THE ROAMING FOREST

A Tale of the Red Archer

(2006)

CHAPTER ONE

The Rider in Red

         

THE NIGHT WAS a shrieking chaos of ragged cloud racing across a sky of bruised red, green and gold. All about the scarlet clad rider the earth seemed to move like the ocean, wind whipping grass and trees into a madman’s dance. Bolts of lightning, slashing down from every point of the compass, made the man’s horse snort and flatten its ears, white-eyed, nostrils flaring, as it bore its bowman master on at a killing gallop.

Some old terror buried within the archer warned him that this was no normal tempest. It was not the first he had ever encountered, engendered by sorcery. He had not known such a storm on this island, but it spoke of a powerful evil at play. He was anxious to ride out of it as swiftly as he could.

At last he mounted a hill. The sky was still in turmoil but, as the first fingers of dawn came creeping under the night, the main storm was now behind him, hanging above the valley where the dark mass of a forest somehow seemed to absorb the disturbance as he watched. The red-clad archer frowned. He could have sworn that the forest had been further away the last time he looked back.

On this island, the archer was known as Red Ronan, but his given name was Rackhir. He had lived here for over a year. He wiped a mixture of water and sweat from his face and neck, throwing back his hood to catch the cool following breeze. The stallion, a big, healthy roan, was exhausted. His coat steaming, he bent to crop the lush grass. Rackhir dismounted. Grey light spread through the beginning morning and the storm subsided, falling into the forest like smoke sucked through a window. Sunrise, and the sky became its normal pale cloudy canopy. In the distance, in the next valley, Rackhir heard pipes and drums. He wondered if they were celebrating the end of the storm or hoping to drive something off. As he led his horse down a well-marked sheep-track he murmured the words of a tune which had become familiar to him since he had found himself living amongst these people.

They called him Ronan because his given name defeated their familiar tongue. They had misheard him when he first introduced himself and “Ronan” was what they thought he had said. “Ronan” resembled r’nan, his people’s word for archer. In his own land of Phum, Rackhir ranked high amongst the Warrior Priests who served Phum’s patriarch. Though by training more warrior than priest he was, by disposition, more priest than warrior. A curiosity about the world and a quest for a mysterious city had brought him accidentally to this island nation where he originally understood no language. Their culture was alien to a well-educated man like himself, who felt he had read every existing account of the Young Kingdoms of the West.

He dressed in the scarlet jerkin and breeks of his caste, a covered quiver of arrows on his back, an unstrung bow slung over his shoulder, a long, light sword at his side. To the island’s people he passed for what they called a “Templar,” though they were surprised he carried no cross insignia on his cloak. That cross was popular here. The mark of the chief god of their pantheon.

Ronan/Rackhir followed the music down into the valley, where a fast-flowing river ran, leading him into a grey stone village over whose roofs hung a haze of peat-smoke. He knew enough of their language and customs now to give his horse up to an ostler at the village inn and fling him one of the copper pieces he had earned here after his encounter with the seabear which attacked his boat off the coast of Lormyr. In the fight, the bear had virtually destroyed his little craft and all but killed him, giving him such a swipe with its massive flipper that he had lost consciousness, to awaken on a beach at the estuary of a river the locals called “Liffé.”

He suspected that since his encounter with the seabear he had slipped into some unearthly realm, though this island was otherwise as real as anything he had experienced in his travels. If a little wet. It had scarcely stopped raining since he had awakened on a shingle beach to be met by a group of strangely dressed children. They had been friendly enough. They had led him to their village and fed him food, which though unpalatable was nourishing. Since then he had traveled on, finding work in the nearest large port. There, some of the other soldiers had taken exception to his foreign ways and inability to understand them, forcing him to travel further and further afield, accepting whatever work he could, mostly as bodyguard, forever hoping to find a ship to take him off the island and on his way to seek a city he knew as Tana Lorn. He cursed himself for giving credence to the old Filkharian wine merchant who had advised him to travel by sea, rather than continue on his way by land.

