We’ll never get to Caliban’s End at this speed,’ Gerriod observed.

          They had been travelling in a wagon drawn by a mountain grizzum for two days.  Sitting high on the plank of wood that served as the driver’s seat, Remiel Grayson held the reins with Pylos Castalia by his side, ever vigilant and ready for action.  In the canvas-covered wagon were squashed the rest of the remaining members of the company.

          Sefar sat with his knees up around his ears, clearly annoyed by their current situation.  It was stifling inside the wagon.  The afternoon sun continued to heat the canvas surrounding the group crammed in the small and uncomfortable space.

          ‘It is a necessary inconvenience Sefar,’ Maeldune said coolly.  ‘We have been compromised twice and cannot risk another attack.  This disguise may save our skins.’

          Mulupo laughed cynically.  ‘Minister, only a dullard could possibly believe that the preservation of our collective epidermises lies in the sanctuary this conveyance provides.’

          The wagon went over a large rock in the road and the occupants of the caravan were all thrown upwards.  Gerriod’s skull hit an overhead beam with a crack.  ‘I agree with the Spriggan,’ he grunted.

          Maeldune dropped his veneer of propriety and sneered, ‘How can you agree with him when you don’t even understand him?’

          Gerriod raised an eyebrow.  ‘What are you saying Maeldune?  Do you think me a fool?  A person doesn’t need a degree from the University of Caquix to know that this caravan was a bad idea.’

          ‘And where did you receive your education Gerriod?  The University of Murias?  The Palia School of Higher Learning?’

          Mulupo shook his head.  ‘Minister, surely such a overt display of sarcasm is beneath someone of your proud rank in life.  Our lugubrious situation is –’

          Suddenly the wagon pulled to a halt.

          Maeldune’s brow creased.  ‘Father Gideon, why are we stopping?’

          Pylos stuck his head through a slit in the canvas sheet that separated the wagon from the driver’s seat.  ‘A convoy of heavily-laden caravans passed by here recently.  Their tracks have stopped and the brush on the side of the road has been disturbed.’  He turned to Sefar.  ‘Consul, I could use a hand here.  The rest of you, stay put.’

          Pylos jumped down to the dusty roadway they had been following up into the Amaranthine Mountains.

          ‘What do you think happened here?’ asked Sefar, climbing down from the rear of the caravan.

          Pylos’ cool, grey eyes scanned the immediate area.  ‘It’s a good place for an ambush.  My guess is that the convoy was stopped back here.  There are footprints here where three attackers would have dropped from this bough above the road.’

          Sefar looked up to see a wide, flat branch above.  It was thick enough for three men to stand abreast.  In his minds’ eye he saw Ghul leaping down from the bough and standing in front of a procession of grizzum-drawn carts.

          Pylos continued scanning the area.  ‘I figure they had four marksmen hidden in front of the convoy.  One there behind the rock on the right, another behind the fallen log.  On the left the copse of trees would have hidden the other two.  At least five more foot soldiers would have been hidden in the tall grasses back there to stop the convoy from retreating.  Look!’  He bent down to pick up a small white shaft.  ‘This is a fragment of the bone arrows the Ghul use.’

          ‘Something doesn’t make sense.  The Ghul only come out at night.  I doubt there would be a merchant in the entire Myr who would be foolish enough make the hazardous journey through Madron’s Pass at night, especially these days.’

          ‘I do not believe the attack occurred at night.’

          ‘Then how could it be Ghul?’

          Pylos shook his head.  ‘I do not know.  I have seen how Ghul fare in the bare light of day and it is not a pretty sight.  We may find the answer to this puzzle if we find the convoy.  It won’t be too far.’  

          Pylos gestured to Sefar to follow him.  It was not a difficult trail to follow.  Broken branches, crushed grasses and distinctive tracks in the soil led them down a steep gully.  The Ghul had tried to hide the tracks, but Pylos could trace the passage of the convoy as easily as a lesser man could follow road signs.  

          At the base of the gully the vegetation was thick, and the men could hear the sound of a small brook gently rolling its way down the middle of the cutting.  On either side of this brook, wide bladed grass had been flattened.  Although he did not stop to investigate, Pylos noted numerous footprints in the soft dirt.  ‘Those tracks are not more than a few hours old,’ he pointed out to Sefar as they made their way across the gully.

          Branches thick with foliage had been cut from surrounding trees and crudely heaped on three large, canvas-covered wagons.  In no time at all, Pylos and Sefar had stripped the wagons of the greenery that had been covering the caravans.  Bright markings and patterns were revealed that proudly declared the identity of the merchants – Spriggans.

 

 

The pair was soon joined by the rest of the company.

          ‘Alas, I fear this could well be the last of my people – apart from myself of course,’ Mulupo remarked with such sadness Trypp thought the Spriggan’s heart would break.

          Pylos looked closely at the distinctive markings on the side of the caravans.  ‘I knew these Spriggans.  Many years ago, they came to Sulis.  I remember these designs.  He pulled his sword from its scabbard.  Even in the dappled gloom of the deep gully, its dark blade shone magnificently.  ‘These are the Spriggans that sold me this sword.  It cost me a small fortune, but it has saved my life on many occasions.’

          Mulupo also recognised the markings on the side of the caravans.  He pointed to the closest one.  ‘This is my cousin Camello’s wagon.’

          Pylos looked inside.  The stench that hit him was so pungent he fell away from the wagon as if he had been thrown from it by someone within.  He held his mouth as if he were about to vomit.  ‘The Spriggans,’ he rasped, ‘they’ve been slaughtered.’

          Mulupo looked up at the caravan with a despairing look.  His face was contorted by speechlessness.  Even his extensive vocabulary lacked the words that would articulate his pain.  He wandered off to a dark corner of the vale and sat down cross-legged on the grass.  He dropped his head into his lap and sobbed.

 

 

Pylos turned to Remiel with confusion on his face.  ‘I can’t understand is why this particular attack was hidden.  The Ghul have always proudly left behind a trail of destruction.’

          ‘Have they taken anything?’ Remiel inquired.

          ‘Yes,’ answered Pylos.  ‘The cases in this wagon have been looted.’

          ‘What was in them?’

          Pylos re-entered the closest caravan.  He could be heard rummaging about in the cases within.  Moments later he emerged.  The look of confusion had vanished from his face.  ‘I know what these Spriggans were carrying.  Here – smell my sword.’

          Remiel cocked one eyebrow.  ‘Smell your sword?’

          ‘Yes.’  Pylos thrust out the sword.

          ‘It smells… like sulphur.’

          ‘Yes.  It’s a very distinctive odour.  It’s the shatterstone.  Cessair Tower smells the same.  I think if you try the crates, you’ll find they smell the same.’

          ‘But the Ghul have their own weapons.  Why take these?’

          ‘This attack was a strategic move.  The removal of the opportunity to exploit their weakness.’

          ‘Let us depart,’ called Maeldune from the other side of the gully.  ‘We have nothing to gain by staying here.’

          ‘In a hurry, Maeldune?’ Pylos scoffed.  ‘Show some sensitivity.  Mulupo must be given time to grieve.’

          Maeldune’s eyes widened in anger.  ‘That is enough of your impertinence General!  I’m afraid we do not have the luxury to waste time on –’

          He stopped himself but he was far too late.  Silence reigned.  Everyone stopped what he was doing and all eyes fell upon Maeldune.  His fair complexion had become ruddy.  He spun around to find Mulupo standing behind him, waiting for him to finish his sentence.  

          ‘Your tongue seems to have become inert, Minister.  Allow me to complete your sentence.  I believe you were going to say that we do not have the luxury to waste time on Spriggans.  How accurate is my prognostication of your unfinished sentiments?’

          Maeldune’s foolish grin indicated he had no answer for Mulupo, but the Spriggan was not willing to let go of the moment and he continued to stare up at the Acoran awaiting a response.  Pylos folded his arms and leaned back against the trunk of a tree, interested in seeing how the deft politician would extricate himself out of the tight corner in which he found himself.  Although appalled by his insincerity, Pylos was enjoying watching Maeldune’s discomfort.

          ‘Mulupo,’ Maeldune began, ‘like so many of my countrymen in Acoran, I have mourned the sad loss of your people.  The genocide of the Spriggans at the hands of Caliban is my personal motivation for leading this mission.  As a child I would watch the Spriggan skyshops float over the Acoran range to descend into our cities with all manner of wonderful things.  I hold the Spriggans as dearly as I would my own family, but – let me put this carefully – in a way, I have already accepted the passing of your people.  Whilst it would have been wondrous to find remnants of your race still alive, in a way, having already reconciled ourselves to the fact that only one of you remains, the poignancy of this terrible discovery is easier to bear than…’

          The bureaucrat could not find a way to conclude his soliloquy so he knelt down and put his arms out to the Spriggan in a gesture of compassion.

          Pylos grinned.  He knew Mulupo would not be fooled by emotive rhetoric.

