To Rescue Tanelorn (51 page)

“No,” says Monsieur Zenith. “I don’t want to see it. Not quite yet. I know what it is, believe me. I’ll wait. Until you’re gone.”

“So you trust us?” says Patrick. He looks expectantly towards the guitar case. He is very anxious to leave. His companion, however, sits quietly in his chair, and his nod to his old acquaintance has a reconciled, almost submissive air. He makes no effort to prepare himself for departure.

“To be who you say you are? Of course I do! Who else would claim such a crime?”

“Jesus God Almighty,” says Patrick. “Crime is it? I can’t stand another damned moralist. I’d be prepared to bet you’ve just as much blood on your hands as we have.”

“Oh,” says Monsieur Zenith lifting the case onto the table. “Infinitely more, no doubt.”

This confession of complicity, as he sees it, relaxes Patrick a little. He gestures to the bottle and glasses. “A drink, pal?”

The albino moves his head a fraction. No. His strange, almost angelic face turns to the window and notes that it is overlooked by nothing.

“You brought cash I see,” says Patrick. “And travelers cheques, like we asked, I hope?” He hesitates as the albino rapidly snaps open the case’s catches and begins to lift the lid. There’s a walkman or something in there, playing what sounds at first like modern North African music. The noise deepens until it vibrates all the glass in the room and makes Patrick feel faintly ill. Some sort of alarm, perhaps.

Then the case is fully open. It is lined in red velvet. The whole of its length and much of its breadth is taken up by an enormous broadsword. The thing is so impossibly ancient its iron has turned jet black. And along the length of the blade runs a series of disturbing red runes which, even as he watches, seem to move and reshape themselves constantly, in unison with the strange, deep howling which springs from the trembling metal. In the hilt what looks like an enormous ruby pulses in harmony with the sword’s unnerving voice.

“What the hell is that?” Patrick valiantly demands, trying to guess where the money’s hidden.

The albino seems amused. For a moment, he has a panting, wolfish air to him as he reaches both hands towards the case.

Somehow the black sword, almost as tall as he is, settles into Zenith’s grasp, its voice changing to one of profound satisfaction as it unites with its master. It shudders as if with eager anticipation. Now, with a new calmness, Monsieur Zenith turns towards the seated man, and there is still an element of compassion in his flaming red eyes.

The whole world fills with the sword’s rising song. The runes race and whirl, forming and re-forming to create whole new languages of power as they writhe up and down its black length. The universe trembles. The room fills with darkness. That same darkness floods out of the window and silences the Quai D’Hiver.

As Patrick begins to vomit uncontrollably, the albino smiles.

“It is your release,” he says.

THE ROAMING FOREST

THE ROAMING FOREST

A Tale of the Red Archer

(2006)

The Rider in Red

T
HE NIGHT WAS
a shrieking chaos of ragged cloud racing across a sky of bruised red, green and gold. All about the scarlet clad rider the earth seemed to move like the ocean, wind whipping grass and trees into a madman’s dance. Bolts of lightning, slashing down from every point of the compass, made the man’s horse snort and flatten its ears, white-eyed, nostrils flaring, as it bore its bowman master on at a killing gallop.

Some old terror buried within the archer warned him that this was no normal tempest. It was not the first he had ever encountered, engendered by sorcery. He had not known such a storm on this island, but it spoke of a powerful evil at play. He was anxious to ride out of it as swiftly as he could.

At last he mounted a hill. The sky was still in turmoil but, as the first fingers of dawn came creeping under the night, the main storm was now behind him, hanging above the valley where the dark mass of a forest somehow seemed to absorb the disturbance as he watched. The red-clad archer frowned. He could have sworn that the forest had been further away the last time he looked back.

On this island, the archer was known as Red Ronan, but his given name was Rackhir. He had lived here for over a year. He wiped a mixture of water and sweat from his face and neck, throwing back his hood to catch the cool following breeze. The stallion, a big, healthy roan, was exhausted. His coat steaming, he bent to crop the lush grass. Rackhir dismounted. Grey light spread through the beginning morning and the storm subsided, falling into the forest like smoke sucked through a window. Sunrise, and the sky became its normal pale cloudy canopy. In the distance, in the next valley, Rackhir heard pipes and drums. He wondered if they were celebrating the end of the storm or hoping to drive something off. As he led his horse down a well-marked sheep-track he murmured the words of a tune which had become familiar to him since he had found himself living amongst these people.

They called him Ronan because his given name defeated their familiar tongue. They had misheard him when he first introduced himself and “Ronan” was what they thought he had said. “Ronan” resembled
r’nan,
his people’s word for archer. In his own land of Phum, Rackhir ranked high amongst the Warrior Priests who served Phum’s patriarch. Though by training more warrior than priest he was, by disposition, more priest than warrior. A curiosity about the world and a quest for a mysterious city had brought him accidentally to this island nation where he originally understood no language. Their culture was alien to a well-educated man like himself, who felt he had read every existing account of the Young Kingdoms of the West.

