Under Fragile Stone (28 page)

The three clansmen were playing knucklebones on a bare patch of earth out of sight of the road. Beyond their hiding place, the road came to a bridge spanning a surging river; it was one of the few places that a vehicle could cross the river in this area. Tupe had already won all the money the others had on them, so Moorul and Dourtch were now using their jewellery as a stake to try and make back their losses. It wasn't working.

‘Aw, for the love o' mother!' Moorul moaned as Tupe rolled another six and scooped up a brass pendant.

‘It was that damned aukluk,' Dourtch whined as he watched Tupe try on the pendant. ‘Spoiled our luck good.'

They had seen the aukluk fly over before the sun had set. The birds brought bad luck like corpses brought flies. Tupe scratched under the bandage on his injured leg and winced as his broken ribs sent pain shooting through his chest. They were all still suffering from the trouncing that desert creature had given them, back when it had stolen the scrap metal from them. Tupe should have been at home in bed with his mother tending to him, but Ludditch had insisted every man jack of them get out and watch the roads to Old Man's Cave. And Ludditch had not been in an arguin' mood. Taking Moorul and Dourtch's money was only a small consolation for hauling himself out here to sit in the woods in the dark.

‘Stop moanin',' he snapped at them. ‘You're like a pair o' kittens in a bag …'

He stopped in mid-sentence, his attention drawn towards the bridge. He was sure he'd heard a creak from its wooden frame. 

‘Anybody hear that?' he asked.

Without waiting for an answer, he got up and walked out onto the boards of the bridge. The other two followed him, knives drawn. Warily, they prowled its length, peering over the heavy railings into the misty darkness of the river far below. Moorul straightened up and looked up the road.

‘There's nothin' here, Tupe …'

The wood gave under his feet, and he let out a cry as he started to sink into it as if it were mud. He tried to step
forwards
, but his feet were caught. Tupe and Dourtch reached out for his flailing hands, but Moorul could only give a
panicked
squeal as he fell through the stout wooden boards of the bridge and disappeared, screaming into the fast-flowing river below.

‘Holy cheese,' Dourtch gasped, staring at the boards, which now seemed perfectly solid again, except for the gaping hole left by Moorul's body. ‘What in sufferin' blazes is …'

A pair of hands slid up through the boards beneath him, as if rising from water, and seized his ankles. He shrieked in terror as he was pulled down through the watery wood and hit the river below with a mighty splash. Tupe risked a quick glance over the railings to see his cousin being washed away, and then hobbled hurriedly on his injured leg towards the end of the bridge. It was the Myunans – it had to be. This was the kind of low-down, unholy trick that they would pull.

His breaths came in pants as he reached the solid ground of the road. The dark forest, so often his ally in the hunt, was now an ominous threat. You could hide a horde of
shape-shifters
in those shadows. Backing up against one of the stone pillars that anchored the bridge to the bank, he braced 
his feet against the hard ground beneath him, raised both his knives before him, and tried to control his frantic breathing. Let them come; he'd a cut a good few of them up before they got him.

Behind his neck, fingers emerged from the stonework of the pillar. A hand suddenly grabbed his collar, shoved him forwards, and then slammed his head back against the stone. He dropped to the ground, senseless.

On the other side of the pillar, Emos carefully drew his arm out of the stonework, his lips moving to mouth the incantations that helped keep him in his transmorphing trance. The hole left by his arm collapsed as he withdrew, then went solid again, the pillar left permanently scarred by the Myunan's unnatural assault.

He breathed deeply as he looked around. Then he quickly bound the unconscious Reisenick with strips of rawhide from the clansman's own pockets. Somebody would come looking for these men eventually, but not for some time yet. For good measure, he untied the tethers of the carkhams, which were perched in the tree over their camp and took them with him. Nobody was going to be sending messages with those birds. He took a tinderbox from his pocket, lit it, and walked out onto the road to hold it up. He waved it back and forth and far down the road, another waved back. Then the two wagons drove up with their headlamps
extinguished
. He made his way back in to where the Reisenicks had been concealed, picked up a couple of the blowpipes and a roll of darts and then dragged Tupe onto the road.