          Gerriod snarled, as if Maeldune had dug a knife into his brain.  ‘Surely the Spriggan won’t accept such bilge,’ he thought to himself.  

          Remiel also watched on, awaiting a barbed reply wherein Mulupo’s vocabulary would strip away all of Maeldune’s pretences.  But no such comment came.  Mulupo just stood staring at the Acoran.  His hands twitched as if the moment had overwhelmed him.  He looked about at the caravans carrying the bodies of his compatriots and back at Maeldune, whose face seemed to echo the sadness in Mulupo’s.

          Maeldune’s fingers moved ever so subtly, beckoning the Spriggan into his embrace.  And incredibly, Mulupo stepped forward and buried himself in the Acoran’s arms.

          Maeldune wrapped himself tenderly around the Spriggan, and gently stroked his back in a grand display of unbridled concern.  Pylos shook his head in disgust and headed back to the caravans but as he turned away, he thought he caught a glimpse of a smile on Maeldune’s thin lips.

          The smile – if it were there at all – did not last long.  Mulupo bared his teeth and sunk them deep into Maeldune’s neck.  The Acoran shot up, howling in pain, but Mulupo did not release him.  The Spriggan’s jaws had locked into position and it took the combined strength of Pylos, Sefar and Trypp to pry him loose.

          As Mulupo was torn away from Maeldune, gouts of blood sprayed into the air.  ‘You… crazed animal!’ Maeldune screamed, all his political adroitness now a vague memory.  ‘I console you, and you… you bite me, like a rabid marrok.’

          Held tightly in the grip of Sefar and Trypp, Mulupo was beaming a bloodstained smile.  ‘Like you, sir, I can feign an expression when the whim takes me.’

          ‘Are you mad?’ Maeldune screamed.

          Mulupo gestured to Sefar and Trypp to release him, which they did.  The rage in the Spriggan had passed and he seemed to have regained his composure.  He fastidiously smoothed down his gold waistcoat and attended to a button on his sleeve that had unfastened itself during the melee.  ‘Minister, let me put it in terms you will understand.’  His voice had become deeper, slower, his face fixed and sombre.  The Spriggan’s speech was characterised by a tone none had heard him take before.  ‘Do not speak of my people again and do not speak to me again.  Failure to comply with either of these two requests will have significant consequences.’

          ‘What consequences?’ Maeldune asked with great uncertainty.

          Mulupo’s stare bored into Maeldune’s face.  ‘I’ll bite your entire head off.’  There was not a person there who did not believe the Spriggan meant what he said.

          Remiel stepped between the pair and said, ‘We must go.  If the Ghul did do this in the middle of the day, we should not tarry here.’

          Pylos nodded.  ‘I agree.  Do you think we should head on to the pass or retreat and take another route to Caliban’s End.’

          Remiel clasped his hands and brought them up to his chin as he considered the options.  ‘If this attack did take place in the daylight as we suspect, we must discover how.  I do not believe the answer lies behind us.  We must push on, even though we risk a confrontation by doing so.’

          Sefar stepped forward and pulled out his scimitar.  ‘I hope they do attack.  All this sneaking about and hiding is eating at me.  I think it’s safe to say that Caliban knows we’re coming anyway.  We should not fear a fight, especially now we are on dry land.  We are meant to be the Myr’s fighting elite.’  He then cast a dismissive glance at Maeldune.  ‘Or at least, some of us are.’

          Pylos knelt before Mulupo.  ‘We will give these Spriggans a proper burial and continue on afterwards.’

          Mulupo nodded appreciatively.  ‘General Castalia, as fearsome a warrior as you are, your prowess on the battlefield is overshadowed by your qualities as a gentleman.  I humbly thank you for this gesture.’

          Pylos received the compliment and then proceeded to take the fallen Spriggans out of the caravans and lie them on a grassy flat patch to one side of the gully.  Remiel, Trypp, Gerriod and Sefar did their best to dig graves with their weapons whilst Mulupo collected flowers to honour the dead.  Maeldune slunk away into the shadows further down the gully and disappeared from sight.

          ‘He’s bold,’ Pylos noted to Remiel.  ‘He’s gone to meet with his friends further up the track.’

          ‘He knows we suspect him,’ Remiel whispered back.  ‘It won’t be long before he reveals himself to all.’

          Pylos nodded.  As he did so, he caught sight of a small metal object shining amidst the green stalks of grass at his feet.  ‘What is this?’ he said as he stooped down to pick the object up.

It was a small brooch, wrought in the shape of a broad tree.  Pylos handed it to Remiel to study.  ‘Do you recognise this?’

          Remiel looked at the brooch closely.  ‘No,’ he said turning the decorative pin over and over in his hand.  ‘It doesn’t look like the sort of thing a Spriggan would wear.  Perhaps it was part of their wares.’

          ‘No,’ responded Pylos with absolute certainty.  ‘This has been worn before.  Look underneath.  The gold is slightly tarnished.  This was not an item the Spriggans were selling.’

          ‘But who would wear such a thing?  Obviously not the Ghul.’

          ‘The distinctive tree shape reminds me of the trees of Morae.’

          Remiel’s eyes narrowed.  ‘ You think this was worn by one of the Pryderi?’

          ‘It could explain much,’ Pylos replied.  ‘Think about it Remiel.  Caliban has shown he has no qualms about wiping out entire races, but he did not kill all the Kobolds.’

          ‘Because he had a use for them.’

          ‘I think he has found a use for the Pryderi.’

          ‘What use?’

          ‘I believe there was more than one witch here this day.  I noticed strange marks in the soft dirt near the brook but they were not footprints.  The Pryderi were here and somehow have found a way to protect the Ghul in daylight.’

          ‘It’s an interesting theory,’ Remiel said as he digested Pylos’ words.

          ‘There’s something else.  Come to the caravan.’

          They left the others who were knee-deep in the graves they were digging for the Spriggan dead.  Pylos reached into the bloodied caravan and took hold of something within.  He winced as he did so.  He dropped a long, yellow object onto the running board of the caravan where Remiel stared at it in confusion.

          ‘What is it?’

          ‘I’m not sure,’ Pylos replied.  ‘It seems to be a spear of sorts but shorter than any I have ever seen before.   It’s not made out of wood nor is it metallic.  It actually feels like cartilage.’

          Remiel stuck out a hand and touched the strange object.  ‘It burns!’ he cried.  He quickly pulled his fingers away but the stinging sensation did not abate.  

          ‘It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen before,’ Pylos whispered.  ‘It seems to be organic.’

          ‘Cabal?’ suggested Remiel.

          ‘Perhaps.  There’s bound to be a breach around here somewhere.’

          Remiel nodded.  ‘It stands to reason but we’ll never find it in these mountains.  It’s a labyrinth.  Sefar says most of the paths lead to dead ends – either sheers drops or unscaleable cliffs’

‘We’d never find it, but there is someone who just might.’

 

 

Trypp did not want to let Pylos down.  Although they were different in almost every way, Trypp found himself strangely captivated by the grim-faced Helyan.  Perhaps it was Pylos’ clarity of purpose, or maybe the sense of honour that was evident in most things the Helyan said and did.  But at it simplest, Trypp knew the Helyan had a good heart and those seemed to be a diminishing commodity in the brutal world the Myr had become.

          The Sapphyrran scuttled across the rock-face with the confidence that had made him a legend among his people.  He found the rock of the Amaranthine Mountains easy to traverse and he had covered a great distance in a very short time.

          As he clambered around the curved wall that lay at the entrance to a deep canyon, he became aware of sounds that were out of place with the environment.  On the edge of his hearing, muted conversations echoed softly across the shadowy space.

          He edged across the steep walls, stretching out with all his senses so that he could find the source of the sounds before he was detected by whoever was making them.  It was not long before he had an answer.  In the recesses of the mountains, there were places where the sun never shone and it was in such a place that he found the Ghul encampment.

 

 

There would have been no more than twenty Ghul.  They sat on rocks listening to whispered instructions given to them by a tall female with long, straight hair.  She held before her a long, bone arrow which she used every now and then to punctuate her points.  When she stopped speaking, her troops responded as one: ‘Yes sir, Major Drabella.’  

          To the left of the soldiers, Trypp was surprised to see a small gathering of Moraens.  He recognised them immediately. Their distinctive tails swished back and forth across the dusty rock as they spoke to one another in hushed tones.

          But it was not the Ghul that alarmed Trypp, nor was it the presence of the Pryderi.  It was the massive creature that lay in the centre of the canyon.

          It was unlike any creature Trypp could have imagined.  It was at least three times the size of the few Ghul that were willing to sit near it.  Its relatively small, round head was resembled a yellow ball.  It was hairless and had no significant features other than a long slit that ran from one side of the creature’s spherical skull to the other.  Here and there a few dark brown spots decorated the skin covering the strange head and extensive body.  The creature had no legs to stand on; instead, it had a bulb of a body upon which it rocked.  It had huge forearms, easily as wide as a tree and decidedly more menacing.  Each arm ended in a wide black hole, much like the cannons Trypp had seen in the courtyard below Cessair Tower.  It rested these unusual arms upon its protuberant belly.

