The Dragon in the Sword (27 page)

Alisaard silenced him at last. “When is there a direct gateway from Barganheem?”

He paused, studying the tables for all the world like a man of the twentieth century looking up the train timetables. “Direct? From Barganheem? Another twelve years…”

“So we have no choice but to make for The Wounded Crayfish anchorage?” she said.

“It seems not. Though if you were to travel to The Torn Shirt…”

“It seems in your world as in mine,” said von Bek dryly, “it becomes increasingly difficult to get into Hell.”

Alisaard ignored him. She was committing Jermays’s words to memory. “Wounded Crayfish—Rootsenheem—Tortacanuzoo. That’s the shortest route, eh?”

“Apparently. Though it seems to me that Fluugensheem should be crossed, if only briefly. Perhaps it is bypassed. There is said to be a cross-warp around there. Did you ever discover it?”

Alisaard shook her head. “Our navigating is fairly simple. We do not risk the swift-leaping journeys. Not since we lost our menfolk. Now, Master Jermays, can you tell us where to find, in the Nightmare Marches, the Dragon Sword?”

“At their very core, where else!” This was Morandi Pag, heaving his bulk from his chair. “In a place called The World’s Beginning. This is the heart of the Nightmare Marches. And that sword sustains them. But it can only be handled by one of the blood, Champion. One of your blood.”

“Sharadim is not of my blood.”

“She is enough of your blood to serve Balarizaaf’s purpose. If she only lives long enough to drag the sword from its crystal prison, that will suffice.”

“You mean none can remove it from the crystal?”

“You can, Champion. And so can she. Moreover, I would guess she knows the risk she takes. Which is not a simple death for her. She might succeed. And if she does, she ascends to immortality as a Lord of Hell. As powerful as Queen Xiombarg or Mabelode the Faceless or Old Slortar himself. That is why she risks so much. The stakes are the highest she can imagine.” He put his paws to his head. “But now the ages all congeal into one agonising lump. My poor brain. You understand, I know, Champion. Or you will. Come, we must leave this place at last. We must return to the mainland. To Adelstane. I have my duty. And, of course, you have yours.”

“We can use the boat,” said Alisaard. “I believe I can steer a course out of the rocks.”

At this Prince Morandi Pag chuckled with genuine humour. “You will let me take the tiller, I hope. It will do me good to sniff the currents again and guide us clear to Adelstane.”

9

“S
OME SAY THERE
are no more than forty-six individual folds in the configuration of the waves,” said Morandi Pag as he seated himself heavily in the boat. “But that is a statement made by those who, like the feudal islanders of the East, honour simplicity and a kind of unholy neatness over complexity and apparent disorder. I say there are as many folds as there are waves. But it was once a matter of pride that I could smell them all. Waves and multiverse are, I would agree, one. However, the secret of steering any course, no matter where you are bound, is to treat each aspect as fresh-minted and utterly new. To formalise, in my view, is to perish. The folds are infinite. The folds have personalities.” His nostrils quivered. “Can’t you sniff the currents again? And all the intersecting realities, all the thousands of realms of the multiverse. What a wonder it all is! And yet I was not wrong to be afraid.” With that he gave the sign for Alisaard to slip the rope, turned the sail a touch, made a small motion with the tiller and we were riding the roaring waves again, heading for the hollow rock by which we had entered.

There was never a moment when any of us felt in danger. The boat danced lightly across the enormous, threshing waters. She turned as gracefully as any bird in flight, sometimes upon the crest of the waves, sometimes in the gullies, while sometimes she seemed to lie sideways onto the great breakers. Spray and wind attacked our faces as we surged through the opening and into semi-darkness. Morandi Pag was roaring with laughter, almost enough to drown the sound of the waves, as he guided us through and out into the relative calm of the ocean proper.

Jermays the Crooked hopped up and down in glee. He was in the prow, capering and shouting his approval at every minor shift in the boat’s direction.

Morandi Pag moved his muzzle in a peculiar expression, as if expressing satisfaction with his skill. “It has been too long,” he said. “I have not the youth for this. Now we shall go to Adelstane.”

We crossed the ocean rapidly, seeing the great black mountains rising all around us. The little harbour was reached and the boat tied up. After that it was a matter of a few minutes to walk to the opening where we had first been admitted.

Not a quarter of an hour later we stood once more in the comfortable library, filled as usual with incense, while the Ursine Princes greeted their long-lost peer. It was a most tender sight. All of us were forced to wipe away tears. The creatures had a wonderfully gentle way of behaving with one another.

At length Groaffer Rolm, still very emotional, turned from thanking us for restoring his long-lost brother to him, and said: “We have heard from the Princess Sharadim. Her army awaits only the opening of the gateway. Whereupon it will enter our realm, not a mile from Adelstane itself. The other army, we are told, also marches, using our old canal paths, and will be here within the day.

“I take it, Morandi Pag, that you agree with these Mabden. Sharadim means us harm.”

“These Mabden speak truth,” said Morandi Pag. “But they must be about their business. They have to reach the Maaschanheem. From there they must go via Rootsenheem and Fluugensheem to the Nightmare Marches.”

“The Nightmare Marches!” Faladerj Oro was genuinely horrified. “Who would volunteer to venture there?”

“It is a matter of saving all Six Realms from Sharadim and her allies,” said von Bek. “We have no choice.”

“You are heroes indeed,” said Whiclar Hald-Halg. She laughed to herself. “Mabden heroes! Now there’s a pretty irony…”

“I will take you to the first gateway myself,” Morandi Pag told us.

