The Bell Between Worlds (13 page)

“The Ghor,” murmured Simia, her voice full of dread.

They drew near the Ghorhund, slowed and then, with a single purpose, fanned out across the square, one loping along each edge, the third jogging into the centre, stooping low at times to examine the paving. Suddenly, just a short distance past the Ghorhund, it stopped and lowered its head to the ground. It paused there for a moment as though sniffing the stone, then raised itself up and looked directly towards the fruit cart.

Sylas could feel its keen eyes searching among the sacks.

Then, in one swift movement, the hunter threw its head back in the air and to his horror it let out a bloodcurdling, canine howl. Moments later it started forward and began sprinting at an astonishing speed towards them. The others changed direction and fell in behind, soon moving as one, striding perfectly in time, their massive claws beating out a single terrifying rhythm. Just moments later they were overtaken by the two Ghorhund, which flew across the square, baying lustily as they rejoined the hunt.

At that moment the fruit cart skidded round a corner into a busy road lined with shops and stalls. The smell of smoke became more powerful and Sylas could hear the chatter and bustle of crowds, but he was hardly aware of his surroundings. Instead his eyes were fixed on the corner that they had just turned, watching for the first sign of their pursuers. Simia pushed herself up on her hands to peer cautiously over the top of the sacks.

“We’ve got to get out of the cart,” she said. “Wait for me to move, then do as I do.”

Sylas nodded and eased himself a little off his haunches to make sure that he was ready. They passed a hanging sign bearing the words
The Mutable Inn
written in large ornate lettering.

“Now!” exclaimed Simia, and she stood up and launched herself into the air, falling quickly out of sight. He hauled himself to his feet and saw her land some distance away, staggering slightly and bracing herself against the wall of the inn. He heard the cry of the driver from behind and saw a number of faces turn in the street, but dared not look: he braced himself against the side of the cart and threw himself into the air. He cleared the muddy road and landed next to Simia on the stone terrace of the inn, grimacing from the pain in his knee.

Simia drew close to him. “Follow me inside,” she said under her breath. “And, for the sake of Isia, cover up your trinket!”

He glanced at the bracelet shining brightly on his wrist and, with a glance up and down the busy street, he covered it with the muddy sleeve of his jacket. He saw Simia disappear through the large wooden door of the Mutable Inn, and he quickly followed her.

As he pulled it closed behind him, he heard a noise in the street. He was tempted to ignore it, but could not resist peering out through the small glass panel mounted in the door. Once again people were running, screaming and shouting as they glanced anxiously back down the road. Soon their cries were drowned out by the vicious howls of the Ghorhund: and then they came, their massive paws pounding into the dirt with such thunderous force that the door rattled on its hinges. People threw themselves to the ground, against walls and through doorways, as the two black beasts streaked past the inn, crashing through abandoned stalls and boxes, knocking those who moved too slowly to the ground and tearing the road into a shower of mud and grit that splattered the window. They sped on, driven wild by the hunt, oblivious to the pale face peering out at them from the inn.

Sylas watched as the poor people in the road stared fearfully after the Ghorhund, then slowly turned and looked the other way – their faces filling with a new terror. Those who had been thrown to the ground roused themselves and scrambled to the side of the road, heads lowered as if fearing a blow. He heard the Ghorhund reach the fruit cart in which they had escaped, announced by the crash of splintering wood followed by a chilling howl of triumph and the screams of the unfortunate driver.

Then, as a woman whimpered outside the inn door, three silent shadows moved in front of the window.

“… such is their power to change the very fabric of the world.”

T
HE DARK
,
ALMOST
-
HUMAN
shapes were stooped forward, their heads sweeping low as they bounded lightly along the street, making so little sound that, were it not for the gentle fall of their feet in the mud, he would have thought them ghosts or apparitions. Sylas knew instinctively that even as they ran they could hear the slightest noise, and he found himself holding his breath as he watched. Their movement was wolfish and hungry, but they moved with remarkable control, striding in perfect unison and in precise formation. They took no notice of each other, their disfigured heads swinging from side to side as they took in the pale, fearful townsfolk at the sides of the street.

