Lye Street (4 page)

And then the smoke cleared.

* * *

Sal Greene found himself standing in an oak forest. Sunshine filtered through green leaves, dappling a thick carpet of moss. A breeze rustled the canopy overhead, through which he spied glimpses of vivid blue sky. The light was soft and verdant and full of birdsong.

He stumbled and fell onto his rear, gaping at his surroundings. "Is this Heaven?" he exclaimed.

"This place no longer exists," said Cope. "We are inside the dream of the first hound. This was your world, an age ago, when forest covered the Deadsands. Come, quickly now, there are dangers here."

Ravencrag said, "You drugged us!"

"I did nothing to impair your senses, Mr Ravencrag," said the thaumaturge. "Now curb your tongue. An aspect of Basilis exists beyond those trees. You will show respect, or be cast out."

Greene got to his feet.

Othniel Cope set off at an energetic pace. He led the men through the woods, swinging his walking stick at his side. The mossy ground compressed under their heels, springing back like cushions. It was a maze of green shadows and whispering leaves, with the scent of summer pollens upon the air.

After only a short distance, the party reached a glade in which stood a single mighty oak. It was much larger and older than the others, and yet it looked sick and wasted. Black leaves sprouted from its gnarled branches. It had queer, blistered bark which glistened and seemed to weep fluids. A fungal infection? The trees beyond this sentinel appeared to be similarly afflicted. Disease had crippled the forest, reducing it to a snarled morass of mould and shadow.

The hairs on the back of Greene's neck stood up. He had the sudden feeling that he was being watched. He looked more closely at the oak, then suddenly recoiled. "Those are eyes!" he exclaimed.

The bole of the tree was full of eyeballs, thousands of them, each shifting in its wooden socket as it turned its attention towards the three men. Granger perceived movement above him, and glanced up to see countless more eyes watching from the branches above. Several blinked, their wrinkled bark closing over yellow, blood-flecked sclera. The prospector suppressed a shiver, for it seemed to him that those myriad gazes evinced pure malevolence. He began to back away, but halted at the sound of something snapping under his heel.

All eyes focused on him.

"This sentinel marks the beginning of the Forest of Eyes," said Cope. "The hound remembers its master's gaze, and so the woodland beyond this point is a representation of that memory, deformed by Basilis's will where it has subjugated the hound's dream. It is but one aspect of the demon which has been preserved." He threw out his arms. "Is it not beautiful?"

Greene chose not to reply.

Beyond the sentinel oak the landscape became very strange indeed. The three interlopers set off at a more subdued pace, and soon a deathly hush had settled around them. Greene could no longer hear the chirrup of birds or the whisper of leaves. Everywhere he looked he faced a murky scrawl of forest, alive with subtle movements and gelatinous glimmers. The demon stared at him from every bole and branch of these unwholesome trees, and even from the roots that gripped the earth like gnarled black fingers. Its eyes blinked and moved silently as they turned to follow the party.

They walked on a carpet of dark mulch, veined with pale fibres. When once Green nudged a scrap of the stuff aside with the toe of his boot, he saw eyes peering out at him from the clammy soil.

"Best not examine the ground too closely," warned Cope. "Lest you fear to tread."

The old prospector had, in his youth, travelled to lands beyond the Deadsands, and he had grown skilled at reading the history of the world in its shape and strata. He knew where to look for seams of copper or quartz, and which river banks hid the bones of ancient beasts. He understood erosion, how wind, rain and ice had sculpted mountain valleys so long ago. But the weirdness of this environment utterly unnerved him; it deceived his every sense. He felt tainted by its unwholesomeness.

If this was magic, then he wanted no part of it.

Ravencrag, however, appeared to have forgotten his former antipathy toward Cope. The phantasmacist shuffled through the trees, gazing around in wonder at the wretched place. The staring eyes did not seem to disturb him as much as the pain in his hip. He struggled to keep up, often forcing Cope and Greene to slow their pace to accommodate him. This aggrieved the thaumaturge no end, and ultimately caused him dismay, for it was Ravencrag's infirmity which put them all in danger.

Othniel Cope hissed a warning, and flung himself down behind a glutinous tangle of roots. He beckoned the others to join him. Greene did so at once, but Ravencrag, hampered by his stiff joints, was slower. By the time the phantasmacist had hidden himself, it was too late.

