Destiny's Rift (Broken Well Trilogy) (19 page)

‘Nobody,’ he said. ‘Though I carried the name Molluvial once.’

That sounded familiar, and she remembered seeing it in one of her books. Could it be the same . . . ?

‘Who was Shadowdreamer when you were alive?’ she said.

Molluvial tapped his bony fingers on the sword. ‘Telnuwind.’

She crept carefully towards him, into the tunnel, trying for a better look. As the trees enclosed her on either side, Grimra swirled past, growling.

‘Shush, Grimra,’ she said.

She came to stand a few paces from the ghoul, who remained motionless.

‘Molluvial was a great warrior,’ she said. ‘Tall and strong, spoken of in legends.’

‘I do not know of legend,’ he said. ‘Nor do I well remember my mortal years. Flashes and splashes only.’

‘But how did you become like this?’

A groan rattled from Molluvial’s throat. ‘Raised from my grave by Assidax.’

Lalenda was shocked. She did not know much of necromancy, but it was wrong to raise those who had long been put to rest, and Telnuwind had been several Shadowdreamers before Assidax.

‘She wanted me to serve in her war against the light,’ said Molluvial. ‘An experiment perhaps, pushing her own boundaries in her younger days. She found my grave, cast her spell. My soul was departed, had already broken down and dispersed in the Great Well.’ His tone grew angry. ‘Well I remember that pain, drawn from the collective in dribs and drabs, back into this wasted body. Some of my soul had already gone back into the world, beyond her grasping. Of the rest, bits and pieces, all that was left. I did not return whole.’

‘Violation,’ hissed Grimra.

‘Yes,’ said Molluvial, apparently unsurprised by Grimra’s presence. ‘She strove too hard, too meanly, did not think of others, only cared for her ambition.’

‘But,’ said Lalenda, ‘how did you come to be here?’

‘When the wars failed, Assidax did not put her hordes to sleep. Tried to control them, keep them, but no. She was powerful, but not so powerful as that. Many left, wandered, lost. Her last try, she set magic in Duskwood that would draw us, call to us – the illusion of belonging. She thought that if she could not control us constantly, at least she would know where to find us if ever she needed us, though she did not march again. Her magic killed the wood, keeps it dry to slow our rot, and to this day some still find their way here, though arrivals have slowed – who knows, years or decades now without one, I have lost care of time.’

Lalenda tried to make sense of what she was hearing. More importantly, why would Battu, with his orders from the gods, have let this place stand? Did he not know of it, despite it being right under his nose? Did he like having unwilling guardians to his rear? Or had he simply despised the order enough to ignore it?

‘Why do you remain?’ she asked.

‘Where else to go?’ said Molluvial. ‘Here, at least, I am amongst fellows. Though many have lost the power of speech, or even thought, it is still preferable to . . . to . . .’ He could not seem to sum up the idea.

‘How many of you are here?’ she said.

Molluvial went silent for a time, then nodded, and dust rained from his neck. ‘Curious creature, aren’t you? Yet I do not know what you are to me. Enemy has no meaning, for there is nothing that can be done to worsen my existence. Prey, not, for I do not eat, nor gain pleasure as I once did from killing. Friend, no, for no heart beats, and no confidences are left to betray.’ He tapped his bony fingers again on the sword. ‘I care not,’ he decided. ‘If you would see us, you may follow.’

He turned to the gap in the tree tunnel and hobbled towards it, using his sword for support. Lalenda followed at some distance, while Grimra muttered worriedly. As Molluvial led them through the wood, every now and then he would grasp a tree to steady himself or hack at something in his way. The speed and strength of his blows was impressive enough to make her think she had been too bold when she’d stood so near to him.

After a while they came to an outcropping of rock that looked down upon a wooded bowl in the land. Populating it were many figures, skeletons and ghouls and things in between. Some moved, others were like statues crusted with dust. Above them wraiths wafted.

She had the sense that Grimra was hovering over her again, covering her from any attack. A wraith issued up before her and he snarled.

‘Back, you,’ said Molluvial, waving an ashen hand, and the wraith receded.

‘They obey you?’ asked Lalenda.

‘Not the right word,’ said Molluvial, though he added nothing more.

How many undead were here, she wondered? Maybe a hundred, maybe more. And there were others elsewhere too, spread throughout the wood.

