Under Fragile Stone E-Book

Oisin McGann

• Herausgeber: The O'Brien Press
• Kategorie: Für Kinder und Jugendliche
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2012

Seitenzahl: 532

Beschreibung

Volume II of The Archisan Tales Taya and Lorkrin's shape-changing Myunan tribe faces an invasion by Noran, which is intent on mining the valuable iron ore from their sacred mountain, Absaleth. But the mountain is haunted and fights back with supernatural powers. Then a mine tunnel collapses and the miners are trapped. With them are Taya and Lorkrin's parents, Nayalla and Mirkrin, who had been searching for their unruly children. Taya and Lorkrin are terrified for their parents. But help arrives in the form of their Uncle Emos. He and his friend Draegar know there is one chance for the trapped people -- another entrance to the caves far back in the mountain range. A rescue party sets out as the mountain starts to collapse in on itself.

Leseprobe

Reviews

PRAISE FORTHE HARVEST TIDE PROJECT

(VOL. I The Archisan Tales)

‘Inventive comic fantasy in which Lorkrin and his sister Taya become involved in saving their tribe from the clutches of power-crazy neighbours … some wonderfully weird secondary characters.’

The Irish Times 

 

‘An immensely accomplished and completely original fast-paced action fantasy. This is a story you hope will never end.’

Pat Boran & Siobhán Parkinson, on RTÉ website for the Children’s Book Festival 2004.

‘One of the things I love most about the book is that McGann has a wonderful eye for utterly weird, mad characters, whether we mean human ones or animals. Brilliant stuff!’

Robert Dunbar, ‘Rattlebag’, RTÉ Radio 1 (Also listed in The Irish Times as one of his Top 30 Children’s Books of 2004).

‘An action-packed series of entrapments and escapes, successes and setbacks … populated by a seemingly endless cast of divertingly weird creatures.’

Books for Keeps

PRAISE FORTHE GODS AND THEIR MACHINES

‘A talented new voice … Spellbinding.’

EOIN COLFER, author of the Artemis Fowl books and The Wish List.

UNDER FRAGILE STONE

THE ARCHISAN TALES

OISÍN MCGANN

For my little sister, Kunak; the big sister I never had.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

As ever, I’d like to thank my family for their insightful critiques of the first draft of this story, as well as all those who offered input and advice while I was working on the book, including everyone at the O’Brien Press for their hard work and enterprise. Particular gratitude goes to my editor, Susan Houlden, for her guiding hand during the painful trimming-down process; every wordaholic needs a counsellor. I’m grateful to Joe and Kunak, for their hospitality in giving me a base in Dublin whenever I needed it; it’s really meant a lot to me. And finally, a special thank you to my brother, Marek, for all his work on the website (www.oisinmcgann.com); his substantial brain remains an invaluable resource.

Thanks to all of you.

Oisín       

CONTENTS

Reviews

Title Page

Dedication

Acknowledgements

PROLOGUEPAGE

1: SOMETHING IN THE GROUND

2: A RING OF SKACKS

3: ELECTRICAL EXORCISM

4: WEAKENED STONE

5: THE HOLY MAN’S VISIONS

6: THE UNDERGROUND WINDOW

7: ANYTHING THAT DOESN’T BELONG

8: THE CORPSE AND THE EARTHQUAKE

9: THE MAN WITH NO NAME

10: THE BLIND BATTALION

11: ARE THE GODS HAVING A LAUGH?

12: THE KRUNDENGROND

13: DALEGIN CHASES THE LIGHT

14: BLINDWATER, BREAD MOULD AND MAGGOTS

15: THE HUNNUD’S BREATH

16: PAPPY DIDN’T RAISE NO STINKIN’ SONGBIRDS

17: GREAT AUNT ELDRITH

18: RUG’S HANDS

19: BONE STEW

20: A VEIN OF IRON ORE

EPILOGUE

About the Author

Copyright

Other Books

PROLOGUE

The mountain, known as Absaleth, was haunted. The miners had laughed at the stories when they had first heard them months before. Most of the men tasked with extracting the iron ore from this rock were seasoned veterans, with years in the pits behind them. Haunted mines were the kinds of stories that they used to scare their children to bed.

But two months after starting work on this mountain, they had three tunnels on the go; each had got no further than twenty or thirty paces in before it hit problems. Not your average problems either, not unstable ceilings or flooding, no; this dig had thrown up a whole new set of obstacles. Whenever they tried to bore into the rock, the drill bit would make a noise like a child screaming – a sound none of the miners could bear.

There had been cases where workers swore that after managing to open a crack in the walls, the fissure would reseal itself, almost as if it were healing. Sometimes they would sense vibrations in the ore; a low tone would reach their ears, as if from some huge tuning fork, and they would stumble from the mine suffering headaches and toothaches.

The strangest thing, though, was the way the tools rusted. That was just the damnedest thing.

The team of seven men stood before the dark mouth of the mine in solemn silence. It had become a ritual to pause before entering the tunnel, like a stand-off, warriors taking the measure of an opponent. A few of them gazed up at the rock face above the mine, their expressions bitter, but determined. Paternasse, the oldest of the group, regarded the shiny new head of his pickaxe. It was his fifteenth since starting the dig. The others had rusted into powder. In the thirty-six years he’d been digging metal and minerals from the ground, he’d never heard of anything like it.

‘Right, let’s get started,’ Paternasse grunted. ‘That pit won’t dig itself.’

They marched inside, armed with brand new tools: pickaxes, spades, hammers and wedges and the other trappings of the mining trade. Along with their digging equipment, they each had a helmet with a headlamp, to bolster the glow of their lanterns. One man pushed the cart that carried their heavier gear and the timber supports and would later be hauled up the rails to the surface by a winch, carrying their spoils back out of the tunnel. That was if they managed to get any work done that day.

Paternasse spat on his hands, rubbed the saliva into them to get his palms soft enough for a good grip, then studied the face of the rock for the chink in the mountain’s armour that his pick could get its point into.

