1.6 The Long Week

Silven appeared on a small hillock in a dreary landscape of rocks, dust and thorny shrubs. He folded his FTS and looked round with a weary sigh. The forest where Gigglewick nestled was nowhere to be seen; he was, so he had been told, deep in the lands of the witch’s rebels now. That was why he had to come alone, apparently, to sneak past any spies unnoticed. What that probably meant was that Banc and company were just too damn bone idle to do anything themselves. It may have been his fault that they no longer had roofs over their heads, but Silven was rapidly losing patience with the whole miserable village all the same.

Finally, he made out his destination - a jumble of thistle-choked rocks and wooden beams on the northern side of his teleport point. Snake Hill Outpost, Olgred’s clumsy script informed him. It was an ex-outpost, of course; nothing much seemed to be very intact in Oldeburgh. But that was good. It meant that whoever once held the weapons Silven sought wouldn’t be troubling him for some time. He rested one hand on his scabbard and approached the tumbledown entrance.

Silven cleared the way to a neat network of brick tunnels and chambers running off into the hillock. He touched a finger curiously to the charred remains of a torch and gasped as the flame sprung into life. “Looks like everything’s a decoration here,” he mumbled, looking down at the pouch of flint abandoned in the dancing shadows.

Snake Hill Outpost, as the name suggested, was guarded fiercely. It was full of spiders. Silven charged the writhing hordes and laid about with his weapon before the spindly things had chance to leap. Two had fallen before the first fang plunged into his stomach. Silven glanced down at the wound and screamed. He had turned green. And not just the bite; his hands, his cotton shirt, his sword... everything was green. And with the shock came the slow, sinking feeling of drifting and fading away. Silven swung his sword and lolled away from the oncoming foes. His mind wandered, his strength drained from his limbs. He detected the red glow of death about his eyes and giggled.

Something different caught the last shreds of his attention. The bulk of the spiders were thin and pointed, twitchy and lightning fast as they pounced. But one gargantuan tarantula was lumbering out of a room to his right, powerful and ponderous, with thick tufts of hair on its abdomen. Silven attacked dizzily and missed, but his new target was more successful. Instantly, the grogginess faded and Silven waddled away from the forest of scratching legs. His sword felt like an anvil in his hands, but the strength in his legs flourished once more. And there was another thing. He had turned blue. Even as he retreated into a dead end, Silven laughed. His health had returned, and if he gripped his sword tightly in two hands, he found he could muster the energy to slice the spiders clean in two with one mighty stroke. And, if he angled the blade just so across his body... yes, it absorbed the brunt of the onslaught just like his lost shield.

Another spider wriggled under his sword and dug into his ankle. Silven cried out in pain and finished it with his green sword. Again, his attention dimmed, his heart beat slowed, but he pushed through the clamouring beasts to their hairy master at the curve of the tunnel, and he was blue again. He hacked and slashed until he could move no more. He stood rigid amongst the corpses of the arachnids, fighting for breath in the claustrophobic shaft. A minute passed, two more, and then, the azure hue faded from his skin.

Silven pondered his victory as he wandered through the silent network of tunnels. That bulbous tarantula had saved him somehow, yet he didn’t see how getting half-chewed to bits gave him the chance to fight back against its little brothers. He shook the thought aside. For another time, perhaps.

Now, he could concentrate on why he had come to this horrible little fortress in the first place. He moved from room to room, bursting apart boxes and upturning old tables in his quest to find weapons for his turnip-bloated friends. He gathered daggers and maces carefully under one arm and paused to regard a twinkling scrap of paper pinned against a wardrobe with a knife. The glimmer faded as he retrieved the letter, but the words upon it were clear as day:

“Grandmaster Golkirk,

The quest has failed. We only found one squiggle crystal, which Brother Aldmas has smuggled back to the church before the king’s army advances too far. I am afraid it is too late for us. We shall fight to the last man, but I have thought it wise to conceal the bulk of our armoury behind the enchanted wardrobe, where the heathens will not steal it. They’ll never find out that the password is “Squiggle.” Trust me, I’ll take it to my grave.

Praise Ulthan!

Brother Fas”

Silven read, then read again, searching for clues. It couldn’t be... “Err, squiggle?” he muttered, embarrassed even in the lonely hill. The back of the wardrobe cracked open smartly at the word, and a sea of swords and spears toppled down onto the rock floor with a deafening clang. Silven bent down to examine them, then looked again at the note. “But...just...why...” He trailed off and crumpled up the paper with a scowl of disgust.