A group of very tall figures were approaching through the forest. Greene counted eight of them, all dressed in strange, tan-coloured armour bristling with hairs. Chitinous helmets inset with dark lenses obscured their faces. None appeared to be armed with martial weapons, yet their hands were protected by wicked spiked gauntlets. The warriors walked in an odd, jerking fashion, as though their legs contained too many joints. They had evidently spotted Ravencrag, for they were now converging on his hiding place.

"Who are they?" he whispered to Cope.

"I was afraid of this," said the thaumaturge, rising to his feet. "These creatures are an infestation, parasites born from the hound's memories and then mutated here. Such is my master's influence on the hound's dream. Once they were fleas. Come, it is better not to hide. They know where we are."

The creatures halted ten paces away, and stood in a semicircle under the watching trees. Greene caught his breath. What he had taken to be armour, was actually exoskeleton. They had short, hooked forelimbs and powerful legs. Combs twitched in their domed heads where their mouths ought to be.

One of them made a scratching, fluttering noise: "Frrr frnnn, frrr."

Cope strode purposefully towards them, slapping his hands as if to shoo them away. "Leave!" he commanded. "Go! Begone!"

"Thrrrrrr." The flea-men shifted and twitched; their mouth combs blurred. "Thrrrrr garrrrr."

"They possess little intelligence," explained the thaumaturge. "But they can be dangerous, particularly if they attack as a group. Show no fear or they will certainly pounce."

"We can be killed?" asked Ravencrag. "By a hallucination?"

"It is a dream, Mr Ravencrag, but it is not
our
dream. As interlopers, we are bound by the physical laws of this place. Our souls can be damaged here. Yes, we can be killed." He clapped his hands at the armoured creatures again, and then raised his walking stick as if to strike one of them. "Get away! Hah! "

"Frrrrrrnn frrrrrrnn." The creatures flinched, clearly agitated. Most backed away, but one crept closer to the thaumaturge, coiling to pounce.

"Hah!" In a quick, fluid motion, Cope pulled a thin sword from the hollow body of his walking stick and stabbed the vile insect through its chest. It crumpled to the ground. The thaumaturge put a boot on the thing's body, and yanked his blade free. Black fluid dripped from the steel. Twitching, the other flea-men leapt away. They danced beyond the reach of their attacker's weapon. "Frrrrnnn Thrrrrr Frrrnn Thrrrrr."

"I require assistance, gentlemen," said Cope. "The scent of blood, even their own, excites them. Stand with me and clap and shout. Show
no
fear! Hah!" He lunged at the nearest creature, forcing it to recoil.

Greene surged forward, slapping his big hands together, and yelling. "Away with you! Away!"

Ravencrag fled.

The phantasmacist, who had previously seemed so infirm, moved with a speed Greene could scarcely believe. His little bowl-shaped hat bobbed as he ran back through the Forest of Eyes, leaving his comrades alone to face their foes.

Clicking and chattering, the flea-men advanced. Cope swung his slender blade, nicking one creature's shoulder, but then the others were on him.

Greene searched wildly around for a weapon. He saw nothing.

He saw...

He grabbed at a branch from the nearest tree, and yanked hard. Something popped in his fist, leaking fluid. A rotten stench filled his nostrils, but he ignored it, heaving with all of his might at the branch. The wood cracked and split. He twisted it. Bark peeled away. Another yank, and the branch came loose. Greene swung the makeshift club at the nearest attacker, striking it square across its chitinous head. The creature hissed, retreated a step, its onyx eyes fixed on the prospector. Greene raised the club. To his horror, he saw that the branch was glaring at him.

Othniel Cope was having a hard time of it. Six of the creatures had surrounded him. Again and again the thaumaturge struck out with his sword, but the flea-men ducked and wove around his blows. The demon forest looked on in mute fury, its countless eyes narrowed on the battle.

"Have you no magic to help us?" yelled Greene.

"I dare not ask Basilis for aid," the thaumaturge cried. He struck out again as one of the creatures swiped at him, driving the foul thing back even as the others pressed closer. "It could be the end of us."

The flea-men chattered and buzzed. "Frrrrnn. Thrrrr."

Greene lashed his club at his own opponent. The wood connected, leaving a wet smear across its segmented face. But it was an impotent weapon against this creature's armour. The prospector could not hope to damage his foe, and already he was tiring. Pain cramped his hands. When had he lost the strength to handle himself in a fight? "It'll be the end of us if you don't do something," he said. "These bastards are relentless."