          Trypp did not move.  Although he was high above the disturbing gathering, he was also vulnerable.  He had nowhere to hide.

          A small shatterbug entered the canyon and Trypp became fearful of the light it cast upon the canyon walls.  He closed his eyes and wished for the glowing insect to fly away, but when he opened them again, to his dismay he found the shatterbug was playfully fluttering about his head.

          He swiped gently at the shatterbug hoping to scare it away and in his efforts to avoid detection, he soon found he had achieved the opposite – he dislodged a tiny pebble from the thin shelf of rock to which he clung.  He held his breath as he watched the little stone fall down into the deep canyon.  

          The stone was so small that Trypp could not even hear it hit the rock floor fifty yards below.  For a moment, he thought he was safe.  Neither the Ghul nor the Pryderi responded to the seemingly soundless impact of the stone upon the rock.  But there was one that had heard it – the creature in the centre of the camp.  Its name was Happestrum and though it had no ears, it could feel the vibration of the stone hitting the canyon floor and that was enough to wake it from its slumber.

          Suddenly, the slit running across its head opened wide to reveal a red eye that immediately focussed upon Trypp.

          Just as swiftly as its eye opened, Happestrum stretched out its arms pointing them at Trypp like a bowman fixing his sights upon a target.

          Trypp stared down the barrels of these arms in terror.  His heart thumped as he watched both arms recoil.  Two spear-like objects were fired his way.  He scampered up to a thin ledge that a few feet above and managed to swing his feet up just as Happestrum’s spears slammed into the rock.  Shards of stone were sent in all directions as impact of the projectiles shook the rock-face.  Trypp swung precariously but managed to keep his purchase upon the steep wall.

          He could see the camp below burst into a flurry of activity.  Ghul raced to find crossbows, longbows and needleback spines – anything to wipe the Myrran from the rock-face above.  It was not long before Drabella had the entire camp organised into an offensive unit.  

          ‘Fire!’

          A line of archers fired off a volley that Trypp only avoided by the most hazardous of leaps up the wall.  

          He cast a quick glance downwards.  A group of grenadiers were arching their backs preparing to fire.  They were armed with the poisonous needleback spines that had imprisoned Mulupo in a catatonic state for almost a year.  

          Trypp had wasted no time in committing to a strategy of his own.  He had to get higher, out of the reach of the creature that shot spears from its arms and out of the reach of the Ghul.  He leapt up the rock-face finding cracks and undulations that were no wider than his fingertips but were wide enough to hold him for a few seconds as he worked out an escape route.

          ‘Fire!’  Drabella’s shrill voice echoed up the canyon a second time.  Although the dread cry sent a chill through the Sapphyrran’s system, it also warned him of that another volley headed his way.  He realised that the Ghul would have been wise enough to aim above him this time – his rapid ascent of the rock-face made his intentions clear – so he decided to react to the attack in an unexpected way.  He leapt away from the wall he was climbing.  He wrapped his limbs close to his chest and somersaulted through the space above the encampment.  

          It was a desperate gambit but one that paid off.  The needleback spines shattered upon the rock-face he had been climbing just as he tumbled through the air to the wall opposite.  In an amazing feat of agility and strength, Trypp struck out with his left arm and snagged a small outcrop of rock.  He used his momentum to swing his legs up onto the granite protrusion.  He squatted on his haunches like a coiled spring and within a second of landing on the outcrop, he pushed away from it in a leap that sent him another ten feet up the rock-face.

          It was not a moment too soon.  Another pair of Happestrum’s spears smashed into the outcrop, obliterating it entirely.

          Trypp was high now, but not high enough.  A line of Ghul archers had sent a cloud of bone arrows his way.  Fortunately, his luck prevailed and the shafts that did hit him bounced off his carapace.  Had one hit one of his limbs, his manic climb out of the canyon would have been brought to a quick halt.

          He quickly scanned the rock-face above.  About thirty feet above him was a broad overhang.  It was at least five feet deep and over twenty feet wide – more than enough cover to get his breath back before continuing.  Under normal conditions he could have climbed to the overhang in seconds, but here in the canyon hidden away in the labyrinth of the Amaranthine Mountains, things were not exactly normal.  The wall above his head was covered with a thick sheet of ice.  It was as smooth as glass and he knew that even he would not be able to traverse it.

          His mind reeled to see such an obstacle but distant chanting provided him with an explanation as to its origins – the Pryderi.  The witches below had somehow created the ice sheet out of thin air.  His eyes darted about to discover ice forming all about him.  His hands felt cold.  He looked down to find a film of ice spreading across his blue skin.

          He risked a glance at the encampment below.  The Ghul had lowered their weapons, enthralled by the magick that their Pryderi allies had employed to stop him from escaping.

In the centre of the camp, Happestrum still had his arms raised.  He was about to fire.  His target was trapped.  It would be over in a few seconds.

          Trypp allowed himself to smile.  He saw a way out.  He lifted himself as high as he could so that his head and shoulders lay against the ice sheet that separated him from the broad overhang above.

          Happestrum fired and at the moment its two spears left its arms, Trypp dropped ten feet down the wall and quickly tucked his head into his chest.

          The impact of Happestrum’s projectiles upon the rock-face was dramatic.  Shards of ice fell like spilt nails to the ground beneath.  Some pieces of ice smashed against Trypp’s shell but he held on tightly to the wall, waiting for the frozen debris to pass.

          When Trypp lifted his head, he was elated to find that the way had been cleared.  Happestrum had inadvertently given him passage to the overhang above.  The Sapphyrran had no time to waste – the Pryderi’s ice spell was still in effect and he could see his route rapidly closing as ice reformed on the rock above.  

          He moved with such speed that it seemed like he did not grip the rock-wall at all.  Moments later he was lying on his back protected by the overhang, breathing deeply as he tried to slow down his racing heart.  He looked up at a patch of blue sky high above.  It gave him hope but he was not out of danger yet.  Ice continued to form on the canyon walls and he was not sure he was out of range of the Ghul and the strange creature in the centre of their camp.

          Trypp rose to his feet and planned his navigation of the canyon above.  Suddenly the overhang shook under his feet shook and a deafening noise reverberated up the narrow chasm.  A crack appeared where the overhang jutted out from the canyon wall.  Whatever had struck the underside of the overhang had hit it with such force that the entire shoulder of rock was dislodged, along with a fair section of surrounding wall.

          Trypp jumped instinctively and found a shelf of rock to cling to as the canyon beneath him was filled by a cloud of dirt and dust.  He did not stay there long.  He had been given an opportunity to escape – he would not waste it by pausing to watch what happened to the Ghul.

          Far below, Drabella stared up in horror as the overhang broke away from the wall.  She turned to Happestrum as shouted, ‘You stupid beast!  You’ve brought the canyon down upon us!’  She had more to say but her voice was silenced by the rock and rubble that crashed over the Ghul encampment like a mighty wave.

 

 

‘The Grove of Nemetona!’ Maeldune exclaimed.  ‘Are you mad?’

          Remiel stared calmly back at the Acoran.  ‘I believe it is the only way.’

          ‘I can understand your desire not to venture further into Madron’s Pass based on what the Sapphyrran has found, but the Grove of Nemetona is a dead end.  We must either head north to Tuatha or south to Helyas.’

          Pylos stepped forward with a broad smile on his face.  ‘Minister Maeldune, I believe I speak for all of us when I say you are no longer regarded as the leader of this expedition.’

          Maeldune wheeled around on Pylos.  ‘That much is clear Pylos.  You send the Sapphyrran ahead on a reconnaissance mission but fail to inform me of your purpose and now you and the priest are deciding upon our route without so much as a discussion.’

          ‘We have nothing to discuss with you, Maeldune.’

          The Acoran clasped his hands together as he grappled with the insurrection.  ‘This is an act of treason Pylos.  What have I done to incur such insubordination?’

          ‘What have you done Maeldune?’ Pylos retorted sarcastically.

          Underneath his cowl, the unburnt side of Maeldune’s face reddened.  ‘So I must slay twenty Ghul or so to meet with your approval General?  Is that it?’

          ‘Just one Ghul would suffice.’

          ‘Contumacious fool!  There are other ways to lead other than by brute strength.’

          ‘As I said, Maeldune, we have nothing to discuss with you.  The decision is made.  We will follow the priest to the Grove of Nemetona.  You may follow if you wish, or you can strike out on your own.  That decision we will leave to you.’

 

 

They made their way out of Madron’s Pass without seeing any sign of the Ghul.  By the time they reached the vineyards that lined the western slopes of the Amaranthine Mountains, night was falling upon the land.  The decision was made to camp the night and continue the march to the Grove of Nemetona in the morning

         The company lit a fire upon which they cooked a young shelp Pylos had found wandering in the nearby meadow.  After the meal, Maeldune moved away from the fire and sat down in self-imposed solitude under a tree within earshot of the campsite.