Unhappily, the seabear had ripped away Ronan’s purse, well-stocked with jewels from his previous adventure in Oi Oi, City of the Pearl Kings. He kept a few gold pieces in the folds of his belt, but he wanted to preserve them as long as possible. The boat had been blown off course, into the path of the seabear and ultimately to the shore of Eerin, this island. Here, he had been surprised that no-one had heard of Phum, let alone the city of Tana Lorn which he sought partly from curiosity and partly because he had heard he might find rest from his soldiering there. He had been told that gods dwelt in the city—gods willing to debate with mortals on the nature of the Seven Spheres, which, apart from the realm of Man, were those of Chaos, Law, Limbo, Dwarves, Giants and Eternals. Only Phum’s paramount god, Krim, existed in all those spheres. Throughout his conscious life Rackhir had brooded upon these seven realms and had entered the priesthood, accepting the harsh training administered to all would-be adepts, in order to learn whatever there was to know, read whatever had been written. And, though they disagreed on many things, all agreed that it was Tana Lorn, where Law and Chaos were forever held in balance, that guarded the secrets of the Seven Spheres. The great wise lords who ruled there would be able, he was sure, to impart the knowledge he desired.

For almost five years, since leaving Phum, Rackhir had sought that city. He had been sure he was nearing it when he had taken bad advice and decided to shorten his journey by the sea route. Instead of growing closer to Tana Lorn, he was borne further away. Now, he was becoming convinced, this was not even his own sphere, though it closely resembled it. Could there be eight realms of existence, as some in Phum believed? Or were there even more? And was this one of those? Or had he died in his own world, slain by the seabear? It would be his bad luck if this realm was some deceptively familiar version of limbo…

While the people of Eerin island were willing to drink at his expense, teach him their language and debate his ideas until much of his remaining gold was exhausted, he met no-one who knew any more than did he. Now his silver, too, was running low. With the hasty departure for the mainland of his last merchant master, Rackhir could find no further work for an itinerant archer. The priests of Eerin being already over-employed, he had decided to retrace his journey, on a fresh-bought horse. He would see if he could hire a boat to take him back to the general area of ocean where he had first encountered the seabear.

There was now a further complication. In the last village where he had stopped, others had seen his money when his tired fingers had fumbled his belt. Next day, he quickly became aware of being followed by six or seven wolfsheads who clearly intended to enrich themselves at his expense. Thus, rather than shelter when the storm came up, he had ridden into its teeth, anxious to put distance between himself and the ruffians. He had enjoyed the satisfaction of seeing them pull back, over in the far valley as he had neared the dense, dark green wood. At the last moment he had instinctively skirted those old, heavy trees, feeling eyes upon him. Had it been his imagination, or had the trees themselves seemed to be watching? Only now he felt he could afford to rest a little.

Pushing open the heavy side door of the tavern, Ronan found himself in a familiar enough place, with rough-hewn benches and tables at which sat a handful of farmers who, for reasons best known to themselves, had armed themselves with old swords and felling axes. When they saw him they became visibly relaxed and greeted him pleasantly enough. He ordered ale and meat in his strange, lilting accent. To their questions he gave them the answer he had learned satisfied them most readily.

“I’m from France,” he explained, “lately in the service of the O’Dowd, who trades between here and there.”

“And what brings ye to Ballycogub?” one red-faced cowman wanted to know. “Since ye’re the wrong side of the water for England and so too for France?”

“I was followed by robbers, though I’ve precious little to steal. Seeking to escape them, I lost my bearings. Now I’m heading coast-wards to find a boat.”

“Ah, then ye’ll want to head east,” growled the landlord, putting down before him a mug of porter and a plate of coarse bread and half-raw meat. “But be careful, for English reivers plague the waters between here and that damned godless land. Ye’ll serve yerself well if ye take a ship that travels with a fleet. What’s more, there’s the Roaming Forest to fear. Will ye be staying with us for the night, sir?”