Cope took down a second attacker with a well-aimed thrust to the neck, but this sent the rest of them into a still greater fury. Two pounced at once, and, while he strove to drive the first one off, the other clung to his side, burrowing its head into his shoulder. Blood sluiced down the thaumaturge's arm. Impervious to Cope's flailing sword, the creature began to feed.

The thaumaturge cried out. He stumbled backwards, struggling against his attacker. He stabbed at the creature again and again.

Agony crippled Greene's hands. His chest heaved; he could hardly breathe. Yet he rushed to the other man's aid, smashing his club into the flea-man's face.

It would not release its grip.

"Basilis!" cried Cope. "Cast us out!"

The world dimmed. Smoke engulfed Greene, and he felt his awareness leave him. The strength fled from his legs; he crashed to his knees. From the distance came a sound, like the long, low drone of a hunting horn.

Once more the old prospector found himself in Ravencrag's suite above the Phantasmacists Club. The fumes had cleared. A ruddy glow came from the wood stove, illuminating the musty furniture and bookshelves. Othniel Cope and Ravencrag sat around the table next to Greene. They were groggy and shaken, but thankfully alive.

Greene felt something heavy in his fist. He was still clutching the branch from the Forest of Eyes. It looked at him, and at the ceiling, walls and floor – all at the same time. Disgusted, he let it drop to the floor.

The phantasmacist twitched and groaned.

"Coward!" Greene hissed. "We could have died back there."

Ravencrag rubbed his eyes. "I'm no common brawler," he snarled. "I'm a scholar, Sal. There's no honour in scrapping with witless beasts."

"So you took the honourable option of running away?"

Ravencrag spat. "They showed no interest in attacking anyone until you provoked them."

"
Provoked
them?"

A sudden wail from Cope interrupted him. The thaumaturge was now hunched over the table. Spots of blood darkened the shoulder of his topcoat, but he paid his wounds no heed. In each hand he held a broken piece of the hound's skull. The relic had been cleft in two, and now spilled dust between his fingers. "One of Ayen's hounds has been destroyed!" he cried. "An aspect of my lord, Basilis, is lost. He is diminished!"

Ravencrag fumbled awkwardly with his cuffs. "It's not my fault," he said.

The thaumaturge's expression darkened. His fingers tightened around the pieces of broken skull, and it seemed as if he was about to strike the other man. But then something on the floor snagged his attention. "What is this!?" He picked up Greene's branch and glared at it in evident astonishment.

"I grabbed it to use as a weapon," said Greene wearily. He could feel every moment of the fight in his old bones. He cricked his neck, then winced and wished he hadn't. "I was still holding it when we returned."

"You
ripped
this from the forest?" cried Cope, aghast. "You
assaulted
Ayen's foremost assassin? Heaven's Lord of Warfare? I..." He gaped at Greene, slack-jawed and lost for words. A long moment passed before he regained his composure. "In all the decades I have served and obeyed His will,” he said, “I have never witnessed such blasphemy, such... outrageous contempt!"

"I was only trying to help," said Greene.

"
Help?
" Cope gagged. Then he snarled, "There will be a heavy price to pay for this, Mr Greene. My master does not look upon such acts of barbarism lightly. You have–" Abruptly he stopped yelling. He knocked back the brim of his hat, and then held up the grisly piece of wood between both of his hands, examining it closely. When at last he spoke, his voice had become soft
once again, and full of wonder, "But it is still
alive
."

"Is that good?"

The thaumaturge was muttering excitedly to himself. "Astonishing, quite astonishing," he said. "Do you realise what this means? Basilis found a way to free this aspect of himself from the hound's dream. You have returned his vision to earth!"

"I am sorry," Greene grumbled.

Cope unbuttoned his topcoat, reached inside, and withdrew the pup from one the garment's many pockets. The dog opened its eyes, blinked, and then cast its gaze around the room. Its unnatural eyes fixed on the prospector. They were furious, the same eyes Greene had seen in the demon forest.

The pup was an abomination. Greene could not look at it.

"Basilis is no longer blind," the thaumaturge said. "And if my lord can see, then so can I." He set the dog down, and returned his attention to the hideous branch, peering into one of the demon's many eyes.

And then he grinned.