Overhead, clouds hung so heavily, they seemed to defy gravity.  Like a voluminous herd of giant shelp, they ambled across the skies, staying close together, hiding the stars beyond.  A delicate mist sat a few feet above the waves. Trypp looked out into a velvety, darkness that was both strange and familiar.  He had never sailed in such a small boat before, but he felt at peace with the skiff’s steady passage across the shifting, monochromatic dunes of the Nessan Sea.  Outside the boat everything was soft and undefined.  There were no sharp edges, no bold colours, no beginnings and no end.  He took comfort in this lack of precision, this absence of certainty.  

          Into his thoughts floated images of the Skyfall.  The passage across the unlit sea was not unlike his forays up the great waterfall.  The greater distance had become irrelevant; his attention was pushed onto his immediate surroundings.  The milieu of the sea and the skiff fed his senses.  He was acutely aware of the minutia of each moment as it passed: the crisp crack of the sail capturing the warm western wind, the abrasive touch of the raw timber deck upon his bare feet, the fetid smell of vomit emanating from Maeldune’s corner of the boat.  He felt Gerriod stir beside him.  He could sense Gerriod’s eyes flickering under their lids as the last vestiges of a heavy slumber fell away.

          The mariner sat up and rubbed his head where it had smashed into the deck the previous night.  In the dim light he could make out Sefar at the skiff’s prow, clutching the rail nervously, looking fearfully around him as if he might fall into the water at any time.  Remiel and Mulupo sat on the bench above the boat’s centreboard, keeping an eye on the skiff’s raggedy canvas sail.  Behind him, leaning casually against the transom board at the boat’s stern, Pylos held the skiff’s tiller.  ‘Where’s Maeldune?’ he asked.

          Mulupo took off his hat and held it over his heart as if he were paying his respects to the dead.            ‘Our erstwhile companion has temporarily succumbed to a severe bout of naupathia,’ the Spriggan said mischievously, nodding towards a trembling black shape beside Pylos.

          ‘By the gods, what does that mean Mulupo?’ Gerriod said bluntly, getting a little tired of having to concentrate really hard whenever the Spriggan said anything.

          Pylos smiled and pointed his forefinger over the boat’s rail.  ‘He’s talking to fishes.’

          ‘That’s a Tuathan term!’ Gerriod laughed.  ‘I haven’t heard it in years!’

          Pylos leaned forward, intrigued.  ‘Really?  Talking to fishes?  I thought only the Helyans described seasickness in that way.’

          At the prow of the skiff Sefar raised his head and said, ‘Actually, it’s quite a common saying in Khepera too.’

          Gideon turned from his work on the skiff’s mast.  ‘Many Nessans use the phrase.’

          Keenly aware of the effect this discussion may have upon the nauseated Maeldune, Trypp whispered, ‘It is an idiom that has over recent years crept into the vernacular of the Sapphyrro.’

          ‘Well!’ said Pylos grandly, looking around at the eclectic collection of races gathered in the small skiff.  ‘Perhaps we’re not that different after all!’

          At that point, the skiff was raised by a small wave that was out of rhythm with the steady procession that had been striking the boat since they had left Murdertown.  A long, grotesque moan exited Maeldune’s mouth.  Pylos, Gerriod and Sefar all looked at each other with unconcealed delight and erupted into a boorish cheer.

          From his undignified position at the boat’s stern, Maeldune turned his head slightly and sneered.  ‘I hope you gentlemen are enjoying yourselves.’  His voice was hoarse and contempt could be heard in every syllable.  ‘There are others in this boat who are more deserving of your ridicule.  May I remind you that we are now one man down and that was not my doing.’  Maeldune wiped his mouth and swivelled his body around and tried to sit up to face the rest of the company.  ‘Laugh all you want at me, but remember whilst you do so, Gunther Ross is probably hanging from the gallows above the gates to Murdertown.’

          Pylos’ hands struck out like a pair of Ankaran fangtails.  He grabbed Maeldune by the collar and pulled him close, so close that the Acoran could not focus on Pylos’ cold, grey eyes.  ‘Listen here, you pointy-eared huk.  Don’t think for a second you fool me.  You have no more concern for Gunther than you do for anyone else who doesn’t bear your name.’