         The others contented themselves with a small drum of ale that Mulupo had acquired from a nearby farm.  Despite the ills that had befallen them since setting out from Cessair, the feeling among the group was one of unity.  Conversation flowed as easily as the drink they shared.

          ‘I have heard that Cephalus Silenus dwells within the Grove of Nemetona, Father Gideon,’ Sefar said as he wiped the froth of the ale from his upper lip.  ‘Is that true?’

          ‘I have not been to the Sacred Grove before,’ Remiel replied, ‘but my understanding is that he still lives there.’

          ‘And the Almoners – how many dwell there with him?’

          ‘I’m not sure.  I believe there are hundreds of acolytes but many will be abroad collecting alms.’

          Sefar frowned as he thought about his next comment.  With some hesitation in his voice, he said, ‘There are some who say that the Almoners are nothing more than bandits and that the money merely lines the pockets of Cephalus Silenus.’

          ‘Those who say such a thing are misinformed or in a state of delusion,’ Mulupo said before Remiel could respond.

          Sefar nodded to show that he accepted the Spriggan’s comment, but his eyes betrayed his feelings.

          ‘You wonder what happens to the money,’ Remiel suggested.  

          ‘Yes,’ answered Sefar.  ‘It does not go to the poor.  We have many beggars in El Khadir who have never seen aid from the Almoners.’

          ‘You’re a paladin,’ commented Gerriod.  ‘Is it not beyond your means to help the poor yourself?’

          ‘Perhaps,’ shrugged Sefar, ‘but that would be considered an insult to my family who have built up the wealth I enjoy.  All I am saying is that we should be careful.  We have been compromised too many times to blindly trust people we know so little about.’

          ‘Sefar,’ Remiel said softly, ‘you are right to suggest caution but as for Cephalus Silenus being an architect of extortion – he is undeserving of such accusations.  And the Almoners are truehearted people who live to serve the needs of others.  In their ceaseless journeys collecting alms, the Almoners watch over the innocent and the defenceless.  You portray them as glorified tax collectors – they are much more than that.’

          ‘I can attest to the veracity of that claim,’ added Mulupo.  ‘Last year my skyshop came down upon the plains of Tamu.  I was making repairs when the Sedomo came upon me.   They did not enter into my company to exchange pleasantries or to facilitate a business transaction.  They are a race more acquainted with cannibalism than they are with capitalism.’

          ‘Are they not the same thing?’ Trypp asked, a wry expression on his face.

          Mulupo glanced at the Sapphyrran and shook his finger at the comment.  Not wanting to engage in a socio-economic debate, he forged on with his tale.  ‘The Sedomo approached me, their malicious intent made clear in their murderous looks and acuate spears.    Then, from nowhere appeared a red-haired Acoran girl clad in indigo, accompanied by an Acoran man in similar garb.  I recognised them from their garments – they were Almoners.  The girl – Cate Audrey was her name – she was unarmed but even in the face of twenty savage Sedomo, she was unperturbed.  They came at her and she fended them off.  Using the palms of her hands she broke their spears and their wills.’

          Remiel nodded.  ‘I know the pair of which you speak Mulupo.’

          ‘The Almoners are well-trained in the art of combat,’ Pylos noted.  ‘They need to be.  They carry much gold back to Nemetona.’

         A loud yawn escaped Gerriod’s lips and broke the flow of the conversation.

          ‘I’m sorry,’ he said as he tried to stifle a second yawn.  He need not have apologise – within half an hour the ale and the long journey took full effect and everyone but Trypp was asleep.

 

 

The Sapphyrran usually enjoyed taking the watch – it gave him time to ponder the events in which he had become entwined.  As the first of the Myr’s moons breached the sky, his thoughts turned to home.  Somewhere over the Amaranthine Mountains lay the deserts of Khepera and the scintillating beauty of Lake Erras.  Soon he would be within sight of his beloved Skyfall.  The thought of the Skyfall stirred up mixed emotions within his breast.  The mental picture of the great cascading torrent was a reminder of much happier times but it also led his mind to the fears he had ignored for many weeks – what had happened to the people of Skyfall Town?  Had the Morrigu left them in peace or would he eventually return home to find that Mulupo was not the only one in the company without a race.

          When Pylos finally relieved him shortly after midnight, Trypp was exhausted contemplating what was happening back home.  Within moments of lying down on the cool grass he had chosen for a bed, he was falling into a deep and dreamless sleep.

 

 

Cephalus Silenus looked old.  Gerriod wondered how a man could look so old and still be alive.  Where his face wasn’t covered in white whiskers, it was lined with wrinkles.  His green eyes sparkled but underneath them lay heavy bags of sagging skin.  He was obviously Helyan – his olive skin and manly face indicated as much – but he also possessed an other-worldliness that reminded Gerriod more of the Morgai.  Cephalus’ long white hair fell onto a plain white tunic that was frayed around the edges.  If he had been collecting the alms for himself, he wasn’t spending the money on clothes.

         The company stood on the steps of a humble cottage deep in the Grove of Nemetona.  Overhead the thick curling boughs of giant oakaen trees shut out much of the sky.  In a number of places, long strands of bright sunlight pierced the canopy and painted parts of the cottage and its lush garden in brilliant golden light.  One such shaft fell upon Cephalus giving him an aura that seemed appropriate for this august occasion.

         ‘Please, do not kneel before me,’ he said to the company who – with the exception of Maeldune – had fallen to their knees as a sign of veneration.  ‘There are no ranks or stations here.  We are all equal in this grove.’  His voice was almost as deep as Sefar’s.  He spoke slowly and with great certainty.  Although he did not speak loudly, his words seemed to drown out all other noises.

         Remiel stood and bowed.  ‘Thank-you for receiving us…’  He paused not knowing what tile to use when addressing the legendary figure standing before them.

         ‘Father Gideon, please call me Cephalus.  It is my name.  You do me no insult by using it.’

Remiel nodded.  ‘It is indeed an honour to meet you in person.  Every day for many years I have looked upon your likeness in Garlot Abbey’s courtyard.’

          ‘Alas, I have heard what has happened to your beautiful church, Father.  I feel for your loss.  There were many good people serving at Garlot Abbey.  Their passing is tragic indeed.  It seems we now face an enemy who are completely lacking in human virtues.’

          ‘It is the same enemy that has driven us here.’

          Underneath a long white beard, Cephalus smiled with understanding.  ‘You seek the Thin Grey Line.’

          ‘Yes.  We were stymied in our attempts to cross the mountains.  We now turn to your for assistance.’

          ‘I give it unreservedly.’

 

 

It was decided that the company would set out on the secret path the following morning.  They had marched hard to arrive at Nemetona within a day and as the sun commenced its descent in the obscured sky, Cephalus proposed a tour of the Grove before the company lay down to sleep.

         He turned to Sefar and said, ‘Sir, would you like to see the Field of Confession?  It is a rare sight to behold.’

          Sefar nodded graciously despite having no comprehension of the field to which Cephalus had referred.  ‘That would be a treat,’ the Kheperan replied clumsily.

          ‘Yes indeed,’ Cephalus said encouragingly.  ‘Let us see what is done with all those coins the Almoners collect.’

          Sefar did not know what to say.  Cephalus shuffled off, leaning on a twisted wooden staff as he led the company down a narrow laneway bordered on either side by massive hedge of Sarras thorns.

          Pylos looked incredulously at the hedge ‘Are these…?’

          ‘Sarras thorns?’ Cephalus said, finishing his question for him.  ‘Yes they are, General.  You have a sharp eye.’

          ‘Not as sharp as these thorns.  I thought the Sarras Bush only grew in the Briar Patch.’

          Cephalus looked fondly at the wall of thorns and thick leaves surrounding them.  ‘Centuries ago a bury of Mabbits helped us plant them here in secret.  The Sarras Thorns stretch all the way to the rocky walls of the Amaranthine Mountains.’

          ‘Mabbits?’ said Mulupo in great surprise.  ‘Here?’

          ‘Yes,’ replied Cephalus.  ‘A number still remain among us, the descendents of the colony who first built this lush wall.  They are fairly shy so I doubt you’ll meet them, but they are extremely dear to us.  They remove the volatile Sarras fruit from the hedge.  Without them, we’d probably be in pieces.’

          ‘What’s beyond the hedge that demands such a fortification?’ Pylos asked as politely as his curiousity allowed.’

          Cephalus’ green eyes twinkled.  ‘Beyond these walls lies a sacred place that few have seen.  As you are accompanied by a priest, I am happy to show it to you.’  He hobbled forward, clearly anxious to reveal what lay beyond the thorns.  ‘Come now.  It has been many years since we had anyone visit us.  I seldom get a chance to show off.  I think you’ll be amazed at what you shall see.’  

 

 

They came to a place where a large hole had been cut in the thick hedge.  A thick gate wrought in black iron and decorated with leaves of silver filled the gap.

          ‘What’s beyond the gate?’ Sefar asked.

          ‘The Field of Confession.  It is a field unlike any you have imagined.’

