It was the glowing image of child, a young girl, perhaps six or so. Yet the image was not really a child as it was sculpted of a pale greenish luminosity. She was peering about as if fascinated, displaying no fear at all, just curiosity — rather like himself.
Murk stepped into the glade. ‘Who are you, child?’
She turned to face him and he flinched from eyes of pure jade brilliance. ‘Who am I?’ she echoed in a high piping voice. ‘I do not know. No one here really knows.’
Alarms of all sorts clanged in Murk’s awareness, loud enough to drown out the surrounding creaking and complaining of the forest of trees. The hairs on his forearms rose tingling from his skin and he found it difficult to talk. ‘Have you a name, child?’ he managed, clearing his throat.
Her gaze became distant as she tilted her head. ‘For the longest time I did not know I needed one. Why distinguish one’s self from the other when there is no other? Then someone spoke to me and I knew the need. I asked for a name and he gave me one.’
‘And … what name was that, child?’
‘Celeste.’
Murk blew out a breath as if gut-punched. Not without a certain grim sense of humour, whoever that was. ‘And what are you doing here, Celeste?’
‘I do not know. I thought you’d know since you brought me here.’
Murk discovered he was sitting. He blinked up at the child who was now uncomfortably close, hands on knees, peering down at him. ‘You were dreaming for a time,’ she said. ‘Is that normal?’
‘It is when you’ve been hit over the head by a mattock,’ he grumbled under his breath.
She giggled, a hand covering her mouth. ‘I like you.’
‘That’s just dandy.’ Then he froze, listening. The surrounding woods had become quiet, almost breathless. ‘How long was I dreaming?’
She shrugged her thin shoulders. ‘I do not know your measure of time.’
‘Listen, we have to get out of here. It isn’t safe for … for you.’
‘But I rather like it here.’
‘That is good,’ said a new voice, a deep reverberating one. ‘For you will be imprisoned here for ever.’
Murk slowly turned his head. It was a demon — one of the shadowkind, a great hulking Artorallah, all covered in bristly black hair. ‘I wouldn’t mess with this child if I were you,’ he warned. ‘I really wouldn’t.’
The demon pressed a taloned hand to its broad chest. ‘I? It is not I who will act. These woods are here to keep you trespassers out. It is they who will act.’
Celeste was frowning as she regarded the demon. ‘I don’t know if I like you,’ she said.
Murk reached out to her. ‘Celeste-’ He broke off because he discovered he could not move. Knotted roots had grown up over his legs. Black fresh earth was now climbing his thighs. With enormous effort he managed to contain his panic, and he raised his eyes to the Artorallah. ‘You are making a mistake. Edgewalker would not countenance this.’
The demon’s fangs grated as it sneered. ‘What do you know of He Who Guards The Realm?’
Roots now clenched Murk’s waist, crushing the breath from him. ‘I know he banishes! He doesn’t …’ he grunted his pain, ‘imprison.’
‘Stop this,’ Celeste demanded of the Artorallah.
‘I am sorry, little mage,’ the demon answered Murk, sounding genuinely regretful. ‘But you have entered the forest of the Azathanai. There will be no escape for you.’
‘I told you to stop this!’ Celeste repeated, and she stamped her foot.
In answer to that tiny gesture, the ground shook as if wrenched by an earthquake. The nearest trees juddered from root to tip, branches whipping and snapping. The eruption travelled onward through the woods in an ever-widening circle. Murk was thrown free. The Artorallah steadied itself against a trunk. What must have been stunned disbelief played across its alien face. The ground beneath Celeste’s feet steamed and glowed as if molten.
‘Please, child!’ Murk shouted from where he lay. ‘Let us just go!’
She tossed her head high, her short hair flicking. ‘Well … if you wish. Very well.’ She waved a hand.
Blinking, Murk now peered up at the looming, concerned, lopsided face of Sour. He flinched from the warm stink of the man’s breath.
‘You was gone a long time there, Murk.’
He rubbed his face with both damp cold hands, let out a long hissed breath. He glanced about: it was evening, a light rain was falling, camp had been made. Someone had sat him down under a tree. Unfortunately in a damp spot and now the seat of his pants was sodden. Unless he was responsible for that damp spot — the moment he realized whom he’d met.
His gaze snapped to the nearby pack where it lay tied to its litter. So, no manifestation here. Was that a good thing or a bad thing? Could it — she — hear, see, what was going on around it? Could he communicate with her? Did he want the responsibility?
Captain Yusen emerged from the mist as Sour wandered off on some errand of his own. He squatted to study Murk through his narrowed slit gaze. ‘You find something?’
Murk inclined his head to the litter. ‘It’s aware, Captain.’
The gaze shifted to the pack, narrowed almost closed amid all the wrinkles and folds from a lifetime of such tightening. Decades of squinting across fields for the tiniest betraying details of threats or deployments. ‘What do you mean, “aware”?’
‘I mean aware. We met. Calls herself Celeste. Might be listening right now.’
Now the mouth pursed tight. The hatchet lines bracketing it deepened and lengthened. A worrier, this one, always thinking. ‘I see …’
‘Might be best to let the lads know. Watch their mouths. Act respectfully.’
A brief nod. ‘I understand. I’ll have a word with them. A way off.’ He straightened, cast one lingering glance to the litter, then offered Murk a nod. ‘Later.’
Murk fought the urge to salute. ‘Cap’n.’
Sour returned carrying a bowl of something steaming. He offered it and a fist of hardbread. ‘Reminds me too much of Blackdog.’
Murk winced. ‘I don’t want to hear about Blackdog.’ Gods, that mess! It still made him shiver. Just a lad then, fresh from his ’prenticeship with old blind Eghen. The man never did forgive him for joining the enemy …
‘ ’Cept it’s a lot warmer,’ Sour continued, musing. ‘An’ there’s way more rain. An’ it’s a jungle and not a forest or a bog.’ He wriggled down into a nook of dry roots close to Murk under the protection of the tall tree. ‘What’s the difference anyway? ’Tween a jungle and a forest?’
Murk edged away from him. ‘Damned if I know. Just words.’ He sucked on the bread, held the bowl between his knees, which were drawn up close to his chest. ‘I guess they mean places people feel threatened, where they don’t feel in charge or in control. Makes ’em want to hack it all down, that fear.’
‘What about the people living here?’
‘Hunh. Good question. ’Cause we’re foreigners to these lands we might think they feel the same fearful way about it, hey? But I don’t think they do. I think they call it home.’
Dusk came quickly beneath the cloud cover and the thick canopy. Sour’s eyes glistened in the dark and they shifted to the litter, and its burden, under guard of five soldiers. ‘And our guest? Somethin’ to fear? We don’t control it, neither …’
Murk chewed on the bread and winced as he bit down on a stone. He felt about for it then spat aside. ‘No. Not just now, anyway. It — she’s — curious right now. It’s as if …’ He swallowed any further speculation. It seemed premature. His partner’s attention swung briefly to him, then away. He tucked his hands up under his armpits and let his chin fall to his chest. Almost immediately the rise and fall of the fellow’s chest steadied and to all appearances he was asleep. But Murk knew he wasn’t; Sour had cast his awareness outwards and was watching the surroundings for anyone’s approach. Halfway into the night it would be his turn and so he wrapped his arms around his knees, set his chin on to his knees and let his eyes close.