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Whatever cult or clan had taken over this outpost had been bloodthirsty indeed. There were dozens of cruelly barbed weapons of all sizes, but all were cast from the same heavy dark metal. Silven weighed one in his hand and added it to his collection. He would see how many he could comfortably carry, and that would just have to do. If they wanted more, well, the spiders were gone. A little wheelbarrow convoy would do the trick. He picked up a spear, balanced it in the other hand with an evil-looking morning star, and added another sword or ten. “Hmmm...” he mumbled into the darkness. He felt fine. He snatched up five sharp axes and a vicious polearm, and tucked a huge longbow beneath his other arm. He hefted everything, shrugged, and carried on. Another sword, five daggers, and then, all was left was a few throwing knives. He scooped them up with ease, stood, and took a step back. His foot felt like syrup in the air. He pushed with all his might and let out a puff of anguish as he forced his toes back to the ground. His legs did not want to move.

But of course! He was forgetting something. His fingers fumbled with his pocket and drew out the Fast Travel Supreme. “Ahh, there you are!” he sighed, and pointed out the village some distance away.

“You are overencumbered,” said the map.

Silven nearly dropped the parchment in fright. But a moment later, anger engulfed the surprise. “No joke! So, I have to ask you now, do I? Gigglewick, please.”

“You are overencumbered,” droned the map.

“Yiggle-wick?”

“You are overencumbered.”

“Yiggle-wike-a?”

“You are overencumbered,” went the monotonous tone.

At last, Silven got the message. Silently, he made a mental note to throttle Olgred whenever he next saw him. He didn’t sign up for shoddy service. He reached out to release an armful of weapons, and paused. He tested another step with all his strength. He thought of the wolves stalking around the refugee’s fires in the ruins of the clearing. And finally, he made up his mind. If he did this one thing, maybe he could at last be free of the obligations his own conscience had set him.

Thankfully, the week was uneventful. It was four leagues from Snake Hill to Gigglewick, and the journey proved somewhat educational. Silven counted at least twelve distinct species of flowering bush in the rocky scrub. It seemed the males of the red communal sparrows on the outskirts of the forest held highest note competitions to woo mates. And the yellow-shelled snails on the footpath were fierce predators, whereas the green-shelled ones excreted a sticky paralysing substance to escape them. If he ever reached civilisation, Silven mused, he was sure he could make quite a name for himself as an eminent naturalist.

He also counted the number of times the villagers looked dumbly across the road at him in the last hour, without ever raising a finger to relieve him of his load. It was at least one hundred and twenty three.

It was a bright, cheerful afternoon when a glum Silven threw down the weapons at Banc’s feet. The butcher looked round with a startled expression and smiled. “Oh, Silven! Didn’t see you. Find any weapons? And what’s that pain?”

“I think you stepped on an axe,” muttered Silven.

Banc looked down and laughed. “So I have. Well, thanks for your time. Now a bit of appreciation for all you’ve done.” Silven held out his hand as a crowd of eager men and women gathered round to take up arms. “Wow, a... a copper,” he stuttered, holding up the coin.

“You’re welcome. Time for part three?” Silven glanced up, aghast. Banc didn’t look to be in a joking mood as he stroked his moustache and frowned at the hesitation. “Well...” began Silven.

“I‘m thirsty. Pass the water,” grunted Banc. He pointed off to his side, where a three-legged stool held a pitcher and mug. It was barely a foot from his grasp. Silven studied his face. “Y-you’re being serious, aren’t you?” Banc didn’t reply. He looked to the crowd. They gazed back expectantly, and waited.

Slowly, as if to prevent startling a wild animal, Silven edged to the table. Banc watched with gleaming eyes as the warrior poured the water and passed it over to Gigglewick’s de facto leader. The mug shook in Silven’s iron grip; his other fist curled by his side.

Banc raised the mug to his lips, closed his eyes, and gulped. The crowd cheered. Banc smiled. Silven stared. “Cheers,” cried Banc above the hubbub. “I needed that. You’ve saved the village. Thanks.” Somewhere overhead, a distant fanfare reached Silven’s ears. He blinked and moved on. “Well, you certainly seem to be heading in the right direction...” He turned to study the single repaired roof on the closest cottage. The workmen were just beginning the door. “So...I’ve been meaning to ask. Do you know of anywhere where folk actually, you know... do things?”

Banc frowned once more. A deep wrinkle appeared in his forehead. At last, he brightened. “Ah, yes! There’s that town a ways down the road. Never bloody stop. Thinking, researching, bustling about. Haven’t heard a peep since Wallace took the south.”

Silven did his best to smile. “And, what’s its name?”

Banc scowled. “Desert Marsh. What’s it to you? Have some turnip-”

“Err, no thanks,” Silven interjected hastily. “I’m the thinking, researching, bustling about sort, you see. So...” He drew out his map, traced south, and pointed. “All the best!” he called, and disappeared into the breeze.