          Maeldune’s fingers clutched at Pylos’ steely hands which were like a steel trap upon his cloak.  The bureaucrat glowered at the Helyan.  ‘Release me Pylos.’

          Pylos said nothing.  He continued to delve into Maeldune’s face with his steely gaze.  

Unsuccessful at his attempt to pry Pylos’ hands from his robes, Maeldune dug his long, sharp nails into the Helyan’s skin.  Blood seeped out from Pylos’ hands, but the Helyan just smiled cynically at Maeldune, clearly not bothered by the nails biting into his flesh.  He had received countless wounds on the battlefield; he certainly would not succumb to Maeldune’s effeminate attempt to extricate himself.  

          ‘Look!’

          Gerriod hauled himself to stand next to the mast.  His eyes weren’t on the pair at the skiff’s stern.  He was looking eastward, at the expanse of water that separated the tiny boat from the coast of Nessa.  His face was pale, stricken with fear.

          Pylos shoved Maeldune away from him and looked across the sea following Gerriod’s gaze.  The waters before them were black.  The Myr’s moons were hidden behind a thick curtain of clouds.  Although there was very little to be seen, Gerriod had spotted something to the east.

          ‘What is it?’ Pylos said, standing up in the skiff beside Gerriod.

          The mariner waited till another wave lifted the boat upon its crest.  ‘There!’ he exclaimed.  ‘East nor’ east.’  He could see a black shape against an even darker horizon.  He had seen the shape once before, but not at this distance.  It was a boat, but a boat unlike any vessel that had sailed on the Myr’s seas.  A clawed arm reached out from the hull of the boat and raked across the ocean waves.  Somehow the Ghul had brought one of their living vessels up from the Endless.  ‘It’s the Ghul.’

          ‘What?’ exclaimed Sefar.  ‘Here?’

          Pylos took command immediately.  ‘Trypp, climb the mast if you can and check if it’s just the one boat.  Remiel, drop the sail.  That will make us harder to spot.  And we don’t want to speed ourselves to the north-east if that’s where danger lies.  Gerriod, take the tiller.  Set us due south for the moment.’

          The men in the skiff erupted into purposeful movement. It only took the Sapphyrran seconds to scale the mast. Gerriod looked up at Trypp anxiously hoping that his companion had good news – that there was only one boat and it had turned away.  Unfortunately, Trypp could not satisfy Gerriod’s desperate optimism – there was not one boat heading towards them; there were twenty.

          Although it was difficult to be sure in the darkness, Trypp reckoned they were facing at least one hundred Ghul.

          Sefar looked back towards the Tethran coast.  Suddenly Murdertown didn’t seem like such a bad place to be.  ‘Do you think if we turned around we could –’

          ‘No, we can’t go back!’ snapped Gerriod, surprised by his own willingness to speak up at a time like this.  ‘The wind would be to our fore.  If we flee, they will run us down. We are no match for them. I have seen these boats, been in one. They would be upon us within minutes.’

          Pylos gazed upon the monstrous-looking vessels bearing down on them.  The bony arms of the boats clawed through the waters at a rapacious speed.  Gerriod was right.  Soon they would be within range of the Ghul archers Pylos could see taking their positions at the front of the boats.  If they turned, they would be exposing their backs to the Ghul.  It was not how he wanted to die.  ‘Does anyone have any ideas?’ he said.  ‘Are we prepared to fight?’

          Gerriod looked about, searching for an alternative to combat.  His face lit up when an idea came to mind.  ‘Drop the mast!’

          ‘What?’ said Sefar.

          ‘We drop the mast and flip the boat.  We’ll be safe underneath.  Their arrows won’t penetrate the hulls.  We just have to stay down until morning.  The daylight will take care of the Ghul.’

          ‘It’s so simple it might just work!’ said Pylos.  ‘The Ghul would not be expecting such a reaction.’

          ‘It’s not that simple!’ protested the tall Kheperan.  ‘I can’t swim.’

          ‘Neither can I,’ added Maeldune weakly.

          Pylos shook his head in amazement. ‘I don’t believe it!  I’d expect nothing less of the Minister for Justice,’ Pylos said in exasperation, waving a casual hand towards Maeldune, ‘but you Sefar?  How is it that you – a consul – do not know how to swim?’

          ‘Excuse me Pylos but I’m not the only one,’ Sefar sulked.  ‘I have heard that Sir Edgar Worseley cannot swim either.’