This cursed hill was still the richest source of iron ore he had ever seen, and he was damned if it was going to get the better of him. Soon they would break its spirit and then they’d really get to work …. He found a thin crack in the rock and swung his pickaxe back over his shoulder. Just as he did, two eyes appeared in the stone and the crack opened into a mouth and screamed. Paternasse gasped and stumbled back, tripping over a water bucket behind him and landing flat on his back. Further down the tunnel, someone else was shouting. A piece of the mine-face the size and shape of a child peeled itself from the rock, dropped to the floor and ran towards the tunnel entrance. Moments later, another one sprinted up from the back of the mine, jumped over him and followed the first. The sounds of giddy, high-pitched laughter reached his ears.

Noogan, the youngest of the miners, ran up and knelt down by his side.

‘Jussek?’ he asked the older man, concern in his voice. ‘You all right?’

Paternasse lay there for a while longer to let his heart calm down. It was beating like the hooves of a racehorse. He was short of breath too; the years of mining had taken their toll on his lungs.

‘Just got a fright, lad,’ he muttered, sitting up. ‘Those blasted Myunans have gone too far this time – too far by half. If they can’t keep a leash on their young ’uns, one of those little whelps is going to get hurt down here. I could’ve killed that one if I’d hit it. Little animal.’

He coughed up some long-lost dust from his lungs, hawked and spat at the rock face.

Noogan looked at the square of light at the end of the tunnel.

‘They’re not natural, those Myunans,’ he said, bitterly. ‘The way they can carve themselves into shapes like that.’

‘Oh, they’re natural all right,’ Paternasse sat up and clambered to his feet. ‘Natural-born scoundrels. Still, the Noranians’ll see to them. If there’s one thing Noranians are good for, it’s putting people in their place.’ 

* * * *

Taya Archisan stifled another giggle as she ran, dodging behind one of the dirt-encrusted wagons that served the mine and ducking underneath it, slipping behind one of its six steel-rimmed wheels to hide. From this vantage point, they could see a long stretch of the palisade fence and the gate that opened onto the road. Lorkrin skidded in behind her, a giddy grin on his face.

‘Did you see the look on that old lad’s face?’ he whispered. ‘He nearly jumped right out of his skin!’

The misshapen, stony effect of his flesh receded as he crouched there, the colours of his skin returning to normal and his impish facial features reasserting themselves. Their disguises had been meticulous. Mimicking a mine wall well enough to fool a miner was no easy feat, but they had done it. Sculpting, or ‘amorphing’, the texture into their skins had taken all their skill and every tool they had, but the effect had been worth it.

The two children were brother and sister, both clad in the garb of their tribe, tunics with cloth belts, Taya in leggings and Lorkrin in trousers. Their clothes and skin had swirling markings, Lorkrin’s more angular in blues, greens and greys, Taya’s in reds, oranges and browns, and it was difficult to see where their skin ended and their clothes began. Taya’s hair was light brown, long and tied back in a braided ponytail, while Lorkrin’s was blonde and cropped short. They were both in their early teens, but it would not have been clear to an observer which of them was older, although Taya was a little taller. She was also the one who liked to be in charge, and so was already working out their next move. They had to get out of the compound, and that meant crossing a wide stretch of open ground to the fence and the trees beyond.

Taya saw the old man Lorkrin had scared walking across to the building that served as offices for the Noranians. He looked serious. She had almost been caught when she jumped out at the group of men who had passed her, but they had been too shocked to grab her. Seeing the expression on the old man’s face, she realised how lucky she had been.

‘I think we might have gone a bit too far,’ she said softly to her brother.

‘Nah,’ he replied. ‘They’re not supposed to be here anyway; you know what the elders are always saying. If this lot won’t leave by themselves, they have to be made to leave. We’re just doing our bit.’

Taya nodded. This was all for good cause. Self-consciously brushing the mine-dust from her hair with her fingers, she cast her gaze around the compound. To their left were the newly constructed buildings, with four trucks lined up outside. Beyond the yellow-brick offices and living quarters, there was the gate, guarded by two Noranian soldiers standing in the wooden tower. More wandered around inside the fence and these were the main problem. The Noranians believed in security and they were good at it. The fence was a wooden palisade twice the height of a man and each pale was sharpened to an evil point at the top. Lorkrin had his tools out and was using a whittler to craft his fingers and toes into hooked claws that would give him a grip on the smooth wood.

Taya was about to do the same when a pair of legs approached and clambered up onto the wagon. Another pair of legs strode up and around the front, a pair of hands fitted a crank handle into the engine’s crankshaft and turned it until the engine coughed and caught. The driver revved the motor while he waited for his passenger to get on board before settling it into a rumbling idle. There was the gnash of worn gears and the smell of burnt bule oil and greasy smoke wafted over them. The two Myunans exchanged glances. Their hiding place was about to drive away.

‘They’re opening the gates!’ Lorkrin hissed. ‘We can go with the truck!’

They reached up and caught hold of the steel chassis, lifting themselves off the ground. The truck lurched and started to roll forward, bouncing across the rough surface of the compound and through the open gates to the road. The truck was old, and slow enough for Lorkrin and Taya to drop safely to the ground and scamper into the bushes once they were out of sight of the gates. High with the thrill of their escape, they ran weaving through the trees to the path that would take them back to their village.

1 SOMETHING IN THE GROUND

Marnelius Cotch-Baumen pinched the bridge of his nose and winced. He was getting a beastly headache. The climate of Sestina did not agree with him. It was not as cold as Noran, but it was definitely wetter, and the damp caused terrible clogging in his sinuses. The fact that he had to live in one of the hovels Sestinians called ‘manor houses’ did not help either. The sooner his new keep was built, the better. As Provinchus of this area, he was entitled to a decent standard of living and his poor health demanded it. He gazed dourly at the woman who stood before his desk. Dressed in unadorned travelling clothes, she was crude and unladylike, with the ever-present Myunan tool roll slung over her back and the unsightly coloured markings arcing across her otherwise attractive face – even running through her long, dark hair in pale streaks. He despised Myunans.

