Blake shivers inwardly, only in the heart of the Citadel had he seen another light like this and its sterile glow brings back memories of that terrible day; of the milky eyes that looked so easily into his blighted soul. He wasn’t sure if he would even have talked to the girl if had the train been lit by normal lamps. Not that it had done any good, anyway, she had only wanted a scary story, a taste of the desert. Unfortunately, some things had to be experienced and when they were it was too late. Perhaps the preacher had not been entirely wrong, because alone in the unrelenting light of the carriage, Blake envied the innocence and the idealism of the young. It was something to be seen from a distance now, a purity he would never touch again. Just as introspection and weariness begin to tug at his eyelids there comes a knock from outside the cabin.
Instantly he is on his feet, the undersized guns hidden at his wrists appearing in his hands as if by magic. He stops short of pulling the triggers only because that would bring the whole train down on him. The trains were seen as something just short of a saint’s reliquary and any harm that came to one through the use of his weapons could have serious repercussions. As a boy William had even heard
rumours
of another child who’d lost his hand for carving his initials into the woodwork , that might just be something they said to scare the children but they didn’t take your guns off you for no reason and he had no wish to run afoul of the law over a misunderstanding. So he overrides his initial instinct and stands quivering with suppressed action, his guns half-cocked, trying to peer into the dimly lit corridor beyond the glass pane in the carriage door.
There is a figure standing beyond the glass but he can tell little more than that since whoever it is seems to be wearing a great coat like his own and a hat which shadows its owners face, despite the splash of light coming from the compartment, Blake on the other hand is all too aware that he is no doubt easily visible in the well lit compartment.
“There is no need for those, Captain.” A familiar breathy voice whispers through the glass. At the same time the latch clicks and in walks the skeleton of
Etine
Moore.
“How in the name of all that’s holy did you get in here? How did you find me?” Blake hisses, stepping past the boney troubadour and hauling the compartment door shut. There is no lock so he opts to hold the door closed with his back against the glass pane in the hope of obscuring his visitor from any late night passers by.
“There is no need to concern yourself, Captain,” the skeleton assures him, “they are all soundly asleep I do not think we will be observed or interrupted.”
“I don’t care what you think! They’ll burn me if they see me talking to your puppet! How did you even get it on the train?”
“Oh, it’s quite amazing how small a skeleton can become, once you remove the need for muscles and tendons, any suitcase is a good means for travel; these old trains are full of compartments and overhead lockers, there’s little or no risk. At worst my servant merely plays dead and there is a mystery and a little digging in a couple of days. As to how I found you, it was me who put you on the train in the first place. I couldn’t personally spare the time but
Etine
was as amused, to the degree that his kind can be amused, by the holy man’s bleating about the sanctity of the line, while he lay in a compartment just out side the door. The dead do not have a sense of humour but they do have a certain appreciation of irony, Captain Blake.”
“I think I’ll lose my sense of humour as well, if we are caught together.”
“Which is why I waited until now and why I must be quick. I could have caught up to you once you left
Brigton
, with you being none the wiser as to how I’d followed you so swiftly. However things have changed.”
“Why?”
“The girl is no longer on route to her father’s. I had hoped all you would need to do would be to escort her…”
“Then you hoped wrong! I’m here for the Gate. If the girl can aid me then that’s what she will do, do not make the mistake of thinking you can order me here and there like one of these … things.” He gestures at the skeleton
“I meant no insult, I simply believed she would be safer.”
“If the leeches are seeking her, then nowhere is safe. They have her already, don’t they? That’s why you’re speaking to me now.”
“Yes.” The bone clown confesses on its master’s behalf.
“Do you know where they are taking her?”
“We cannot be certain. Our spy was destroyed during the struggle, but the marshes were mentioned.”
Blake frowns, it is enough indeed, in the vast dryness of the Bowl the reference was explicit.
“
Pellan
!”
“You know the Strigoi in question?”
“I know of him by reputation. Every year, during winter, merchants go missing in the marshes. Of course, normally, they wouldn’t go anywhere near the place, in summer only the Snake’s Tongue keeps the marshland alive.” Blake’s words refer to the two off shoots of the Blue Snake that were popularly seen as its forked tongue. Of course, for most, these were just two blue lines on the map; the area had a foul reputation and was too sodden to produce lumber or crops reliably. He continues, “Come winter though the marsh expands and many routes which were safe in summer become precarious. He finds one way or another to lure them in fog, a bridge that seems to save time or bypass some obstacle, he’s even been known to trick whole barges into his swamps, if the river’s flowing hard enough.”
“Surely you are just talking of the curse? Peasants might believe it but a marsh in winter is dangerous for men, who have gained most of their experience travelling in the forests around the river or in the desert. As for the lost boats, well the river is dangerous as well, if it flows too hard.”
“No, he is simply cautious. Never too greedy, unless he thinks what he takes will not be missed. During the crusade a whole troop of cavalry got lost in the marshes; so many died that year that no one wondered what had happened to nearly three hundred men! It is credible that the marshes are simply dangerous but the truth is
Pellan
is the curse and the danger is that little happens in the marshes which he does not allow.”
“So
Pellan
is the one who took the girl?”
“Almost certainly not.
Pellan
is a monster, even by the standards of the Strigoi, he is the victim of some strange malady that has twisted his body beyond anything even vaguely human.”