          Remiel stared at the approaching flotilla and then looked past them where a faint blue line across the horizon marked the cliffs of Nessa.  ‘There’s no way they can get back to the coast by morning,’ he mused.  ‘They’re too far out as it is.’

          ‘It’s a suicide mission,’ Pylos noted.  ‘They have no intentions of surviving this assault.’

          ‘That makes them even more dangerous,’ Remiel responded.  ‘Somehow, I don’t think hiding under the boat is going to be enough.’

          Mulupo nodded his head vigorously.  ‘I must concur with my ecclesiastical friend here.  The carnificial denizens of the Endless will be nothing but relentless in their pursuit.’

          ‘Excuse me,’ said Gerriod, ‘but we really do not have time for this discussion.’

          He was right. The Ghul boats were frighteningly close. The archers in the nearest vessels pulled their bows back and a volley sailed through the night sky.  The arrows fell into the waters in front of the skiff with tiny splashes like the one made by raindrops upon puddles.

          ‘They’ll be upon us on the next volley,’ Pylos said calmly.

          ‘Then we have to turn her over now!’ Gerriod cried.  

          With the exception of Maeldune who just stared miserably out of his dark robes, the company burst into action.  Without any more guidance than the common desire to avoid an untimely end, they grasped the port rail with their hands and jammed their heels into the starboard rail.  As one they shifted their weight so the entire skiff was tilted up on its starboard side.  It teetered on its edge for a few seconds before falling back down, slapping against the water with its keel.

          The company tried a second time.  Again the boat stood precariously on its right flank, but this time when it fell back down into the waves, it did so with its hull to the sky.  They had capsized the skiff.

          As soon as they hit the water, Trypp took hold of Sefar who thrashed around like a crazed animal.  He dragged him up into the upturned boat where the Kheperan eventually ceased his frantic movements.  The deep hull had given them plenty of breathing space which Sefar filled with fearful gasps and groans.  A lifetime of desert sands and rocky plains had not provided him with even a rudimentary understanding of the movements a body was required to make to stay afloat.  He clung desperately to the skiff’s wooden seat which lay just above his head.  The harsh scratching sound of his long horn digging into the timbers of the hull did little to ease his sense of anxiety.

          The next person to appear in the dark space was Mulupo.  In contrast to the agitated Sefar, Mulupo was calm but a little annoyed by the situation.  ‘Oh dear, I seem to have been divested of my sable, silk topper.’

          ‘Are you hurt?’ asked Sefar, having no understanding of what the Spriggan had just said.

          ‘He has lost his hat,’ Trypp explained.

          ‘Oh,’ said Sefar.

          Two more heads broke through the surface of the water under the skiff.  It was Remiel and Gerriod.  Remiel’s thick veil had fallen from his face, swept off by the churning waters of the Nessan Sea.  Gerriod stared at the priest’s face.  There was something familiar about it.  He had seen it before.  Long ago.  But where?  Recognition hovered on the edges of his mind.

          Suddenly Pylos erupted out of the water.  ‘Where’s Maeldune?’ he exclaimed between breaths.

          His question was met with a chorus of silence.  Pylos did not wait for the blank faces to articulate the fact that they had not seen him.  He dropped back into the water to find the Acoran.

          ‘He said he couldn’t swim,’ Trypp gasped.  The Sapphyrran slipped under the water to assist Pylos in the search for Maeldune.  Remiel swiftly followed.

          No-one spoke in the upturned skiff.  The cold waters slushing about the small, dark space reverberated in the ears of the three individuals awaiting the return of their companions.  A long minute past followed by an even longer one.

          Finally when the waiting became unbearable, Sefar filled the space with a thought that had been dominating his headspace for the past two days, something that was irrelevant to their immediate predicament.  ‘Pylos was hit by one of the Magistrates.’

          ‘What?’ said Gerriod in a stunned voice.

          ‘I can’t work it out,’ Sefar whispered as if he were confiding a deep secret.  ‘Those iron balls the Magistrates use are coated with poison.  Why is Pylos not dead?’

          ‘Perhaps the projectile that struck the General did not have the veneniferous aspect you refer to.’

          ‘Did not have the what?’

          ‘Perhaps it wasn’t poisonous,’ Mulupo explained.  Fortunately in the darkness under the boat, Sefar could not see him rolling his eyes.

