The Bell Between Worlds (51 page)

“Ending’s Gate,” whispered Ash, his pale face glowing in the darkness.

The boat surged on, towards the arch and the narrow inlet beyond. As they entered, a shudder ran down Sylas’s spine, partly from the cold, partly the hateful smell, and in part because he knew that this – this place of decay and filth and darkness – was the last so many of the Suhl had seen of the outside world. The last thing that Naeo had seen. He felt her creeping horror as he saw the rotten stones passing overhead; her despair as the walls of the canal closed in. He became aware of Simia shivering next to him and slipped his hand into hers. She held on.

Paiscion guided the boat with such skill that it moved along the narrow channel without once striking the walls, making their passage almost silent. Soon the buildings of the city loomed around them and they looked nervously at the warren of brick, stone and timber for any sign of movement, but they quickly realised that there were no openings: no windows, no doors, no way for the occupants to witness what travelled on that narrow canal. It had been built to pass the city by.

They heard a clatter in one of the upstairs rooms and a chilling howl somewhere far away, but then all was quiet. The world was sleeping, unaware of their passing.

Paiscion turned. “Here,” he breathed.

Ash reached out and caught hold of one of the grimy stones, drawing the boat into the side. It came to rest silently against a patch of moss. Paiscion picked his way carefully towards the stern.

“This is it,” he whispered, tying the boat to a tangled root. “Here we must part. Simia, Ash – you must go there, between those two buildings.” He pointed over the top of the canal wall to a narrow passageway leading off into the city. “Get ready. Sylas, we’ll use the towpath.”

Simia and Ash were already in motion, gathering large bundles from the bottom of the boat and heaving them up on to their shoulders. One by one they pulled themselves on to the towpath.

For a moment the four companions hesitated, looking from one to the other, wondering what to say, but finally Ash leaned forward, shook Paiscion by the hand and wished him good luck.

Sylas looked steadily at Simia, then pulled at one lapel of her oversized coat. “See you later,” he said.

They embraced awkwardly. “Good luck,” said Simia, her white teeth showing in an uneven grin.

“Not far now, my friend,” said Ash, grasping Sylas’s shoulder.

Sylas gave him a brave smile. When he turned back to Simia, she had already set out towards the passageway, her huge bundle swaying on her back. Ash set out after her, stooping forward under the weight of his pack.

Sylas watched them go, his hand sliding down to his belt where he had tucked his white feather. He slid his fingers over the silky fibres, drawing comfort from the sensation, from his memory of it. He looked up at Paiscion.

“OK,” he said, in a voice that sounded stronger than he felt. “Let’s go.”

They walked swiftly down the towpath, Paiscion ahead, his black robe billowing about him. They reached the point where the canal narrowed and they had to press themselves close to the wall, their shoulders trailing through undergrowth and scraping the rotten stone beneath. Rounding a slight bend, Sylas cast an anxious eye along the canal, but still it extended far into the night. There was no sign of the entrance and, looking up, neither was there any sign of the Dirgheon itself, for all was shrouded in blackness. Nevertheless he could sense it now, looming above them.

Something made him look to his left, across to the buildings on the other side of the waterway and then up, over their roofs, to the sky above. It took him a moment for his eyes to adjust, but then he saw a towering white pillar; a massive structure that soared towards the heavens, so huge that they had been beneath it for some time without seeing it. The Temple of Isia. He steadied himself against the wall and gazed up at the smooth, tapering sides, his eyes following them until they disappeared into the darkness. But something else captured his attention. It was a feeling, a presence, the proximity of something.

“Sylas, come,” hissed Paiscion. He had stopped some way ahead and was beckoning.

Sylas set out again, trailing his hand over the slimy wall to keep his balance, straining his eyes to see the narrowing ledge that was now all that remained of the towpath.

They hurried along it, struggling to keep their balance as they leapt over decayed, broken stones and forced their way through the succession of creeping vines and sprawling bushes that grew from every crack and fissure.

Suddenly Paiscion slowed his pace and pointed ahead.