‘Put this one in the back. We're taking him with us,' Emos told the others. ‘It's clear now as far as the main road to the west. There'll be more lookouts there, but it's not far after 
that. And we'll be able to make good time once the sun rises. Anyone feel like plucking some carkhams? They're tough, but they make good eating.'

Ludditch was travelling with most of his clan. Word had got around that he was going to be making history – and not the safe, old kind either, but some of the dangerous new variety. Everyone wanted to be there to see it happen, or go wrong, whichever it might be. It would be a good story to tell their grandchildren either way.

The chieftain himself was in an effusive mood. He led
several
folk songs and then told a tale or two from the rich store of Reisenick legends. He was loving all the attention and, despite some futile attempts at false modesty, was achingly proud of what he was about to achieve. When they were
setting
out, he had been against all the older members of the clan coming along, but now he was glad that they had. They would be there to see his dreams come true. Total isolation for his land. Nobody would be able to set foot in Ainslidge Woods soon without a guide provided by his family, and most importantly, no more worrying about the Noranians invading. Or any trouble from the Myunans for that matter. Getting rid of most of their number would be a fine bonus. He would gain complete control of Ainslidge and eliminate his most hated neighbours in one fell swoop.

Ludditch's musings were interrupted by a sudden change in the chugging of the wagon's engine and the squeal of brakes as steam gushed up from under the bonnet. Spiroe got down from the cab and opened one side of the bonnet. Steam billowed out. 

‘What's wrong with it?' Ludditch demanded.

‘Overheated is all,' Spiroe grunted. ‘We were drivin' her a mite hard. Just need to let her sit a spell, then give her some water. Nothin' serious.'

The trucks, like most vehicles, were from Braskhia and the bule-oil-powered internal-combustion engine was a mystery to most Reisenicks. Spiroe had actually been to Braskhia once and as such was considered ‘Well Travelled'. He also had the greatest understanding of engineering among
Ludditch's
clan. So Ludditch didn't argue; he simply shook his head, muttering under his breath, and then beamed to the clan and called on his pappy to give them a tune. Once nimble, but now arthritic, fingers strummed a lively intro and then the rest of the instruments took up the tune, knocking out a rowdy number from the olden days.

While the relatives sang and stamped their feet in time, Ludditch sauntered back to the wagons waiting behind and called Harsq to him. With all his clan tagging along, he had some concerns. The exorcist got down from the cab of the generator truck and walked up.

‘Just had a bird from one of the hunting parties, out not far from here,' he told the priest. ‘They saw some grunchegs off to the east, and they think one of the riders was that Parsinor fella. I'm wagerin' the prey's not far off, and makin' for the cave like we thought. The Myunan, Harprag, an' his trucks haven't turned up yet either, but it wouldn't surprise me if they're all right about here some place. Now, this thing, the god-heart or whatever you want to call it, it's in dangerous company. That Parsinor's a handful and if they hook up with Harprag, then we could be talkin' all sorts o' headaches. Those Myunans are a curse to deal with, and there's 
Noranian soldiers with 'im too. I'm just goin' to have the whole plum lot of 'em killed outright. We can worry about the skinnin' an' all that later on. We'll set the women on 'em when we've got the bodies back to Ainsdale.

‘But the heart, now that's a different matter. What are your plans for catchin' hold o' that?'

‘You'll see,' Harsq replied, not having the faintest idea.

‘You religious types!' Ludditch grinned. ‘All the same, with your mysteries and your secrets! Just don't let it slip away again. That thing breaks loose, an' I'll personally cut out
your
heart. But you do a good job, I might even let you take home that Parsinor's skull. How's that?'

‘You're a very fair man, Mr Ludditch. Very fair. Orgarth will not escape again. You have my word.'

As there was no god to capture, Harsq was reasonably confident that it would not slip out of his grasp. There would be nothing to grasp in the first place.