          ‘No.  The Magistrates never deviate from standard practice.  Those balls are design to kill.  Pylos should have died within minutes of being hit.’

          ‘Sefar, why are you saying this now?’ asked Gerriod.

          ‘Somehow Pylos has survived something that should have killed him,’ Sefar replied.  ‘It makes me suspicious.’

          ‘You’re suspicious of Pylos?’ Gerriod exclaimed.

          ‘No.  I would trust Pylos Castalia with my life, but...’

          ‘But what?’ 

          ‘Perhaps he’s not Pylos.  Perhaps...’ – he paused – ‘perhaps it’s one of the Morgai.  Perhaps it’s Remiel Grayson.’

          ‘That’s ridiculous,’ Gerriod said.  ‘How could it be?’

          ‘I have heard Morgai can shift their shape, assume the appearance of others.  Perhaps Grayson has taken on Pylos’ form.’

          ‘Excuse my contrariness Sefar,’ Mulupo said, ‘but your hypothesis cannot be sustained – only the female Morgai can shape-shift.’

          ‘Then how do you explain Pylos’ miraculous luck?’

          ‘I can’t believe Remiel Grayson would have the gall to travel with us after all he is responsible for,’ Gerriod mused.

          All of a sudden Trypp’s head breached the water under the boat.  He was panting heavily having held his breath to the point where his lungs felt like they would explode in flame. A moment later Pylos and Remiel also appeared.  

          ‘He’s not in the water – at least nowhere nearby,’ Trypp said.  ‘He must have been pulled up into one of the Ghul vessels.’

          ‘That’s what I’m afraid of,’ Pylos said ambiguously.  Before anyone could ask him to explain what he meant, the skiff pitched wildly as the sound of ten or more Ghul jumping onto the upturned hull reverberated in the small space below it.

          ‘Tell me that’s not what I think it is!’ grunted Sefar.

          Suddenly a crude sword was thrust through the hull, followed by another and another. A fourth blade broke through the hull and buried itself deep into Remiel’s shoulder.  His teeth clenched as he tried to stifle an agonized scream.

          ‘Dive!  We can’t stay here – we’ll be cut to ribbons!’ Pylos yelled.  ‘Trypp, take Sefar.  Stay down, dive deep and head east.’  He thumped the upside-down prow of the boat to indicate east.  Another sword sliced through the timbers and then all sound disappeared as the company abandoned the skiff.

          Pylos hoped that the east-bound currents in this part of the crossing would pull the company away from where the Ghul thought they would resurface. The longer they stayed down, the greater the likelihood that they wouldn’t resurface to face an arrow tip or sword.

          Above the Helyan the grey-blue light of the night sky filtered through the water. He could see the bodies of Trypp and Sefar, silhouetted against the grey. They were moving eastwards as he hoped.

          A little closer to the surface, but also heading in the right direction, the mariner Gerriod swam.   His motion lacked grace and power but he did not seem to be struggling for air. Not yet.  His arms and legs cut through the water in slow-moving arcs.

          To his left, Mulupo shot effortlessly through the water.  He reminded Pylos of the friggu that occupied the shallows of Helyas’ waterways.  Mulupo’s aquatic skills surprised Pylos as the Spriggans’ home of Camulos was an arid land of few rivers and no lakes.

          The Helyan turned his head down towards the blackness below looking for Remiel.  His legs kicked out behind him and he commenced pulling himself down into the deep.  His lungs were beginning to sting.  ‘Where are you Remiel?’ he screamed inside his head.  

          Pylos looked up to the surface. It seemed so far away. He could make out the shapes of the strange Ghul boats gathered around the skiff like praga upon a piece of meat.  He could see their long, branch-like arms raking the water.  Here and there he could see arrows and swords perforate the water hoping to snag the fleeing Myrrans.

          The boats were slowly moving east. The Ghul had somehow surmised their direction of flight and were following. They knew it would not be long before the need for air would be greater than the risk of getting it and when the Myrrans breached the surface, they would be slaughtered.  It was hopeless.

          Pylos’ lungs were screaming out for release from the searing pain.  Soon he would have to head back to the surface where he would meet a bloody end, dying not as a soldier but as a hapless beast.