‘I’m sure you can understand the dangers of mixing mining and children,’ he said to her. ‘They are like white wine and red meat: incompatible, and hazardous to the constitution. Out of concern for your youngsters, I would ask that you exercise proper control over them.’

‘Our children were not in danger until you started mining in our territory,’ the woman replied. ‘I would ask that you exercise proper control over your forces … and leave.’ 

‘We have gone over this time and again,’ Cotch-Baumen sniffed, dabbing his nose with a handkerchief. ‘You hold no title to this land; you have no right to it under law. Indeed, you wouldn’t know what to do with land if you did own it. You Myunans wander like a herd of cattle, making no attempt to civilise yourselves. If you want land, apply in writing for a grant of land, like any civilised person.’

‘We didn’t need titles until you concocted them and all the laws are yours! Our people have always lived here …’

‘Yes, as I have said, we have gone over this time and again. Your protests have been duly noted. But on the matter at hand, I have asked politely. Now I must insist. Keep your children away from our operations at the mountain or your tribe will be held accountable. You may go now.’

Nayalla Archisan stared down at the Provinchus, struggling to maintain her composure. This thin string of a man had insulted her and dismissed her as if she were a lowly servant rather than an elder of the powerful Hessingale tribe. He was already reading from a report on his desk, paying no more attention to her. She closed her eyes and willed the colours of her face to change. Her flesh paled to whiteness, shadows deepened and in moments, her face bore an uncanny likeness to a human skull. She leaned in close to the Provinchus and her eyes flicked open in their sunken sockets. Cotch-Baumen looked up and gave a start, taken aback by the sight.

‘Do you think that planting your flag in our territories will make this land yours?’ she hissed. ‘Listen to what we are saying. This land delivers dire retribution upon those who abuse it. Do not make enemies of the Myunans.’ 

Cotch-Baumen sat bolt upright.

‘Such theatrics,’ he said, flustered. ‘Really!’

Nayalla turned and walked out, the skull vanishing from her face. She was done with the Noranian. Now it was time to have a few words with her children.

* * * *

The episode with the Myunan children had served to release some of the tension the miners were feeling and the rest of the morning had passed without any further mishap. The mines were still so shallow that the miners could come out for lunch to soak up some sunlight and spare their spirits the gloomy darkness while they ate. Noogan decided to stay and work on for a while, encouraged by the progress he had made that morning and eager to chip away more of the slab of hard, grey stone he had uncovered. He was only seventeen, with dark hair, and a face that bore a perpetual gormless expression. He was tall, but still had a boy’s build and he was struggling to earn the respect of his workmates. A farmer’s son, he had turned to mining when his brothers took over the family plot. Like any young lad, he had made the usual cock-ups as he learnt the ropes and the older men weren’t letting him forget them. Working under this mountain made him nervous, and that was causing him to make even more mistakes. Mistakes were not easily forgiven by men who worked in fear of cave-ins and gas poisoning.

A sound made him stop and turn around. He could see nothing in the light of his headlamp, so he picked up the bule-oil lantern and held it out in front of him. The noise was grainy, like sand being poured from a bucket. He ground his teeth together. He knew the rest of the team were up at the mouth of the mine. But there was definitely someone down here with him. The Myunans again. Bloody whelps, he thought as he cast the light of the lantern around. He’d spank them black and blue if he caught them.

A movement on the floor of the tunnel caught his eye and he knelt down. Some of the dust from the ore they had dug out was cascading down the pile of rock and shifting along the floor. Noogan frowned. He hadn’t noticed any draught. He wet his finger in his mouth and held it down near the floor, expecting the side facing the draught to turn cold. It didn’t. He put his cheek down near the shifting dust. Definitely no breeze. He stood up and shone the lantern on the ground further down the tunnel. The dust and some of the smaller lumps were moving along the ground, like a column of ants. He laughed nervously and thought of going up to fetch some of the others, but his curiosity got the better of him and he followed the trail of iron ore to see where it was going.

It led him to a pit that Balkrelt, one of the other miners, had been working in that morning. It was waist deep and twice as wide. Balkrelt had found a rich deposit there and had been crowing about how he had cleaned it out as he walked up the slope for his lunch. There was another sound coming from the bottom of the pit. Noogan peered in, but the light was still poor and he could not see the bottom properly. The trail of ore fragments was pouring into the hole as if it were trying to refill it. He climbed down into the pit and was astounded at what he found.

The ground was moving beneath his boots, tickling the soles of his feet. It was boiling like water in a pot, but there was no heat coming off it. He put his hand down to touch it and felt it pull at his fingers. He jerked upright, intending to step out of the pit until he knew what he was dealing with, but his feet would not move. He was ankle deep in the ground, his feet stuck as if in a marsh, but this was dry earth. Fear started to rise in his chest. He dropped the lantern, which smashed and went out as he grabbed for the edge of the pit. The earth around his feet was folding in on itself, pulling his feet with it.

‘Help!’ he screamed. ‘Somebody help me! Please …’

He had his elbows on the edge of the hole and it took all his strength to hold himself up. More debris slipped down from the pile of ore and skated along the ground towards him, flowing over his arms and shoulders and into the pit. He shrieked again and heard boots running down the tunnel. His right elbow slipped over the brink and he reached back up and dug his fingertips into the tunnel floor. As more of the ore filled the hole, he could feel the grip lessen on his feet, but now he was buried up to the knees and something was still tugging at his boots.

‘Jussek … Balkrelt! Somebody, help!’ His other elbow was slipping and the fingertips of his right hand were sliding back. A light appeared and then another, the headlamps of his workmates. Moments later, strong hands were seizing his arms and pulling at him, but at first it seemed the ground’s hold was too strong. Then he felt something give and he was hauled out of the hole. He thrashed out, knocking away their hands and backed up against the wall, shivering and close to tears.

‘What was it, Noogan?’ Balkrelt asked. ‘What had a hold of you?’

Noogan’s chest was too tight to speak. He knew if he tried to say anything he would start to cry and that would be too much, so he just shook his head and pulled his knees up to his chest. He stared down at his socks and ground his teeth to stop a sob escaping. The earth had taken the ankle-high boots right off his feet.

