The man noticed Azkun’s dissatisfaction. He looked from Althak to Azkun several times, shrugged and walked off. A few yards down the road he stopped, turned and spoke to them, obviously telling them to follow him. Azkun made no move but Menish picked up one end of Althak’s litter so he had to lift the other. But he did not trust this Monnar.
The old man proved to be a curious person. He muttered to himself or sang almost continually in his own tongue. When they tried to speak to him he shrugged and spat and Menish began to think he was a little mad. Although he looked frail he set a good pace, and Menish’s initial heartening at finding the causeway ebbed away with the day. The water had helped but, without food, his strength was gone and he was still burdened with helping Azkun carry Althak’s litter.
By evening he was feeling light-headed, and he began to wonder if the water he had drunk by the causeway was as clean as it had appeared. He felt as if a fever were brewing. When they stopped at dusk the old man lit a fire and produced an evil-smelling lump of cheese from his dirty robe. He offered some to Menish. Menish was revolted by it but forced himself to eat some. As for the fire, he was curious about it. Neither of them saw the old man gathering wood or lighting it, they were too weary to watch his every move. It blazed up suddenly when they were not looking at him.
But Menish was too tired to wonder much about it. He told Azkun to stay awake as long as he could and to wake him when he could no longer watch, then he sank down on the causeway stones to sleep.
Azkun and the old man sat by the fire for a time, and the eyes of the forest, the furtive rustlings and the gurglings of the mud drew around them. Azkun shivered and the old man, seeing he was afraid, spoke to him. But Azkun could not understand him. He shrugged then he stood up, bent over, and emitted a long, noisy fart that seemed to be directed at the forest in general. He hawked and spat again and lay down to sleep, snoring in a few moments.
Surprisingly, the forest noises appeared to subside. Azkun wondered wryly if it was the fart or the snoring that frightened the creatures away.
That night a thick fog rose up around them and the stench of the mire hung in it. To Azkun it smelt like death. But the old man’s snoring was comforting in an odd way. It was regular and predictable, not random like the forest noises. Although the fog and the darkness thickened so that he could not see his hand before his face and the glow of the fire was dim and far away, lost in the whiteness of the fog, he could still hear the old man’s snoring.
Sometime in the night he felt sleepy enough to wake Menish but he did not. Menish was exhausted so he let him sleep on. But he held himself from sleep. He did not trust the old man, even though he appeared to be asleep.
At last daylight stole through the fog, turning it from darkness to bright whiteness, but it was still thick and wet. Drops of water grew on his face and clothes, and still the old man snored.
Just as the fog began to thin enough for him to make out the shapes of the others in the whiteness, Menish stirred and the old man stopped snoring with a sudden grunt. He sat up, peered through the fog at Azkun, and then sniffed loudly and spat. He spoke some words of greeting in his own tongue, but Azkun did not reply. He watched the old man warily.
Menish sat up.
“You didn't wake me?”
“You were tired, I watched all night.”
Menish muttered thanks and checked Althak.
“He's no better and no worse. His breathing is very shallow. Only his size saves him from the poison, but that can't help him for much longer.”
In spite of his rest and recent food, when Menish tried to lift Althak’s litter it was too much for him, and Azkun had to hoist the Vorthenki across his own back, leaving the litter behind. Althak’s swollen arm hung down in front of his chest, he could feel it throbbing with poison.
Azkun walked with his back bent under Althak, his eyes on the flagstones in the road. But from time to time he raised his head to see if the fog was lifting. He could hear Menish walking beside him, stumbling with fatigue. The old man ambled on ahead, they could hear the tap-tap of his stick as he hobbled along.
Azkun was uneasy at following him and said so again to Menish. But Menish was adamant. The man must have a home somewhere with real food. It was likely that he would be able to lead them out of the forest. Besides, they had to follow the causeway. The old man was travelling the same way they were whether they liked it or not.
They had not travelled more than an hour when Azkun became aware that he could now see the trees through the fog. But they were different, they were the wrong shape. Yesterday they had been twisted, claw-like things that hung over the road, today they were tall and straight.
“Have we left the marsh?” asked Menish. “The smell has gone.”
“The trees are different here,” replied Azkun. “Perhaps we have.”
The fog cleared more and more and they found themselves on a road, not a causeway. The lifting curtain of whiteness revealed that they were making their way through a valley whose sides rose in sheer cliffs to snow-covered mountains. Waterfalls tumbled down the cliffs from high above the valley and a wide stream meandered across the valley floor.
“But we couldn't have left Gashan so quickly,” said a puzzled Menish. “We couldn't see mountains yesterday and we haven't walked so far today.”
Azkun said nothing, but he remembered the old man’s fart at the forest. At the time it had seemed no more than a rude gesture. But he could still see faint traces of a painted eye on his forehead. Was this Monnar magic? Had he taken them from the forest to some more subtly evil land of his own?
Chapter 27: Healing
At about noon the old man led them off the road and through the trees, where they found a sod hut thatched with straw in a grassy clearing. It was a crude-looking dwelling, and when the old man pulled back the skins covering the doorway they found it stank of animal dung and old sweat.
The hut was tiny inside, but somehow two yaks and a goat were stabled there, which accounted for the stink. Azkun placed Althak on the rough cot of old hay and dirty rags that was either the old man’s bed or the animals’ hay store. The Vorthenki was heavy and Azkun was weary with carrying him. Menish sank down on the floor, leaning his back against the wall.
Again, while they were not watching him, the old man started a fire. There was a small fireplace, a pile of embers in a ring of stones, in the centre of the room. From an old, wooden chest in a corner he produced a bowl and several earthenware jars. Muttering away to himself, he shook the contents of one of the jars into the bowl. It was powdery stuff and it hung in the air like smoke. The old man coughed and spluttered as he opened the next jar.
Azkun watched him like a hawk. They were safe from the forest now, but they were not safe from this Monnar. And Althak was still in deadly danger from his bite. He lay on the hay as silent as death, but Azkun knew that he had not died. He could still feel the throbbing pain in his arm. He did not want Althak to die. It was not just that he feared that darkness he would feel when Althak passed into oblivion; Althak was his friend. But there was nothing he could do. He had not saved Hrangil, and he could do nothing for Althak.
The old man finished mixing his potion and, as Azkun watched him, he reached into the fire and grasped one of the flames. He pulled it out and it twisted and writhed in his hand like a living thing. Somehow it did not look strange, the old man simply held a tongue of flame in his hand. He muttered something to himself and poured the flame into the bowl where it hissed and bubbled alarmingly.