‘Why do they gather like this?’

‘I do not know,’ said Molluvial. ‘Perhaps there is some spark of comfort in commonality, when all else is gone.’

Suddenly Lalenda knew what she must do, knew the reason why her prophecy had been important.

‘Perhaps,’ she said, ‘I am a friend after all?’

Molluvial creaked his eyeless gaze towards her.

‘With one last confidence to betray?’

He stared at her for a long time, finally nodding slowly.

‘Come, Grimra,’ she said. ‘Let us depart.’

She beat her wings, lifting from the ground and sending up dust in her wake. Grimra swirled beneath her, buoying her up. As she rose, the ancient warrior watched her go, the mighty in a cage, and she felt great sadness. Tears pricked the back of her eyes, but she blinked them away. If she had not cried upon learning of her mother’s death, there was nothing left to cry about, ever again.

Well
, she thought,
perhaps it will not win us the war, but there is good to be done in mercy here.

•

The way up was not as easy as down, though she wasn’t trying to get back to the aviary, just the top of the sheer black cliff. Grimra gave her a bit of extra lift, but the almost-vertical ascent was still slow going.

‘What be we doing now?’ asked the ghost.

‘Let’s just get to the top,’ she puffed. ‘When I have breath again, I will tell you.’

Soon she crested the cliff and made the last flutter over the wall that ran around Skygrip. She landed on the other side with a sigh of relief and slumped down for a moment of rest. Two goblin guards noticed her arrival and came striding towards her. She met their gazes steadily from under her tousled black mane, not bothering to rise.

‘Mistress Lalenda,’ said one, ‘are you all right?’

‘Fine, thank you,’ she said, still panting.

The older guard seemed a bit coarser. ‘By whose leave are you outside the castle?’ he demanded.

‘By my own,’ she replied. ‘Only Battu sought to keep me confined – though if you continue to uphold his orders, perhaps you are still loyal to him, something my lord Losara should know about?’

The goblin glared. ‘I am loyal to the Shadowdreamer.’

‘Well then,’ she said, ‘you’d better cease your impertinent questions.’

After a moment’s deliberation the goblin made an effort to remove his scowl, and gave a curt nod. ‘Forgiveness, my lady,’ he said.

Grimra’s grinning skull materialised above her head, and both the goblins took a step back.

‘Do these be irking you, flutterbug?’ asked the ghost. ‘Want me to vent their spleens?’

‘No, Grimra,’ she snapped, finding her irritation now directed at him. She had been handling the situation well enough.

‘If we may take our leave, mistress?’ said the first goblin hurriedly.

‘Wait,’ she commanded, and they drew up short in their eagerness to retreat.

‘Yes, my lady?’

‘I have heard it said that when Battu attacked the Shining Mines he used fire.’

The subject made the goblins instantly more uncomfortable than they already were. Fire was ever something feared by the shadow, so hot and horrible it was. It had uses, of course – some kinds of cooking, weapon-making and warfare – but it was rarely seen in general use.

‘Yes,’ said the older goblin, who perhaps had even been part of that campaign. ‘There were catapults, which hurled balls of tar that had been set alight.’

‘I see. And do we still have any of those catapults, or materials?’

‘There is a catapult or two, but no tar, to my knowledge.’

Lalenda frowned. ‘Very well. Off you go, then.’

The goblins bowed thankfully and departed, and Grimra circled close.

‘What does flutterbug want with such stuff?’

‘Fire,’ she said, ‘is the best way to destroy the undead.’

•

Fire was something outside her experience, so she set off for the only place she knew of where someone obviously knew how to make it – the castle kitchen. Upon seeing her enter, Saray headed towards a cupboard, perhaps thinking she wanted more to eat.

‘Saray,’ she said, ‘never mind about that.’

He paused, a quizzical expression on his face. ‘What can I do for you then, mistress?’

‘Show me how you make fire.’

He seemed uncertain. ‘It is . . . a dangerous thing, miss. Maybe, if you wanted something heated, I could –’

‘No,’ she said. ‘Show me.’

He drew himself up. ‘Very well.’

He gestured that she approach the fireplace, and she went over to kneel next to him.

‘This,’ he said, ‘is our way. There are others, of course, but I don’t know them.’

Next to the fireplace was a shelf cut into the rock, full of pieces of wood. Saray reached in and drew out a bundle of twigs and leaves, and a tin.

