The Bell Between Worlds (35 page)

The Ghor were in utter confusion, looking for their commander, who was lost somewhere in the crowd, fogs and sunbeams, battling with great swarms of creatures that assailed it from all sides.

“Run!” cried Fellfith to his brethren as he marshalled the slithering hordes, backing towards the edge of the glade.

“Make for the trees!” bellowed Hinksaff as he wove clouds and sunbeams, retreating at his friend’s side.

Already they were entering the gloom of the woods, sensing that soon they would have some cover, hope of escape. They called again to the others, and some began to break from the crowd, running for the edge of the clearing.

Suddenly Bowe rose to his feet and waved his arms in the air. “No!” he cried. “No! No!” But it was too late.

The chariot crashed through rotting trunks, snapping them like twigs, its golden wheels shattering the timber and pressing it deep into the mud. A single figure stood tall behind the reins, her crimson gown billowing around her elegant form, her beautiful face set firm as she reared the Ghorhund to a halt. The two beasts clawed the filthy mud, baying and howling as they brought the great weight of the glittering chariot to a shuddering halt in the centre of the glade. Scarpia’s eyes flashed with rage as she took in the scene: the great swarm of beasts and insects, the muddled sunbeams, the shifting fogs, the confusion of her guards.

She let out an almighty shriek, a hideous scream of fury that rose to a shrill battle cry. She cast down the reins and threw her arms wide, her small hands grasping at thin air, clawing into fists. In the same moment there were screams from the crowd of prisoners as great sections of the riverbank buckled and broke, folding in upon themselves, trapping fish, eels and insects, uprooting trees, wrong-footing the Ghor commander until it too fell into the muddy morass. Then, as Thoth’s Magruman raised her fists and swept them towards the fleeing Suhl, the great writhing piles of mud and beasts were hoisted towards the heavens, arching across the glade, colliding with a thunderous boom, sending down a shower of filth and debris.

Slowly, calmly, she opened her fists and dropped her hands.

Bowe sank to his knees and tears fell down his cheeks. He watched the massive weight of trees, mud and beasts fall from the sky, crushing what remained of the wood at the edge of the glade, engulfing Fellfith, Hinksaff and two other fleeing prisoners as they ran.

The fogs dispersed, rising back to the darkening sky. The remaining creatures writhed and squirmed their way back to the river or flapped and gasped on a muddy grave.

As the surviving prisoners wept, the sunbeams faltered and died.

“Reach for the silvered
glimmer
on the lake…”

A
SH STIRRED
,
DRAWING HIS
knees up and leaning forward so that he could hear a little better. Bayleon continued to stare into the fire, but his shifting eyes betrayed his interest. Simia shuffled so far forward that she was rather too close to the flames, but in her excitement she seemed entirely unaware of them. Her eyes sparkled expectantly.

“Let’s begin with the easier of the questions,” said Espen, patting his chest. “As Bayleon will tell you, I have not always gone by the name Espen. Like many of our kind, I have had to change my name since the war.” His eyes moved from face to face. “I was once called Espasian.”

Ash sat bolt upright and glanced over at Bayleon, who nodded without raising his eyes from the fire.

Simia’s jaw fell open and for a moment even she seemed lost for words. “Espasian? The
Magruman
?” she blurted.

Espen nodded.

“But… you were killed,” blurted Ash, squinting a little as he scrutinised the stranger’s face more closely. “I mean... we thought you died at the Reckoning.”

“As did I,” said Espen, arching a scarred eyebrow. “And I should have died. But this brings me to the question of why I am here, and for this you must allow me to tell a little of my story.”

He settled back against the bank and the others leaned in even further.

“After the battle I woke half buried in earth with my shoulder torn open. I lay there, amid the fire and devastation, wondering if this was some terrible perversion of an afterlife, some punishment for Merimaat’s death – for all that we had allowed to happen.” His eyes flicked briefly to Bayleon’s face. “But I should have known better: such abominations are things of this world and not of that. The Ghor soon appeared, picking through the dying and dead, their voices oiled with pride at their victory. And to heap shame upon shame, they found me. Drooling at the glory of it, they gathered me up and hurled me into a cart with a few other unfortunate souls.”