‘I’m going to have to dig all that out again,’ Balkrelt moaned. ‘What were you up to?’

‘Leave it,’ Paternasse told him.

‘What are you talking about? We’ve got quotas to make.’

‘Fill it in. Put it all back in. Whatever’s in there can bloody stay in there. The lad didn’t bury himself. Fill the hole in.’

They stood around the small pit, staring down into it in bewilderment and unease. Then they grabbed their shovels and dumped the ore back where it had come from.

* * * *

Mirkrin Archisan was returning to his village from a market in a local town when he came across a triangle scraped into the clay of the track ahead of him. Glancing around, he frowned, and then rubbed the mark out with his foot. As he wandered back into the glen where their tribe, the Hessingales, spent part of the mild Sestinian summers, he spotted his Taya and Lorkrin coming out of the trees nearby. He sighed and beckoned to them.

‘You’re late for your lessons,’ he chided them. ‘Where were you? If I find out you were up at the miners’ camp …’

‘We weren’t, Pa!’ Taya answered, automatically.

‘… I’m going to be very annoyed,’ he continued, ignoring her. ‘You know you’re not supposed to be wandering out of the village with all those Noranian thugs hanging about. They’re a bad crowd, and I don’t want to see you …’

His voice drifted off as he caught sight of his wife, Nayalla. She was striding towards the elders’ lodge when she saw them. She spun on her heel and marched straight at them, her face a mask of fury. If looks could kill, Taya and Lorkrin’s remains would have been spread over a wide area.

‘By the gods,’ Mirkrin muttered, looking at his wife’s expression and turning to his children. ‘What did you do?’

Nayalla stopped in front of them and went to say something, but took a breath first. She was almost too angry to speak. Lorkrin and Taya both turned pale.

‘You two are …’ she started, then took another breath. ‘It is going to take you a long, long time to make this right.’

Mirkrin’s face darkened.

‘What is it?’ he asked.

‘It has taken us three weeks to get a meeting with the Provinchus,’ she growled at the two children. ‘It is the first chance I’ve had to talk to him without having to hold a mob back at the same time. The tribe was counting on me to make him understand the damage he is doing to Absaleth, to our land. I walk in there and have to wait for him to finish being shaved and perfumed by his barber, then wait again as he reads some … some … I don’t know – some periodical. Then, when I finally have his attention, he turns around and tells me my children have been scaring the living daylights out of some of his miners. This, as far as he is concerned, is all that we need to talk about. I am there to try and stop our land being desecrated and end up getting told off for not keeping control of my children!’

‘Ma, it wasn’t us …’ Lorkrin began.

‘Don’t even try it!’ Nayalla snapped at him. ‘Don’t even open your mouth! Your class is starting, hurry up over there or you’ll be late again. I need to talk to your father.’

Lorkrin and Taya trudged on towards the communal lodge that stood in the centre of the glen. The village was made up of domed lodges; each one roofed with sods of grass and dug in so that part of it lay below the level of the ground. For the children, it was the least interesting place in the world. Mirkrin watched them walk away, and then put a hand on his wife’s shoulder.

‘They were down in the mines?’

She nodded.

‘He said they were hidden against the wall of a tunnel. One of the men almost hit Lorkrin with a pickaxe.’

Mirkrin grimaced and shook his head. He was a burly man, with a mop of dark hair and a strong, square face. He was of a mellow disposition, in stark contrast to his wife, but even he had limits.

‘We’re going to have to do something serious this time,’ he muttered. ‘They have to learn. I thought that disaster in Noran would have taught them some sense, but they’re as bad as ever. I don’t know where they get it from.’

‘They get it from us,’ Nayalla smiled tiredly. ‘Not that they can ever know that, of course. When I think of the stuff we got up to … But they have a habit of getting into trouble with the wrong people. I mean, the Noranians for goodness sake.’

Like their mouldable flesh, Myunan children had very impressionable natures. It would be all too easy for them to pick up bad habits from their new neighbours – particularly Lorkrin, who was developing an unhealthy interest in swords and all manner of other dangerous weapons.

‘Oh, I nearly forgot,’ Mirkrin looked at her. ‘Emos is here. He left his mark on the track for me.’ 

‘I wonder what he wants. It’s not like him to leave the farm so close to Harvest Tide.’

‘Well, we’d better go and find out; it can’t be good, whatever it is.’

‘Before or after we punish the brats?’

‘Oh, before,’ Mirkrin nodded solemnly. ‘Best to let them stew for while. Nothing like a bit of anticipation to put a lively fear into them.’

* * * *

Emos Harprag was Nayalla’s brother. He was an outcast, exiled from his tribe and forbidden to have any contact with Myunans after he had mysteriously survived an epidemic that had killed his wife. They feared that he might still be infectious; even if the disease had not killed him he might still be a danger to others. It was believed that he had survived by practising the black art of transmorphing – manipulating lifeless materials like metal or wood as if they were his own malleable flesh – a crime punishable by exile. Transmorphing was considered an assault on nature itself. Nayalla and Mirkrin had kept in contact with him – discretely, so as not to embarrass their tribe – and they knew there was no danger of infection. They had helped him recover from his wife’s death and his exile, and he was always there for them when they needed him.

Emos had become something of an enigma. He still practised the transmorphing and he had travelled to more strange lands than any Myunan alive. He had eventually settled down on a farm in Braskhia, giving up the nomadic Myunan lifestyle, but he still went wandering when the mood took him. It could not be a coincidence that he was here now, when the Myunans were facing an invasion of their territory.

Mirkrin and Nayalla walked until they were well out of sight of the village and sat down to wait on one of the fallen monoliths that had once marked the boundaries of their ancestors’ territory. They knew Emos would be watching the village and they only needed to wait and he would find them. While they waited, Nayalla told her husband about her audience with the Provinchus.

‘By the gods, it was embarrassing,’ she sighed. ‘I lost the rag in the end. I had to give up or just scream at him. He had no interest in listening to us. We’re just cattle to him.’