“The creature that took the girl was inhuman enough! It flowed beneath the door then formed into an inhuman creature that had horns and tentacles.”
“It was not
Pellan
. He has sired fewer vampires than other Elders, due to his malady, but those that are of his blood seem to have gained the power to control the flesh from their sire’s corruption.”
“You know all this by reputation?”
“The leeches have their own communities, bone mage, much as I’m sure you have yours;
Pellan
was always looked on as a demon among demons, he is an Elder but you can be sure that, whatever his reasons for abducting the girl, they are not in line with the others of his kind.”
Why? What do you mean?”
“
Pellan
has no interest in the Gate, he has accepted his corruption. If he takes any interest in the girl it is to use her as a bargaining chip with the other Elders.”
“There are other Elders, then?” The skeleton whispers, its inflectionless voice giving away none of its master’s eagerness for an answer to this very question.
“The term is deceptive. Most of the true Elders were destroyed long before we reached the Citadel. Those we encountered were their offspring, a Strigoi gains potency as the years pass, as they become more undead and forget their links to the flesh, the first thing to go is lust, replaced by hunger; then emotions, at least those understandable to humans, at last they lose all sense of time; being timeless creatures they no longer think of days or weeks but of years, centuries. That is why they were still dreaming when the Citadel was attacked and why the Citadel was so ill-prepared for the assault, its masters had no sense of the urgency required. They prefer to work within the political system that they themselves instituted as if it were some vast game, the Crusade was simply too fast, too unexpected.”
“For some! Others were missing.”
“Indeed it would be a mistake to assume that their apparent disconnection from the day to day flow of events was entirely a weakness, their view of time and their immense power mean that they usually have a long view of things. Perhaps the Crusade was an anomaly that happened too fast for them to counter or perhaps it was a stepping-stone to something else. The mystique, which used to surround the first Elders, is gone, nowadays the term really refers to those Strigoi, whose condition has worsened to such a state that there is little of their original humanity left. Obviously the process can take centuries, thus these creatures can be called Elders,
Pellan
is definitely one, probably the oldest yet living and there are three others left who avoided destruction at Golifany, perhaps those three saw it coming. They might even have used the General to remove the others.”
“Don’t you mean four?”
“What?”
“There were five sarcophagi empty at the Citadel, if
Pellan
should have been in one then that leaves four others.”
“It was the fourth who showed me the vision of the Gate.”
“You believe these three will also be seeking the girl?”
“If she is as important as you say, and the fact that
Pellan
has become involved seems to bear that out, then they will attempt to meet whatever price
Pellan
wants.
That gives us some time.”
“How can you be so sure that
Pellan
will not seek the Gate himself?”
“The same way I know it was not
Pellan
who abducted her in the first place,
Pellan
has not left his marshes for more than a century, by now I would imagine that his bulk has become such that only there can he hide from the sunlight.”
Chapter 6:
‘The Leech’s Garden”
It is still dark when Dale enters the fringes of the marsh, his quick limbs, long and tireless, have brought him back in time, despite his burden. Now he can feel the earth growing soft beneath his hoofed feet; smell the thick scent of the river that runs thin fingers through the sodden earth and trickles into the fetid basin at the heart of the marshes. Here and there a toad chirps and pale alligators slip between the reeds in search of them, while the water fowl chide him from hidden burrows and blighted tree tops for interrupting their doze. There is life here on the fringes, enough life to hide the true nature of the marsh but Dale knows better, there are deeper pools and darker soil where he must travel, he is not yet home.
It still dark but light is coming quickly. Already the rotting vegetation that covers the deep sticky mud is beginning to steam, as if in anticipation of the sun. Thick mist billows around his ankles, coiling up past his double-jointed knees, reaching almost to the lump of distended flesh that hangs from his chest and abdomen. He has had to travel on all fours to accommodate the extra bulk. Dale extends his neck to the sound of crackling bones and tearing cartilage and stares into the glazed eyes of his passenger.
“Not so long now,” he assures her through his thin slit of a mouth, “we just have to wait out the sun. You don’t mind getting wet do you?” Dale sniggers.
Lillian listens distantly from within her cocoon of skin but she can make no sense of the monster’s words. The need to maintain her sanity has driven her from her body inch by inch over the long miles between
Olstop
and the marsh. Only the constant pumping of the muscles around the tube in her throat ensure that she even breathes regularly.
“I’m disappointed, beloved,” the broken necked monster says, its upside down face hanging in her vision, “we’ve had time to get to know each other now, so I think it’s only fair to say that I’d been told you would be a lot more fun.”
When he gets no response Dale swings his head closer, so that it dangles mere centimeters from Lillian’s face, bobbing on its rubbery moorings.
“Nothing to say to me then? I do value a frank exchange. Here let me help you.”
With a sudden jerk the tentacle that has been wedged in her throat for most of the night tears itself free, leaving her raw and choking.
“How about now? Anything to say?” the blue eyed monster mocks. “You can scream now, as much as you like.”
It is not due to any inner reserve that Lillian denies him the satisfaction of those screams but she is simply too numb, too disconnected to do more than gasp more air into her burning throat and lungs.
“That’s very disappointing and you started off so well. It wouldn’t encourage you if I used some other motivation would it?” A long tongue, as cold and dead as the rest of the creature, slides over her cheek. “There are ever so many variations I can make to this body, that might inspire you,” Dale looks up to the pink glow building on the horizon, “but we have no time for such distractions now.”