          ‘Where does it lead?’

          ‘Nowhere in itself but beyond the field lies the Thin Grey Line, the path you shall take to Khepera.’

         Cephalus turned to the iron gate and struck its ornate iron bars with his staff.  It was not long before the gates were opened by a beautiful, red-headed Acoran girl.  Her face beamed when she saw the old man standing before her.  ‘Hello Cephalus.  I didn’t know you were visiting the Field today.’

         ‘It’s a happy surprise, my dear Cate.’

          He stood back and held out his hand to introduce the group he had led to the gate.  ‘These fine men have journeyed all the way from Cessair and will be walking the Thin Grey Line tomorrow.  I thought we could show them the Field before they take their rest tonight.’

          Cate Audrey curtsied politely before the group.  She seemed neither surprised nor alarmed to see them.  ‘It is an honour to –’

          She stopped and grinned when she saw Remiel.

          ‘Hello Cate,’ he said returning her smile.  ‘It is good to see you again.’

          ‘Father Gideon!’ she exclaimed.  ‘I hardly recognised you without your veil!’

          ‘I lost it some time ago Cate.’

          Cephalus laughed.  ‘Well this is a day for uncovering things that are hidden!  Cate, my girl, please lead the way.’

          She skipped merrily into the Field, waving a carefree hand for the company to follow her.  From the privacy of the back of the group Maeldune eyed her with rapacious eyes.

 

 

And so the party entered the Field of Confession.  It was a wide open space, rooved by a blue sky and surrounded by the tall Sarras hedge.  The eastern side of the field was sealed by the sheer slopes of the Amarinthine Mountains.

         But it was not what bordered the field that was astounding.  It was what lay inside it.  No-one said anything as they laid eyes upon countless shining statues rendered in likenesses so real that had they not been comprised of precious gold, they would have been mistaken for people.  They stood in countless rows that ran in perfect lines over the vast field.

          Almoners of all races moved among the gilded statues, occasionally pausing to pull out a weed at a statue’s base, or to brush away a cobweb that had formed in the nook of an elbow.

Quite a few Almoners tended open patches of soil.  They gently churned the rich dirt with mattocks and shovels as if preparing it for sowing.

          ‘What is this place?’ said Sefar when he finally could find the words to speak.  ‘It’s amazing.’

          Cephalus smiled broadly, pleased by the compliment, but it was Remiel who answered the Kheperan’s question.  ‘In the churches all over the Myr, gold coins are collected at the beginning of every service.  Into this coin all the sins of the penitent are invested.  These coins are brought to this field by the Almoners.’

          ‘What happens to the coins?’ Gerriod asked.  ‘Where did all these beautiful statues come from?’

          Silenus shuffled forward and reached up to touch Sefar paternally on the shoulder.  ‘In the light of a setting sun, the Almoners plant the coins in this field.  The sowing of the coins is a holy practice.’

Sefar’s face did not disguise his confusion.  ‘But where did all these statues come from?  Who are these people?’

          ‘The statues are a manifestation of the penitent,’ Mulupo said as his mind worked quickly to put the pieces together.  ‘These edifices are the personification of each sinner’s guilt.’

          Cephalus clapped loudly, impressed by the Spriggan’s deductions.  ‘Your companion is correct.  When the coins of the confessionals are laid in this holy soil, something miraculous occurs during the night.  Where each coin is buried, by morning a statue of the sinner stands.’

          ‘What about those who have already donated a coin?’ asked Pylos.  ‘Do multiple statues exist for the same person?’

          ‘No,’ replied Cephalus.  ‘If a sinner’s representation already stands in the Field, the new coin is simply handed to the existing statue.’

          ‘I hear voices,’ Gerriod said curiously.

          Cephalus smiled.  ‘Let us investigate together shall we?  Let us approach the statues so that you may understand.’

          They did so and their wonderment increased tenfold.

          ‘By Heliope, this is astounding,’ Pylos gasped.  It was a reaction echoed by all his companions.  Looking about the field, they could see the faces of the statues, and these faces were moving, speaking quietly to themselves.

          ‘Are they alive?’ Gerriod said incredulously.

          ‘I would not describe them as living,’ Cephalus replied.

          ‘Are they sentient?’ Maeldune asked suspiciously.  ‘Do they have the capacity to reason?’  He too was amazed by what he saw but also unnerved.  

          ‘They are not sentient beings,’ Cephalus stated plainly.  ‘They are they manifestations of sin – that is all.’

          ‘What is the subject of their speech?’ inquired Pylos.  

          ‘Misdeeds.  Crimes.  Indiscretions.  The statues continually retell the sins of the one who gave the coin.’

          Sefar turned to Cephalus with a stunned look upon his face.  ‘Please help me to understand this; I am not a church-going man.  If I attend a holy service, I hand over a coin and that coin is brought here where it is planted and by morning it has sprouted into a statue that looks just like me, a statue that continually repeats my sins.’

          ‘In essence you are right.’

          ‘It’s beyond belief!’ he blurted.  He did not mean to be offensive but he found the extraordinary scene to be overwhelming.

          ‘It has nothing to do with belief or faith,’ Cephalus said gently.  ‘It is what it is.’

          ‘But why?’ Sefar implored.  ‘What is the purpose?’

          ‘Absolution.  The statues take some on the sinner’s burden.’

          For a while, no-one spoke and the rumble of innumerable statues’ voices filled the air.  The words spoken were soft but in each statue’s hollow voice, remorse could be heard.

          ‘How many are here?’ Gerriod asked as he turned his head to the north where the lines of statues faded into a light mist hanging in the distance.

          ‘We do not know,’ replied Cephalus.  ‘There may be millions here.  This place is a holy tesseract.  Although the Field stretches out as far as the eyes can see, this statuary occupies a much smaller space than the physical space you see before you.’

          Gerriod shook his head.  ‘I don’t understand it, but it doesn’t seem to matter.  It is wonderful.’

          ‘Some of the statues are silent,’ observed Trypp.  ‘They do not move.’

          ‘Look closer, Sapphyrran,’ urged Cephalus.  ‘What do you see?’

          Trypp gaze into the still face of a Tethran woman nearby.  ‘I see peace.  Serenity.’

          ‘Yes, you gaze upon the likeness of one whose sins have been forgiven.  The burden has been lifted and the statue is at peace.’

          Remiel stepped forward.  ‘May we walk the Field?’

          Cephalus was surprised by the request.  His lined brow became even more crinkled as he raised his eyebrows in response.  ‘It is an unusual request, Father Gideon, but these are unusual times.  You may explore the Field on two provisos.  The first is that you leave before sundown – the Almoners must be permitted to plant their coins in peace.’

          ‘And the second requirement?’

          ‘Gentlemen, I must ask is that whatever you see or hear stays within the thorny walls of the Field.’

          They agreed and moved off amongst the statues, each man unsure where he should go but captivated by what he saw.

 

 

Remiel stood staring at a statue in the corner of the field.  The statue was the same height and wore the same robes as he.  

          ‘I have done terrible things,’ Remiel said to the statue whose voice echoed the same sentiments.

          The statue opened its eyes and smiled.  ‘You are not responsible for your brother’s actions.’

          ‘What I did is indefensible.’

          ‘You have paid for that sin many times over.’

          ‘Then why are you not at peace?’ he asked the statue.

          ‘Because you have not forgiven it yourself.  You cling to your sin.  It is time to let it go.’  The statue closed its eyes and returned to its sorrowful mantra.

 

 

The sun was low in the sky but the warmth of the afternoon hung around the Field of Confession as if unwilling to accept that the day was leaving.  Maeldune wished that the penitent statues would all close their mouths so he could concentrate.  He was searching through the vast field for something that had caught his eye earlier that day.  He was prepared to stalk the field all night to find what he sought.

          Between the statues, the Almoners moved, busily planting coins before the day’s end.  At the edge of the field, not far from the western wall of Sarras thorns that bound the area, Cate Audrey covered her last coin with soft, brown soil.  As she did so, she saw Maeldune’s long shadow fall across the ground.

          She rose to her bare feet, and wiped her dirty hands on her indigo skirt.  ‘It is time to leave the Field, Minister.  You should return to your company.’

          ‘I seek other company tonight,’ Maeldune said darkly.

          As if she had a window into the black desires in his heart, Cate said softly, ‘I am not for you.’

          ‘Girl, you are a mere servant.  I am the Minister for Justice.’  He grabbed her by her robes and pulled her close.

          Cate took hold of his wrist and turned it slowly.  Her grip was so unequivocal that Maeldune had to release his grasp on her for fear of having his wrist broken.

          ‘You will not deny me!’ he snarled.

          She was not intimidated by Maeldune’s show of aggression.  ‘You will be denied and should you persist in this fruitless pursuit, you will come to harm.’

          Pride flared up in the Acoran’s face.  He pulled a knife from the folds of his cloak.  ‘You dare refuse me?  You will pay for your impertinence.’

          ‘Sir, I do not fear you,’ Cate said plainly.  

