The Prodigal Mage: Fisherman’s Children Book One (71 page)

“You still insist that as an Olken, you’re special?” said Arlin, prodding. Even parched and croaking, he managed to sneer. “That your mage senses are superior to mine?”

“Not superior,” he said wearily. “Different.”

“And what is it you claim to feel that I don’t?”

He should’ve kept his mouth shut. “Nowt,” he muttered, letting his eyes drift closed. “Leave me to snore, Arlin. Sunrise comes bloody early this high up.”

“Rafel
…
”

Startled, he opened his eyes again because Arlin had thrown a stone at him, hard. “Don’t bloody do that!”

“Then answer me!” snapped Arlin. “What do you feel?”

Beneath the arrogant belligerence—was that a whisper of fear? He thought it was. He thought maybe Arlin was frighted.
So maybe I’m wrong. Maybe, at long last, Arlin is feeling something
. Could be the darkness had finally touched him. He rolled his head, just a little, and met Arlin’s resentful stare.

“I feel the mountains, Lord Garrick.” The young night’s silence deepened, as though every unseen bird and tiny animal was holding its breath. Listening. “They’re alive with the memory of what happened here. They suffer. They hold grudges. They remember the Wall, and what brought it down. They remember Morg and all his wickedness, six hundred years of hurling dark magics into their stones and buried bones. The mountains are weeping. That’s what I feel.”

For a long time Arlin said nothing. Then he laughed, scornful. “Fanciful nonsense. You’re lightheaded, Rafel. Raving. Westwailing addled you. I’ve never heard such tripe.”

“No. He’s right,” said Tom, stirring beside his fire. “I can feel it too. Not as deeply—he’s Asher’s son, after all—but I feel it.”

“So do I,” Nib Hambly whispered. “My dreams… my dreams… they’ve been cruel and cold these last few nights.”

Surprised, unsettled, Rafel squinted at them. “What about you, Meister Clyne?” It was too dark to see the barber’s downturned face, but he could hear the man’s unsteady breathing. “What do you feel?”

“I don’t know,” said Clyne. “But my dreams have grown fearsome. And my spirits are low.”

“Of course they’re
low,
” said Arlin, scathing. “Look around us, you fool. Look where we are. You can’t give his claims
credence
. You may be Olken, Clyne, but you’re surely not so stupid.”

Rafel scowled.
Shut up, Arlin. You ain’t bloody helping
. “Tom? How long have you been feeling like this?”

“For certain?” Tom exchanged a cautious glance with his companions. “A few days. Before that?” He shrugged. “There’s much of what we’re doing would give any man bad dreams.”

Arlin shoved a broken branch onto his dwindling campfire. Kicked the flames higher with a snap of his fingers. “This is
nonsense
. The four of you frighten each other like little boys.”

“Do we?” Rafel pulled a knee to his chest and wrapped his arms around it. Rested his chin, the dull throb behind his eyes threatening to sharpen. “But you’re feeling bad too, Arlin. You’ve got to be. A mage like you? You might not feel the earth, like we can, but don’t tell me you can’t at least feel Morg’s presence here.”

With four pairs of Olken eyes on him, Arlin busied himself thumping his pack into a lumpy pillow. “What I feel is my business.”

“And what
I
feel is
your
business?”

“You started this, Rafel,” Arlin retorted. “Not me.”

“I asked one bloody question! You’re the one couldn’t leave it alone.” Frustrated, he snapped his other knee close. Was glad of the tree-trunk behind him, a bolster. “You’re the one sitting there calling me a—”

“I’m the one who’d like to get some rest,” said Arlin. “And instead I’m being kept awake by Olken bedtime daffydowns.” He settled onto his groundsheet, curled tight to hold in any meagre warmth. “Morg is dead. His magic’s dead. There are no voices. Go to sleep.”

Bemused, Rafel shook his head.
Just when I think he can’t get any more arrogant.
Then he rolled his eyes at Tom and the others. “You heard Lord Garrick, sprats. Beddy-bye time.”

Muttering, the councilors bedded down. He bedded down too, but sleep came slow and fitful. No voices, true. Just the earth’s keening cry, moaning through the empty places inside him.