‘It was only going to be a matter of time before they started settling here.’ Mirkrin lay back on the stone. ‘They’ve filled every land around them. We don’t have the Braskhiams’ technology or the Karthars’ strength, so the Noranians were bound to turn on us eventually, once they got over their superstitions about us. There’s some who’re starting to think a fight is the only way to go.’

Nayalla looked up sharply: ‘I know that you’re not one of them, right?’

Mirkrin shrugged and avoided his wife’s gaze.

‘How much territory do we let them take, Nayalla? They’re destroying the birthplace of our culture – the place that’s made us what we are. What will be next? The smelt pools? The birthing glens? How long do we stand for it?’

Nayalla scowled. Beyond the occasional fight between tribes over territory, the Myunans were a relatively peaceful race. She was not averse to a stick-fight every now and then – it kept everyone on their toes – but a fight with the Noranians would be for keeps. And the Noranians were experts in war. The Sestinians had fought for decades against their northern neighbours and the wars had crippled their country. Now they were little more than a Noranian province. The Myunans could not win a war against Noran.

She was spared further brooding by the appearance of her brother over the edge of the trees in the shape of an eagle. He glided down, landing lightly and then slunched, letting his malleable muscles relax to regain his normal form. A lean man with grey, shoulder-length hair and a face marked with a blue, triangular tattoo, he always had the air of someone who knew more than he wanted about the world. Walking over to them with a rare smile on his face, he hugged his sister and then grasped Mirkrin’s hand. He stood back after greeting them and hesitated. Emos had been looking after Taya and Lorkrin the previous summer, when they had run away and got involved with an attempt to rescue a gardener from the Noranians. The two children had nearly been killed several times as a result and Emos winced with shame every time he thought of it. Now, he had come bearing more grim news.

‘Kalayal Harsq is coming to Absaleth,’ he told them, his face even more grave than usual.

‘The exorcist from Braskhia?’ Nayalla frowned. ‘Why is he coming here?’

‘The Noranians have contracted him to purge the mountain of its soul,’ Emos grunted bitterly. ‘It seems they believe in ghosts when profits are at stake.’

‘When is he coming?’ Mirkrin asked.

‘He could arrive at any time. He left Braskhia with his followers two days ago, before I heard the news,’ Emos replied. ‘I flew out here as fast as I could. He and his people are coming in trucks. He is supposed to pick up a Noranian escort along the way.’ 

‘I’ve only heard stories about him,’ Mirkrin looked out towards the horizon. ‘They say he can wipe the life from a land. Fields that he has blessed bear crops with no taste or goodness; lakes and rivers with the purest water carry no fish. Makes me wonder why anybody would want him around.’

‘Because forests had to be felled where those fields were planted, and dams had to be built in front of those rivers,’ Emos said. ‘And for that, part of the land’s spirit had to be broken. Going up against nature takes good judgement and a sense of balance. With a man like Harsq, you need neither. And the Noranians are bringing him to Absaleth.’

All three were silent. Nayalla could sense the anger in the two men and it scared her, because she knew that the rest of her tribe were feeling the same. Absaleth was of huge spiritual importance to the Myunans, and the mountain was considered the anchor of this land’s soul. That the Noranians were defiling the mountain with their mines was bad enough – she was having trouble keeping the peace as it was. But an exorcism! The men of the tribe would kill anyone who tried such a thing. And the Noranians would know that. They would be prepared.

She looked wearily out towards the tall mountain and wondered how she could prevent her tribe from starting a bloody battle that they could not win.

* * * *

Taya and Lorkrin sat quietly through their class. Ceeanna, the matriarch of their tribe, was teaching them texturing. She had set them the laborious task of mimicking the bark of the oak tree. Lorkrin worked on his arm listlessly with his routing skewer, pressing ridges into his flesh. By slunching his muscles – relaxing them to make them malleable – he could mould the soft flesh into shape with his tools. The art of amorphing. His tools were a novice set, made eight generations before; he could name all of the previous owners. As with all Myunan tools, the amorite used to make them had come from the open veins in the streams high up on Absaleth. Legend had it that the great prophet Amarrin had come down from the mountain, after weeks of fasting and praying, with the very first set of amorphing tools – tools bestowed upon him by the mountain’s spirit.

Lorkrin thought it was a load of rubbish, but would never have said it to anyone but his sister. He crefted his reformed muscles, tensing them so that they held their new shape. It was a half-hearted job; bark was boring, and he just wasn’t in the mood.

‘I said “oak”, Taya,’ he heard their teacher say. ‘That’s more like chestnut – and mouldy chestnut at that. Try paying a bit more attention.’

The two youngsters didn’t know what was going to happen to them, but they knew it would be bad. Myunans beating their children was not unheard of, but children soon learnt that they could take a lot of the pain out of a slap by letting their flesh go soft to absorb the blow. Like all skills motivated by the avoidance of pain, it was learned quickly and as early as possible, with the result that slapping Myunan children was considered somewhat futile. Unwilling to raise the levels of pain on their beloved offspring, Myunan parents became more inventive in their punishments instead. Lorkrin and Taya’s parents had a wide range of options open to them.

They dragged their feet on the way back to their lodge after class. Mirkrin and Nayalla were sitting facing the entrance as they walked in. The lodge was a low, domed timber construction, covered with a canvas tarpaulin and sods of earth and grass. Inside, earthen steps led to the floor, which was below ground level to help keep the warmth in and a section of canvas hung down over one part of the large room to partition off their parents’ bed. This was home. Apart from a single low table, a simple stove, cooking implements and some bits and pieces their mother had picked up on her travels, the room boasted nothing but warmth and a raw animal comfort. Their father, who was the tribe’s toolsmith, worked outside for the most part and kept his tools tucked carefully away near his small forge, which he could dismantle when the tribe moved the village. Myunans did not care for collecting things and it showed in the way they lived.

Taya and Lorkrin stood sullenly in front of the hide flap of the door. One look at their parents’ faces told them this was going to be bad, that excuses would just draw it out and that they should just fall on their swords and be done with it.

‘I’m sorry,’ Taya mumbled, looking at her feet.

‘I’m sorry too,’ Lorkrin mumbled too, staring sideways at the wall.