Ash’s eyes narrowed eagerly. “Did you recognise any of them?”

Espen shook his head. “I didn’t see them – we were kept apart.”

Bayleon grunted and poked the fire violently, which sent a shower of sparks crackling and hissing into the air.

“What I do remember is that the Ghor carried Thoth’s standard, so they were almost certainly taking us to the Dirgheon. But I, for one, never reached it. On the second night I escaped from their camp and took to the Barrens.”

“And the others?” asked Ash.

Espen dropped his eyes to the fire. “I don’t know. I only just managed to get myself out before…”

“You’re a
Magruman
!” interrupted Bayleon, heaving his bulky frame forward so that the flames lit his broad features. “How could you leave your own people in the hands of those animals?”

Espen was silent for some moments, then picked up a dry, rotten stick and tossed it into the fire.

“I was injured and exhausted, Bayleon,” he said. “But it wasn’t just that. It was defeat. The legions, the Spoorrunners, the Scryers, the Casters, the Sea People, the Magrumen, Merimaat herself – all of us – we had all seen the end, watched everything fall. It was all I could do to keep
myself
alive let alone others. You remember what it was like – we had nothing left. Nothing.”

Bayleon’s brow furrowed and he clenched his hands into fists. He eased himself back into the shadows to rest on the bank. “But
we’re
not Magrumen,” he growled quietly, sliding his hands behind his head.

Sylas listened to all this in some bewilderment. He had thought Espen to be someone of the Other, of his own world – one of the Merisi perhaps. Now that he knew that the stranger was as much a part of this peculiar place as the rest of his companions, he felt even more alone.

“So why were you in Gabblety Row?” he asked.

Espen was still preoccupied with Bayleon’s remark and took some time to respond.

“When I escaped, I was unsure what to do next,” he said with a resigned sigh. “There was nowhere to run: all of our settlements were gone, most of our hideouts had been destroyed, there was no real resistance to speak of and I couldn’t be sure who, if anyone, had survived. We were starting again – starting with nothing. I couldn’t risk going into towns or happening across any patrols and it was pointless trying to cross borders, so for some days I just stayed here, on the Barrens, trying to regain some strength, to come up with some kind of plan–” he smiled sadly – “trying to imagine what Merimaat would have done. The more I thought about it, the more it seemed obvious that I had to make contact with the Merisi. I knew that they wouldn’t have been caught up in the Reckoning and I hoped that they might be able to help.”

“But how did you get into the Other?” asked Ash, bringing his face closer to the fire. “Hadn’t all the circles been destroyed?”

Espen shook his head. “Not Salsimaine, though they’d made every attempt.”

“Circles?” said Sylas. “What are they?”

“Stone circles,” said Espen.

Sylas looked at him blankly.

“Our ancestors used circles of stone for worshipping the sun by day and its opposite, the moon, by night. Then they found that somehow, because those rings harness both opposites, they have a special power to forge other connections – connections between opposite things. That’s how they finally opened a way into the Other.”

“
That
kind of stone circle!” said Sylas, his eyes widening. “Like the ones we have in my world?”

“Not
like
them – identical to them,” said Espen, smiling. “Doorways between the worlds. Salsimaine is one of the biggest.”

Sylas sat back in wonderment. He had visited a huge stone circle with his mother. He remembered the gigantic square-cut stones arranged in perfect arcs for reasons no one really understood, by a people no one really knew. His mother had been fascinated by them.

“On the fourth day,” continued Espen, clearly determined to finish his story, “I managed to make my way to Salsimaine. I found it deserted but for a few sentries who were easily overcome, and I used what little power I was able to muster to make the Passing – to enter the Other. Then I made contact with the Merisi in the usual way.”

“What’s that?” asked Simia, her eyes bright with excitement. “What’s the ‘
usual way
’?”

“If you don’t mind, Simia, I think we’d better leave such details for another time,” replied Espen dismissively.

Simia’s face fell.

“The Merisi were horrified to hear of the Reckoning. They called a vast gathering of their order, something that they have only done a few times in their long history. It was the grandest Say-So I have ever seen, attended by hundreds of Merisi, young and old, many from faraway lands, wearing strange clothing and speaking tongues I had never heard. All the Bringers of recent years were there: Mutumba and Xiang, Fitz and Veeglum.

