‘Do they have warriors?’
‘Yes, they are always fighting. Our ways are far more peaceable than theirs. If they had had a few skirmishes with the Twin Snake, it would end up as full warfare with hundreds killed on
both sides. Whereas we attempt to resolve our differences as soon as we can.’
‘But is it not the way of the warrior to seek glory in battle?’
‘Only when the battle is a just one and there are no other ways to solve the problem. Unlike the Taneren, there are very few of us, so every life is valuable. Lives should not be wasted
without good reason. It is frustrating for a young warrior like yourself; I remember having the same feelings at your age. Then came the war with the Sand Warriors who used to live on the coast and
I had plenty of opportunity for glory. All you can do in the meantime is serve your village as the Elder sees fit and uphold your honour. In any respect, if what Vengefarak says is true, you will
get your chance soon enough.’
They started off again the following day as soon as the pale light of dawn started to shimmer over them. In this vast flat land the sky was all-encompassing, reaching over them and behind them,
constantly changing with a thousand shades of blue, grey and white. It could be leaden and oppressive, like a heavy stone lying on one’s chest, or cerulean and playful, full of song and
laughter. It was always capricious, though; it could change so quickly that only a fool travelled without a sturdy cloak, even if the sun at its zenith baked the reed beds dry. At night it was a
different beast altogether; then the heavens seemed almost within touching distance, star after star after star, one for every spirit lost to the mortal world – spirits who now sat above
them, looking down on the barely significant world they had left for good, a world created by the seed of Cygannan, the great progenitor, he who oversees the world from above, just as Ukka views it
from the dark underworld below. The wonder of the night sky, especially on cold nights when it was crystal clear and as palpable as morning frost, had always captivated Cygan, and always would.
It was a warmer morning, causing a dawn mist to hover over the river. The area they were now approaching was a low-lying area and therefore swampier than back at Black Lake. It had a lot more
trees, too – tall black spindly trees that hugged both banks of the river, supplanting the reed beds. The clean smell of running water was replaced by the dank one of moss and decay. Crows
frequented their branches, their harsh voices not helping to allay the feeling of unease hanging over the party. It seemed like an effort to even speak but eventually Tegavenek cleared his throat
and tried talking to the others, never an easy task when in a longboat.
‘The village is not far. Like our own dwellings they are spread out over a distance. We will pass outlying settlements before reaching the village proper.’
Noon was fast approaching, the sun making everyone hot and clammy, when Cerren let out a cry. ‘Buildings! Where the river bends!’
His eyesight was good. The river ahead continued in an almost straight line for a great distance before curving eastwards. Where it started to turn was a small knot of three or four shacks built
on stilts, so far away as yet they looked like child’s toy houses. The first sign of the Twin Snake tribe.
Tegavenek spoke again. ‘We have made good progress. Let us speak with them and inform them of the purpose of our visit.’
Putting on a spurt with their oars, they rapidly closed the distance to the dwellings. Cygan kept looking up to see if anybody there was out hailing them or even manning their own boat to row
out and meet them, He saw nothing.
The first house had a landing for boats jutting out into the water. There were a couple of round boats tied up there but still no one came out. ‘It looks deserted,’ Fasneterax said,
breaking his silence.
Tegavenek called out, ‘Hail the Twin Snake! The Black Lake comes to parley with you!’ He was answered only by the crows and the sigh of leaves in the wind.
They tied up their boat, and arming themselves with spear and bow, went to the first house. Tegavenek called out again, louder this time but with the same response. Cygan entered the house,
Fasneterax behind.
It was a regular marsh house, single-roomed, adorned with hammock and cooking utensils, but it was deserted. They then went to each house in turn and found no one. Every house looked lived in
until very recently.
‘If they have abandoned these dwellings, why leave all their possessions behind?’ Fasneterax said holding up a small carved wooden longboat, obviously a child’s toy.
‘Perhaps they are out hunting,’ said Cerren unconvincingly.
