“Ready?” he called. “Pull.”

  Ain pulled down, hanging his weight until the rope went taut. And waited. “Is he going to shoot it?” he asked Wayrn.

  “Here he goes.”

  The twang of the bowstring followed. The arrowhead clinked against the wall above, then clattered to the stone nearby.

  “Again,” Wayrn called.

  Ain glanced over his shoulder. Schan was fitting another arrow to the string.

  He turned back to the rock face, keeping the pressure on.

  The bowstring snapped again. This time the rope gave and Ain fell flat on his face. A coil of rope tumbled onto his head and he sat up with a muttered curse.

  Schan ran over. “Sorry lad.” He was grinning.

  “Glad you’re amused.”

  “Better to be safe.”

  “Well, that was a good shot,” Ain said. “How did you know to try shooting it?”

  “Down there.” Other fragments of rope, near to rotted away, along with fragile-looking arrows with rusted heads, lay scattered around the overhang. Schan collected his arrows, examining the heads with a frown.

  “Looks like the Mazu take care no-one can find Haven,” Wayrn said. “From here, there’s no way to scale the wall, let alone reach the giant rope.”

  Ain nodded. “Yet the darklings found a way. We should keep going.”

  Schan led them along the stony trail, heading into the shade of taller columns. Many were broader than some of the homes at the Cloud, others barely the breadth of a man but these towered above the others. A sandy, pale stone, they were unmarked by carvings.

  Walking rear of their small line, Ain kept an eye on the opening to the tunnel – now visible as a black hole high in the rock face. The path had strengthened, the passage of feet, many feet, still flowed beneath him. The pulse returned too, though it was duller now. He narrowed his eyes at the opening. Where was it? At least the path was well used; it had the history to suggest it led somewhere.

  “The trail narrows ahead,” Schan announced. “Looks like it leads into a pass between the walls.”

  Ain paused to drink from his flask. Even in winter, the sun was warm enough to do its work. At a sharper pulse in the path, he spun back on the tunnel.

  And fumbled his flask.

  “It’s found us,” he called.

  “What?” Schan ran back.

  Ain pointed to the opening. Smudges of white and darkness glowed before the opening. The shape seemed to move back and forth, as if unsure, but it could have been the reflection of light.

  “What’s it doing?” Wayrn asked.

  “I don’t think it knows how to –” Ain stopped as the darkling ceased its shimmering and leaped forth, falling through the air. It hurtled toward the ground, soundless, until it crashed down in a cloud of dust.

  “Did it even survive the fall?” Ain asked.

  “I don’t want to find out,” Schan replied. “Run.” He dragged Ain along. Wayrn was already charging up the trail.

  Ain pumped his arms as he tore into the shadows, the pulse following. Growing in urgency. The darkling had survived the fall. Ain didn’t pause until he reached the cleft path between walls, which rose up like the banks of a vertical river.

  The back trail remained empty, nothing roaring up between the columns of stone.

  But that would not remain true for long.

  He ran on, pack thumping against his back, weaving through the narrow pass with the pulse growing loud, more insistent. Ahead, light pierced the dark as white sliced down, revealing the Wasteland beyond – a stretch of stony earth and grey sands.

  He skidded to a halt, bending to press his palms onto the hot stone.

  Again the pulse, which had doubled, stung his arms but he wrenched at the path, and the shockwave of his action spread from his hands. Sands, everything was changing! How was any of it possible? Yet it was, and as his arms trembled, his heart skipped a beat. Just what was he doing? Was it dangerous?

  A shock returned and he cried out, falling back.

  But the pulses slowed. The darkling was hesitating. Ain slapped his hands onto the earth again and took a deep breath of arid air.

  Hands pulled him back. “There’s no time for that.”

  Schan led him down toward the grey sands and the bright glow of the Wards, distant enough that it would be a close race. He dragged his legs forward, slowly catching up to Wayrn.

  “The Wards?” Ain asked. He fought down a twinge of fear – would the Wards offer salvation or death?

