Darkness on the Edge of Town

The personal diary of Sorashi, daughter of Deirdre, pt 17

So we return to the army from the now long-ruined Tower, and are immediately invited to report to Benedict – as we were ready to do anyway, but this is for Pattern-initiates only. Another war meeting, what fun!

We go through the questions and the answers – I am doubtful of the motives of the answerer but Constance seems convinced of their value. We shall see in time, anyway.

In response to the mention of the Head leaving the Slough of Despond and the Valley of the Shadow of Death, Corwin mentions his previous adventures near Ygg (including scribing a new Pattern somewhere round there – he didn't mention why) and admits that he may have inadvertently influenced the area. Fiona mentions a story called the Pilgrim’s Progress but it seems to shed little useful light to guide our future path.

We talk of shortcuts – we don't have enough food or water to reach Ygg by mundane means (unless we start eating our own army) – the figure of over 10 million miles is mooted – and shadow-hopping via Pattern seems distinctly unsafe, not to mention there are no known power sources. (I keep my potential source to myself). We need other options.

There is talk of 'vaulting' all the way to Ygg – it seems that our fellow-travelling Chaots may have a useful non-Amberite trick or two so we need to talk to them. Constance, Flora and I are deputised to talk to Hector – my inclusion causes Constance to look both puzzled and affronted for a second, as if I could offer nothing to this meeting. Only a second, though, before the political mask reinstates itself.

Hector, at least, seems pleased to see me, before the monsoon of charm from Constance and Flora engulfs him. We discuss the options – the Logrus can take only a few at a time, and its reaction to Pattern may be problematic (the latter is my inference, it is not mentioned); the Black Road is no more but Hector does have a spell called 'Parting the Veil' – a transport spell.

If a few are taken to Ygg, the shadow's increased 'reality' would enable them to use the Pattern to create a Trump Gate, enabling faster passage in greater numbers (should the gods smile on it). It would seem the best solution we can come up with at the moment, so he promised to prepare the spell and said he would be ready in a couple of hours.

Having paused for long enough, the army moves off. Now having served its presumed purpose, the ravine has vanished, leaving a broad flat plain with only a low hill to our left – the only indication of the tower with its strange, sickly owner we had so recently left was a few tumbled rocks on its crown – not even the ruin remained.

Less than an hour into the march, there are rumours of serious problems – a trooper gallops off on his own, never to be seen again, another sobs his despair then drops to his knees and slits his own throat. I examine my own feelings – I feel a little more sad than perhaps I should, but perhaps our journey contributes to this – it seems endless. But I cannot help but worry that this is the start of something larger and more threatening – the antelope knows the hyena lurks somewhere, even when it cannot see or smell her.

A while later, I hear screaming and turn to see 2 marines running from the main body of the army – they are not together, but both run as though their greatest fear is at their back. One has the dubious fortune to run close past William, who takes him off his feet with a sweep of his arm. The other is tackled by other soldiers, his babbling indistinct but the high tones of fear are all too apparent.

Even amongst my own men, there is unrest – a few of the less mentally robust are crumbling. I try not to think of losing control of the soldiers, of discipline breaking down as we all try to contain the situation.

Mother is called to wield the Pattern and I take her place.

Could that be it, the Pattern-wielder? I know of Sand's sadness, does Llewella harbour this fear?

Well, Mother's Pattern-wielding seems to solve the immediate problem – the mood changes and the atmosphere of fear dissipates like mist on a summer morning.

My relief is a little premature, however, as not more than a half-hour after, there are shouts of warning behind Airavata. One of the baggage-train wagons has lost a wheel in soft sand – I wheel my beast round to investigate as alarm calls sound along the rest of the army, he may not be fast but he can cover a lot of ground in a few strides.

I arrive – troops are trying to rescue the wagon, but the situation is getting worse – the thin skin of reality has fractured and the front right wheel is dangling over a visibly widening crater, the blank expanse of the Abyss visible below it. It's the wagon on which Delwyn's coffin is being transported.