          Suddenly the roof the ocean was ablaze in brilliant white light.  The hazy shapes of the boats above became sharply defined silhouettes of black, surrounded on all sides by shafts of shimmering light that reached down into the depths like the arms of angels.  The world beyond the surface was illuminated with such intensity, Pylos had to turn his head away from the light.  He could see so clearly in the water around him that for a moment he wondered if he had succumbed to the delirium that was said to accompany drowning.

          Just as swiftly as the light had appeared it faded leaving behind nothing but the shape of a tall, dark figure falling from the skiff above into the gathering darkness of the deep.

 

 

Pylos swam towards the dark shape that dropped towards the ocean floor like an anchor.  It was Remiel.  His robes swirled around him as his unmoving form plummeted through the waters, heading for the ocean floor that lay many fathoms below.

          Pylos struck out a hand and caught the priest by the sleeve.  He was unconscious but Pylos could see no sign of injury.  He wrapped an arm around Remiel’s waist and swam for the surface.  After what seemed like an eternity, he broke the choppy surface of the Nessan Sea.

 

 

No-one could have anticipated the strange scene that awaited Pylos on the ocean’s surface.  There was no sign of the Ghul other than the acrid, burning smell that indicated their passing.  The strange boats that had carried the Ghul were still there, but they were no longer alive.  Their long spindly arms bobbed on the undulating waves like driftwood.

          The waters to the east of Pylos were disturbed by the heads of his companions returning to the surface.  Sefar and Trypp were first, closely followed by Gerriod and Mulupo.  Great gasps for air could be heard above the incessant waves as tortured lungs were quickly appeased.

          Pylos pulled Remiel up to the side of one of the Ghul vessels.   The priest showed no sign of life.  His face was pale and Pylos could not feel any pulse.

          ‘Let me help you get him into the boat.’

It was Gerriod.  The mariner took the still figure of Remiel Grayson into his arms and held him close as Pylos scrambled up into the Ghul vessel.  He then reached down and hauled the priest into the boat where he lay like a corpse.

          ‘Get into the other boats,’ Pylos called to the others in the water.  He commanded them as if he were on the battlefield directing the actions of his troops. ‘Sefar and Trypp, take that one.  Gerriod and Mulupo, that one there.  Hack the limbs off the boats’ hulls and use them as paddles.  Head due east.  You should see the Blue Cliffs of Nessa ere long.’  

          Trypp assisted Sefar in his efforts to climb over the bony rail of the closest Ghul vessel.  It was not easy getting the massive Kheperan out of the water.  His arms flailed about and somewhere under his long robes, his legs churned about in the water doing little more than kicking and scratching Trypp.

          With a great sigh of relief, Sefar eventually collapsed into the dead boat.  Although he was unnerved by the fantastical vessel with its lank, lifeless arms spread out on either side of its dark green body, he was happy to be out of the water and could easily ignore the morbidity of the situation.  However as he rolled into the boat, he was presented with something he had not expected.  It was a body clad in black, smouldering robes.  Contrasting against the inky darkness of the man’s garments, a thin hand adorned with golden rings bearing precious jewels lay across his chest.  The man’s face was hidden by the folds of his cloak but Sefar knew who it was.  Maeldune.

Sefar rolled the Acoran towards him so that he could see his face.  

          ‘Oh gods!’ he exclaimed when he saw what had happened to one side of Maeldune’s face.  It was blistered and burnt.  His long pointed ear was blackened, ornamented with flakes of charred skin.  His cheek and jaw were much the same.  Here and there cracks appeared in the charcoaled surface and these revealed a pink wetness underneath.  Cringing at the horror of it, Sefar stared at Maeldune, stunned to find him in the boat and shocked to discover him in such a poor state.  It was at that point Maeldune opened his eyes.

          ‘Pylos!’ Sefar screamed across the waves.  ‘It’s Maeldune!  He’s here.  We’ve found him.  He’s alive.’

          Pylos’ emotions twisted into a knot when he heard Sefar’s announcement.  Maeldune was alive.  Pieces of the puzzle were rearranged in his brain.  They had been attacked by the Ghul.  Maeldune had disappeared during the attack.  And now all the Ghul were dead and Maeldune was burnt like roast barga on a spit.  He knew Remiel had something to do with the Ghul’s defeat but even that left him in a state of ambivalence – after all, Remiel Grayson was the catalyst for the Ghul’s return to the Myr.