  “We have no choice.”

  Blazing pillars of white grew taller as they stumbled nearer, feet pounding across the hard ground. Ain risked a glance over his shoulder. The darkling had already burst from the ridge, streaming down the slope.

  “Faster.”

  The Wards burnt fierce as he neared. The pulse had risen to a feverish thumping, jabbing at his skull. Before him, Wayrn sprinted into the Wards and Schan followed without a pause. Ain tripped on a rock, rolling and cursing as the hard floor bit into his flesh but he found his feet and dived between the columns of light.

  Silence enveloped him.

  He hit the sandy earth with a thump that forced the breath from his lungs. Rolling, he struggled for air, reaching his knees with great difficulty, tears building. He dashed them away and the blur cleared. Unlike his first passage, the Wards were empty. No shades and their bright outlines, drifting and running and searching aimlessly, no giant creatures, just flat grey sand stretching in every direction. And no sign of Schan or Wayrn, no sign of the darkling either.

  Just the dull silence.

  Was he about to die? Why had the Wards changed? He trembled as he urged himself forward, feet sliding soundless through the sand. There was nothing to the inside of the Wards, nothing beyond the quiet and the grey sand.

  He trudged on until the thump of his heart eased.

  Even the pulse from the path had vanished; any path he might have followed was gone. “Schan?” He called but no-one answered.

  Ain paused to turn in a half-circle and stopped. A light blinked ahead. He raced toward it, new strength in his limbs. Even the sand felt firmer underfoot.

  When the light grew large enough to envelop him –

  Ain stumbled from the Wards, raising his arm to shield his eyes from swirling sand. A wind had picked up – strong, but not yet a storm. A clear signal of what was to come, nonetheless. More winter sandstorms.

  Behind him, only the glittering white of the Wards. No darkling, no pulse from its malice and still no sign of Wayrn or Schan either. He half-walked, half-slid down a gentle slope, turning south-east, toward the Cloud.

  Something hissed into the sand. Ain spun.

  An arrow lay by his feet.

  Across the dunes, half-concealed by a screen of sand, a band of warriors bore down on him. Each man wore Medah colours but were also ringed by a pale blue glow, clear even at a distance. Spirits? Another arrow flew overhead, blown off course. The first arrow looked real enough.

  Dozens. One of the men was drawing his bow again. Ain leaped back into the grey void. The wind died. He drew his knife and crouched. Would they burst through after him? He backed away.

  Only his breathing sounded as time passed. How would he know if it was safe to leave the Ward?

  But no spirit-warriors appeared. No-one appeared.

  Ain frowned. He could wait longer, wander the endless grey of the Wards, head back to the Wasteland and the darkling, or check the desert again. He crept forward, heading for the sands. They would protect him. The Wards never ejected travellers at quite the same point, did they?

  Swirling sand appeared around him, biting at his exposed skin.

  No spirit-warriors, only wind and sand. As before, he’d exited at a different point – pale sand stretching before him. He climbed the nearest dune, crawling when he neared the crest, pausing to shield his eyes and squint over the edge.

  Below, a large blue-glowing vulture hopped across the dune.

  “Sands.”

  Ain turned back to the Wards and paused. Two figures struggled on a distant crest, shapes indistinct through the fine mist of sand. He ran forward at a crouch. One had a faint glow, half-hidden against the light. The other was Schan. The man parried, curved blade slashing. Each time swords met, blue fire spurted into the air.

  The other warrior wore naught but loose pants and a necklace of animal teeth. His blade was much shorter than Schan’s but the fighter moved quicker. Ain raised his own weapon, breath coming hard as he climbed to flank the spirit, who leaped aside to consider them.

  Throwing back his head, the man howled over the wind, then charged.

  A violent swirl cut between them and the spirit disappeared.

  “Schan, what’s happening?” Ain shouted over the wind. “I saw a vulture out there and now warriors are attacking?”

  Schan gestured to the space where the spirit-warrior had stood. “He was the last of three.”