‘Give me your tools,’ said Mirkrin.

Lorkrin gaped.

‘Which ones?’

‘Now don’t get smart with me, boy. All of them.’

The two children were stunned. A Myunan without tools was half a Myunan. They would be unable to assume anything but the most basic shapes. They would not be able to play with their friends. In fact, they would not even be able to show their faces in front of their friends. They would only have their colours to hide them when they were away from the village. There were so many places they would not be able to go and things they would not be able to do. It would be like wearing chains.

‘You can’t!’ Taya whined, close to tears.

‘You have got to learn,’ their mother said, softly. ‘You can’t go on behaving the way you do.’

‘You’re not having my tools!’ Lorkrin yelled. ‘I earned them! You don’t have the right!’

‘Mind your tone!’ Mirkrin warned him. ‘Now, hand them over. We won’t have any more argument about it. Do as you’re told, young lad.’

Lorkrin pulled the straps of his tool roll from his shoulders and threw the pack at his parents’ feet. Mirkrin jumped up, but Nayalla grabbed his wrist.

‘I hate you!’ Lorkrin bellowed, then whipped the heavy hide flap aside and ran out before they could see that he was ready to cry.

Taya slung her pack from her back, stepped forward and dropped it in front of her father, her face frozen as she cast her eyes over her parents.

‘I don’t hate you,’ she said. ‘I just think we’re your fault. So why are we always the ones getting punished?’

She turned and walked out after her brother. Mirkrin sighed, shaking his head and flopping down to put his arm around his wife’s shoulders.

‘Why do I always end up feeling that we come out of these things in worse shape than they do?’

2 A RING OF SKACKS

Evening fell early because of an overcast sky, the sullen, grey clouds blocking out the last light of dusk. This suited the four Myunans of the Hessingale tribe who stood near the top of a bank that overlooked a flat, straight stretch of road. Their skin and clothes reduced to muted earth colours of greys, greens and browns, they waited invisible, watching out for the first sight of Kalayal Harsq. The mumble of distant engines reached their ears and all eyes turned east. There, coming around the side of a hill on the horizon, they saw the twin oil lamps that lit the way for an oncoming vehicle. These were joined by another pair, and another. There was a long column of vehicles rolling down into the valley.

Mirkrin and Nayalla watched the approaching lights with Ceeanna. The matriarch’s colours were starting to fade with age, but she had lost none of her strength, or sternness. Standing a little further from the others, the fourth figure was Westram, a tall, commanding man, and the tribe’s border chief. Now that the elders had agreed that Harsq had to be stopped, there only remained the question of how. Westram was in favour of attacking the convoy and killing Harsq before he reached the mining compound.

‘There are a lot of them,’ Ceeanna observed. ‘I count a dozen trucks. Why would he need so many?’

‘They’ve sent an entire battlegroup with him,’ Mirkrin sighed. ‘Infantry, armoured wagons, even a crossbow turret.’

‘So you say Draegar told you about this?’ Ceeanna enquired, referring to an old friend of the couple. ‘Why didn’t he come down to the village? Not worried about being saddled with your little terrors again this summer, is he?’

Nayalla shot a glance at her husband. The tribe were not supposed to know that Taya and Lorkrin stayed with Emos – she always told them that the children spent part of the summer with Draegar. She knew Ceeanna suspected otherwise.

‘He was in a hurry towards Brodfan,’ Nayalla shrugged. ‘Once he’d told us, he had to head on.’

Ceeanna clucked her tongue as she regarded the approaching convoy, and then glanced at Westram. He kept his eyes on the oncoming convoy. Mirkrin spat and said what they were all thinking.

‘We can’t take on those kinds of odds. They’d slaughter us.’

‘What other choice do we have?’ Westram responded.

But there was doubt in his eyes. He knew the stakes were too high.

‘We’d lose this,’ Nayalla shook her head. ‘People are going to get killed for nothing.’

‘Harsq has a machine,’ Mirkrin spoke up. ‘He used to rely on blessings alone, but they were too arbitrary. Now he uses science too. He uses one of the engines that make lightning. If we could destroy that, I think it would hold him up … until he got another one, at least.’

‘We’d need to find a way in through all those extra guards,’ Westram nodded towards the approaching battlegroup.

‘I say we don’t wait for them to get there,’ Mirkrin said. ‘We go in now, set ourselves up in hiding before they even arrive. Wait for the machine to be brought in and then destroy it tonight.’

‘It would be dangerous, but smarter than fighting them head on,’ Ceeanna nodded. ‘I am in favour, but we need to act now. Inform the other elders. We must have a decision immediately.’

* * * *

In the trees atop another hill, not far away, two other men took in the scene before them. One was Emos Harprag, his solemn face showing nothing of the feelings that boiled inside him, seeing his tribe before him in dire need and being unable to join them. The other figure was a Parsinor. Taller than his Myunan friend by a head and shoulders and twice as wide across, Draegar hailed from a race of desert-dwellers and it showed in his appearance. His face was broad, his nose and ears small and his wide mouth lined with yellow, crooked teeth. Braided hair swept back and down off his massive skull.

But it was his body that was striking. He had a hinged shell that protected his back. His legs and feet were extraordinary; two legs extended from each hip, joining again at the bottom to a single, long foot on either side. Knobbly armour shielded his shoulders, forearms and thighs and the tops of his feet. If his physique was fearsome, it only reflected his character, for Draegar was a map-maker and he travelled the wildest, most dangerous lands to plot and record them. He was Emos’s closest friend and he was here now to help the Myunan outcast in any way that he could.

‘That’s a lot of soldiers,’ his voice grated. ‘It’s going to take more than brute force to better that lot.’

‘They need to destroy the machine,’ Emos said quietly. ‘They’ll see that. But the Noranians will too. This night will be a reckoning. If Harsq isn’t stopped tonight, we will have lost Absaleth. I have to help them any way I can. Let’s go and stir up some trouble.’