For the first time Sylas saw their faces and he felt his stomach turn. Their pendulous, hooded brow and monstrous jaw and cheekbones were almost canine, yet amid the patchwork of pale human skin and dark matted fur were quick, intelligent human eyes, seeing everything with a deliberateness and menace that was far from animal-like. They were both the handler and the hound: measuring the situation, scrutinising every detail of the street and all the while hunting as a pack. He felt the same creeping terror that he had seen in Simia. His chest tightened, the blood drained from his face and he took an involuntary step away from the door.

None of them seemed to see him at the window, or hear his short breaths, or sense his fear. As quickly as they had come, they were gone.

Sylas exhaled, his breath clouding the glass.

“What are you doing? Come on!”

He turned and saw Simia standing in the inner doorway.

She beckoned to him urgently, then disappeared into the room beyond.

He gathered his nerves and followed her, leaving behind a distant sound of splintering wood, shouts and wails issuing from a neighbouring street.

The strong scent of smoke filled his nostrils as soon as he walked into the dimly lit interior of the inn. It was not the smoke that he had smelt on the street, or the smoke of cigarettes or pipes, but one with a weirdly sweet and fresh aroma. So strange was the scent that it took him a few moments to identify it as that of common, freshly cut green grass, spiced with burning tobacco. He looked about the gloomy room to try to find its source and saw scores of men huddled low over tables, most smoking long pipes, others gulping from metal tankards. Some raised their heads as he entered and stared at him steadily for a moment, but they soon lost interest and returned to their conversations. The low drone of voices was broken only by an occasional cough and peals of laughter from a table at the end of the room.

He looked for Simia and soon saw her balancing on the first rung of a stool at the bar, talking excitedly to a tall barman, who looked with interest over her shoulder towards Sylas. He had an odd appearance, with massive, clumsy-looking limbs and a long, doleful face that was made even longer by an overly long nose, a narrow mouth and a redoubtable chin that hung far below. But his most striking feature was the great shiny dome of his head, which at first seemed to bear some sort of hat or skullcap but, on closer inspection, revealed itself to be emblazoned with a vast array of tattoos: shapes, symbols and markings that encircled his crown to astonishing effect.

The barman leaned his large frame forward and rested his elbows on the bar, his piercing green eyes taking everything in. Sylas could feel them interrogating him, exploring his every feature until he had the distinct impression that they could even see what he was thinking. The strange man seemed to be looking into him, layer by layer, peeling them away like the pages of a book. Sylas shifted uncomfortably and, not knowing what else to do, smiled. The man held his gaze without responding, then turned back to Simia, said something and walked quickly to a door at the rear of the inn. As he opened it, he glanced back at Sylas and gave him a brief nod that looked almost like a bow, then disappeared into the darkness beyond.

Relieved to be freed from the man’s penetrating gaze, Sylas turned to see Simia beckoning him to join her at the bar. To his surprise, she looked almost as cheerful and relaxed as she had before the chase: her cheeks had regained their ruddy colour and her eyes some of their lively sparkle. As he drew close, she leaned forward and whispered in his ear.

“We’re safe, for now at least. Thanks to the cart we’ve broken the trail,” she said with reassuring confidence, but without acknowledging that it had been Sylas’s idea. She nodded towards the door at the rear. “Bowe is a friend. He’s gone to check that the way is clear.”

“Strange... it was like he could see right through me,” said Sylas.

She laughed. “Oh, don’t mind that – he just has a way of seeing things. It’s what he does.”

“What he...
does
.”

“Yep,” she said matter-of-factly, pushing herself up on to the barstool to peer out of the window to the street. “Now we should have some time for a
real
drink, if you fancy?”

He looked at her, bewildered by her calm – only moments ago they had been fleeing for their lives. But he could not deny his thirst.

“Sure,” he said, heaving himself on to a neighbouring stool.

Simia reached over to an abandoned tankard on the bar and peered into it with interest, then held it out to him. Sylas looked at the dark green contents doubtfully, sloshing them around and sniffing at them, then raised the tankard to his lips. Carefully at first, then with increasing abandon, he drank down the contents. The flavour was decidedly odd but delicious: a mixture of lemons, rhubarb and woodsmoke. The combination was surprisingly sweet and refreshing. He finished it in large satisfying gulps, then set down the tankard with a loud belch. He was dimly aware of Simia watching him with keen interest and a suppressed smile.

“’Scuse me,” he said. “That’s great – what is it?”

He clamped his hand over his mouth.