He dressed in the scarlet jerkin and breeks of his caste, a covered quiver of arrows on his back, an unstrung bow slung over his shoulder, a long, light sword at his side. To the island’s people he passed for what they called a “Templar,” though they were surprised he carried no cross insignia on his cloak. That cross was popular here. The mark of the chief god of their pantheon.

Ronan/Rackhir followed the music down into the valley, where a fast-flowing river ran, leading him into a grey stone village over whose roofs hung a haze of peat-smoke. He knew enough of their language and customs now to give his horse up to an ostler at the village inn and fling him one of the copper pieces he had earned here after his encounter with the seabear which attacked his boat off the coast of Lormyr. In the fight, the bear had virtually destroyed his little craft and all but killed him, giving him such a swipe with its massive flipper that he had lost consciousness, to awaken on a beach at the estuary of a river the locals called “Liffé.”

He suspected that since his encounter with the seabear he had slipped into some unearthly realm, though this island was otherwise as real as anything he had experienced in his travels. If a little wet. It had scarcely stopped raining since he had awakened on a shingle beach to be met by a group of strangely dressed children. They had been friendly enough. They had led him to their village and fed him food, which though unpalatable was nourishing. Since then he had traveled on, finding work in the nearest large port. There, some of the other soldiers had taken exception to his foreign ways and inability to understand them, forcing him to travel further and further afield, accepting whatever work he could, mostly as bodyguard, forever hoping to find a ship to take him off the island and on his way to seek a city he knew as Tana Lorn. He cursed himself for giving credence to the old Filkharian wine merchant who had advised him to travel by sea, rather than continue on his way by land.

Unhappily, the seabear had ripped away Ronan’s purse, well-stocked with jewels from his previous adventure in Oi Oi, City of the Pearl Kings. He kept a few gold pieces in the folds of his belt, but he wanted to preserve them as long as possible. The boat had been blown off course, into the path of the seabear and ultimately to the shore of Eerin, this island. Here, he had been surprised that no-one had heard of Phum, let alone the city of Tana Lorn which he sought partly from curiosity and partly because he had heard he might find rest from his soldiering there. He had been told that gods dwelt in the city—gods willing to debate with mortals on the nature of the Seven Spheres, which, apart from the realm of Man, were those of Chaos, Law, Limbo, Dwarves, Giants and Eternals. Only Phum’s paramount god, Krim, existed in all those spheres. Throughout his conscious life Rackhir had brooded upon these seven realms and had entered the priesthood, accepting the harsh training administered to all would-be adepts, in order to learn whatever there was to know, read whatever had been written. And, though they disagreed on many things, all agreed that it was Tana Lorn, where Law and Chaos were forever held in balance, that guarded the secrets of the Seven Spheres. The great wise lords who ruled there would be able, he was sure, to impart the knowledge he desired.

For almost five years, since leaving Phum, Rackhir had sought that city. He had been sure he was nearing it when he had taken bad advice and decided to shorten his journey by the sea route. Instead of growing closer to Tana Lorn, he was borne further away. Now, he was becoming convinced, this was not even his own sphere, though it closely resembled it. Could there be
eight
realms of existence, as some in Phum believed? Or were there even more? And was this one of those? Or had he died in his own world, slain by the seabear? It would be his bad luck if this realm was some deceptively familiar version of limbo…

While the people of Eerin island were willing to drink at his expense, teach him their language and debate his ideas until much of his remaining gold was exhausted, he met no-one who knew any more than did he. Now his silver, too, was running low. With the hasty departure for the mainland of his last merchant master, Rackhir could find no further work for an itinerant archer. The priests of Eerin being already over-employed, he had decided to retrace his journey, on a fresh-bought horse. He would see if he could hire a boat to take him back to the general area of ocean where he had first encountered the seabear.

There was now a further complication. In the last village where he had stopped, others had seen his money when his tired fingers had fumbled his belt. Next day, he quickly became aware of being followed by six or seven wolfsheads who clearly intended to enrich themselves at his expense. Thus, rather than shelter when the storm came up, he had ridden into its teeth, anxious to put distance between himself and the ruffians. He had enjoyed the satisfaction of seeing them pull back, over in the far valley as he had neared the dense, dark green wood. At the last moment he had instinctively skirted those old, heavy trees, feeling eyes upon him. Had it been his imagination, or had the trees themselves seemed to be watching? Only now he felt he could afford to rest a little.