‘That's what I like to hear.' Ludditch put his hands on the priest's shoulders. ‘And I know you're a man of his word, Brother Harsq. So let's go catch us a god.'

Harsq nodded and watched the chieftain walk away. All the ceremonies he had carried out over the years had been flashing through his mind in dazzling detail during the drive from Ainsdale. He wondered now if any of them had achieved what he had claimed. His only chance of getting out of Ainslidge alive seemed to lie in capturing Orgarth's heart and being allowed to take it back to Braskhia. But it did not exist. Or did it? Ludditch seemed to think it did.
Perhaps
, if you believed enough, anything could exist.

The eshtran's mind was filled with possibilities. He knew Brask could do amazing things – astounding things. He saw 
that if he truly had faith, then he could achieve anything. Reality was simply a state of mind. He ambled back to the generator truck, bathing in his new-found enlightenment.

Up in the branches above him, two oversized bats crouched out of sight. They waited until the wagon had been started up again and the wagons had moved on. Then they unfolded their wings and took flight.

The sun was starting to shine from below the horizon and the sky brightened steadily. A dull rumbling carried up to them, sounding at first like the passing of the trucks, but growing rapidly in depth and magnitude. Below them, a shudder ran through the land, and through the gaps in the trees they could see animals fleeing eastwards, as if terrified by some voracious predator. Frightened squeals and cries could be heard and birds were erupting from the foliage. Taya and Lorkrin watched the spectacle uneasily. They flew low over the forest, wary of being spotted by the Reisenicks against the sky, continuing to follow the convoy. What they had heard between Ludditch and Harsq made them all the more desperate to find their uncle and save their parents before the Reisenick chieftain could carry out his threats.

The trickle of water was barely enough to wet their mouths, but they knelt before it as if in worship. It didn't smell good, and Paternasse told them that water seeping from the soil above could carry minerals from the ground, poisonous minerals, but nobody cared. It was water, cool, wet,
beautiful
water.

It dribbled from a crack in the rock, one that appeared to have split open miraculously in the midst of the most recent 
earth tremor. The men insisted that Nayalla drink first and she swallowed her pride with the first refreshing drops. They each waited their turn with restrained impatience. The water trickled painfully slowly and made them even more
conscious
of their thirst. When they were done, they filled their canteens, and decided to bed down for some sleep.

Nayalla and Noogan took first watch, keeping close to the others to conserve their warmth. Mirkrin's skack shape slowly slunched away as he fell into a deep sleep, but Nayalla let him be. Her stomach ached with hunger and she folded her skack's claws over her belly. Noogan cupped his hands and blew into them.

‘I'm cold to the bone,' he shivered. ‘Can't remember ever being this cold before.'

‘Tell me about your home,' Nayalla said to him.

‘Why?'

‘Because I probably haven't been there, and I'm curious. And it'll give you something else to think about.'

‘I'm from Brodfan, in Sestina,' he told her. ‘It's full of
farmers
and fishermen, mostly. It's just a small town with little going on.'

‘What's your favourite bit of it?' she prompted.

He shrugged, struggling to find something interesting to say about his home, but it was all so ordinary to him. There was nothing there to compare with the lives of the Myunans.

‘There's a spot under the bridge where you can stand so that there are no reflections on the water because of the bridge's shadow, and you can see clear to the bottom of the river. On the bottom there's this head from a statue of a Noranian war hero. The statue stands in the middle of town, and some lads broke the head off it and threw it in the river a 
few years back. The Noranians never found it. That's my favourite bit.'

Nayalla smiled.

‘Tell me about the bit of home you
hate
most.'

‘That'd be the statue.'

They laughed quietly together. Nayalla's laughter was cut short by a sudden feeling that something else was listening. Like all Myunans, she had keen instincts and put great faith in them. She stood up and looked down the tunnel in the direction they had come. They were only burning two of their torches to conserve the powder, but she did not need them to tell her that there was something waiting back there in the darkness.