There, not far ahead of them in the gloom, was a new pitch of blackness, a dark oblong of night that seemed deeper, emptier than all around it. It was an opening. A building rose above it giving the impression of a dead end, but there was no doubting the dark emptiness beneath its foundations. It led the canal underneath the sleeping city to the Dirgheon, which was now so near that Sylas could sense its colossal mass towering above him. He looked up and saw it at once: a vast pyramid, blacker than the deepest darkness of night, brooding over the sleeping city.

Paiscion drew him into a small alcove formed by two crooked, intersecting walls. “We must be careful. There’s no telling what is in the shadows.”

Sylas ventured a look round the corner, over the smooth, reflective surface of the waterway to the thick darkness of the opening. He wondered if, even now, something lurked within, watching them, waiting for them. He saw only blackness, but he felt a stirring of fear in the pit of his stomach.

Paiscion leaned down. “Don’t be frightened,” he said. He drew Sylas’s chin up with his other hand so that their eyes met. “You are far more prepared for them than they are for you.”

Sylas nodded.

“Good,” said the Magruman, his eyes sparkling in the darkness. “So you’re ready?”

Sylas pushed back his shoulders. “As I’ll ever be.”

“Of course you’re ready,” said Paiscion, smiling broadly and holding out his hand.

Sylas reached out and shook it, holding his gaze. The Magruman’s black eyes twinkled with excitement. “Now let us have a reckoning of our own.”

With that, he stepped forward on to the towpath and raised his arms, opening his palms to the heavens. Sylas looked up at him from behind, his eyes tracing the powerful shoulders, the graceful stance, the long black robe, and he sensed Paiscion becoming one with everything around him: the water in the canal, the still air, the stones, the blackness. He seemed to become larger and yet at the same time less distinct, as though he was somehow folding into the night. His robe became more like a shadow, his outstretched arms like a trick of the half-light. Everything about them grew quieter, as if the night had become more intense.

Sylas looked about him, felt the change and knew that he was about to witness something miraculous.

Paiscion twisted his hands, then very slowly drew them together. At the same moment there was something like the rumble of distant thunder high above them, followed by a low, almost inaudible howl. Then, as his palms met, there was the briefest silence, before he drew a deep lungful of air and brought his arms swiftly down towards the ground.

There was a great explosion in the skies, like a clap of thunder, but louder, deeper. It made walls tremble, slates fall from roofs, timbers shift and creak. Even the stagnant waters danced and slapped the sides of the canal, as though trying to escape the deafening boom.

But it was too late, for no sooner had the explosion died away than a new, more terrifying sound pierced the night: a raging, devilish howl that seemed to descend from the bosom of the sky. A cry of doom. It echoed through every street, square and lane, rattling windows, flinging shutters wide, rousing the bleary-eyed occupants, chilling them to the bone. And as they staggered in nightgowns to their windows, as they peered fearfully into the night, half expecting to see some beast of legend devouring their city, they saw the unthinkable.

The skies were in motion towards a single point, the dark clouds rolling and churning as they converged. Their destination was a vast column of light and darkness that lay over the temple, shrouding it in a great downdraught of cloud, wind, rain, hail and lightning. It was as if the skies were draining away: being consumed by a gaping chasm in the earth, a breach in the world.

Sylas pressed his hands to his ears and watched in awe as clouds blasted from every passage and lane, borne on a vicious, freezing wind. Moments later they were engulfed and he was thrown against one wall of the alcove, drenched and battered by rain and hail. He looked past the Magruman to the vast pillar of cloud twisting and swirling above him. It was wild but at the same time beautiful, glowing with a lattice of lightning and explosions, its shifting surface reflecting the silver light of the moon, which had now been unveiled in some other part of the turbulent sky.

“Look!” bellowed Paiscion, turning and pointing along the canal. “There!”

Sylas peered round the corner at the dark opening. At first it seemed still, but then there was a movement in the shadows. A figure became visible, one blacker than the night. It stepped forward until it was almost in the moonlight, then turned its head slowly upwards towards the pillar of cloud and light. Another figure appeared behind it on the narrow towpath, and another, barely visible in the darkness.

