Mirrorworld (39 page)

Marcus turned to head back towards the coach, which was already rolling the short distance towards the cabin, but almost fell over from the shock of the quake that shook the ground as Musk buried his fist heavily in the rock. It exploded on impact, sending stray shards of stone rolling away comically and mushrooming the surface layer of snow up into the air, where it settled among the already falling flakes. In their midst, Musk silently surveyed his newly-created cave, nodded in satisfaction, and turned to follow the coach, oblivious to both the stares of the others and the minor avalanche that the echo of his efforts had awakened above, which crashed down angrily in his wake.

The proprietor of the log cabin turned out to be a large, jolly man who introduced himself as Fango, fair innkeeper of the Traveller’s Rest and proud king of the last port of civilisation on the lonely north road. He expressed no interest in the reason why such a strange group of travellers would be moving through an unlikely locale, a fact that instantly made him more suspicious to Musk, who glared at the man unabashedly as he showed them around his building. And it was a pleasant building; Marcus detached himself from the tour with vague murmurs of meeting the rest of them in the common room just so that he could go and fall face first onto a cleanly-laundered bed. He lay there, humming a tune he’d last heard on an old Earth jukebox, for some time, before rolling his way towards the bathroom and spending some time staring at his reflection for the first time in a while.

After bemusedly tapping on the glass to make sure that the signal wasn’t off, he was forced to conclude that the reflection peering back at him was, in fact, his own. It was skinnier than he had expected, with a face far thinner and paler than the one he had assumed he would see, cheeks that verged on hollow and a crown of hair that had darkened far enough beyond his natural brown as to appear almost black. Were it not for the strange light that glowed in his eyes, a light that he couldn’t quite pin down when he looked for it, but which nonetheless flickered in his peripherals when he diverted his gaze, he might have thought that all the colour was falling from him. Perhaps there was some reflection of his evolving state of mind to be divined from this, but Marcus was too tired to care, and so dived into the bath and washed his thoughts away with steaming hot water.

An hour or so later, bemusedly thinking about how if this turned out to be a trap set by Keithus then the wizard was well-learnt in the art of hospitality, Marcus climbed back out of the bath in order to find that someone had snuck in and devilishly laundered his clothes whilst he’d been otherwise engaged without need of them. He set aside his favoured dress shirt and trousers for the morning, under the reasoning that he might as well look good if it turned out he was walking to his demise, and dressed modestly, finishing the look with the long black jacket that he’d stolen from the Viaggiatori and rather come to love. Feeling clean and cheerful, he wandered down to the sprawling, fire-lit, low-ceilinged common room and into the midst of an argument.

“-sick of your excuses, damnit! We’re within ten miles of the centre of the pass, and I
know
you can see that far. Do you just not care
at all
?” Musk was stood over a table on which he had unrolled and pinned down a large map of the Aglaecas, occasionally looking up from his notes to fire off scathing glares in emphatic accompaniment to the venom he was spitting at Lucin. The short man, stood by the fire with his small bird perched on his head, took the onslaught unflinchingly before firing back with “I don’t have to answer to you” in much the manner of a petulant adolescent.

Musk seethed. “Despite your collective insubordinate efforts to undermine me, I do in fact still lead this expedition, so yes, actually,
you do.
You have a duty not just to me but to all of us, and to
the entire damn world,
to do all that you can to help!”

“Oh yes, play the patriotism card, that’s guaranteed to work on me. Good show captain.”

Musk tightened his fists and adopted a stance that suggested he was ready to dive over his desk and choke-slam Lucin face-first into the blazing fire. Before it could come to that, however, Fango had somehow managed to bustle his way in-between the two with a tray of biscuits.

“Now fellas,” the man said warmly, “I’m sure this isn’t how we want to be getting along. Mr. Lucin, I’m sure Mr. Musk is under a lot of pressure, there’s no need to be so hard on him. I’m sure he’s working for everyone’s good, is that right?” Musk started from where he’d been unconsciously strangling the air, and nodded sheepishly. “And you yourself – we
know
you’re having a difficult time, good sir, but is simple civility so difficult? Why not just ask Mr. Lucin if you could have a lend of his services? If we’re all civil I’m sure we’ll get along
so
much better.” He plonked the tray down with a genial smile and wandered off, murmuring something about seeing to dinner.

