Authors: Richard Morgan
“It’s glirsht,” Egar said absently. “Naom stone. They’ve got them set out like … that’s got to be … compass points, right?”
The younger man shrugged, sniffed. “Could be. You want to see where they keep the slaves or not?”
“Yeah, yeah.”
But he followed Harath along the gallery and through another decaying doorway with a lot of backward glances. And even after they left the hall, the squat black stone statues sat in his mind’s eye like evil little dolls.
fter a while, the cormorants seem to tire of his company. They hop ungainly off the rock they’ve all been sharing, disappear one by one into the depths below. The last one cocks its head back at him before it dives. Utters a parched croak that might be farewell, and is gone. Ringil raises the flask after them in salute.
Puts it to his lips and finds it empty.
No wonder they left
.
For a while, he resists the obvious implication in that. The rock is oddly pliant and comfortable beneath him, there seems no reason to—
Well, apart from that queasy, gray-white patch of radiance seeping through at the sky’s eastern edge.
Something’s on its way, Gil
.
Best if you’re not around for it to trip over when it arrives
.
He makes the effort and gets to his feet. Swaying a little with the
sudden height it gives him. He peers downward after the cormorants, gets nothing for his trouble but a vague gloom and the rising reek of fouled seawater. He shrugs. The fact that they were seabirds and he isn’t doesn’t seem to matter that much in the end. He takes the long step forward and plunges downward after them. Splashes into the—
Not water exactly, it’s too sparse and fleeting for that. But for scant moments he thinks he sees bubbles rising through it, his breath ascending in a milky trail toward a surface stirred silver by his entry above. There’s a brief, chilly prickling, like the splash of cold water thrown in his face, and then something lunges sharkish at him out of the murk.
Fuck!
He catches fragments of a glimpse—a circular mouth, dilated wide enough to swallow his head whole, the unbroken ring of a single taut lip rolled back and concentric rings of teeth erect in the throat beyond. It’s the akyia, the thing that Seethlaw and Risgillen called the merroigai. Behind the nightmare head, the hint of a lithe, approximately human body bisecting into long, coiling limbs fronded with fins. A sleekly muscled arm, darting out, one clawed hand grasping for him, perhaps to save him from the fall—but he shrinks from it like a child from the clutch of the Marsh Wraith, and the fall takes him on.
Deeper yet.
If there was ever a surface above him, it’s long gone now. The darkness presses around like some giant constricting serpent out of legend. Breathing is an effort, forcing him to shallow intake through trembling lips. His eyes ache from peering into the black, but something will not allow them to close. The sense that
something is coming
has not left him—he feels it plummeting down behind him, vast, shadowy, jaws agape. And he’s
pinned
, less falling than hanging from some constructed torture table whose shape and extent he cannot yet see.
Pale and luminous, something else looms up out of the depths.
For a couple of shivery moments, he thinks it might be a jellyfish, one of the giant ones that wash up on the shores at Lanatray when the summers have been stormy. He remembers abruptly—himself at eight years old, alone, as he increasingly was, walking dazedly on rain-damp sand among humped and shivery-translucent mounds that rose almost as high as he was tall. For a few eerie moments in that early-morning
light, before a fast-growing hardheaded pragmatism set in, he believed—wanted to believe—these might be the quivering, fled souls of whales taken by the harpoon off the Hironish isles.
They were not.
And this, now—he shakes himself back to the moment—is not a jellyfish.
It’s a stone.
It seems to settle with this recognition, bobbing about at his feet with dog-like attachment. It wants to be friends. A softly gleaming chunk of masonry the size of a big man’s chest, inscribed across the top of one facing with letters in old Myrlic script. Ringil tilts his head a little and deciphers the lettering:
… and the Keys of a City greater than …
Like something you’d see on the walls of some ruined temple in the older, marsh end of town, some eerie once-isolated shrine now drowned in a sea of modern housing as Trelayne’s burgeoning outer districts spread—some of the stonework there is very old, it predates the Naomic ascendancy by centuries.
