Silence!”

The hoarse, almost-human bark made everyone start. One of the Ghor rose from its haunches to its full horrifying height. No one could see its face in the darkness, but they knew that its halfhuman eyes were fixed on Galfinch.

“... what law, but gnashing teeth and grasping claw,” continued the Scribe. “What rule is there...”

“I said SILENCE!” roared the guard, travelling the length of the carriage in a single bound. It reached down, grasped Galfinch round the neck and heaved him up against the wall.

“Try this grasping claw, old man,” snarled the guard. The prisoners recoiled as they heard him choking.

There was a struggle, then just coughs and spluttering, finally a gentle whimper.

Bowe could bear it no longer and started to push himself up, but just then a figure rose ahead of him. The face was shrouded in shadow and yet Bowe saw in him a remarkable light, a diffuse yellow glow that became brighter even as he watched. It was warm, gentle, compassionate.

“Guard, please don’t hurt him. He is overwrought. He doesn’t know what he’s saying.”

As he moved forward, the light from the window played across his kindly, wizened face, his white beard and his muddied clothes.

“What is it to you?” growled the guard. “Sit down!”

“He is a good man,” said the old man firmly. “And he is my friend.”

The guard turned towards him and a gurgling growl rose from its throat.

“Then perhaps you’d like to join him?” it barked.

Bowe saw distinct orange stabs of irritation flickering in the darkness. He rose to his feet, preparing himself for trouble.

The old man raised his hands. “Please, just let him go. I promise I’ll keep him quiet.”

Bowe’s eyes moved quickly to the other end of the carriage, for there he saw fast, sharp stabs of rage. The second guard had already risen to its feet and was starting to move along the carriage, a low growl on its lips.

Bowe stepped forward. “Come, Fathray, let’s not quarrel with them.” The old Scribe turned. “But I must!” he insisted. “Galfinch is my friend...”

“And you are mine, my dear Fathray,” said Bowe, placing an arm round his shoulders. He lowered his voice. “You’ve done all you can.”

Fathray tried to protest again, but Bowe pressed him close and led him away.

“I’ll not see two friends die today,” he whispered.

The guards paused for a moment, then barked a scornful laugh and lost interest.

As Fathray and Bowe sat down, they heard Galfinch’s last faint whimpers in the darkness, then the sound of his body slumping lifelessly to the floor.

“Into the dark
chasm
of despair and plight
Let these bright pages cast their learned light.”

B
AYLEON AND ASH LIFTED
their hands and braced themselves, shouting at Sylas and Simia to get back. They strode out to meet the attacker, Bayleon seeming to swell beneath his leather armour while Ash moved lithe and catlike, his quick eyes taking in all around him. In response the dark figure raised itself up, drawing up its broad powerful shoulders and lifting its head until its face became visible for the first time. The features were blackened with mud and disfigured by a savage wound that ran from the forehead over the nose and cheek and ended somewhere far below the jaw. It was not a canine, but a human face; it was not monstrous, but one that had once been youthful and handsome. The hood fell away entirely to reveal tight-cropped black hair.