Deadhouse Landing

Dancer crossed to the kitchen and pantries. He found her with the Crust brothers, taking stock. At least they claimed to be brothers; he could see no family resemblance beyond their blue skin. Cartheron was lean and short, while Urko was tall and as solid as an ox. Surly cast him one evaluative glance, raised a brow, and said, ‘Going somewhere?’

‘Exactly. You’ve noticed that W— Kellanved disappears sometimes.’

Surly did not appear pleased. ‘So I’ve noticed.’

‘Well, we’re both going to be gone for a time. So you’ll have to handle things until we return.’

She motioned the brothers out, waited for them to go, then crossed her arms, looking very like her name. ‘Is there a time when we can expect you back?’

He considered this, wondering whether to tell her the truth, or to try to string her along with some not too distant date. But because he knew what he and Kellanved were facing, and held no misconceptions about their chances, he decided to be frank.

‘I don’t know. We may not come back at all.’

She raised a brow once again, perhaps impressed by his bluntness. ‘I see. I’ll keep that in mind.’ She inclined her head, if not in gratitude, then perhaps in acknowledgement of the warning. ‘Thank you.’

He answered her nod. ‘Till later, then.’

‘Yes. Later.’

He returned to the office to find Kellanved fighting with his pet nacht. The mage appeared to be attempting to force the monkey-like creature to perch on his shoulder, but the beast was on his back, had hold of the lad’s short kinky hair and wouldn’t let go. Round and round the desk they careered, Kellanved muttering curses under his breath, the creature baring its fangs in a grin.

‘You ready?’ Dancer asked.

Kellanved froze, then turned to face him, his features composed; the nacht, too, peering over his shoulder, suddenly looked innocent. ‘Of course! What does it look like?’

‘Like you’re having some trouble with the help.’

‘Nonsense!’ He reached up and grasped the beast by the neck and yanked it from his back. ‘Ha! Got you now.’

The creature reached to bite his arm and he let it fall, yanking his hands away. ‘Now, now. Bad! Bad Demon.’ The nacht clambered back up to the rafters, hissing what sounded eerily like laughter.

‘I thought you were going to call it something else.’

‘Many things come to mind, I assure you.’

‘If you’re finished?’

Kellanved sent the beast one last glare. ‘Certainly.’ He motioned Dancer closer. ‘The shift should be smoother now.’

Dancer drew two blades and crouched into a ready stance. ‘Very well.’

Scarves of murky darkness coalesced from the air about them, spinning and twisting, and for an instant his vision darkened. He blinked, squinting, weapons raised. Then a tilt in the surface sent him forward and something struck him a blow on the forehead. He staggered backwards in loose stones and gravel, falling.

The darkness slipped away. He lay on his back staring up at the leaden sky of Shadow. All about them stood a forest of tall cylinders, broken off at various heights.

Kellanved loomed into his vision, peering down, concerned. ‘Sorry about that.’

Dancer jumped to his feet, rubbed the back of a hand to his forehead, slightly dizzy. ‘It’s fine. Never mind. What is this place? Ruins?’

‘Of a kind. Take a look.’

Dancer examined the nearest column – it appeared to have been carved in the likeness of a tree, complete with scabs of bark. Yet the placement made no architectural sense. Towers rose everywhere, in no apparent straight lines.

Kellanved had started off across the hardscrabble rock pavement that lay between. Dancer followed, marvelling at the scale and insanity of the gargantuan site. ‘Who would do this?’ he asked. ‘Do you know?’

‘No one did,’ the little mage answered, humming to himself once more and tapping his stick – a sure sign that he was pleased and at ease. ‘What do they looked like?’

‘They’re made to look like trees. Perhaps these Edur we’ve heard of?’

‘No. They are trees. I quite assure you.’

Walking between the countless trunks, Dancer couldn’t quite bring himself to believe it. ‘Real trees? Was it a curse? Who could possibly be so powerful? Anomandaris? Kilmandaros? Ancient K’rul?’

Kellanved waved his walking stick, chuckling. ‘No, no. No one is that powerful – at least, so I hope and believe. No, scholars argue that this is natural. That if things are buried and remain inviolate for long enough, then they turn to stone.’

This made a kind of sense to Dancer. He grunted, saying, ‘So, Burn’s work then.’

Kellanved tilted his head to one side. ‘Well. I suppose you could call it that.’

They passed through the boundary of the eerie silent forest to low dry hills, their tops carpeted in broken rock and brittle thorny brush. A heap of stones crowned a number of the rises – each a burial cairn, Kellanved explained. One had obviously been demolished, its stones scattered all down the hillside, and this one he approached. Dancer followed, wary, hands on blades.