With each word, clouds of pungent, sweet green smoke billowed between his lips. Simia shrieked with laughter and banged the counter with glee. He stared at her with a mixture of alarm and embarrassment, then parted two of his fingers and spoke quietly, trying in vain not to exhale as he did so.

“What
is
this stuff?” he mumbled, breathing out a succession of smoke signals depicted in glorious greens and yellows.

Simia was still heaving with laughter. “Oh, it’s… sorry...
your face
!” She let out another shriek of delight, then worked hard to gather herself. “It’s called Lemon Plume,” she said, drawing a long breath. “It’s a favourite with this lot – the Muddlemorphs.”

“Muddlemorphs?” repeated Sylas with interest, seeing to his relief that the smoke was growing thinner and less noticeable.

“Pretty much everyone here is a Muddlemorph,” she said. “They can change things – play around with stuff – change it from one thing into another. It’s a weird kind of Kimiyya – the Third Way. They come here to work on the farms: making the soil better, cleaning the water, that kind of thing. Problem is, they love their tricks so much that they spend all their time showing them off to each other in taverns like this.”

She jumped off her stool and pointed to the wooden seat. “Here, touch this.”

Sylas hesitated, wondering if he was to be the butt of another joke, but reluctantly reached forward and touched the seat. He pulled his hand away sharply, and looked up at Simia who was beaming with delight.

“Weird, isn’t it?” she said with a giggle.

He touched the seat again. To his amazement the wood bowed under his touch as though it was a cushion. He pressed his finger deep into it, and the grainy surface yielded; then he released it and it sprang back.

“Yes,” he said, his broad face breaking into a smile. “Very weird.”

He jumped off his own stool and found that it was the same. He walked over to a bench nearby and pressed on the wooden seat to find that the entire panel gave under the pressure of just one finger. “Magic...” he said quietly.

Simia walked over, her head cocked on one side. “But you have stuff like this in your world, don’t you?”

He laughed. “You must be joking.”

“But you
do
have magic,” she said with a frown. “They told us so in school. What do you call it – sci... scient?”

Sylas frowned. “
Science?
”

“Yes, that’s it.”

“Well, there’s not much magic in
science
,” he said with a grin, thinking of Mr Prendergast, his befuddled science teacher at school.

She looked a little affronted. “Well, it always sounded magical to me,” she said defensively. “Buildings that touch the sky, light that turns on and off, things that fly…” She flicked her fiery hair back off her face. “What’s that if it’s not magic?”

He looked at her for a moment and straightened his face. “You know, I hadn’t seen it that way before,” he said. “You’re right, it
is
magical.”

Simia still seemed a little put out.

Sylas had an idea. “If you like, sometime I’ll show you how to make one of those things that flies.”

Her eyes widened with excitement. “Really?”

“Sure,” he said. “Your very own bird of paper and string.”

She drew a sharp breath. “You know how to do that?”

“Your friend Bowe sees things... I make birds out of paper and string,” he said with a wink. “It’s what I do.”

She clapped her hands in delight and looked about as if she wanted to tell someone straight away. Her eyes came to rest on the table from which there had been so much noise as they entered the inn and suddenly she seemed to be struck with a thought.

“Wait here,” she said, jumping down from her stool.

She walked off at a pace and disappeared into the crowd that had gathered round the table at the rear of the inn. Sylas could hear her voice among the gathering followed by a brief silence, then he saw her fighting her way back towards him, weaving between arms and legs. She bore a triumphant expression as she marched back to her stool accompanied by a rather strangelooking young man. He was young and lean and had a huge crop of curly blond hair as unkempt as a wild hedge, with golden tufts erupting in all directions and great twirls and whirlpools formed in its centre. His clothes were of the same fashion: a threadbare shirt with several buttons undone, one sleeve gathered about his elbow and the other loose about his wrist, and a collar that stood to attention on one side. But while his hair and clothes were comically haphazard, his pale, angular face was quick and intelligent and he had a bold, decisive manner. He walked with long, ranging steps and, even as he first glimpsed Sylas, he fixed his narrow eyes upon him as though examining his every feature. His gaze was not as penetrating as that of the barman, but travelled swiftly over Sylas’s face, his odd-looking, muddy clothes, his bloodied knee and the bag containing the Samarok, so that by the time he reached the bar he seemed to know Sylas’s story.