          They pulled the boats together and Trypp cast his gentle eyes over Remiel’s prostate body.            ‘The priest?  Is he...?’

          ‘Dead?’ said a deep voice.  ‘Not yet.’

          Remiel sat up in the boat and stretched as if waking from a deep sleep.

          ‘Father Gideon… are you alright?’ Trypp asked.  Like Pylos, the Sapphyrran was trying to make sense of what had happened, but Pylos had the edge.  Pylos knew what Remiel was.  Trypp had also seen the light but did not associate it with Remiel as Pylos did.

          ‘Yes, thank-you Trypp,’ Remiel responded softly.  ‘I am alright.’

          ‘Let us push on,’ Pylos said.

          ‘But how did we survive all this?’ asked Gerriod as he gazed around at the flotilla of dead boat-shaped beasts upon the water.  ‘What happened to the Ghul?  What happened to Maeldune?’

          The eyes of the company swivelled around to face Maeldune who said nothing.  He was preoccupied and had not heard his name spoken.  He sat in the boat with Sefar and Trypp with his mouth agape.  He was staring at Remiel.

          ‘Is there something wrong Minister?’ Remiel asked with an uncharacteristic tone in his voice. Trypp recognised the inflection. It seemed Remiel was taunting the Acoran.

          ‘It’s nothing,’ Maeldune said quickly, his voice harsh as if it too had been burnt.  ‘I am just unaccustomed to seeing you without your veil.’

          ‘Yes.  I lost it in the attack,’ Remiel responded.  ‘Why does this interest you so?’

          ‘I am neither interested nor disinterested in it, Father Gideon,’ Maeldune said placing emphasis upon the name.

          ‘But you continue to stare,’ Remiel retorted.  ‘See you something in my face that you recognise?’

          Though his face was fixed by a layer of scorched skin, Maeldune’s scowl was obvious to all.  ‘What lies behind your words Father?’ he hissed.

          ‘This conversation serves no-one,’ Pylos said as pulled out his sword and leant over the side of the boat’s rail to hack off one of its arms.  ‘We must leave now.’

          Gerriod’s face scrunched up with revulsion as he watched Pylos slice through the boat-creature’s left arm.  A spout of bright green blood shot out of the joint where his blade sheared the long, thin limb from the ribbed body in which he sat.  The splash of colour erupting out of the creature’s side contrasted starkly with its blackened skin.

          Gerriod considered the wondrous light he had seen streaming through the canopy of turbulent waves when they had fled the Ghul.  ‘What was that light?’ he asked the group.  ‘Is that what killed these creatures?’

          ‘I’m not sure,’ answered Pylos.  ‘I have heard that in the deepest parts of the ocean there are creatures that can create their own illumination.’

          'I have heard that too,’ said Sefar, ‘but this was no such creature.  The light came from above.  Maeldune, where were you?  Did you see anything?’

          ‘I… I saw nothing.  I was unconscious.  The sickly smell of flesh burning pulled me out of the darkness.  All about me Ghul were burning.  One of them fell upon me as I lay dazed at the bottom of this boat, the result of which I’m sure you can see for yourself.’

          Sefar had another question for the Acoran.  ‘Maeldune, how did you get into this boat?’

          Maeldune brushed a long strand of black hair off his burnt face before answering the Kheperan.  He seemed to be thinking carefully about his response before articulating it.  ‘When we abandoned the skiff,’ he said slowly, ‘I was clubbed across the back of my head.  I think I was snatched out of the water by one of these strange creatures’ – he indicated the boat in which he sat – ‘and deposited amongst its Ghul crew.’

          Pylos smirked.  ‘I find that very hard to believe,’ Pylos said bluntly.  ‘Why didn’t they kill you?’

          ‘Then believe this General!’  Maeldune’s hands parted his long black hair on the back of his skull and there was one of the largest bumps Pylos had ever seen, in or out or war. The swollen mound was almost the size of a fist.

          ‘He is telling the truth,’ Gerriod said as he stared at the purple and white lump on the back of Maeldune’s head.

          ‘Mariner,’ said Mulupo craning his head to see the lump, ‘although the prodigious mass of clotted blood on the minister’s cranium gives his story undeniable veracity, it does not explain why he was not killed by our pallid malefactors.’

