The Bell Between Worlds (27 page)

He took Galfinch by the arm, lifted him to his feet and started walking him towards the boats amid a torrent of sobs. As he passed Sylas, he lowered his eyes.

“Follow me,” he said with a wink.

Something about that bold, conspiratorial wink made Sylas feel safer – that maybe things were not quite so desperate after all. He picked up the Samarok, wiped it on his tunic and set out after the two men, snatching up what parchments he could on the way.

The scene around them was one of feverish activity: some rushed backwards and forwards with the last bundles of belongings, others threw ropes across the piles of cargo and lashed them down, while the rest clambered fearfully into the boats and helped others into their seats. All of this took place without the utterance of a single word, as if it had been planned and rehearsed many times.

As he watched, all Sylas could think was that somehow this was his fault, that if he had not come, none of this would be happening. He felt ill as his eyes moved across the frantic scene, finally coming to rest on a small gathering of five or six people on the bank, with Filimaya at its centre. He recognised the small lithe figure of Ash and beside him Grayvel’s anxious, bespectacled face; and as the crowd parted he saw Simia. She was speaking with her usual animation, her brow creased in a pleading expression, her hands clasped in front of her. Filimaya gave a final shake of her head and said something to the rest of the group. They all gave a slight bow, turned and hurriedly walked their separate ways towards the boats. Simia was motionless for a moment, but then flounced after Grayvel, muttering something under her breath.

Just before she reached the boats, she spotted Sylas. She said something to Grayvel, who tried to object, but she ignored him and ran over.

“They still won’t let me come with you,” she said as she ran up, her face flushed with emotion.

“Aren’t we all going now?”

Simia shook her head. “Not to the same place.”

Grayvel came up behind and put his arm round her shoulder. “Come on, everyone’s waiting.” He turned to Sylas. “It’s been a privilege, young man. Good luck.”

“Thank you,” said Sylas. “And you.”

The elderly man gave a brief nod and hurried Simia away. As they climbed into their boat, she looked over at him and mouthed a few words before being lost in the crowd: “I’ll find a way!”

At that moment Bayleon strode up, having placed Galfinch securely in a boat where he was rummaging desperately through books and papers.

“I told you to follow me,” he said gruffly. “Filimaya wants to see you.”

They walked up to Filimaya as she was issuing final instructions to Bowe. Sylas was struck at once by her strange calmness – it was as though none of this surprised her, as though she had always known that this would happen. She made a few final points and then wished Bowe the best of luck. The Scryer made as though to leave, but then he hesitated and turned back to her.

“Why not go with Sylas? He needs you and… and it seems right that you and Paiscion…”

She reached over and placed a gentle hand on his arm. “I’m not the only one parted from the one I love,” she said with a smile. “I know where I’m needed. I shall go with you and the others to the Valley of Outs. Go, my friend, and take good care of Fathray.”

Bowe took her hand, clasped it tightly, then looked at Sylas. For a moment he fixed him with his large green eyes, then he turned and ran to the boats.

Filimaya looked down at Sylas. She frowned at his muddied clothes. “Are you hurt?” she asked.

“No – no, I’m fine,” said Sylas. “What’s happening?”

“They’ve found us,” said Filimaya with a sigh. “It was bound to happen sooner or later.”

“It’s because of me, isn’t it?”

Filimaya leaned over and fixed Sylas with her beautiful wise eyes. “Sylas, this struggle began long before you came to us,” she said. “They were always going to find us one day. We’re glad that you came, no matter what happens.”

She smiled and wiped a little of the mud from his cheek, then took him by the shoulder and turned him to face the boats. She pointed to a small one in the centre that contained fewer belongings than the others. Ash was preparing it to leave.

“That will be yours,” she said. “Bayleon and Ash will keep you safe and guide you to the Magruman.”

“Aren’t you coming?”

“Don’t worry about the rest of us, Sylas, we’ll be safe. Your path is far more—”

She was interrupted by a terrifying sound.

It was a swelling, mournful howl that began somewhere behind the mill, then swept along the garden wall and rose afresh on the other side of the river. It was not one, but hundreds of voices, each rising in pitch until Sylas had to put his hands over his ears. He looked at Filimaya, but she had turned away and was signalling to someone. In the next instant he felt himself caught up in Bayleon’s powerful arms and hurled forward as they sprinted down the bank. He was dropped unceremoniously on to some canvas bags in the bottom of the boat and moments later the boat lurched forward.