  “The spirits I saw in the Ward the first time were like this; it’s like they’ve escaped.”

  “Maybe they have.” He shrugged. “Not our problem for now. Did you find our envoy? I haven’t seen the darkling yet.”

  “Neither.”

  “Hurry. If he dies, there’ll probably be war.”

  Ain pushed into the desert, the path clearing before him as the wind died off. He did not sheathe his blade but they encountered no more stray spirits, walking down the line of the Ward. The sun drew wavy lines across the horizon, made thicker by the Wards.

  Schan straightened. “I hear something.”

  Snarling rose from beyond a dune. Ain kicked up the sand as he ran forward, Schan beside him.

  Below, Wayrn stood between two scavenger dogs. A third stretched across the sand before his feet, knife protruding from its chest. Sweat poured down the Braonn’s face and he crouched as one of the dogs leaped forward, its mangy fur dark even in the bright sun.

  Schan charged down the dune and Ain followed, but Wayrn was fast. He rose and spun, keeping his elbow high. A crack echoed across the dunes as the blow connected with the dog’s head. The other dog slunk away.

  Ain came to a breathless halt. “How did you do that? Time it, I mean. How did you know when to strike out?”

  Wayrn was breathing hard. “I trained as an acrobat.”

  Which also explained his dexterity on the rope.

  “That was impressive,” Schan said. He bent to retrieve the knife. He wiped it clean on the sand and then his leggings, handing it to Wayrn, who thanked him.

  “Keep a watch for any more spirits,” Ain said, explaining what had happened. Wayrn nodded, eyes widening. “At least the darkling is trapped beyond the Wards.”

  “How close is the Cloud?” he asked.

  “Fourteen days,” Ain said. Fourteen days and he would see Silaj again.

  Chapter 11.

  Flir walked the underground in darkness, one hand trailing the stone wall, accompanied by the constant trickle of water. It might have been comforting but instead the sound was a niggling echo of the thing that attacked her after rescuing Notch all those weeks ago. The flash of panic as the strange gunk splashed across her head, numbing and paralysing face and limbs, until the sounds of the aqueduct had faded and her strength failed.

  And so walking the underground became disconcerting.

  And somehow boring.

  Occasional light filtered down from the streets above, but there were no ladders, or at least, none that she could reach. Nothing really changed and only the tingle of her healing kept her company. In the slivers of light she would pause and search for markers, bearings, anything. All she found was a change in the stone, from the rougher work near the harbour to the more ordered bricks of the aqueducts. She still travelled under the Second Tier, but that was not much to go on. She needed to make sure Kanis hadn’t done anything stupid at the Harper. One thing at least, they shared beyond the curse, was a restlessness.

  Like the time they’d tried to climb Blue Blade Peak, simply because they had never done so. And hadn’t that turned out wonderfully?

  She slowed when her outstretched hand hit another wall, indicating a sharp turn. Beyond waited a patch of light, larger than any she’d seen so far. It cast a bright square on the wall and edge of the aqueduct, revealing the green tint of the stone. She quickened her pace but paused before entering it.

  Resting at the very edge of the light was a hand. Grey and green muck coated both hand and sleeve where they blended with the stones.

  The hand lay very still.

  And it rested beside the rungs to a ladder.

  Flir held her breath. No need to surprise them. Doubtless they’d have heard her approach. Who was it? One of the people hiding out from the Ecsoli? A thief? One of Wayrn’s kids?

  Whoever it was didn’t seem willing to speak.

  “Hello?”

  Silence.

  “Can you hear me?”

  A man’s voice whispered in the dark. “Quiet, I’m listening.”

  “To what?”

  “Quiet.”

  Flir waited. Much longer and she’d climb up to the street, talking-hand or no.

  He sighed. “I’ve lost it now.” His regular speaking voice was deep – a rumbling, deeper than any voice she’d ever heard.

  “Lost what? Are you hiding from the Ecsoli?”