I ask Airavata to grab the rear axle to try and pull it out, but the wagon is too heavy, and I can hear the ominous cracking of the axle as he pulls. The troops are satyrs – I order a few to try and recover the coffin – of course, it is under everything which makes it that much more difficult. Some items are thrown to safety, but the wagon lurches suddenly and starts to sink into the Abyss as the ground near Airavata's front feet crumbles away and I have to order those on the wagon to abandon the task.

Both are on relatively solid ground as the wagon falls into the Abyss, tumbling slowly. Everyone nearby backs away except for Havelock who tries to retrieve it by firing an arrow attached to a rope but this fails – he is eager to try again, but Benedict forbids it as too dangerous.

Sand is, of course, distraught.

We load the few items salvaged onto other wagons, and move off, skirting the crater. It seems that Pattern wielding has unforeseen dangers out here in the Chaos lands.

We stop to rest and another meeting is called. The side-effects of Pattern are foremost – the dangers are apparent but we lack the luxury of time. Havelock mentions a plan that may help with supplies – it involves a book he has (or knows of) called the 'Age' – or maybe the shadow is called the age, my recall is hazy at this point and there is another called the Spa, which can help the wounded.

He will see if it can be done.

It has been decided to stop forward patrols – they provide nothing useful, and the chances of the patrol being lost is too high. Aerial reconnaissance seems to be the way forward (as long as the landscape doesn't react like the path to the Tower) and the meeting ends.

When returned to the tent, I ask Surpanakha if she has a winged form – she demonstrates and seems amenable to helping out when asked. I think she is a little bored, in honesty. I pass this information on to Benedict.

In the meantime, Hector has prepared the spell and plans are made to try it the next 'morning' – he can take up to six people on this first attempt – to take through larger numbers will need a rearrangement of the spell and a larger power source. The latter I may be able to assist with, I tell him in confidence – though I cannot guarantee it will work, he would have more chance of it than I would.

Constance is of course the first to be chosen to travel – it never ceases to amaze me how a fluttering of eyelashes and a casual flick of the hair can achieve so much, especially in one so concerned with her lofty demureness. William and DeLambre are also included – I don't know who else as I am called to wield the Pattern next.

Fiona looks most doubtful and asks if I have any 'inner demons' – I can only respond that I have no knowledge of any, I do not voice that any would become evident fairly quickly, no-one here is unblemished.

In view of my youth and lack of talent, I acquire Fiona as a chaperone and child minder when we wake and we begin the delicate task of infusing pattern as Constance and the others travel to near our eventual goal.

We set off on the yellowish road we have been following – the road turns to more of a pale green hue but other than that no ill-effects of my stewardship seem to manifest themselves. The landscape bucks and twists in seeming reaction to us, mountains rise and drop and a dark tower sails past like a drowned tree in a monsoon river.

More disconcertingly, a mist starts gathering around us and the ground grows boggy underfoot. The mist grows thicker until it is a thick damp curtain around us, muffling our eyes and ears.

We receive a runner from Benedict – we are about to be attacked and a flock of Orca cavalry have been spotted to our right flank. No sooner had this news been imparted than something horrific flies overhead – almost more frightening due to it being almost invisible in the clinging fog. It leaves a wake of panic, but discipline held in the troops behind us – Corillaine spearmen and archers for the most part.

The Jasper yeomanry, typically, break. I start to drop the Pattern but Fiona hisses at me to keep it active.

The army grinds to a halt, and there is that gut-clenching lull which is the prelude to any battle. I am told to drop the Pattern as we retreat to the vanguard. There is a low throbbing around us – like the purring of a monstrously large cat or – when my brain readjusts – the rumbling of large and heavy jaggernathen wagons. Whatever it is, it does not bode well for us.

The fog glows with sudden bright lights – it seems the battle is begun. There is screaming as one of the spear men falls, clutching his face – I feel the bile of fear rising in my throat.