Rackhir shook his head, incurious about any fearsome forest. All country people feared dense trees, which their superstitions populated with every kind of imp and demon. He did not wish to spend a night at the inn because the more speed he made, the less chance there would be of any pursuing thieves catching him. “I’ll rest for a few hours here,” he said, “and give my horse time to recover himself, then I’ll be riding on.”

“This is not the best time of the year for that, sir.” The landlord glanced at the other shifty-eyed customers. “Which is why we are all gathered here to wait until it’s safe to travel again.”

“What’s the danger?” Narrowing his eyes, for he suspected them of wanting him to stay so that they could rob him in his sleep, he sipped on his ale-pot.

“Did ye pass by a forest on the way to our valley?” Another farmer turned troubled features towards him.

“I skirted it. I know outlaws prefer the deeps of a wood for their hiding places. I took the high road, but I passed near it. I think that’s where I lost the would-be thieves pursuing me.”

“Ah, well, that’s as maybe, my master.” The landlord gestured with his rag. “We call that forest Huntingwood.”

“What do you hunt there?”

“It’s not what’s hunted among those trees but what the trees and their creatures hunt,” declared the cattle-herder. “For these are the nights when the forest seeks fresh sustenance. And the wood-serpent, which guards the old treasure, must have blood, as must the witch who is the serpent’s mistress. These are the nights when the forest roams…”

But when Rackhir tried to question them further, they would tell him no more. One or two of the farm people clearly wanted to talk, but others forced them to silence. The idea of a forest which could uproot itself and travel where it willed was so nonsensical that Rackhir gave it not a minute of his thoughts. He himself had seen trees sliding down a loose embankment, seeming to march, but he knew that had to do with the shallowness of their roots. He shook his head at these credulous provincials and longed to be back in some familiar city, even in the Young Kingdoms.

Thus it was before sunset the Red Archer mounted his refreshed horse, tipped the ostler handsomely, tied a bundle of food and beer to his saddle-bow, and continued the journey east, up the shallow flank of the valley towards the distant ridge which, he’d been told, marked the highway to the coast. The moon was full when he crested the peak and looking back he was surprised to see no lights. It was as if the village had vanished completely from the valley and where it had stood was the thick foliage of summer trees. The moon was high in a cloudless sky. He knew a sudden thrill of superstitious fear. There was no doubt that it was a wood he saw. Somehow, he decided, he had lost his bearings. Search where he could, he saw no village. He needed sleep more than he realized. Rackhir decided he could afford to rest for a couple of hours before moving on. He lit no fire but, wrapping himself in a blanket, was soon snoring gently in a shallow slumber, one hand on his sword-hilt, the other on his bow-staff.

CHAPTER TWO

Reivers in Green

         

Out of that surrounding forest they came, shrieking through the moonlight, their faces painted with indigo dye, their bodies clothed in fur. They had big, round wooden shields. Their fists were full of bronze and iron. Moonlight glanced off axeblade, sword and spear. Rackhir had time to note with astonishment that he had somehow made camp in the middle of a forest glade, when he had been sure he had settled on a bare hillside, then he was fighting for his life, bow used as a quarter staff, slender sword darting in and out, quick as a cobra, to send another soul to hell.

Outnumbered as he was, Rackhir the Red Archer had been trained from childhood in the arts of war and even as he stabbed his second man he reached forward to grab the war-axe from a now-useless hand. The bow-staff was dropped. The axe split a head from crown to jaw. For a fleeting moment, he could have sworn he recognized the face of the man he slew. Though this one had no warpaint, his skin bore a green tinge. Rackhir was sure he had seen the man at the tavern in that last village where he’d rested. And there were others, now he realized—all with faintly glowing green complexions! Had they posed as honest country workers to deceive him, to discover where he was headed? Was it those apparent cow-herders who had brought the forest to him?