‘What, the women, the children? That is no hunting party I have heard of. Hold on, what is this?’ Cygan bent down and picked up a bone knife lying, unseen till then, on the floor of
the last house. He held it up to the light.
It was a standard-looking knife, with a wooden handle attached to a bone with its edge sharpened. Such tools, though of limited use and quickly worn out, were commonplace among the marsh folk.
However, as they looked at it they could see its blade was covered in a translucent green black slime with the consistency of honey. As Cygan held the knife up, some of the ooze dripped off the
knife’s tip. He wrinkled his nose.
‘It absolutely stinks,’ he said. ‘Black mud and bog gas.’
They exchanged glances; no one spoke or dared mention that which was preying on their minds. Then Tegavenek, who had been outside on the bank looking into the trees, joined them. Cygan showed
him the knife.
‘We need to move on’ was all he said. ‘There will be more houses further downriver.’
They returned to the boat and cast off. This time, however, weapons were readied. Within twenty minutes they espied the next clutch of houses, again located on a curve of the river. This time,
though, it was bending westwards. As they approached them, Tegavenek spoke.
‘Let us land the boat here and approach the houses over land.’
‘Won’t that look suspicious to the villagers, especially if we are now armed?’ said Cygan.
‘Leave it to me. I will be ahead of you and will convey our good intentions.’
They did as he said. They left the river some half a mile from the houses, pulling the boat on to land and concealing it with hastily cut branches. Then, with Tegavenek leading the way unarmed,
they walked through the trees to the houses.
There was a small clearing in front of the houses and they crouched down just outside it, concealed by the trees, watching for signs of life. After five minutes or so Fasneterax whispered,
‘Nothing. No fires. No children or women. It has been abandoned.’
Tegavenek nodded. ‘Let’s see if you are right.’
He stood up and strolled into the clearing, hailing the Twin Snake just as he had done before. It was soon obvious that no one was here either and he signalled to the others to join him. Cerren
gave him back the spear he was minding for him.
‘Everyone fan out and search. They must have left some sign as to what has happened here.’ He headed for the first house.
The jetty here was separate from the houses and raised a good three to four feet above the water, the better to cope with rain surges. For some reason Cygan felt an urge to walk along it and
look at the river. It reached a good ten to fifteen feet into the water and when he was at the end of it Cygan looked round.
The river here was broad and flowed smoothly. The riverbanks themselves were pretty uneven with many trees almost stretching into the water, their twisted roots exposed by the flowing current.
Flotsam, weed, branches and other debris collected around these roots until dislodged by the tidal flow. Cygan was looking at one such tree. It had been undermined by the river to such an extent
that it lurched at a crazy forty-five degree angle over the water; surely it was only a matter of days, hours even, before it collapsed and was swept away. But what was that at its roots?
It wasn’t a branch nor did it look like any natural debris. It was pale, maybe two feet long. He decided to walk along the bank to get a closer look when the river did the job for him. The
object came loose and drifted gently in his direction. As it came closer he saw exactly what it was. He suddenly felt quite numb.
There was no mistaking it – it was a child. One still in its infancy. It was naked and a boy and quite dead. Its, or rather his, features looked quite peaceful, almost as if he were only
sleeping. Cygan realised that the boy would drift by the jetty and so dipped his spear in the water, to direct the poor creature against the wooden pilings where he could crouch down and haul him
out. He braced himself as the boy was a matter of feet away.
Suddenly he was aware of something being wrong. The water here was greenish and quite dark, but under the boy it seemed even darker as if a shadow was being cast there. But it was a shadow that
moved.
As Cygan watched he saw a hand and arm come out of the water to claim the boy, but it was the hand of nothing he had ever seen before. The fingers were long, impossibly long, and thin and ended
in a claw. There was no thumb. Both hand and arm were a green–black colour and covered in scales. Between each finger was pale-green webbing. The hand held the boy, arresting its progress
downriver. Then in a moment he was pulled under. Cygan had a quick glimpse of two pale eyes with vertical slit-like pupils and a brief smell of the same rank odour he had detected on the knife.