          ‘Perhaps they wanted to take me captive, Spriggan,’ Maeldune sneered.

          ‘Taking captives didn’t seem to be on their minds when they were shoving their swords through the hull of the skiff,’ Pylos noted.

          ‘They have been abducting Moraens for many months now,’ Maeldune countered as he flashed Pylos a hostile look.  ‘Perhaps I could be of some use to them.’

          ‘Oh I don’t doubt that,’ Pylos said as he stepped from his boat into the one Maeldune occupied.  He stood over the Acoran in a pose meant to intimidate.

          Maeldune pulled himself up to his full height. He stood almost a foot taller than Pylos and stared down at the Helyan with scorn emanating from every pore in his body. ‘I am the Lord Chancellor’s right-hand man, not some common grunt,’ he said looking down his nose at the Helyan.

Pylos’ fist pummelled into Maeldune’s stomach. 

          The Acoran doubled over, releasing a long, deep moan of pain and fell to the bottom of the boat.  ‘Sounded like a common grunt to me,’ said Pylos as he stepped over Maeldune and bent down to hack the limbs off the boat.

 

 

The remaining voyage across the Nessan Sea occurred without major incident.  Maeldune fell into an uncomfortable sleep whilst Trypp and Sefar took turns at paddling.  No such division of labour occurred in the boat behind them.  Gerriod took on the burden of paddling whilst Mulupo passed the time telling the mariner about all manner of things none of which related to the task at hand.  Although Gerriod did not understand most of what Mulupo said, he did find the presence of the Spriggan’s voice to be a welcome distraction from the demands of paddling.

 

 

The sun rose above the cliffs that stretched out before them like a blue ribbon.  As Remiel and Pylos paused to get their bearings, Trypp slowly pulled his vessel alongside the lead boat, taking care not to wake Sefar and Maeldune who both lay fast asleep.

         The Sapphyrran spoke to Remiel.  ‘Father Gideon, please allow me to look at your injury.  I have no salves or ointments, but I have clean water and some rags to stopper your wound.’

          ‘My wound. Trypp?  I am not wounded.’

          ‘Father, I know you were struck by a Ghul weapon back in the skiff.  I heard the blow.’

          ‘I am sorry Trypp, but you are mistaken. In the chaos that reigned, you must have misinterpreted the sound.’  Remiel considered Trypp’s show of confusion and did his best to address it.  ‘Look here.’  He pulled back his robe and loosened his undergarments. His shoulder was unblemished.  No wound was to be seen.

          Trypp shook his head.  ‘There is much that happened last night that needs explaining Father.’

Remiel nodded but had nothing more to say on the matter.  

 

 

‘I have never been to Nessa,’ Pylos said looking up at the Blue Cliffs before them.  ‘Tell me about it.’

          ‘Nessa is a beautiful country,’ Remiel replied.  ‘It is filled with ancient glades.  The most famous of these is Nemetona, the Sacred Grove.  Nemetona stays in autumnal splendour all year. The colours of the leaves suggest the onset of winter, as they are all ablaze in hues of amber, red and orange but the leaves never drop and the timelessness this brings to the forest has brought a religious significance to the area.’

          ‘And you Remiel?  Are you religious?’

          Remiel looked about anxiously, but the occupants of the other two boats were too far away to hear Pylos using his real name.  He looked tired.  The Morgai spell he had used to kill the Ghul had taken much out of him.  ‘For thirty years I have agonized over what I have done.  At times I thought I would be driven mad by it.  I have oft-times stood on the edge of those cliffs toying with the prospect of throwing myself off.’

          ‘What held you back?’

          ‘Obligation.  I must fix what I have broken.  I must take the longer, harder road.’

          ‘And you discovered that through religion?’

          ‘In a way.  There are others who reside at the abbey in Garlot – abbots and prelates – whose teachings have helped me see –’

          ‘They know of your past?’

          ‘No.  That is only known to a handful – you, Caliban, Lilith Cortese, the apothecary Garnett Shaw…’

          ‘And Maeldune,’ added Pylos.

          ‘And Maeldune.’

          ‘We should kill him before he does more mischief.’

          ‘He will die soon Pylos.  We should wait for now.’

          ‘I’d prefer to take matters into my own hands,’ Pylos argued.  ‘Why do you advocate restraint?’

