Josef
Writing in the city of Del in the 35th year of the reign of King Alton.
The boy Ranesh watched carefully as I wrote down his words about the Glus. Then he offered to tell me of another monster — a wizard called the Guardian. I feared he was preparing a lie, to earn more food. But when I said that I had nothing to give in return for another tale, he surprised me. He asked me to teach him to read and write. I must have looked surprised, for he blushed angrily, muttering that no doubt I thought he was too stupid to learn. I quickly denied this. I said I would teach him whether or not he told me of the Guardian. But he told me anyway. And as he spoke, his eyes dark with memory, I knew he was telling the truth.
On his way to Del, he had stumbled into the Valley of the Lost — a dismal place, filled with evil, creeping mists. There he met the Guardian — a powerful magician, who can control others with his mind. Everywhere he goes he takes with him four hideous beasts that he calls his “pets.” Their names are Hate, Greed, Pride, and Envy. They fawn on their master, but are snarling and savage to strangers.
The Guardian showed Ranesh a magnificent glass palace, filled with riches. Then he challenged Ranesh to play a game of skill. If Ranesh won, he would receive a casket of gold. If he lost, he was doomed to stay in the valley forever.
Ranesh refused. He valued freedom more highly than gold. To his surprise, the wizard simply smiled. “No matter,” he said. “It would have been pleasant to defeat you, but I do not need your company. I will have many other subjects soon. Or so I have been told by my master.”
He would say no more. But Ranesh ran from the valley, his mind full of questions. Who could be the master of such a powerful being as the Guardian? And who were the subjects soon to fill his miserable domain? He shuddered with fear, just thinking of it. And so do I.
I discovered the monstrous secret of Steven the pedlar on the day I was found by the two fruit-sellers who were Ols. Ranesh and I were sitting outside our drain-tunnel shelter. I was giving him a reading lesson, and was delighted by his progress. We did not hear the fruit-sellers approaching until they were right beside us. So old and harmless did they look that, even knowing what I knew, I could hardly believe they were dangerous. Then Steven loomed up behind them. Plainly he had been following them. He had a long spike in his hand. The fruit-sellers spun around, their bodies dissolving and re-forming till they looked like roaring white flames. Hissing, they lunged at Steven. He staggered, the spike falling to the ground. Then, to my terror, bright yellow light began pouring from his body like smoke. Ranesh and I cried out. For another figure was taking shape in the light — a golden giant, savage and terrible, the opposite of Steven in every way. Roaring, the giant snatched up the spike and with two vicious thrusts pierced both Ols through the heart. They fell together in a writhing, melting mass of white.
Then the giant turned on us, growling like a beast. “Run!” Steven roared. We ran deep into the drain-tunnel and huddled there till we heard him calling us. Then we crept out, to find him sitting alone on the grass. “Please forgive my brother,” he said calmly. “Nevets is an excellent protector, but sadly he does not always know where to stop.” He said no more, but began discussing a safer place where Ranesh and I might stay. Even later, I did not dare to question him. I did not want to anger him. I had no wish to see Nevets again.
It was the season for skimmers, and this year more skimmers than ever were coming over the Wall of Weld.
From dusk till dawn, the beasts flapped down through the cloud that shrouded the top of the Wall. They showered on the dark city like giant, pale falling leaves, leathery wings rasping, white eyes gleaming, needle teeth glinting in the dark.
The skimmers came for food. They came to feast on the warm-blooded creatures, animal and human, that lived within the Wall of Weld.
On the orders of the Warden, the usual safety notices had been put up all over the city. Few people bothered to read them, because they were always the same. But this year, in Southwall, where Lisbeth the beekeeper lived with her three sons, they had been covered with disrespectful scrawls.
No one knew who was writing on the notices — or so the people of Southwall claimed when the Keep soldiers questioned them. Like everyone else in Weld, the Southwall citizens were very law-abiding. Most would never have dreamed of damaging one of the Warden’s notices themselves. But many secretly agreed with the person who had done so.
Rye, the youngest of Lisbeth’s sons, had the half-thrilled, half-fearful suspicion that his eldest brother, Dirk, might be responsible.
Dirk worked on the Wall as his father had done, repairing and thickening Weld’s ancient defense against the barbarians on the coast of the island of Dorne. Brave, strong, and usually good-natured, Dirk had become increasingly angry about the Warden’s failure to protect Weld from the skimmer attacks.
Sholto, the middle brother, thin, cautious, and clever, said little, but Rye knew he agreed with Dirk. Sholto worked for Tallus, the Southwall healer, learning how to mend broken bones and mix potions. The soldiers had questioned him when they had come to the healer’s house seeking information. Rye had overheard him telling Dirk about it.
“Do not worry,” Sholto had drawled when Dirk asked him anxiously what he had said in answer to the questions. “If I cannot bamboozle those fancily dressed oafs, I am not the man you think I am.”
And Dirk had clapped him on the shoulder and shouted with laughter.
Rye hoped fervently that the soldiers would not question him, and to his relief, so far they had not. Rye was still at school, and no doubt the soldiers thought he was too young to know anything of importance.
As the clouded sky dimmed above them, and the Wall darkened around their city, the people of Weld closed their shutters and barred their doors.
Those who still followed the old magic ways sprinkled salt on their doorsteps and window ledges and chanted the protective spells of their ancestors. Those who no longer believed in such things merely stuffed rags and straw into the chinks in their mud-brick walls, and hoped for the best.
Lisbeth’s family did all these things, and more.
Lisbeth sprinkled the salt and murmured the magic words. Dirk, tall and fair, followed her around the house, fastening all the locks. Dark, lean Sholto trailed them like a shadow, pressing rags soaked in the skimmer repellent he had invented into the gaps between the shutters and the crack beneath the door.
And Rye, red-haired and eager, watched them all as he did his own humble duty, clearing the table of Sholto’s books and setting out the cold, plain food that was always eaten at night in skimmer season.
Later, in dimness, the three brothers and their mother huddled around the table, talking in whispers, listening to the hateful, dry rustling of the skimmers’ wings outside.
“Folk at the market were saying that there was a riot in Northwall this morning,” Lisbeth murmured. “They said that the Warden’s signs were set on fire, and the crowd fought with the soldiers who tried to stop the damage. Can this be true? Citizens of Weld acting like barbarians?”