… the Keys of a City …
The stone startles upward, as if hauled on a ship’s cable by weary men. Knee height, a hesitant bob or two, and then rising again, a hound called off by its
real
master after some case of mistaken identity. Perhaps, he thinks with blurry imprecision, the words are not intended for him to read at all, and this conjunction of man and building block is just some mis-stroke of destiny or demonic intent, a sword skating off a shield it’s supposed to cleave, an axman’s sure-footed brace slipping on mud, and down he goes on his arse before the cut can land. A life spared where no mercy should be looking down, a city sacked where it should stand against the besieging horde—an error in the Book of Days, some shit like that.
In his mind, he builds a suitably dismissive shrug, but finds he’s shivering too much to give it physical form. His body is ceasing to feel like anything he owns or has much control over.
This time, it occurs to him, he might really be dying.
The chunk of masonry comes level with his head, and wobbles there a moment. Blind impulse—as realization catches up, he finds he’s
grabbed it. Is now hugging the worn-smooth contours of the lettered stone. He travels upward through the black, with a force that tugs and aches in his shoulder joints. The stonework is chilly against his face, the carved characters print their patterns into his flesh, he feels his body and legs rise devoid of weight until he hangs horizontally out from the stone like a windblown pennant at the mast.
The black around him is graying out.
A bruise-colored sky billows into being overhead, spreads itself to the horizon like a briskly snapped-out blanket.
He falls out of it.
Catches the sudden reek of salt water on the way down, the scent of fresh-cut kitchen herbs out of childhood memory …
He hits a surface that gives soggily under his weight. Water presses up from the ground and soaks through his clothes. He blows some of it, bitter and black-tasting, out of his mouth. Turns his head a little so he can breathe. Understanding catches up with the sense impressions of before.
He lies full length in a marsh, cold and clinging to a solitary chunk of stone.
Oh well …
Something stalks over his head like the fingers of a hand. He knows at once what it is, flails out with instinctive revulsion and flings the soft body away from him. Insistent squirming under his own body now, somewhere below his ribs, floundering panic—
fuck! fuck!
—and then the hot scissoring of jaws through his shirt and into his flesh as he rolls too late. A gossamer nuzzling at his neck, more soft, exploratory fingers. He swipes the touch away, comes frantically up on his knees. Cobwebs everywhere, plastering his arms, thick on the marsh grass around him like yards and yards of rotted gray muslin, he’s in the burrow, he’s landed
right on top of the fucking thing
.
He staggers to his feet, casts about, panting.
Rips loose sword, scabbard, cloak. Flings them away.
Brushes himself down with brutal strokes. Marsh spiders are communal, fiercely territorial, grow to a foot across if you’re unlucky. A couple of bites from a big one is usually enough to finish a grown man. Ringil turns a taut full circle about, airheaded and struggling for balance
as his feet shift and sink in the slippery springy turf and the ooze. The bite in his belly stings like scalding. He feels the slow, hot creep of the poison under the skin. He peers hard in the poor light, wishing he had a torch. Thinks he sees movement amid the coarse cobweb coatings and the marsh grass, but can’t be sure.
He gets his breath back with an effort.
At his feet, the spider that bit him lies half crushed by his weight and flexing feebly. It’s the size of a man’s head. He stares numbly at it for a couple of seconds, then stamps down with convulsive anger until it dies.
It’s all the energy he can summon. He stands swaying. The poison creeps some more in his belly, seems to be spreading. He rubs reflexively at the wound, then wishes he hadn’t. Searing acid bites under the skin.
The marsh stretches featureless to the horizon. Thickly cobwebbed marsh grass in every direction, and an icy winter wind, knifing at his ears.
Great. Just fucking great
.
He picks his way carefully over to his fallen sword and cloak, picks each item up in cautious turn and looks it over. He shakes three more fist-sized spiders out of the cloak’s folds, finds another crawling on the scabbard and flicks it off. Stands a moment to make sure they all scuttle away. Then he fits the cloak across his shoulders—fighting the wind for possession—and fastens it there, hangs the Ravensfriend on his back once more, and stares defiantly around.