Through the fog, there are glimpses of movement, black and white shapes of the Orcas but no ideas of numbers. A small detached part of my mind wonders if the fog is as much a hamper to them as it is to us – we cannot see them coming, but perhaps they are not fully sure where we are – the bright missiles do not seem to have claimed many more victims.

Or, as the relentlessly analytical part of my brain continues, they need only keep us corralled, like sheep attacks by wild dogs. Well, I am no sheep – I remove my boots to facilitate a possible shape-shift.

Fiona lifts an interrogative eyebrow, then nods in comprehension.

Around us, there have appeared pools and out of these come frog-like things – I can't remember what they are called, it is unimportant – as we are also attacked by Fomorians. Neither are determined foes – they show little stomach for a sustained attack, but they do enough.

The frog-things seem to forcibly change their victims to their own form – a very neat way of sowing fear and division in an enemy army – and the blades of the Fomorians cause infection as one of their victims falls against me, clutching a wound going swiftly green – I cut out the infected edges with my hunting knife and pour wine over it, pressing a clean bandage over the cut. I can only hope it is enough.

I check on Fiona, she is alert and thankfully seems unharmed. The fog seems to be lifting, I can see in the distance ovoid shapes with thick lance-like shapes sticking out parallel to the ground – these are the jaggernathen, it would seem though they have no wheels. I can also see other soldiers – not Amber – hitting the Orca column in their unguarded flank. It seems that our shy travelling companions are our saviours.

This turns the tide of battle enough so that we prevail – the attackers are driven off, the frogs and Fomorians jump down their respective egresses which close after them – I can only hope we do not see them again. Ever.

The Orcas all but slaughtered, their commander approaches to be met with a wall of spears. Fortunately, I recognised him as William's ally (for want of a better word), Rickard and ask the spear men to let me through to talk to him. I do not condemn their reaction, emotions are still at battle-level and his is a rather intimidating visage.

He wants to speak to the overall commander – I ask him to stay here whilst I go and find him (hoping he has the sense to keep his distance). I find Benedict but it is obvious that he is busy so I catch Caine's eye and relay the message. He asks me what I know of Rickard and I answer honestly, that he is of the same Order as William and helped us to rescue Julian. He does not waste time asking if I trusted him, but says he will come and speak to our unexpected ally.

I leave the two commanders and we turn to the traditional post-battle pastime of counting our dead and injured. There are some four dozen dead, and about the same injured – mainly lost limbs. I cannot find the soldier I attended to in the battle – I can only hope he survived.

More worryingly, we have about a dozen whom the frog-things changed – one hesitates under questioning and is immediately run through by Darig. I distract myself by watching the egg-jaggernathen burn – oddly they seem to have ribs as though they were animals. Even now, Chaos has the capacity to surprise me.

Caine and Rickard having completed their little chat, it is announced at the post-battle meeting that the Order of the Lugubrious Vendetta would be marching with us. I stand to speak, to the surprise of the men, and suggest that those warped by the frog-things (they are called Anurans apparently) would be better transferred to the Order's care for the time being (assuming they were willing), for the overall good of morale in the units affected.

This is dismissed with mumblings of how 'the men wouldn't like it' and 'best to leave things as they are' – and I want to scream, in frustration, at the blithe incomprehension and casual dismissal of a woman's idea (because it is only from a woman). Do they not know what it will be like? Can they not use their empathy for one moment to imagine the looks of mistrust from those who don't think you're looking, the unwillingness to meet your eyes? The awkwardness with former friends? The whispered conversations which stop as you approach? Sitting to eat with a group of your fellow-soldiers, only to have them all leave on some flimsy pretext – or even no pretext at all? To look at your hands, or your face, and know you are not what you once were?

Do you really have no idea how it eats at your soul, corrodes your sense of self? To be the only monster in your battalion, and know this, and know that everyone else knows it?

My discipline prevents me, of course, so I merely incline my head and leave. I do not care if they think it rude, there is nothing else I can add to the meeting anyway.

It would seem that I, too, have darkness swimming in the depths of my soul.