          ‘Pylos, look at the damage I have wrought by trying to challenge the future.  I have seen Maeldune’s death.  It will come.  That is enough for me.’

          ‘I just hope it comes before he sticks a knife in my back,’ Pylos muttered before digging his makeshift paddle deep in the water and pulling hard.  The boat pushed forward and an uneasy silence fell in the space between its two passengers.

 

 

Their small flotilla of Ghul vessels drifted closer to the mighty Blue Cliffs of Nessa.  High above, kestra and haaks watched their slow movement across the vast sea.

         ‘We should reach the shores under the abbey by mid-morning,’ Remiel said as he pointed to a distant spot where the cliffs swept around to form a narrow peninsula.

          They could see the black shape of the abbey standing at the very tip of the cliffs.  Picked up by the breeze that blew in from the east, a thin line of black smoke drifted out from the peninsula and dissipated high above the ocean.

          ‘The abbey!’ gasped Pylos.  ‘It’s burning.’

 

 

By the time they arrived at Garlot Abbey, the proud building had collapsed upon itself.  Here and there timbers still smouldered.  Bright orange threads of embers occasionally revealed themselves when the breeze disturbed the remains.   The ground was covered in grey ash, as was the statue of Cephalus Silenus that stood in the abbey’s courtyard.

         The collapse of the building had strewn rubble all about.  Fragments of stained glass picked up the sun’s rays and refracted them so that the blackened stone was painted in soft pastel hues.  The churchwrens had all flown away and in their absence countless shatterbugs crawled over the shards of timber, rock and glass.

         A crowd had gathered around the ruins.  The people of Garlot had been shocked to wake up to the smell of their beautiful abbey burning.  They stared in disbelief at the mounds of debris that marked the fall of their place of worship.

         Remiel and his companions watched from the shadows of the glass poplars that surrounded the courtyard.  Some of the townspeople had started sorting through the remains of the abbey and had retrieved a number of bodies from the rubble.  Remiel shuddered when he saw the broken figure of the Archbishop being carried across the courtyard.

          ‘This was all done for my benefit,’ he whispered to Pylos.  He knows exactly where we are.’

Pylos’ eyes were aflame.  The sight of the dead priests being pulled out of the ruins had set alight his anger.  ‘How could a man be capable of such spite?’

          ‘I hurt him deeply.  He seeks to do the same to me.’

          Maeldune stepped up beside the pair.  He had said little since Pylos had punched him in the stomach earlier that day.  He had wrapped a scarf across the bottom half of his face and drawn his cowl over his head hoping to hide his burnt face from the gaze of others.  In a perverse way, he reminded Pylos of Remiel.

          ‘We should not tarry here,’ Maeldune warned.  ‘The townspeople may suspect our involvement in this heinous deed.’

          ‘We are involved,’ Pylos growled.

          ‘We must depart immediately,’ Maeldune said, directing his comment to Remiel.  ‘Gerriod has acquired some supplies – food, medicine and water – and I know where we can obtain transport to Madron’s Pass.’

          ‘No,’ replied Remiel.  ‘We will not go to Madron’s Pass.  Caliban has known our route from the start.  We must take an unexpected turn.’

          ‘There is no other way over the Amaranthine Mountains to our east,’ Maeldune stated with surprising firmness.  ‘We could travel hundreds of leagues north to Tuatha and go around the mountains – surely you are not suggesting we take so circuitous a route to Caliban’s End?’

          Remiel held Maeldune in a cold stare.  ‘All I know, Minister, is that our every step has been anticipated.  We must shift our fortunes.  There are other ways to our destination.’

          ‘Perhaps you would care to share them with me Father Gideon.  After all, I am still the appointed leader of this expedition.’

          Remiel said nothing as he weighed up the consequences of his next decision.  There was another way through the Amaranthine Mountains.  It was called the Thin Grey Line and it was a route known only to the followers of Cephalus Silenus.  The Almoners used it in their travels to reach the lands east of Nessa.  It was not a path that Maeldune would know, nor would Caliban have heard of it.  But to take it would require travelling to the Sacred Grove of Nemetona.  It would mean placing Cephalus Silenus and the Almoners in the path of danger and that was the sticking point – too many people had been put in harm’s way already.

          Remiel shrugged.  ‘I know of no other way.  We will trust in your leadership Maeldune.  We will follow you to Madron’s Pass.’