          Maeldune was incensed by her complete lack of fear.  He lifted his knife to her face.  Its blade shone softly in the setting sun’s fading light.

          ‘Attack me with your knife and it will be used against you,’ she warned.

          Cate turned and walked down the grassy path that lay alongside the empty plots of soil on that side of the field.

          ‘You’ll learn I am not someone you should turn your back on, foolish girl.’  His eyes quickly darted across the grove.  There was no-one close by.  He had suffered Pylos’ impudence for weeks, and he was not going to suffer the insolence of a simple servant girl.  Thoughts barrelled through his head at a terrifying pace.  He was tired of taking orders, especially those passed on by the Ghul.  He was tired of waiting for Caliban’s intricate designs of the future to manifest in a form that would benefit him.  He had bided his time for too long.  For the purpose of political advancement he had entered into an empty marriage to the Queen of Acoran’s niece and all that had led to was years of sycophantic nodding to the Lord Chamberlain.  It was not enough.  

          The pent-up frustration of years was held aloft with that knife and when Maeldune sprang at Cate Audrey, the blade he wielded fell with all the weight of his discontent.

          Cate stepped aside casually and spun around with a roundhouse kick to Maeldune’s jaw.  The knife went spinning into the air as Maeldune was lifted off his feet by the force of the blow; it was not until he hit the ground that he realised she had broken his jaw.  He rolled onto his side in a vain attempt to regain his feet but something shot through the air, and thudded into his hand.  It was the knife he had wielded only seconds before and now it was buried in his right-hand, pinning it to the dark soil beneath his palm.

          Cate looked down at Maeldune with sincere pity in her voice.  ‘Minister, I did tell you that I would use your weapon against you should you choose to use it upon me.  Yours was a poor choice.  I hope you may learn from this incident and be a better man for having survived it.’

          She smiled.  There was no malice or ill-feeling in the smile, and the benevolence of her disposition enraged him.  She started walking away from him.

          ‘You can’t leave me here!’ he screamed.  His words were almost incomprehensible.  He winced as he moved his jaw.  The pain was so acute, he momentarily forgot the blade buried in his hand.  He unwittingly turned his arm against the blade and screamed so loudly, a flock of vultira burst from their nests among the forest of statues.

          ‘Your friends will be here soon enough,’ she said quietly and then she was gone.

 

 

‘Do you need some help Maeldune?’

          He looked up to see the faces of three Ghul soldiers.  He recognised one of them – it was Major Drabella.  Her skin was torn and her hair ripped from her scalp in places.  She had survived the collapse of the overhang in the canyon near Madron’s Pass, but she was battered and scarred.  Her skull had caved in slightly on the left side of her forehead where a falling boulder had smashed into it.  No such dent had been made in her confidence.  

          Drabella’s wan face was lit by the warm glow of two shatterbugs that were perched on her shoulders.  The beautiful crystalline creatures looked out of place, flapping their tiny gossamer wings upon the bone epaulets Drabella wore.  She looked down at Maeldune with a haughty look that did not make him feel he was among friends.

          ‘What are you doing here?’ Maeldune gasped.  His words were contorted by the broken jaw he had received at the hands of Cate Audrey, but they were clear enough for Drabella to understand.

          ‘Caliban sent us here to speak to you.’

          ‘How did you get into the Field?’

          ‘We pushed our way through the thorns.  Such a barrier might hold back a Myrran, but the Ghul are not so easily kept at bay.’

          ‘You must leave!’ Maeldune hissed.  ‘If I am seen with you, I am finished.’

          Drabella waved his protestations away as if they were annoying insects.  ‘Maeldune, we are not concerned for your fate.’

          Maeldune winced as he looked down at the dagger that still lay impaled in the flesh of his hand.  He could not bring himself to remove it.  ‘Help me!’ he groaned.  

          ‘No,’ said Drabella coldly.  ‘We are not here to extricate you out of problems of your own creation.  We come here with a message.’

          ‘What message?’

          ‘Caliban has been watching.  He is most impressed with your loyalty but –’

          ‘I cannot say I am as impressed with his loyalty,’ Maeldune interrupted.  ‘I want you to explain the attack at the Scarlet Rock Theatre.  Had not the Colossi arrived, I would have been eviscerated by that Cabal demon.’

          ‘The Colossi.  Yes, that was a surprise.  For all Caliban’s meticulous planning, he had never factored in the actions of the Colossi.’

          ‘I thought Caliban’s plans included keeping me alive.’  His speech was punctuated with gasps of pain each time his jaw moved.

          ‘There was no danger to you Maeldune.  Caliban felt that he needed to get his brother’s measure.  He knew that Remiel Grayson would not let you perish.’

          Drabella’s tone was dismissive and Maeldune would not suffer it.  ‘Who do you think you’re talking to?’

          She ignored the question.  ‘Maeldune, do you wonder how your wife fares?’

          ‘Why do you speak of her?’

          ‘At the moment, Jehenna Canna is bound for Ankara aboard a vessel limping its way across the Arion Ocean.’

          ‘Why do you tell me this?  What is its relevance?’

          ‘Your wife Maeldune – how would she feel about your attack upon this red-haired maiden?’

          ‘That is not your business Drabella.’

          ‘But it is.  Your attack upon the Almoner has introduced an unknown element into the game.  This girl knows you cannot be trusted.  She may share this knowledge with your companions.’

          ‘They don’t trust me anyway.  They will continue on to the Endless whether I am with them or not.’

          ‘Then your usefulness to us must be questioned.’

          ‘Do not threaten me Drabella!’ Maeldune snapped.  ‘What of your usefulness?  You allowed yourselves to be discovered at Madron’s Pass!’

          ‘You know full well that our presence at the pass was necessary.’

          ‘You were meant to attack us, not a bunch of Spriggan merchants.’

          ‘Remiel Grayson must be continually reminded of the consequences of his actions.  The slaughter of the priests at Garlot was not enough.  Killing the last few remaining Spriggans seemed an appropriate action to take.  It was an opportunity we could not allow to pass.’

          ‘It alerted the others to your presence!’

          ‘We do not fear them Maeldune.  With the Pryderi on our side, we cannot be defeated.’

          ‘Really?’ scoffed Maeldune.  ‘Then how is it that a single Sapphyrran managed to elude you?’

          ‘Luck,’ sneered Drabella.  ‘Trypp Elan was lucky.  Nothing more.’

          Maeldune pulled himself up onto one elbow.  With the knife still embedded in it, he worked his hand free from the soil.  His face was wrapped in pain.  Since leaving Cessair he had suffered more injuries than most people had ever faced in their lives: he had been struck over the back of the head in order to corroborate his story when the Ghul had attacked them in the Stone Forest; this action was repeated to support his claim that the Ghul had taken him captive upon the Nessan Sea; when Remiel Grayson had fought back, he had been burnt by the immolated body of one of the Ghul; this had been swiftly followed by the punch Pylos had delivered to his stomach for calling the Helyan a grunt; Mulupo had also attacked him; and now as a result of his advances upon Cate Audrey, he had a broken jaw and his own knife driven into his hand.

          Upon noticing Maeldune’s preoccupation with the knife, one of the Ghul accompanying Drabella nonchalantly reached down and pulled the blade from the Acoran’s hand.  Maeldune bit down hard upon his lip to stifle the scream that burst from his lungs.

          ‘Maeldune, Caliban desires to know why you are here in this strange place.’

          Maeldune twisted his head up to face Drabella.  The pain on his face had been overtaken by rage.  ‘You can tell my dear friend that he needn’t worry.  His brother will be delivered to him and I will dispose of the others.  You and your bungling troops can stay out of this.’

          ‘Explain to me the route you will take,’ Drabella said authoritatively, ignoring the insult like a parent dealing with a petulant child.

          Maeldune considered his response.  It was not the time to engage in a power-struggle with Drabella.  He needed to wait until he had the upper hand.  Swallowing his pride, he gave her the answer she sought.   ‘There is a passage through these mountains that the squad will take tomorrow.  It will take us directly to the border of Khepera.  We will travel to El Khadir and from there to the Worldpool.’

          ‘You will find El Khadir a poor choice of destination.’

          ‘Why?  What has happened in El Khadir?’

          ‘It is inconsequential.  We will continue to monitor your performance.  I think we are agreed that it is time to cull your numbers.  As amusing as your adventures have been to our master, he now tires of the company you keep.  Kill the Kheperan and the filthy Spriggan next.  The Sapphyrran must also be slain before your reach Lake Erras.’

          ‘What about the mariner?’

          ‘Caliban has been impressed by Gerriod Blake’s persistence.  Let him live a while longer.’

          ‘And Pylos?  Surely it is time to be rid of him.’

          ‘Your skirmishes of with the Helyan have amused Caliban greatly but that too is a relationship you should bring to an end.’

          Maeldune nodded but he did not find the arrangement agreeable.  He felt betrayed.  He had believed himself to be a partner with Caliban but he now saw signs that his old friend regarded him as a lackey – or worse, a source of amusement, like a jester or a clown.  