“Long discussions followed, some of which I was allowed to hear, some of which were held in secret. Finally they concluded that I should be given sanctuary as long as was needed, but that nothing further could be done without Mr Zhi himself.”

Bayleon drew himself forward out of the shadows to hoist the pot of stew from the fire, a bitter smile across his face.

“Go on, Espasian, tell them,” he said. “Tell them
why
you were sent to see Mr Zhi. Tell them what took you so far away from our troubles.”

Espen regarded him wearily and dropped his head between his shoulders.

“I am not ashamed of the truth, Bayleon.”

“Clearly not!” retorted Bayleon defiantly. “Tell them!”

Espen’s gaze hardened for a moment, obviously unaccustomed to such a tone.

His response was firm: “I went because of the Glimmer Myth.”

Ash stared at him in disbelief. His face creased into an uncertain smile and then he laughed hesitantly, as though waiting for the Magruman to say that he was jesting.

“
The Glimmer Myth?
” he cried. “You’re joking! Surely you’re joking?”

There was no humour in Espen’s face. The younger man saw his expression and his smile dropped.

“You’re… you’re
not
joking. No, I can see that now.”

“What’s the Glimmer Myth?” asked Simia, searching their faces.

Espen regarded Simia distractedly for a few moments, then turned to Sylas. “I had hoped to explain this a little differently, but now it does seem best that we begin with the myth. Where’s the Samarok? We’re going to need it.”

Sylas turned and rummaged in his bag. He felt its reassuring weight in his hand and pulled it out until it was illuminated by the fire. As he did so, Simia darted round the pit and took a seat next to him.

He gave her a questioning look.

“What?” she said defensively. “I missed this at the mill –
that’s
not going to happen again.”

“Now,” Espen began, eyeing Simia with something between irritation and amusement, “how well can you read the runes?”

Sylas shrugged. “OK, I think. Fathray explained them to me and Galfinch taught me to unravel them.”

Ash and Bayleon exchanged an astonished glance.

“Good. Then I need you to look at two things. The first is at the beginning of the book. Turn to the very first page – the first with writing on it.”

Sylas lifted the front cover and saw that the opening page was blank. He turned it over. The second page contained just three lines of writing, about a third of the way from the top. He remembered looking at these before, when he was alone in his room. He lifted and turned the Samarok so that the page caught the glow from the flames and, as he did so, Simia suddenly lunged across him, throwing herself towards the fire.

He snatched the Samarok out of the way. “What are you doing?” he cried.

“Saving this!” she said indignantly, holding up a small piece of paper.

It was Mr Zhi’s message – the note that he had given Sylas to help him decode the runes. Fathray had inserted it at this very page. This was the one he was
supposed
to read.

He muttered his thanks to Simia and turned back to the page. He looked hard at the runes in the dancing light, clearing his mind until they started to shift and change. Then, slowly, he began to read:

“Reach for the... silvered... glimmer on the lake Turn to the... sun-streaked shadow in your... wake Now, rise: fear not where none have gone...”

He read it over again in silence, but even then it made little sense. He looked up at Espen who was smiling quietly.

“That,” he said, “is the source of the Glimmer Myth.”

Sylas looked back at the runes, reading them over and over as Espen continued.

“That’s where it gets its name: from the ‘
silvered glimmer
’
,
” he said in a low voice. “The myth is ancient. Most believe that it is older than the Merisi or even the Suhl. This is the only surviving fragment of a poem about the myth, a poem written by none less than Merisu, the great father of the Merisi.”

“So they say...” grumbled Bayleon.

Espen ignored him. “As you hear, many of my brethren consider it to be preposterous or dangerous—”

“Or both,” muttered Bayleon.

“... so it is only spoken about quietly,” continued Espen, “in hushed tones, among friends.”

“Good, creepy campfire talk,” interjected Ash, with a grin.

“Quite,” said Espen. “But the Merisi have always seen it quite differently. As you have found, it is very prominent in the Samarok and many Bringers considered it far from mythical. Some even say that the Merisi were founded in order to bring it to light.”