‘Tinder,’ he said. ‘Now, to speed things along, sometimes we’ll dip it in this.’ He prised open the tin, dipped the bundle into the liquid inside, then laid it in the fireplace.

‘What is that?’

‘Fish oil, though any oil will do, really. Get back to work!’ he snapped at some of the other Greys who had crowded around to watch. Sheepishly, they moved off.

‘Now,’ he continued, reaching for more objects, ‘what we have here is called a flint, which you can use with a knife or any blade . . . hit the knife on the flint, and you jump out a spark. Just so.’

He proceeded to whack the flint with a knife over the tinder. After a couple of tries a spark fell, and as it hit the oiled tinder, a flame jumped up instantly. Saray reached into the shelf and withdrew some larger sticks, which he placed upon the flames. Soon they too were smoking.

‘You need to keep feeding in bigger and bigger pieces of wood,’ he explained. ‘Soon enough you will get hot coals, and –’

‘How much of that oil do you have?’ asked Lalenda.

‘Um . . . well, just this, in here, but in storage, well . . . I’m not sure, several barrels?’

‘Show me,’ she said.

•

Grimra seemed to be struggling, and she was glad she hadn’t tried to make him lug more than one barrel. Although he could manifest a physical grip to some degree, it was all claws and fangs, and she worried that he would burst the barrel before she was ready. Rents had already appeared in several places, and drops of oil were raining down before them as they dropped once more towards Duskwood.

‘Flutterbug is
sure
this not hurt poor Grimra?’ he asked for the tenth time.

‘We will get you well clear before we set it off,’ she assured him, smiling at the first nerves she’d ever seen in the ghost.

As they drew nearer, she searched the wood for a likely spot. She wanted somewhere near the bowl, but not the bowl itself, for she did not fancy having to dive through all those wraiths. Close enough, she saw a flat area where the trees had mostly collapsed, and pointed. ‘There.’

As Grimra moved away she found herself a ledge on the cliff to land on. She watched the barrel moving over the wood to the place she had indicated . . . then it suddenly dropped as Grimra let go. It plummeted to hit a pile of wood and burst open nicely. She bent and began to unpack things from a small satchel – a torch wrapped with rags, which she proceeded to soak in the oil tin she’d taken from the kitchens, a flint and a knife.

‘Me be doing what crazed flutterbug wants,’ came Grimra’s reproachful voice from beside her.

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Now head a little further up, but be ready to come and give me a lift if I need one. I don’t know how flames affect ghosts, but best not take the chance.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Grimra firmly.

She lit the torch, uncomfortable holding such a thing in her hand, with the warm wafts it sent against her skin. Everything in her cried out to fling it away, but she tightened her grip and took off from the ledge. Gliding down to where the barrel had split, she hurled the torch into its open rib cage.

Flames leaped up with alarmingly immediate ferocity. As they spread, a ghoul she hadn’t seen camouflaged in the wood pile stood up, burning, strangely silent as it was engulfed.

Quickly she wheeled upwards, flapping for all she was worth, as beneath her smoke began to rise. Whatever magic Assidax had used to keep the wood dry was having the opposite effect of protection.

When she was some hundred paces up, Lalenda stopped to hover and check her handiwork. A wraith glided in, and flames jumped to run along its length. Maybe no mortal weapon would harm such a creature, but fire seemed to be something else entirely. The wraith twisted as if caught in the caress of some strange lover, and melted away.

‘Let us be gone, pixie,’ came Grimra’s voice.

‘Just a moment,’ she said.

The fire was creeping towards the bowl. From out of the thicker tree line, a monstrous sword flashed into view, orange in the approaching heat. Molluvial hauled himself out to stare at the fire, then looked up at her. There was something conveyed in that gaze, she felt sure, though it was hard to tell what. He did not flee, nor did he rush towards the flames. Perhaps he could not seek out his own end, or perhaps he knew it would find him no matter what.

Smoke began to make her cough, and she knew it was becoming dangerous to tarry. She would need all the breath she could muster for her second journey up to Skygrip today.

‘Help me, Grimra,’ she said, and he whirled about her.

Up they went, away from the glowing red snakes that ran in all directions beneath them, fattening and joining each other. The black smoke that billowed up would soon be seen for many leagues around.