“But what of Sharadim and her armies? How shall you deal with them?”

Groaffer Rolm shrugged. “We are all together now. And we have our ring of fire. They’ll be hard put to enter that. And should they breach Adelstane’s defences, they must find us. There are many ways we can delay them.”

Jermays the Crooked helped himself from a jug of wine. “But she infects all the realms,” he said. “She can alter her personality to appeal to any culture she encounters. What is happening in this realm also happens, in a different way, elsewhere. How shall that be countered?”

“It is not our business and neither do we have the capacity to fight the wars of the other realms,” said Groaffer Rolm. “We can only hope to hold her off in Adelstane. But if Chaos breaks through and makes itself her ally, then we are doomed I think.”

We made our farewells to the Ursine Princes and Morandi Pag took us along the ancient canal banks of the great, slow river, climbing slowly into the heavy shadows cast by mountain walls on all sides. Here at last he paused and was about to speak when it seemed the very mountains shivered and the darkness began to fill with a white radiance which, as it gathered in strength, could be seen to contain all colours. Gradually there formed in that clearing beside the river a set of six pillars which formed a perfect circle and had the appearance of a temple.

“It’s miraculous,” said von Bek. “I am always amazed.”

Morandi Pag passed a white paw over his old brow. “You must make haste,” he said. “I can sense that the Mabden armies close on Adelstane. Will you go with them, Jermays?”

“Let me remain here,” Jermays said. “I have to see if my old trick of travelling has returned. If it has, I will be of greater use to you. Farewell, Champion. Farewell, beautiful lady. Count von Bek, farewell.”

Then we had stepped into the space between the pillars and almost at once were looking upwards. Then we were moving in the direction we faced.

The sensation of movement was stranger still without the apparent solidity of a boat. We were not entirely weightless. Instead it was as if we were borne on a current of water, though water which did not threaten to drown us.

Ahead I could see a misty grey light. My head began to spin and for a few seconds my body felt as if it had been plucked up by a gigantic and gentle hand. Seconds later I was on firm ground though still surrounded by the pillars of light. Alisaard stood beside me and, nearby, a fascinated von Bek. The German count shook his head in wonderment again. “Why are there not gateways like this between my own world and the Middle Marches?”

“Different worlds have gateways which take different forms,” Alisaard told him. “This form is native to the Worlds of the Wheel.”

We stepped out of the circle of light and found ourselves in the familiar, overcast landscape of the Maaschanheem. Everywhere was coarse grass, reeds, pools of water, glinting marsh. Pale waterbirds flew overhead. As far as we could see there was only flat ground and shallow water.

Alisaard reached into her pouch and drew out a small book of folded charts. She squatted to consult one of these charts, spreading it on the relatively dry ground. “We must seek The Wounded Crayfish anchorage. This is The Laughing Pike. We have no choice but to try to walk there. A way is possible, according to this map. There are trails through the marsh.”

“How far is The Wounded Crayfish from here?” asked von Bek.

“Seventy-five miles,” she said.

In somewhat depressed spirits, we began to trudge northwards.

We had not gone more than perhaps fifteen miles when we saw ahead of us on the low horizon the dark outline of a great travelling hull. It seemed to be making rather more smoke than was usual, yet it did not seem to be moving. We guessed that it might be in difficulties. I was for avoiding the vessel, but Alisaard felt that there was a small chance we could get some sort of help from them.

“Most peoples are inclined to trust Gheestenheemers,” she said.

“Have you forgotten what happened aboard the
Frowning Shield?”
I reminded her. “In helping von Bek and myself you infringed the most sacred codes of the Massing. My guess would be that your folk are not at all welcome anywhere here. What diplomatic harm you did was doubtless made use of by Sharadim, who would have done all she could to win allies here and poison minds against you. And as for us, we are probably fair game for any party of Binkeepers who happens to spot us. I would be disinclined to hail that vessel.”

Von Bek was frowning as he peered ahead. “I have a feeling it does not represent danger to us,” he said. “Look. That’s not smoke from her funnels. She’s burning! She’s been attacked and destroyed!”

Alisaard seemed more shocked than either von Bek or myself. “They war amongst themselves! This has not happened for centuries. What can it mean?”

We began to run over the soft, uneven ground, heading for the ruined hull.

Long before we reached it, we could see what had happened. Fire had gone through the entire vessel. Blackened bodies in every posture of agony lay against the charred rails, upon the smoking decks. They hung like broken dolls in the smashed timbers of the yards. And from everywhere came the stink of death. Carrion birds swaggered amongst this wealth of flesh, fat as domestic pets. Men and women, children and babies, all had died. The hull lay half on her side, beached, looted.

About fifty yards from the remains of the great hull we saw a few figures rise up from the reeds and begin to move away from us. Several were blind and had to be helped by the rest and this is why their progress was so slow. I called out to them:

“We mean you no harm. What hull was that?”

The survivors turned scared, white faces towards us. They were in rags—wrapped in anything they had been able to salvage from the wreck. They looked half-starved. Most were older women, but there were a few girls and youths in the group.

Alisaard now wore her ivory visor, as a matter of habit. She lifted it, saying softly: “We are friendly to you, good folk. We would offer you our names.”

One tall old woman said, with surprising firmness: “We know you. All three. You are Flamadin, von Bek and the renegade Ghost Woman. Outlaws all. Enemies of our enemies, perhaps, but we have no reason to think you friends. Not now the world betrays everything we value. Princess Sharadim seeks you, does she not? And also that bloody-handed parvenu Armiad, her most ferocious ally…”