The howls broke into a confusion of baying cries. They seemed louder and nearer than before, but when Sylas peered over the side of the boat, there were no Ghor in sight. Filimaya had taken her seat in one of the boats and they now all surged forward into the main current of the river. But as they gathered in the centre of the waters, he saw that one had stayed behind – the one moored nearest to the tunnel. He knew both the occupants: Galfinch, standing in the stern, and Bowe, sitting at the oars. Galfinch suddenly pointed frantically towards the tunnel and Bowe raised himself to his full height, craning his neck back towards the Den of Scribes.

Then it began.

Fathray fell headlong through the mass of foliage in front of the tunnel, gathered himself and started limping towards the boat, clasping three large ancient books under his arms. Then something strange happened. The entire garden seemed to writhe and change. Sylas looked up to the treeline to see hundreds of pale, lizard-like creatures swarming over the garden wall, slithering between the trees and sliding down the waterways. It was scores of Slithen, half running, half snaking their way through the garden, moving towards the water with frightening speed.

“Run!” cried Sylas as he watched Fathray limp towards the boat. “They’re coming!”

But Fathray was still only halfway there. He was moving too slowly, struggling with his burden of books.

Suddenly he stopped, looked up towards the wall, and one by one, let the books fall to the ground. He turned and waved frantically at the boat, shouting at Bowe to leave. Still the Scryer waited, pushing at the oars to stay close to the bank, hollering desperately at the old Scribe to leave his documents and run.

Then Fathray did the strangest thing. He sat down in the mud.

Galfinch gesticulated furiously, calling hopelessly to his friend. In the same moment Bowe looked from Fathray to the trees. He paused, perhaps for a moment considering a mad dash across the mud, but then he reversed the stroke of his oars.

Their boat moved away just as the Slithen emerged from the foliage and squirmed down to the water’s edge. They were almost entirely naked, wearing only a loincloth around their middle, their bodies glistening as though wet. Their limbs were long and thin and they moved on all fours, more like reptiles than men, their long torsos bent low, their jutting, angular faces just clear of the ground. Most slithered straight into the water, extending their long legs behind them to squirm free of the mud and propel them out into the river, heading directly for Bowe’s boat, but those nearest to Fathray turned. Slowly, they gathered about him.

“No!” cried Sylas, leaning over the side of the boat, his voice straining. He turned to Bayleon who was still heaving at the oars. “Go back for him! We can’t just leave him!”

Bayleon lowered his eyes and said nothing. Sylas felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to see Ash.

“This is what he’d want,” he said, his voice full of emotion.

Sylas shook his head.

He looked back at the old man’s distant figure. His face could no longer be seen, but he sat with his cloak gathered about him and his arms clasping his muddied books to his chest. There was something about his posture – the way he held his head – that was unafraid. Defiant.

Then, as two of the Slithen advanced towards him, the old Scribe turned to the fleeing boats and raised his hand.

Those who were watching quickly rose to their feet and raised their hands in response. Sylas and Ash too struggled to stand in their swaying boat and raised their hands as high as they could, straining to be seen. There they remained for some moments, hands held aloft.

“What will happen to him?” asked Sylas, not wanting to know the answer.

“That’ll be up to Scarpia,” said Ash grimly.

Fathray had disappeared amid the bodies of the Slithen and Sylas was about to avert his eyes when something caught his eye.

At first it looked like a trick of the light, but then it became more distinct: it was a wisp of smoke rising from the rear of the garden. It curled through the treetops and climbed high into the air, making a dark smudge on the horizon. The smudge quickly grew into a grey streak, then a vast black cloud. Soon he could see several black columns rising from the garden, feeding the ever more ominous pall above. Then a bright flicker of flames glimmered between the leaves.

“The den’s on fire!” growled Bayleon solemnly as he pulled on the oars.

Sylas stared in horror at the leaping orange flames that now rose high above the canopy of the trees. It was a terrible sight: the beautiful Water Gardens belching thick black smoke through their leaves and, even worse, the library burning. He knew at once that he was seeing the smoke of thousands of volumes disappearing into the air. All those wonderful books, Fathray’s books, all that history, all those years of painstaking work – lost forever.