The next day they continued, and did not speak of darkness and bad dreams again. But Rafel kept an eye on Tom and the others, every instinct telling him to beware.
But beware of what? Maybe Arlin’s right. Maybe it’s ’cause I’m worn down. Worn out
. And he was. No point denying it.

Except Arlin’s fear remained, too. Ruthlessly buried. Not spoken of. But there.

Another three days of punishing travel, another three nights of restless, painful sleep. Hour by hour he felt more and more beaten, more and more bruised. The air thickened around him, so that walking in sunlight was like swimming in the dark. His blood felt like molasses, his heart struggled to pump. He wanted to pull Arlin aside, to whisper,
Can’t you feel it?

But letting Arlin see weakness would be a sinkin’ mistake. Arlin wasn’t Goose, a shoulder to lean on. Arlin would smell uncertainty and move in for the kill.

Tom and the others were feeling it, he could see that. He could see the pain in them, slowing them down. Tom he did take aside. Tried to make him see sense. “I know it’s risky, but you should turn back. It’s only going to get worse.”

“We can’t,” said Tom, his voice thinner than it had been, his eyes sunken and bloodshot. “We have a sworn duty. We’ll see this through.”

He sighed. “You’re a fool, Tom. It’s not worth your life.”

“You think it’s worth yours,” said Tom, shrugging. “And you’re not the only Olken willing to fight for Lur.”

“Hosh and Nib might see it different,” he said. “They might think—”

“They agree with me,” said Tom. “Give over, Rafel. Save your strength for climbing the next bit of cliff.”

What could he do? No law said they had to listen. “Fine,” he said curtly. “But don’t blame me when you’re broken, and can’t be fixed.”

The twenty-fifth day since their leaving of Gribley dawned cool and cloudy. According to Tollin’s expedition account, they were nearly four days slower in their crossing. But even so, they should be quit of Barl’s Mountains before sunset.

Worn to a thin edge, as he chewed a leathery mouthful of jerky he found himself comforted and frighted by the notion. He was more than ready for this part of the journey to be over. But come so close to Morg’s abandoned domain, his heart thudded hard against his ribs. He felt bad enough now. How much worse would he feel walking through the lands Morg used to rule?

Don’t think on that. You’ll feel what you feel, and whatever you feel, you’ll bear it. You ain’t got a choice. Goose is relying on you
.

Close by, Arlin was choking down cold, charred lizard meat. He felt the Doranen look at him, as though he’d spoken his fears aloud. Met the poxy shit’s stare unblinking, daring him to speak.

Arlin looked away.

Breakfast finished, they shrugged into their much lighter packs, morosely silent, and trudged on. Soon enough the path tumbled downwards, steep and treacherous, shrouded so thickly with foliage they couldn’t tell how close to the ground they were, or what waited for them beyond the mountains’ blotting blanket of trees. One mis-step, one stumble, and there’d be broken legs—or necks. Sweating and swearing, clutching at low-hung branches and saplings, unbalanced by packs and swords and stout walking sticks, they struggled to stay on their feet as they wended their way down the lower slopes of the mountain. There was no birdsong. No lizard skitterings. No sense of any life. This close to Morg’s old kingdom, everything felt dead.

And then a burst of daylight, blinding, as at last they emerged from the forested gloom.

“Barl’s mercy,” said Tom Dimble, panting, his face contorted. Running sweat. “We’ve done it. We’ve escaped Lur.”

They had. Before them, a new stretch of mountain, this time split in half by a wide gap. Clinging to the edge of the weathered left-hand peak, a man-made stone staircase, narrow and crumbling. Years and years old. Treacherous: one careless step and a man would plummet to his death. And through that wide gap, bathed in cloud-filtered sunlight, glimpses of a land they had never seen before.

Tom, Clyne and Hambly were clasping hands, patting shoulders. Wearily celebrating despite their undisguised discomfort. Even now they remained their own privy expedition. Arlin, stood apart and disdainful, picked at the worn stitching on a finger of his leather gloves. Seemingly unmoved by what they’d achieved.

Rafel smeared his forearm across his filthy, sweaty bearded face.

Sink me, Da. We crossed the mountains.

So… what next?