* * * *

Marnelius Cotch-Baumen watched from the window of the minemaster’s office as the vehicles pulled into the compound. He glanced towards the open gate, but the soldiers had things well in hand. The men in the tall, wooden watchtower were his best, and even with the poor facilities of the camp, he was confident that with the extra forces, he could keep a tight rein on things. Checking his appearance in a full-length, gold-framed mirror that travelled with him wherever he stayed overnight, he walked out the door and down the steps to greet his guest.

A small, gaunt-faced man swung down from the lead wagon as it ground to a halt. He was dressed in the blue robes of an eshtran, a Braskhiam priest, and his long black hair was tied in a ponytail. He drew a small canister with a mouthpiece from inside his robe and took a long breath as he gazed up at the mountain. His eyes were wide and bloodshot and had an intensity about them that could have been religious fervour or just plain madness. Cotch-Baumen strode over to him.

‘Eshtran Harsq, I am Provinchus Cotch-Baumen. It is a pleasure to meet you, sir.’

Harsq took his hand and nodded.

‘That’s one cursed hill of rock you have there, sir,’ the priest intoned. ‘But we shall remedy that by and by. Brask, the good Lord of the esh, has just the answer for such evil promontories.’

‘Excellent, excellent.’ Cotch-Baumen clasped his hands together. ‘I look forward to seeing you work. I have read all your essays on the spiritual effects of electrical projection and must say that I find them fascinating. I am something of an amateur scientist myself, you see …’

‘Science is only a lever, sir, onto which I apply my Master’s blessed will. But it is heartening to hear that you are a man of education, for it is only through knowledge and enlightenment that we will subdue the rebellious spirits of the land.’

‘Yes, of course,’ the Provinchus smiled uncertainly. ‘Rebellious indeed. I think you will find our situation an interesting challenge …’

‘I do not seek personal gratification beyond the service of my Lord’s will, sir. Rest assured, however, that your great lump of uncooperative rock and iron here will be pacified by this time tomorrow.’

‘Excellent, excellent. Would you like to come up to the office and we can discuss the terms of your payment?’

Cotch-Baumen waved the eshtran ahead of him and sighed in disappointment. He had hoped to enjoy some intellectual conversation with a like mind, but it seemed this particular mind was of a slightly distracted nature. When they reached the office, he gestured to the other man to take a seat and he himself sat down behind the minemaster’s desk, a rather ramshackle, tradesman’s affair, but unfortunately the only one available.

‘As an educated man, I’m sure you’re aware of the importance of my generator in this operation,’ Harsq said, leaning towards him. ‘You realise those ungodly Myunans will make every effort to get in here and destroy it.’

‘I do,’ the Provinchus replied. ‘In fact, I would be surprised if there were not one or two already in the compound somewhere. They are sly demons and terribly difficult to find when they have a mind to conceal themselves. However, I have taken measures to ensure the safety of your wonderful device. I can assure you that it will be quite safe.’

He stood up and walked to the window, inviting the eshtran to join him. There, in the compound below them, a van was reversing up to the large generator truck that formed the centre of Harsq’s ceremony. Stakes with metal rings had been hammered into the ground around the truck. Unnerving howls and screeches rose up from the back of the van as two soldiers with thick leather gloves and heavy wooden clubs opened the rear door. The animal they pulled from the vehicle was a skack. It took both of them holding onto its two leashes to hold it still. One of the men turned and beat back a second beast which was trying to clamber out. Then they led the first creature to one of the stakes and attached its chain to the metal ring.

The skack was a native of the volcanic region of Guthoque. A mottled purple and grey in colour, it was roughly the size of a large man, but living in one of the most dangerous regions in the Noranian Empire had honed the skack’s evolution to a fine point of savagery. Powerful arms hung from its muscled shoulders. Its forearms each ended in a long, curved and serrated claw, which folded down along the forearms when the skack wanted to run on all fours. Its hind legs were short; its back was hunched and covered in spines. Because of the poisonous gases of Guthoque, eyes would have been useless to a skack. Instead, it had a deeply ridged forehead that could detect the reverberations of its high-pitched screeches – much like a bat – and this sense guided it with deadly accuracy. Heavy jaws dominated its short, blunt snout, bearing poisonous, razor-sharp teeth.

Far craftier than most animals, it had lightning-quick reflexes and could track prey better than any dog. Their bloodthirsty instincts made them virtually untameable. The two handlers led one beast after another out to the stakes, until eight skacks formed a perimeter of snarling, screeching death around Harsq’s generator truck.

‘Praise be to Brask,’ said the exorcist.

* * * *

‘Look, skacks!’ Lorkrin said excitedly.

He and his sister were ensconced in the branches of a tree on a hill overlooking the compound. They were supposed to be back at home, helping to pack up and move the village in case the Noranians came looking for the tribe after the ambush; but the temptation to see the action had been too great. From the road, they had trailed their parents and the others here, but had lost them when the grown-ups had dispersed into the darkness around the mining camp. They wondered why the adults had let Harsq reach the safety of the compound. Now, there were skacks out in the yard, and the situation looked worse still. Lorkrin had a young boy’s fascination with fierce creatures, but Taya just hated them. She could not forget the night they had been chased by these predators the year before and it still gave her nightmares.

‘Why have they been spread around that truck?’ she wondered out loud. 

‘To guard against us,’ Lorkrin guessed. ‘It must be important. I wish we could help.’

He had been making brave noises like this all evening. He couldn’t help it. Whenever he shrugged his shoulders to straighten the straps he knew should be there, he noticed they were missing and he became conscious of the space on his back where his pack should be. It was unsettling to remember how helpless he was. To his surprise, the other children had not laughed when they heard. They all agreed that losing your tools was not a laughing matter.

Taya did not reply to his remark. She knew how he felt, even if she didn’t feel the need to hide it with bravado. But she did want to do something to help the tribe. In some ways, she and Lorkrin knew more about the Noranians than a lot of the grown-ups. After all, they had nearly been killed by their soldiers several times.

‘Do you think they’ll stop him?’ Lorkrin asked her.

‘How should I know?’ she snapped back, wishing he would shut up.

Even the soldiers were nervous about the skacks, she noticed, despite the fact that they were chained to posts. Everyone was nervous about skacks. She wondered what the elders were planning to do.