          He glanced back over the Field.  ‘What of the girl who did this to me?  I demand you show demonstrate your solidarity to me by punishing her most severely.’

          Drabella deliberated upon this and then broke out into a mirthless grin.  ‘We will do what we can.’

          ‘How will you find her in this field of statues?’

          ‘She will come to us.  Her heart is pure.  Despite what you tried to do to her, she will come to your defence.’

          ‘My defence?’

          ‘Yes.  When your companions find her dead body, no suspicion will fall upon you, as you will have a Ghul knife buried in your guts.’  Maeldune was momentarily puzzled but as Drabella drew her knife he realised what the Ghul commander had in mind.  

          ‘Please - no!’ Maeldune implored.  ‘There has to be another way,’ He crawled away but the Ghul were on him in seconds.  His broken jaw wobbled as a cry of pure terror shot out into the night.

Drabella pulled back the knife as her soldiers pinned Maeldune’s arms back.  He screamed again.  ‘Help!  Pylos!’  Such was his desperation that he did not care who came to his aid.

          Suddenly, Drabella’s head jolted sharply to one side and she tumbled away from Maeldune.  She had been struck hard.  The knife fell from her hand as she rolled across the dirt between the whispering statues.

          ‘Minister?  Are you alright?’  It was the girl.  Cate Audrey had come to Maeldune’s aid just as Drabella had predicted.  

          The Ghul outnumbered her three to one but to their surprise, they struggled to overwhelm her.  The two soldiers that had held Maeldune raised their crossbows against her and fired their bolts in quick succession.  Cate was untroubled by the volley of bone shafts.  With hands that moved so quickly they could hardly be seen, she swiped aside the bolts with ease.  She clutched at the last bolt in this volley and caught it.  In a blur of movement, she twisted her hand around and sent the shaft flying back at the Ghul who fired it.  He only saw it a split-second before it entered his left eye.

          Unfortunately, even with reflexes beyond comprehension, Cate did not have eyes in the back of her head.  Drabella had crept behind her and struck with unbridled ferocity.  In one hand she held a crossbow from which were fired three bolts in quick succession.  These hammered into the Almoner’s left leg.  The bolts sliced through her calf muscles, effectively rendering her leg useless.            She fell to her knees just as Drabella unfurled the whip that usually hung from her belt.

          A snapping sound split the air and the whip coiled around Cate’s throat like an Ankaran tree-serpent.  Drabella tugged hard and Cate felt her larynx being squeezed.  It would not be long before it was crushed altogether.

          One of the other Ghul – the one that was not trying to pull a crossbow bolt from his eye – saw an opportunity and rushed at the Almoner.  In his hand he brandished the knife that he had plucked from Maeldune’s hand earlier.  Despite the fact that she was restricted by the whip around her neck, Cate effortlessly disarmed her attacker.  With one hand she chopped into his throat whilst the other stole the knife.  A second later the blade opened the Ghul from his belly to his chin.  He fell to the ground writhing about, trying to keep his organs confined to his torso but it was futile.  As he squirmed about in the dirt, his innards spilt out upon the ground.  He was still alive, but in no condition to fight.

          Maeldune could hear the heavy footsteps of his companions running across the Field, punctuated occasionally by the tapping of Silenus’ staff upon the ground.  The whip around Cate’s neck went slack and then disappeared altogether.

          Drabella fled.  The only sign of her was the pair of shatterbugs that had crawled upon her shoulders.  They now fluttered about the statues shedding their delicate light upon the nearby statues.

          Cate tried to pull herself up, but her movement was arrested by a sudden, searing pain in her right foot.  The Ghul she had blinded had plunged his knife into her foot, pinning it to the ground, just as she had pinioned Maeldune’s hand earlier.  

          She screamed and reached down to pull the knife from her foot.  The remaining Ghul took advantage of the situation.  Whilst she was removing the knife, he jumped on her back and twisted her head back exposing her neck.  In his free hand, he wielded the crossbow bolt he had pulled from his eye socket.  ‘Acoran woman – you have fought well, but like all your kind, your time is over.’

          He pushed the bolt into her neck but she managed to get her hand up to stop the killing blow.  The Ghul was strong but so was she.  The harder he pushed the more she resisted.  It was a battle of wills.  At the centre of the struggle, the sharp tip of the crossbow bolt quivered an inch above her skin.  Should she falter for a second, she would die with a bone shaft buried in her throat.

          It was a crucial moment.  Maeldune saw the opportunity before him.  Nothing would garner the trust of his squad more than the defence of this innocent girl.  He pulled himself across the ground and stole up behind the Ghul who was too preoccupied to notice his approach.  He picked up the knife Drabella had dropped.  He was within striking range.  He pulled his arm back… and waited.

 

 

The Ghul had the superior position.  Cate knew it.  Her arm shook wildly.  She gritted her teeth but it was hopeless.  Feeling her despair, the Ghul pressed his attack.  Her hand fell away and the bolt sliced through her throat, severing her jugular vein.  She dropped limply to the soil.

          Out of the corner of his eyes, Maeldune saw his companions approaching.  They were sprinting through the statues.  It was time to strike.

          Maeldune plunged Drabella’s knife into the back of the Ghul’s neck.  He pushed so hard the tip of the blade burst through the soldier’s throat.  The Ghul bucked wildly and Maeldune continued to push.  All he had to do was hold on long enough for the others to intercede.

          He didn’t have to wait long.  Pylos arrived first.  He plunged his shatterstone sword into the spine of the Ghul who promptly burst into flame and dissolved in a cloud of foul-smelling cinders.

The Ghul that Cate had cut open was continuing to struggle with its spilt entrails.  Pylos ensured this struggle was short-lived.  

 

 

Pylos bent down over the figure of Cate Audrey.  He clutched her neck where the bone shaft had split her delicate skin.  Her red hair lay flat against her shoulders, damp with blood.  There was nothing that could be done.  She was dead.

          Remiel turned Maeldune around and in the suffuse light of some inquisitive shatterbugs, he studied Maeldune’s face for some sign of treachery.

          ‘The Ghul broke my jaw.  I tried to defend this girl, but was too late.’

          As unlikely as the tale seemed, Remiel could not ignore what he had seen.  Maeldune was trying to kill the Ghul and his wounds were such that they could be not dismissed as self-imposed injuries.

          ‘What were the Ghul doing here?’ Remiel rasped.

          Cephalus stepped forward, flanked by a number of Almoners.  He gestured to them to approach the body of Cate Audrey.  ‘Take her to my cottage and lay her on my bed.  Clean her wounds and put her in clean garments.  She shall be buried in the morning.’  He then pointed to Maeldune.  ‘Take the Minister to the infirmary.  Do what you can do heal his injuries.  It would seem he almost died defending our Cate.  Treat him with the respect such valour deserves.’

          Moments later, the Field of Confession was still and empty except for the voices of the penitent statues which continued to confess the world’s sins to the night.

 

 

‘Pylos, a word with you.’

          It was early morning and Pylos was drawing water from the well outside Cephalus’ cottage.  Whilst the rest of the company slept, he was making preparations for the march to Khepera.  He looked up to see the ancient figure of Cephalus Silenus standing under a nearby tree.  Cephalus’ face was illuminated by a lantern of shatterbugs and the face the soft light revealed was grim.

          Pylos put down the bucket in his hand and approached the old man.   ‘Yes Cephalus?’ he whispered warily.

          ‘I must know, brave Pylos, how well do you know Maeldune Canna?’

          ‘All too well, I’m afraid,’ Pylos replied.

          ‘You do not trust him?’

          ‘Maeldune?  No, I do not trust him.’  Pylos looked into Cephalus’ emerald eyes and asked, ‘Should I?’

          ‘He was wounded trying to defend Cate Audrey…’

          ‘But?’

          ‘But I have serious doubts General,’ Cephalus said sadly.  ‘Despite what we witnessed in the Field, I do not believe he is a man of virtue.  I… I fear he had a hand in Cate’s death. His heart is colourless.’

          Pylos was shocked.  For all his hatred of Maeldune, he had not considered such a thing.  ‘You think he killed her?’

          ‘Pylos, I am a synaesthete.  I see things you do not.’

          ‘I’m sorry.  I do not understand.’

          ‘A synaesthete’s senses do not work as yours do.  You hear words.  They are sounds to you.  I see them as colours.  You can sense emotions.  I can see them.  I can visualise a person’s true nature in the same way you can see what they are wearing.  My talents allow me to see what is in a person’s heart.  Words mislead, they hide the truth.  What I see cannot be hidden.’

          Pylos smiled.  It made sense.  ‘This explains how you could achieve the impossible hundreds of years ago.’

          ‘You speak of the unification of the Church.  You are correct.  My abilities have allowed me to read people, influence their decisions in ways so subtle, I left no mark.  When Maeldune Canna speaks, I see little but shades of grey but on the edges of his words I see tinges of deep red.’