“I do not like that man,” Musk growled, not quite under his breath. Fango’s departing form made no indication that it had heard, continuing to stroll off humming to itself.

“Biscuits?” Kendra asked, from where she’d been sitting between Musk and Lucin, observing the back and forth of their argument with the alternating appreciation of a tennis observer. “No, wait, that wasn’t what I was going to say. Yeah – I don’t think that guy is a threat to us, Musk.”

“To our waistlines, maybe,” Lucin slipped in. “He did mention dinner, yes?”

“He may not be,” Musk said darkly, “And he may not not be. What are the odds that we’d find such a lovely accommodating person here, at the edge of the world, offering comfort and security to tired travellers from the shadow of one of the worst threats the civilised world has ever faced? If I were to expect anyone at all, it certainly wouldn’t be someone so perfectly sugar-sweet ordinary. How many people do you think he’s really spoken to over the last few months? I’m sure thousands of passing orcs make for great conversational partners. Yet he’s not only still alive, but sane? And normal?”

“You think he’s suspicious because he’s not suspicious?” Lucin asked incredulously.

“
Yes
,” Musk said. “How can you not think that’s a thing?”

“For what it’s worth,” Marcus chimed in, from where he’d paused in the doorway, “I’m pretty sure I met the man’s brother in Tiski, and he seemed a fairly normal chap.”

“But that could be it!” Musk said triumphantly, slamming his fist onto the table. “His brother sends a message on ahead for this guy to set his trap! How much did you tell this ‘brother’?”

“I.. really don’t think that the brother sent any messages,” Marcus said, pointedly ignoring Kendra’s corner of the room, as he could almost
sense
the grin that his words had put on her face.

“Pfft,” Musk said. “Okay, you may be right. But still, don’t let your guard down. Or rather, I
recommend
that you don’t let your guard down.” He sighed. “Now, Mr. Lucin, might I
please
have a loan of your services?”

“Okay, okay,” Lucin said, “despite that ‘Mr. Lucin’ jibe I’m still going to agree, if only because I’m sick of arguing. I’ll find some eyes in the pass, or if not send my own vessel up there. But this may take a fair while,” he warned.

Musk waved his hand dismissively. Lucin spared a moment to send another glare in the other man’s direction before lying back against the wall and closing his eyes. He held this position as his bird flew up from its perch amidst his hair, and vanished.

“Cool,” Kendra said admiringly, “I didn’t know it could do that!”

Marcus had wandered over to have a look at Musk’s map. Mostly, it showed mountains. Lots and lots of mountains. Musk’s sketched outline of the Aglaecas Pass, which was marked at the southern edge by a ‘you are here’ sign, covered only a tiny part of the mapped terrain. Expert cartographer Marcus divined from this that there were a hell of a lot of mountains, and then found himself at a loss, so poked the other man and asked him what, exactly, they were looking at.

“Oh,” Musk said flatly, looking up to see who had disturbed him. “Well, this is the best map I could find of the mountains. It shows right from where we are up until as far a distance into the pass has ever been mapped. It’s kind of erroneously named, really, since ‘pass’ implies that there are places worth going to on either side, but this one’s really just a road that only runs as far as the edge of the map. Still, that should be far enough. I don’t expect Keithus to be too far north of here, since we’re not far off temperatures cold enough to make living unbearable.”

“But Keithus has magic,” Marcus pointed out. “Couldn’t he just be warming himself with that?”

“That is a possibility that left me floundering for a moment,” Musk said, “but look at this.” He pointed to another scribbled annotation, which marked a point on the eastern edge of the pass, about twelve miles north of their current location. “This is an abandoned castle, a remnant from some age of prior civilisation. Since this handy map doubles up as a guide to the local attractions, I know that it’s still serviceable, and as of this guide’s latest printing, possibly haunted by ghosts.”

“And you think that’s where Keithus is?”