He reckons the cobwebs look somewhat thinner off to his left.
He starts walking.
Behind him, the abandoned chunk of masonry sits ringed in black water and offers its words to the empty sky.
… the Keys of a City greater than …
IT MIGHT BE THE POISON, MIGHT NOT. IN THE GRAY PLACES, WHO
can tell?
He begins to hear a voice shouting down from the clouds, hoarse with anger but somehow soft as fine wool on his fingertips at the same time.
Just look at him down there …
Just look at him down there …
A female voice, or maybe something that knows how to imitate one, more or less. Faintly, eerily familiar. It comes and goes with the wind, seems to rush past him in sudden gusts, and then rush back. Ringil spins tiredly about, trying to face it.
…
look at him …
The standing stones begin to flicker in and out of being around him, huge misshapen bars on some jail cell built for trolls, a circular prison that keeps pace with him as he walks. They chop the marsh horizon in segments for him, stand for a couple of soggy heartbeats, rising solidly out of the cobwebbed marsh grass, then vanish as he lurches toward them. After a while he learns to ignore the effect, much as you have to with so much else in the Gray Places.
He stumbles on, feeling steadily sicker with each pace.
… look at him …
Tilting vision of gray on gray, stone on emptiness, there and gone, there and gone …
Just look at—
He sags to a halt, feels the world go on a few steps without him as he stops. The voice goes abruptly silent, as if in interest at what he’ll do next. He breathes in a couple of times. The wind jostles cold and blustering at his back. It’s trying to shove him onward.
He lifts both arms. Calls out hoarsely.
Yeah
, look
at me. Risgillen, is it? Go on and look: Ringil Eskiath, brought low. Is this what you wanted? You can’t have wanted it any more than I did
.
No response. If Risgillen is out there, she isn’t in the mood for a chat.
Can you blame her?
He can’t really.
The ghost of the stone circle, painted like sunset shadows onto the backs of his eyes. The fleeting memories of Seethlaw—snarling, wrestling passion, cool flesh under his hands, the taste of the dwenda’s come in his mouth like juice from some salt-sweet bursting berry on his tongue. The deep, clenching thrusts as he hauled and molded himself against Seethlaw’s ivory-hard buttocks. The noises the dwenda made with each stroke.
And then the collapsing to the dew-soaked grass, the shuddering release, the laughter on the edge of weeping. The letting go, and all that came after.
He remembers suddenly how the stones kept Dakovash out, how the Salt Lord prowled beyond them but would not step through. How he threw the Ravensfriend in to Ringil like a man feeding meat to a beast whose cage he dares not enter.
Try not to drop that again. You’re going to need it
.
I am
not
your fucking cat’s-paw
.
Out of nowhere, a laugh coughs its way up into his mouth.
There’s not much to it, certainly not much humor. But the smile it stamps onto Ringil’s lips is down-curved and ugly with sudden strength.
He looks back the way he’s come. The low-growing marsh vegetation is broken in a wavering line where he’s passed. It seems he’s walked out of the marsh spiders’ territory without noticing. The cobwebs are gone. The smell of salt seems stronger now.
He rubs at his wound again, and this time when the pain sears, he breathes it in like a perfume from fond memory.
He casts about and thinks he sees the bright spark of a fire on the gray horizon.
He stares toward it for a long moment, waiting for it to vanish, the way every other fucking thing does around here.
When it doesn’t, when it holds and beckons to him off the surface of the cold gray sky, he grunts and sets off in that direction. The cold wind at his back, hustling him on.
Well. What else you going to do now, Gil—stop?
From time to time, the stone circle flickers in and out around him as he walks. But it feels less like a prison now, and more like armor.
WHEN HIS GHOSTS START TO SHOW UP, HE’S ALMOST PLEASED TO SEE
them. This, at least, is something he’s used to.
Yeah, it’s all right for you
. Skimil Shend plods gloomily along beside him in cracked leather boots, poorly patched breeches and a white court blouse that has seen far better days.
You’re not stuck in some stinking garret back in that miserable feces-reeking apology for a city. You’re not an exile
.