It had worked: the Ghor guards were on the move. The two at the rear were bent low, straining to see past the leader and up above the rooftops, but after only a few moments their curiosity seemed to get the better of them, for they stepped out of the opening, striding in unison along the towpath. Sylas recoiled as he watched their smooth, easy movements: their bodies carried low, their malformed, powerful legs bending the wrong way, ready to launch themselves forward, to pounce. They paused, exchanged looks and perhaps some unheard words, then in one motion they leapt their own height on to the canal wall. There they stood and watched for some moments, appearing to hesitate, but suddenly one of them broke from the group and disappeared down one of the dark, wind-blasted lanes. The others watched for a moment and then followed.

Paiscion leaned down and hissed in Sylas’s ear. “Now! Go! And don’t look back!”

Sylas looked up at the Magruman’s face lit by flashes of lightning and the shifting light of the moon and for the first time he saw none of the gauntness, the weariness of before; instead he saw eyes burning with vigour and hope.

He took a gasp of the freezing air and sprinted down the towpath.

The lone Ghor ignored the distant rumble of thunder, continuing its endless patrol along the base of the Dirgheon, treading the same path that it had trodden thousands of times before. The stone plaza had been worn away by the incessant fall and scrape of generations of claws, forming a long, perfectly straight groove beside the bottom step of the pyramid. It moved silently over this familiar smoothness, its lithe limbs hardly straining as they paced out another empty night. Its head swung low between its shoulders, lulled by the pleasant sound of claws against stone and the swaying motion of its massive limbs, only occasionally turning to cast a look out across the deserted plaza.

When the great howl erupted from the sky, it reacted in an instant. Its body tensed and it crouched on its haunches, the tufts of matted hair bristling on its powerful neck and a low growl rising in the back of its throat. Its quick yellow eyes surveyed the plaza and then flicked skyward as the first lightning forked through the blackness. It saw the convergence of cloud, the great swirling vortex. Its ears pressed back against its head and a snarl curled its lips. Its eyes narrowed as it took first one step, then two out on to the plaza, leaving the well-worn pathway behind. Then, as an immense thunderclap shook the stone beneath its claws, it swung itself forward and began loping towards the pillar of cloud and fire.

Simia and Ash pressed themselves into the shadows and exchanged a triumphant look.

“Now!” whispered Simia.

Instantly both were in motion, sprinting for all they were worth across the exposed plaza, bent low beneath their huge packs. They dared not look behind them or to the side; instead they just fixed their eyes on the black stones, strained every muscle and ran for their lives. The packs were heavy – too heavy – making them stagger and sometimes stumble, but by some miracle they stayed on their feet. After what seemed far too long they neared the Dirgheon. With burning lungs, they looked up to see the first row of large black stones glistening in the moonlight. Above was another and another and another, rising steeply like a giant staircase into the night.

They came to a halt next to the bottom step, which rose above Simia’s waist. They lowered their packs from their shoulders and craned their necks to peer into the darkness.

“There has to be an easier way,” muttered Simia.

“New worlds don’t come easy,” said Ash with a grin. “Come on, I’ll race you to the top.”

“O what evil plight, what hellish fate
Attends those who pass
through Ending's Gate
?
What torments foul, what curse untold
Do those awful, deathly arms enfold?”

T
HE PORTCULLIS GATE CLANGED
ominously as it swayed in the moaning wind. It spanned the top half of the passage ahead, its jagged teeth silhouetted against the orange, smoky torchlight. The canal disappeared into the darkness and Sylas paused, covering his nose against the foul stench and glancing anxiously about him. Nothing, just blackness. But, as he set out again, something crunched underfoot.

His heart quickened and he looked down.

The ground was strewn with something white, something that glowed dimly in the firelight. It was a carpet of bones, hundreds of them, piled one upon the other: some old, brittle and grinding to dust, others with flesh still clinging to them. For a brief, horrifying moment he thought he had stumbled upon the scene of a massacre, but then he saw that the bones were small and fine – the remains of chickens, pigs and sheep – all that was left of countless meals cast carelessly aside by the guards of Ending’s Gate.