“That I do,” Musk said, seemingly cheered by the fact that Marcus had kept up with his deductive prowess. “An abandoned castle doesn’t become suddenly haunted for no reason. It might become haunted if an evil wizard decides to make it his home and doesn’t want any explorers or tourists happening across it. And look at this,” he added, pointing to the west, to the ground of the pass. “Around this area, the pass widens out so much that it practically becomes a plateau, with the castle built into the cliffs along the side, overlooking it. Perfect place to build an army.”

Marcus was impressed. “I’m impressed,” he said.

Musk smiled slightly. “In a moment, I’m hoping to get confirmation from my man over there.”

In the end though, over an hour passed without Lucin stirring, so Marcus felt moved to wander off. He had sat with Kendra for a while, but their conversation dried up as he’d found himself counting the remaining moments before he went to sleep and woke in the inevitable morning. He went for a further stroll around what of the inn he hadn’t seen yet, and located the Assassin, who had for some reason spurned a bed and instead claimed a pile of hay in the stable alongside their coach and horses, which were busily eating his mattress out from under him as he lay smoking carelessly. The man gave him a quick salute by way of greeting, which Marcus returned before moving on. Further exploration took him to what turned out to be the kitchen, where he found Fango putting the finishing touches to a magnificent-looking multi-course meal. The man jumped slightly at spotting Marcus in the doorway, but quickly recovered, and earnestly offered him a bite. Marcus refused, and the man’s face fell so hard that he almost relented, but the contents of the plates looked dangerously exotic and Marcus was feeling disinclined towards adventurous food, so he made his excuses and returned to the coach, whereupon he bartered a sandwich from the Assassin and spent a few moments thoughtfully eating it, before giving up and making his way to bed.

He slept lightly and badly, constantly disturbed by formless, ill-remembered dreams in which faceless, unknowable threats attacked from all directions with no consistency or shape until he fought them all off, at which point they attacked all over again. Distracted from real rest as he was, the sudden sound of someone crying out in pain punctured through his latest dream-duel, dragging him away from a brawl with several giant flaming visions of Keithus and back to the world of the living, where he blinked awake to the tune of someone’s continuing groans, and thus realised that he was not alone.

A figure stood over his bed, wreathed in shadow. His first thought was of Death, but this figure was too stout, too human. The vague shape could have been anyone, but even in the darkness, it still looked like Fango. It hadn’t noticed that he was awake; it was distracted, blowing on its hand as if to soothe a burn. In its other hand, there gleamed the wicked silver of a long knife.

Marcus shifted slightly, and the figure looked up and met his eyes. With a sharp intake of breath, it rallied, and then the peaceful moment of misunderstanding came to an end as it pounced, knife now aimed straight for Marcus’s throat. With a yell, he rolled out of the other side of the bed, dropped to the floor and stood quickly as his attacker collapsed blade-first into the bed and became entangled in ripped sheets. As Fango’s large form attempted to free itself to come around for another attack, Marcus staggered around the bed and grabbed his staff, noting as he did that it was steaming from where the other man had attempted to touch it. Marcus half considered whether he should be worried about the fact that it hadn’t demonstrated this remarkable effect on himself, but was distracted as Fango freed himself and dived once again in Marcus’s direction with a roar.

Marcus desperately fell to the side, barely dodging the blow, banged himself on the dressing table and sank to one knee. From this position, however, he was able to rise, swinging the staff upwards to impact on Fango’s knife-hand with a sickening crack. The man yelled, reeling back as the knife was launched from his hand. Marcus stepped into the beat of Fango’s flinch, bringing around the other end of the staff and whacking the man smartly across the side of the head. He dropped like a stone and rolled away, groaning, as Marcus popped out the scythe’s blade and carefully advanced, aiming it sharp-end first at the collapsed man with one hand as he lit his lamp with the other.

“Please..” the man moaned, “I had to.. they made me!”

“Who made you?” Marcus demanded, yelling to be heard over the sound of his own heart rapidly pumping blood in his ears. “Keithus?”

“They said, said.. they had my brother.. I have to.. they said they’d kill him..”

Marcus put his hand to his head for a moment, before catching himself and refocusing his grip on the scythe, even though it didn’t appear that Fango was going to attempt to attack again. “They don’t have your brother, Mr. Fango.”