* * * *

Cotch-Baumen had been mistaken when he had guessed that there were one or two Myunans already in the compound. There were no less than thirteen of the shape-shifters hidden around the mining camp. Some had flattened themselves out against banks of stone or earth, some hung underneath trucks disguised as part of the iron chassis, or as spare wheels. Others were concealed in the shadows of the heavy plant, the cranes, winches and mechanical scoops that threw criss-crossing shadows over areas behind them. Dozens of bule-oil lanterns lit the great yard. But even with the thirty guards patrolling it, there were any number of hiding places for a well-camouflaged Myunan.

Nayalla was hidden in the corner of the yard, her shape melding with a pile of gravel. Her eyes carefully shielded, she watched the skacks being led out and cursed under her breath. The plan had been to wait until the early hours of the morning, when the guards would be less alert and slow to react, then to strike. They had thought causing damage to the truck itself would be the main problem; the generator was a massive, cylindrical device mounted in a steel frame, there was very little about it that would burn, so slinging burning missiles at it had been ruled out. Braskhiam technology was second to none, and they built things to last. Instead, it had been decided that those in the compound would create a diversion, while the main attack would start from above, from the top of the mountain itself. But they had not counted on skacks. She breathed out through her teeth and resigned herself to wait; they would have to deal with the animals when the time came. In the meantime, she stayed perfectly still, watching the Noranian defences unfold.

The signal to begin was the appearance of the harvest star, the brightest star in the east. No sooner had it lifted itself over the horizon, then a fire broke out in the guards’ quarters. Men and women came running out, struggling into their armour, some trying to fight the flames, others casting around for an enemy to fight. Another fire flared up in the offices, and by this time some of the miners were up and out. They immediately began filling buckets of water and started a chain up the stairs to the burning room. The soldiers were slower to tackle their fire, being more intent on finding the arsonists. Cotch-Baumen arose from his bed in the mine-master’s quarters to find the mining camp in complete confusion. With no time to see to his uniform, he shoved his feet into his slippers and pulled on his dressing gown before marching out, bitterly cursing the Myunans for forcing him to appear before the soldiers in such a state of undress.

‘Whipholder Mellev!’ he roared.

‘Yes, sir, Provinchus!’ The burly commanding officer ran up.

‘Get your troops in order. Stop wasting time looking for the Myunans. Ensure the safety of the eshtran and the generator truck, and assign a detail to deal with the fire in the guards’ quarters! The remaining troops will secure the palisade. Have them stick a spear into anything moving that isn’t Noranian. If we can’t stop them getting in, we’ll bloody well stop them getting out.’

‘Yes, sir!’

Even as the officer answered, he noticed fire start to climb several sections of the palisade. The Myunans were attacking from the outside as well. Suddenly hot flames burst from the door of the minemaster’s quarters.

‘Not my clothes!’ Cotch-Baumen shrieked.

Miners rushed to fight the blaze, but it was already raging out of control. The Myunans were determined to burn every building in the compound to the ground.

The soldiers in the watchtower at the gate kept their heads, loading their crossbows and seeking out their first targets. But with their attention drawn into the camp by the fires, they failed to see the Parsinor at the foot of the tower. The desert-dweller was up the ladder and among them before they knew it, swinging sword and battleaxe and bellowing his tribal battle cry as he waded into them. All around the perimeter of the mining camp, soldiers found themselves fighting shadows – camouflaged Myunans attacking from the dark, their faces sculpted into fearsome battle-masks.

In the midst of the chaos, no one in the compound heard the rush of air over wide wings, and only the skacks looked up in time to see three figures dropping towards the top of the generator truck. Mirkrin, Westram and Ceeanna had shaped their arms, chests and backs into wings and their feet into powerful claws. Westram carried a large bottle of the volcan acid that Mirkrin used in his toolsmithing. He dropped onto the top of the machine and slunched into his normal form as the other two swung away to distract the skacks.

Westram threw the raging animals a wary glance, trying to block out their constant screeches as he strode forward to find the controls for the machine at the end of the truck. Pulling a sturdy brace from his tool roll, he leaned down and prised off the cover panel to expose the bare mechanical workings underneath. A skack leapt at him, causing him to jerk back, but Ceeanna dived in and kicked it in the head, knocking it away. Westram plunged the brace into the workings, breaking up what he could. Then he uncorked the bottle and poured acid over the whole mess, watching it dissolve into metal sludge.

Ceeanna and Mirkrin were struggling to keep the skacks back. Their chains were long enough to allow them to reach the top of the machine and it would only be a matter of time before one of them managed it. A crossbow bolt struck the metal near Westram’s shoulder and he rolled away in alarm, spilling some of the acid on his hand. He cried out and wiped the burning hand on his tool roll. Another of the arrows buzzed past his face. He turned to see a soldier about sixty paces away, her foot holding down the nose of the crossbow as she pulled back the cord to reload it. Ceeanna wheeled around and swept down towards her.

‘Ceeanna, no!’ Mirkrin called after her, jinking to one side to draw off the snapping jaws of a skack.

The soldier saw the ageing Myunan coming and smoothly finished loading her crossbow. Then she raised it and fired the bolt straight into Ceeanna’s chest. The Myunan’s momentum carried her on towards the soldier and she crashed to the ground, her limp body sliding up against the woman’s feet. Two of the skacks raced forward to try and seize the easy meat, but their chains pulled them up short.

The soldier reloaded and took aim at Mirkrin. But before she could take her shot, a nightmarish winged creature suddenly crashed down on her, throwing her backwards and seizing her crossbow with four writhing tentacles. It was a jankbat, another native of Guthoque, and it had a triangular brand on its bony, spine-laden face. It pulled the weapon apart and swept on to attack other soldiers who tried to take aim at the saboteurs.

Mirkrin wanted desperately to go to Ceeanna’s aid, but he was now on his own against the skacks. Turning his back on his friend, he flew circles above the animals, dodging left and right, infuriating them, his shoulders aching, his back and chest ready to cramp.

Westram was satisfied with his damage of the controls, but