Pushing open the heavy side door of the tavern, Ronan found himself in a familiar enough place, with rough-hewn benches and tables at which sat a handful of farmers who, for reasons best known to themselves, had armed themselves with old swords and felling axes. When they saw him they became visibly relaxed and greeted him pleasantly enough. He ordered ale and meat in his strange, lilting accent. To their questions he gave them the answer he had learned satisfied them most readily.

“I’m from France,” he explained, “lately in the service of the O’Dowd, who trades between here and there.”

“And what brings ye to Ballycogub?” one red-faced cowman wanted to know. “Since ye’re the wrong side of the water for England and so too for France?”

“I was followed by robbers, though I’ve precious little to steal. Seeking to escape them, I lost my bearings. Now I’m heading coast-wards to find a boat.”

“Ah, then ye’ll want to head east,” growled the landlord, putting down before him a mug of porter and a plate of coarse bread and half-raw meat. “But be careful, for English reivers plague the waters between here and that damned godless land. Ye’ll serve yerself well if ye take a ship that travels with a fleet. What’s more, there’s the Roaming Forest to fear. Will ye be staying with us for the night, sir?”

Rackhir shook his head, incurious about any fearsome forest. All country people feared dense trees, which their superstitions populated with every kind of imp and demon. He did not wish to spend a night at the inn because the more speed he made, the less chance there would be of any pursuing thieves catching him. “I’ll rest for a few hours here,” he said, “and give my horse time to recover himself, then I’ll be riding on.”

“This is not the best time of the year for that, sir.” The landlord glanced at the other shifty-eyed customers. “Which is why we are all gathered here to wait until it’s safe to travel again.”

“What’s the danger?” Narrowing his eyes, for he suspected them of wanting him to stay so that they could rob him in his sleep, he sipped on his ale-pot.

“Did ye pass by a forest on the way to our valley?” Another farmer turned troubled features towards him.

“I skirted it. I know outlaws prefer the deeps of a wood for their hiding places. I took the high road, but I passed near it. I think that’s where I lost the would-be thieves pursuing me.”

“Ah, well, that’s as maybe, my master.” The landlord gestured with his rag. “We call that forest
Huntingwood.
”

“What do you hunt there?”

“It’s not what’s hunted among those trees but what the trees and their creatures hunt,” declared the cattle-herder. “For these are the nights when the forest seeks fresh sustenance. And the wood-serpent, which guards the old treasure, must have blood, as must the witch who is the serpent’s mistress. These are the nights when the forest roams…”

But when Rackhir tried to question them further, they would tell him no more. One or two of the farm people clearly wanted to talk, but others forced them to silence. The idea of a forest which could uproot itself and travel where it willed was so nonsensical that Rackhir gave it not a minute of his thoughts. He himself had seen trees sliding down a loose embankment, seeming to march, but he knew that had to do with the shallowness of their roots. He shook his head at these credulous provincials and longed to be back in some familiar city, even in the Young Kingdoms.

Thus it was before sunset the Red Archer mounted his refreshed horse, tipped the ostler handsomely, tied a bundle of food and beer to his saddle-bow, and continued the journey east, up the shallow flank of the valley towards the distant ridge which, he’d been told, marked the highway to the coast. The moon was full when he crested the peak and looking back he was surprised to see no lights. It was as if the village had vanished completely from the valley and where it had stood was the thick foliage of summer trees. The moon was high in a cloudless sky. He knew a sudden thrill of superstitious fear. There was no doubt that it was a wood he saw. Somehow, he decided, he had lost his bearings. Search where he could, he saw no village. He needed sleep more than he realized. Rackhir decided he could afford to rest for a couple of hours before moving on. He lit no fire but, wrapping himself in a blanket, was soon snoring gently in a shallow slumber, one hand on his sword-hilt, the other on his bow-staff.

Reivers in Green

Out of that surrounding forest they came, shrieking through the moonlight, their faces painted with indigo dye, their bodies clothed in fur. They had big, round wooden shields. Their fists were full of bronze and iron. Moonlight glanced off axeblade, sword and spear. Rackhir had time to note with astonishment that he had somehow made camp in the middle of a forest glade, when he had been sure he had settled on a bare hillside, then he was fighting for his life, bow used as a quarter staff, slender sword darting in and out, quick as a cobra, to send another soul to hell.

Outnumbered as he was, Rackhir the Red Archer had been trained from childhood in the arts of war and even as he stabbed his second man he reached forward to grab the war-axe from a now-useless hand. The bow-staff was dropped. The axe split a head from crown to jaw. For a fleeting moment, he could have sworn he recognized the face of the man he slew. Though this one had no warpaint, his skin bore a green tinge. Rackhir was sure he had seen the man at the tavern in that last village where he’d rested. And there were others, now he realized—all with faintly glowing green complexions! Had they posed as honest country workers to deceive him, to discover where he was headed? Was it those apparent cow-herders who had brought the forest to him?