Then the boy and his captor were gone.
He stood on the jetty, his mouth agape. He studied the water closely – could he see two, or maybe three, more shadows drift past his gaze? He could not be sure.
Well, he had his answer. The mystery of the abandoned dwellings was a mystery no more. Walking back along the jetty he saw his companions, lifted his arms and called out to them.
‘Malaac!’
To the Professor of Ancient History and Arcane Studies
University of St Philig’s
Tanaren
Dear Sir,
I have occasion to write to you on a matter both perplexing and disturbing which is affecting me personally and causing me a good deal of consternation. Some weeks, possibly months back,
my father, Nicholas Hartfield, Duke of Edgecliff, forwarded to you a ring taken from the body of a man washed up on a beach near to Edgecliff Castle. I believe the ring depicted a double-headed
snake. I am wondering whether or not you have drawn any conclusions as to the nature of this find, with regard to either the meaning behind this symbol or possibly the origin or nature of its
wearer, a man clothed in black with all hair shaven from his body. Here, I must be frank with you.
There was another artefact found at the same site, the description of which I am reluctant to divulge in writing until I have had some acknowledgement at least of your receipt of this
letter. I know not if this second artefact is connected either to the ring or the man but, in my opinion, the possibility is a strong one. It also appears to have some magical properties which
may be affecting my health adversely. I apologise if I appear to be unforthcoming but until I hear your thoughts on the ring in your possession I will not disclose any further
information
.
I thank you for your attention in this matter and hope to hear from you as soon as is practicable.
Yours,
Lady Ceriana Osperitsan-Hartfield, Baroness of Osperitsan and the Far Reaches, etc. etc.
The man finished reading the letter, put it back down on the desk, rubbed his nose and yawned. He was a man in his early sixties with a shock of silver hair that looked like it had
never been combed. It partly obscured his face, although his prominent hawk nose could never be hidden. Much the same could be said of his dark glittering eyes and bushy eyebrows which were
actually slightly darker than his hair. He grunted to himself, a habit he could never get out of whether in polite conversation or lecturing a room of uninterested students. It was dark outside;
the autumn moon was showing through the small leaded window overlooking the desk which otherwise was lit only by a solitary candle. It was a not a large room but every corner, every shelf, every
surface, was cram-packed with clutter, books and papers, all piled on top of each other with scant regard for order or organisation. That part of the floor that could be seen was covered in a fine
layer of dust. It was a room that contrived to be used frequently and be seriously neglected at one and the same time.
The man was not alone. Standing opposite him facing the desk was a young woman with a pinched face, large blue eyes and mousy-brown hair tied in a bun. She fidgeted nervously in his
presence.
‘Keep still, girl, I will never finish here if you keep distracting me.’
She looked at the floor. ‘Sorry, Professor Ulian. Shall I wait outside?’
He grunted. ‘Actually I have a job for you. Go and fetch Professor Dearden from his room and bring him here. Tell him it is important. Then you can wait outside.’
‘Yes, Professor.’ She left as fast as her legs could take her.
Ulian stood up, stretched his legs and looked out of the window. He could see the lights of the city reflected in the broad sweep of the river Erskon, which passed pretty much directly outside,
though some thirty feet below. He could see the Grand Duke’s barge sitting at its landing immediately next to the magnificent stone building in which Ulian had lived, studied and taught in
for the last forty years and out of whose window he was now observing the world.
The University of St Philig’s was the oldest university in Tanaren, predating the upstarts at St Delph’s by some twenty years. Ulian thought it the most aesthetically pleasing
building in a city full of them, all elegant arches and quiet colonnades, leafy squares with fountains at their centre, grand halls with enormous windows and, at its heart, the great library,
repository of some of the finest works ever produced, not only by Tanaren, but by the world’s great empires, Chira and Koze. It even had tomes reputedly written by the Wych folk and the stout
Folk under the Stone, unseen for millennia, as well as even older, more mysterious writings, whose preservation was a matter of the highest priority for such houses of learning.