  The hand slipped from the light. “Don’t be ridiculous – they don’t care about me, and no-one knows this place like I do. Couldn’t find me if they tried.” Shuffling footsteps began to recede. “And to answer your first question, I lost a great treasure thanks to you. Do please go away now.”

  Flir frowned, then shrugged. The Harper was waiting. She took the first rung and it wobbled beneath her grip. She tested a lower rung with her foot and it tore from the wall.

  “Damn you.” It was a way out too, light fell through the grate above.

  Flir crouched, then leaped up to catch the highest rung she could reach, only to have it pop free like the others. She hurled it into the water, breathing hard.

  Wait. The strange man.

  She hurried from the light, heading in the direction she’d last heard his voice, keeping close to the wall.

  “Hey, are you still there?” she asked. “I need a way out.”

  Nothing.

  Flir hurried along, aiming for another shaft of light, this one seeming to spear deep into the water. But there was no trace of the strange man and worse – a dead end before her. She ran her hands across the entire wall and nothing. No opening, no hint of a door, nothing, nothing, nothing. She could probably break through, but there was no way to know where another tunnel lay.

  She started back, taking careful steps this time, listening as she walked.

  Water trickled on, steady, gentle.

  Halfway back to the first patch of light she paused in the darkness, closing her eyes. Something had changed. Was it the air? No, the water. The trickle...there was an obstruction that it parted around.

  “You’re in the water, aren’t you?” she said.

  Another sigh.

  She grinned. “If you help me I’ll stop following you.”

  “Very well – but that’s not all it’ll cost.”

  “Gold?”

  He snorted. “None of that. I have a list. It’s long, but you’ll be able to deliver. After all, you’re The Pale Girl.”

  “Is that who I am?”

  “Of course. Saw you in the light.”

  “So you’ve heard of me, even down here.”

  “Everyone has.”

  Flir wished she had time to savour his words; it was nice to be recognised for something other than her status as dilar. “So, what can I bring you?”

  “I’d like new, sturdy nets and a whetstone to start. String, nails, flint and tinder. Wax. A few other things. You’ll see.”

  “You’re a Scrapper?”

  “Watcher,” he snapped. “I Watch for useful items, lost items, things people once loved. It’s not garbage, do you understand?”

  “Sorry.” She said. “Do I call you Watcher?”

  “Bodol.”

  “Well, Bodol, you know the city’s occupied, so some of those items might be hard to get quickly.”

  “I know. Just follow me.” He climbed from the water, leading her along the path and back into the light. When he passed through she saw only shaggy brown hair and a dusty brown coat with a high collar. From his belt hung dozens of pouches of varying sizes, a coiled length of rope and a dagger.

  Before she could get even a hint of his face, it was back to the dark.

  “How far?”

  “Close enough.”

  “Have the invaders tried to come to the underground?”

  “Not often.” He chuckled. “Not enough bones down here.”

  “What about creatures, from the Sea Beast?”

  He stopped and she came to a halt, close to bumping into him. “All kinds. They’re trouble, the little green ones drain the rats and clog up the flows. Some swim, after a fashion and there’s even one whose skin matches whatever it stands before; I’ve seen it change in the light. It slinks around, eating the rodent corpses. There’s a bigger one too, he’s more like a man but he keeps to himself. He’s always hungry. I think he’d be better in the ocean, truthfully.”

  “There is a man-like creature down here?”

  “You mean, other than me?” A trace of bitterness in his voice.

  “You don’t seem like a creature to me.”

  He resumed walking. “I tried to speak to him once and he made sounds...but they weren’t quite words. It was sad.”

  Perhaps not a threat then. “What about bones?”

  “Do I find many? Sometimes, but I’m no Witch, can’t use them. Most go back to the water. There was one I kept though. Old, old. I found it up nearer to the palace. Years ago. It was really marvellous too. A sort of basket woven from criss-crossed bones, complete with silver bands. The silver was heavily tarnished, must admit, but it held together.”

  Flir smiled in the dark. Maybe he was starved for conversation – Bodol couldn’t stop talking now that he’d gotten going.

 

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