“But why?” he cried, leaning out over the stern of the boat. “Why would they do that?”

Ash placed a hand on his arm. “It wasn’t the Ghor, Sylas. It was Fathray.”

Sylas whirled about. “Fathray? But he loves those books! He told me!”

“He had to do it, to save them from the Ghor,” said Ash, squinting into the distance. “It’s the originals that he’s burning; we’ve brought most of the rest with us.”

He pointed to one of the nearest boats. Sylas saw Simia sitting among piles of volumes and parchments, wiping her eyes with her sleeve.

“Why?” asked Sylas more calmly. “What would they do with them?”

“What they always do,” said Ash, pulling his ragged hair away from his face and tying it into a ponytail. “They’d use them to find us: our hideouts, our meeting places – the few sanctuaries we have left. And then they’d find our friends, and those who’ve helped us.”

Sylas stared at him in disbelief. “Why?”

Ash shrugged. “Because that’s the will of Thoth,” he said icily. “That’s the Undoing.”

Sylas heard a squeal to his right and turned to see Galfinch in the rear of his boat, jabbing at the water with a paddle while Bowe strained at the oars, heaving it through the river at an impossible speed. A short distance behind, a single grey form slid through the water, sometimes dipping out of view, sometimes rising to the surface and extending a single long arm towards the boat, grasping with slippery fingers. As Sylas watched, Galfinch brought the paddle down with a crack somewhere among the waves and the hand fell away, leaving the boat to surge onwards.

“Look sharp!” cried Bayleon. “They’re gaining!”

Sylas looked up at the river and saw to his horror that the entire surface was boiling with snaking bodies. He could just make out the pale skin of the Slithen, their strange inhuman legs sweeping through the water, their long, narrow torsos twisting, turning, carving towards the fleeing boats. They seemed to be coming not only from Meander Mill, but also from the other side of the river. He glanced towards the bank and watched with revulsion as an endless stream of Slithen clawed and slid through the mud towards the water, joining an ever-swelling army of tangled bodies in the waves.

Something drew his eyes to the top of the bank where houses lined the riverside and he felt a new chill pass over him. In the shadows, standing just a few paces in front of the houses, were the Ghor. There were hundreds of them, each standing an equal distance from the next, facing the river. None of them moved, but they leaned towards the river as though poised for action, their weird canine heads hanging low between their shoulders. He looked back at the mill and saw another long line of them, some standing sentinel on the garden wall, the rest lining the riverbank. They seemed to be waiting for something, their eyes fixed on a point further up the river.

Sylas followed their gaze, dreading what he would see. On a high promontory of rock stood a chariot of crimson, black and gold, its many ornate designs flashing bright in the sunlight, its giant barbed wheels rocking as if readying to charge. Straining at its harnesses were two gigantic Ghorhund rearing on their powerful haunches and gnashing at the air, their massive heads arching back to reveal thick collars of solid silver. But it was the occupant of the chariot that most caught Sylas’s eye. Even at such a distance, Scarpia’s elegant figure made a dramatic impression. She stood with poise and confidence at the reins, her proud head held high, a crimson train snapping behind her as the wind whipped from the river
.
Her perfect features were creased in a broad smile of triumph. She pulled sharply on the reins and almost at once both Ghorhund arched their spines and let out a chilling howl.

The assembled horde quickly gave their answer, their howls random and wild, building to a new crescendo. They showed their teeth and clawed at the ground; they thrashed their chains and snapped at the air; and, as they answered Scarpia’s command, their deafening wail urged the Slithen on, telling them that they were near, that they would soon reach their quarry.

“Come on!” shouted Ash, snatching up a spare paddle with an anxious grin. “Let’s give them a bloody nose!”

Sylas drew his eyes away from Scarpia, took the paddle and stood up. He looked out and saw that the massed Slithen were now only a few boat-lengths away. Those in the lead were breaking the surface, rising into the air and then arching dolphinlike back into the water, showing a ridge of small fin-like scales running along their spines. As they dived over the waves, he saw their eyes peering blackly out of the foam.