          ‘What does that signify?’

          ‘It could mean many different things.  Passion in some, anger in others.  In Maeldune I see raw ambition.  And it is coupled with something that makes him dangerous – frustration.  He will do anything to achieve his ends, and his grey language is the means by which he will achieve it.  He is at best a liar; at worst he is a murderer.’

          ‘Why do you tell me this?’

          ‘I would not have you suffer the same fate as Cate Audrey.  I see the goodness within you.  Or perhaps, it is our kinship, Pylos.  After all, I am a Helyan, you know.’

          ‘You are the greatest Helyan.  You brought in an age of peace that had never been witnessed before in the Myr.’

          ‘It counts for little now.  My time is coming to an end.  But you… you have important things to do.’

          Pylos look up into the eastern sky.  Where it had been black, now it was indigo.  Soon it would be blue and they would be on their way to Khepera.  It seemed such a long way to go.  And Caliban’s End seemed as far away as the fading stars above.

          He turned back to Cephalus.  ‘It is an amazing skill you possess.  How did you acquire it?’

          ‘I have always had it.  As a child, I assumed everyone experienced the world in the same way.  In fact, it was not until I was a young man that I realised that others lived in a world where language and emotions were not accompanied by colour.  It was like finding out one day that the whole time you have been enjoying the taste of freshly baked bread your friends have merely been able to smell it.’

          ‘Cephalus, may I ask a favour?’

          ‘Yes, my boy.  You may ask.’

          ‘When you look at Remiel Grayson, what do you see?’

          ‘That’s an interesting question Pylos.  His colours are most intriguing.  Around him I see hues that cannot be seen in the world around us.  There is a complexity to his palette that is difficult to convey.’

          ‘Can he be trusted?’

          ‘I cannot say.  Your instincts have served you well thus far.  Trust in them.’

          ‘Cephalus – I have one more request.  It is a bold one.  If there is any way you could spare some of your followers… the Almoners would be a great boon to us.’

          Cephalus looked towards his cottage.  Inside that building lay the body of Cate Audrey, a woman so full of vitality and love, it was hard to imagine her dead.

          ‘Pylos, I must say no.  There may come a day when my people will stand shoulder to shoulder with you to fight against the evils that have beset the Myr, but now is not that time.  The Almoners must continue their holy duties, for if we neglect the spiritual to obtain a physical victory, then we have won little indeed.’

 

 

They entered the Thin Grey Line.  It was a sight Trypp would never forget.  Perfectly vertical walls stretched up for leagues – literally.  At the very top of the incredible walls a sliver of light ran like a sapphire necklace across the nape of the world.  Before them stretched a perfectly straight, flat path as far as they could see. There were no undulations.  It was difficult at first to comprehend how a path could be so lacking in features.  Gerriod for one was extremely pleased with the total absence of hills.

          ‘The walls – they’re totally smooth,’ Trypp said as he ran his long, blue fingers over the cool, grey rock beside him.

          ‘Could you climb them?’ Gerriod asked.

          ‘No,’ Trypp said without hesitation.  ‘Nobody could.’

          ‘Let’s go,’ said Pylos.  ‘We have a long march ahead of us.’

 

 

The path was so narrow it forced them to walk in single file which discouraged conversation.  All was silent except for the warm breeze that rolled in from the east.  Trypp found the walk down the thin line to be wonderfully spiritual and for the first time since leaving Skyfall Town, he found his mind was at peace.

          Mulupo went first, and he spent the first hour of the journey muttering superlatives to himself.  In all his travels he had never seen such a sight and though he was usually given to ornamentation of the most lurid degree, he found the straight lines and monochromatic shades of the path to be strangely appealing.  He had never seen anything that was so simple and yet so grand.

          He was followed by Trypp who was in turned followed by Gerriod.  In the middle of the line walked Sefar, then Remiel.  Pylos walked behind Remiel, followed by Maeldune who walked proudly at the rear of the squad.

          The Almoners had worked wonders upon the Acoran.  Though his facial burns remained, they no longer caused pain.  His jaw had been reset and his hand completely healed.  He suspected the patch of veganistones he noticed outside Cephalus’ cottage must have had something to do with his restoration.  He had fainted not long after he had been found in the Field of Confession and much of the night was a blur.  However, by morning, he felt stronger than ever and he looked forward to his mission with confidence.  He would show Caliban and his minions that he was not to be regarded so casually.  Much of what had happened in the world over the past year could not have been achieved without his contribution.  He would soon reap the rewards of his labours.  All he had to do was deliver Remiel Grayson to his brother.  His path was as defined as the Thin Grey Line before him.  He felt content.  It was a strange feeling.

          Pylos on the other hand was anything but content.  At numerous points during the march he had to stop to get his breath back.  Remiel noticed he was breathing hard and sweating profusely.  His eyes flicked around nervously though there was nothing to see.  In the close confines of the Thin Grey Line, there was no hiding his state of agitation.

          ‘What’s wrong Pylos?’ whispered Remiel as he handed him a water bottle.

          ‘I’m not sure.  It started as soon as we stepped onto the path.’

          ‘Do you feel okay?’

          ‘I’m not sure.’  Pylos’ face reddened.  ‘I feel I am caught in a trap.  We are vulnerable here.’  His voice was strained.

          Trypp placed a hand on Pylos’ shoulder.  ‘We are safe here Pylos.  We are alone.’

          Pylos shook off the hand and started pacing back and forth.  ‘By the gods, my heart is racing!’  He felt like he was suffocating.  All morning the sides of the narrow canyon had appeared to be moving inwards as they walked, threatening to crush him, but whenever he stopped and examined them, he could see that the walls were exactly the same distance apart as they were at the start of the march.

          ‘Pylos, I believe you are suffering from an acute case of claustrophobia,’ Mulupo observed.

          ‘Well isn’t that perfect!’ laughed Maeldune.  ‘General Castalia, if you don’t like the confined spaces here, how will you manage when we are deep underground in the Endless?’

          Pylos spun around.  ‘I’ll just have to make sure we don’t stay there too long.’

 

 

They marched on and Pylos did his best to stifle the fears that continued to quicken his heart.  By the evening of the second day, he wondered whether the narrow fistula actually had an end.

          The sun disappeared behind them and the Thin Grey Line was steeped in darkness.  The light was dim, but it did not remain so for long.  A light appeared behind them, moving down the narrow way at a steady speed.  Pylos shoved his way past Maeldune, drawing his sword as he did so to meet whatever approached.

          Moments later, Gerriod was heartened to see him sheath his blade.  It was no enemy that approached but rather a pair of shatterbugs.  Although there was no need for illumination – the path before them did not change – it was comforting to be able to see each other as they marched on into the night.

 

 

Trypp heard it first.  A whistling sound from above.  He looked up and against the thin ribbon of stars above he saw a dark object hurtling towards them.  The Sapphyrran shoved Sefar forward, and seconds later something pounded into the ground where his companion had stood.

          The shatterbugs’ light poured over the object, revealing something so unexpected and shocking, it was some time before anyone spoke.  Lying at their feet was the broken body of Akampa Lodd, the Sapphyrran Ambassador.  His carapace was shattered and his bones were smashed but there was no mistaking his identity.  In a poignant display of futility, Trypp fell to his knees and ran his hands over his compatriot’s body feeling for a pulse.

          ‘Akampa, no-one deserves such an ignominious death, least of all you.’

          ‘But how?’ Gerriod said in a stupour.

          ‘Something flew overhead,’ Maeldune said.  ‘Moments before…’

          Trypp looked up to the sky with sad, green eyes.  ‘I know what did this is.  I have seen such foul work before.  It was the Morrigu.’

 

 

It was some time before the Morrigu came back.  It carried numerous bodies in its talons, but these ones were alive.  Trypp pointed soundlessly at the writhing forms, terrified that they were more of his countrymen.  As soon as the monstrous creature let them go, it was clear there were four of them.

The figures tumbled through the air, their limbs flailing as each victim tried in vain to find some sense of stability in the empty space.  Two of the falling missiles collided mid-air which altered their trajectory slamming them sickeningly into the smooth, unforgiving rock walls.

          It was then Pylos realised something.  They did not scream.  They were alive and seemingly conscious, but not one of the figures screamed.

          He drew his sword suspiciously and with morbid fascination waited for the bodies to hit the ground.

 

 

His suspicions were proven correct when the bodies of four Ghul soldiers slammed into the cool rock at his feet.

          At first, the bodies that pounded into the floor of the Thin Grey Line did not move.  Gerriod dared to hope that even the Ghul could not survive such a fall.  But then their fingers twitched, their bodies shuddered and they slowly pulled themselves up onto shattered knees.

          It took Pylos less than a second to run through the nearest pair with his blade.  The narrow space was lit up brilliantly as the two Ghul capitulated in a soundless and visceral explosion.

          Pylos hacked and slashed the other two with all the fury and frustration that had built up since taking his first step along the narrow corridor.  He looked to the skies had hoped Caliban would send more Ghul his way.