Though he was exhausted, and the stench of Morg’s magic rose unleashed within him, burning his blood and scalding his bones so he could easily weep from the torment, he broke into an unsteady run. He heard Arlin curse and follow, battered boots loud on the uneven rocky steps, desperately trying to overtake him. Of course. Further behind Arlin came Tom, Clyne and Hambly, gasping and wheezing. He heard his own harsh, laboured breathing as he staggered up the staircase on lead-heavy legs. Nearly. Nearly. He was nearly at the top. One more step. Another one. Just one more. He thought he could feel Arlin’s ragged breath hot on his neck.

There
.

Hand flung against the bare rock wall beside him, perilously close to tumbling, he took a deep breath. Took another. Another. Tried to subdue the sick churning in his guts. But before he could blink away the sweat and properly see the new land spread before him, he heard an agonised, choking moan.

Turning, staring past clumsy, crowding Arlin, he saw Tom Dimble’s legs buckle and drop him sprawling on his back. His staff hit the stone steps and rolled away. Further down the staircase Hosh Clyne and Nib Hambly were struggling too, fallen against each other, barely staying on their feet.

Tom’s eyes were anguished in his sickly grey face, blood seeping like tears. His chest heaved for air, every muscle twisted with pain.
“
Rafel
—
”

Tossing aside his own staff he shoved by Arlin, ignoring the Doranen’s furious protest, and plunged back down the staircase.

“Tom—Tom—what is it?” he said, dropping to the ground beside him. “Can you talk?”

Eyes rolling, nostrils bubbling a bloody froth, Tom shuddered. “You don’t—feel it?” he gasped. “Darkness—

darkness
—” A dreadful moan. “Hosh… Nib…”

Rafel glanced up. Saw Tom’s fellow-councilors, sprawled now like he was, writhing in pain.

“What is this?” Arlin demanded, keeping well back. “An Olken affliction?”

“No,” he said tautly, holding tight to Tom’s hand. Looked behind him at Rodyn’s unlovable son. “It’s this place. It’s Morg. Can’t you tell? You’re ice-white, Arlin. Don’t deny you can feel it.”

Arlin’s eyes narrowed. “I may feel it but
I’m
not dying. Why aren’t you?”

Still holding on to Tom, he shuffled round awkwardly, the stone steps bruising his knees. “Don’t sound so sinkin’ disappointed. I’m sickened. It’s just—I’m stronger than them. And they’re
not
bloody dying!”
Not if I can help it.
“Tom—” He bent low. “I’m sorry. I should’ve kept on at you until you turned back.”

“They can turn back now,” said Arlin, as Tom heaved for air. “They have to. They’ll only slow us down.”

“Turn back?” he said, disbelieving, and waved a hand at all three men. “Arlin! For pity’s sake,
look
at them!”

“I am looking,” said Arlin, and took a cautious step closer. “They stay here or they turn back, Rafel. That’s it. That’s the choice.”

Hate for Arlin was sharp as a stab wound. Fear for Goose stabbed sharper than that. Had this happened to Pintte’s expedition? If they kept walking would they find their bodies? Black and bloated and running with pus?

“Sink that. There’s got to be something else.”

Arlin shrugged. “There isn’t. Stay and perish with them, Rafel, or guide them back to Lur. It’s up to you. But I’m not wasting any more time on this.”

Letting go of Tom’s hand, sparing a look for Clyne and Hambly, suffering as horribly, he lurched to his feet.

“You’re going to abandon three stricken men?”
You bastard, Arlin, you sinkin’ bastard.
“You can’t. That’s—that’s
wicked
.”

Pale and filthy, stinking—as they all were—Arlin smiled. There was no pleasure in it, only a cold and calculated cruelty. “I’ve crossed the mountains to find Lost Dorana. I’ve no interest in mollycoddling three sick Olken who were forced upon me against my will. And if you attempt to stop me, Rafel…” Power seethed, swift and lethal. Boiling through the tainted air. “This isn’t Lur. Get in my way and I’ll kill you where you stand.”

Tom was making strangled noises in his throat. Hosh Clyne and Nib Hambly had started to shake. Remembering Da on the floor of the Weather Chamber, the blood and the convulsions, Rafel had to close his eyes. And then he looked back at Arlin.

He doesn’t mean it. He can’t.

“If you walk away what am I s’posed to do? Snap my bloody fingers and—”