There was no time to consider any of these questions as the men pressed closer. For one of Rackhir’s subtle skills this was butcher’s work. He sheathed his slender sword as he fought, snatching up a well-balanced claymore and using it one handed. Axe in the other fist, he swung them together and two more barbarians died, yelling their terror as death engulfed them. To his horror, eerie green blood spattered his skin, drenching his archer’s clothing, making the turf slippery beneath his feet. His terrified disgust gave him still greater strength. He ducked and swung, severing limbs and slicing into necks and thighs until the attackers had become little more than a pile of green, writhing meat. But, however many of them Rackhir slew, more kept coming at him. Weariness, if nothing else, must eventually defeat him. Still his heavy axe and sword rose and fell. Streams of blood gushed and glittered in the yellow light of the full moon. His heavy sword swung in an arc, first before him, then behind him, and every time more warriors dropped before that deadly arc. He leapt this way and that. For a moment it seemed he walked up the trunk of a tree to stand on a limb before leaping again into the thick of his enemies. He had no time to pause to think, no time to wonder how he had reached this forest or how the men had known where to find him.

Gradually, they began to press in on him, blue painted faces grinning with triumphant expectation, green eyes glaring in the moonlight, full of fierce blood-lust; glowing green bodies tensed to spring at him. He cursed the bad luck which had brought him to this alien land, to die without benefit of his own deities, the grim gods of Phum, without ever knowing where he was or whether he might ever have found the city he sought. And he called out to Krim, Lord of the Seven Spheres, to aid him. But Krim, as was conventional, sent no aid. Indeed, he might not have existed in this sphere at all.

His sword arm was painful now, increasingly less able to swing the great two-handed blade. The pile of disgusting meat grew, but so, it seemed, did the numbers of his attackers.

Then, suddenly, the moonlight disappeared and glancing up he saw that clouds spread across it. It would be even harder to fight in darkness, but he was determined to take as many with him as he could.

To his astonishment, they began to fall back, muttering amongst themselves. They were conferring in a language he had never heard before. Not the now-familiar tongues of Eerin. Taking advantage of this lull, Rackhir stepped back and saw his bow where he had dropped it. Quickly, he bent to snatch it up and string it. From the quiver that never left his belt he drew four arrows, sending one after another, with unerring speed into their ranks. This seemed to be enough to cause them to fall back, slinking into the darkness of the trees.

“Stand, you painted cowards!” he cried in his own language, letting fly another brace of arrows. “Stand!” (In truth, this was pure braggartism, for he could barely stand himself.) But as the two men fell, their companions grunted, yelled, then stumbled off into the undergrowth. He heard them crashing through the wood. Then there was sudden silence. He waited, keeping his guard as best he could. In the darkness, he heard the rasping breath of the dying, the thump of his own heart and—something else…

It was a woman’s voice, sweet, almost a whisper. “I admire you for your courage, stranger. What are you called?”

“I am Rackhir, the Red Archer, Warrior Priest of Phum.” Without thinking, he had answered in his own language. Realizing this, he added, “Men call me in these parts Ronan the Red.”

“Ah, Phum,” murmured the unseen woman in a third tongue altogether. “Such redness there is in Phum. They say it’s a city built of blood, do they not?”

“Those who do not know us, aye.” Rackhir was suspicious. He understood her words perfectly.

The woman’s voice was mellow, slightly mocking. “It’s centuries since I last saw her rust-coloured towers rising from the desert like a mirage. Do her terraces still drip with crimson orchids? Do the ruby fountains still play in her squares, and do her scarlet-maned maidens still bathe themselves there on the Night of the Nomad Nuptials?”

“You know Phum?” He turned, seeking the source of the voice.

“I know all the lands called by my kin the Young Kingdoms. But it is nigh on a millennium since I last saw them. For I am O’Indura of Imrryr, the Dreaming City, and it is my doom to dream for ever, trapped in this place which the folk of Eerin call the Roaming Forest.”

Now he recalled the language she spoke. It was High Melnibonéan, the common speech of all educated dwellers in his own sphere. It had been years since he had used it but the tongue came surprisingly easily to him. “Who were those men?”

“They belong to a tribe called the Nishut, which means “No tribe.” They are slaves, unwilling miners of emeralds, and some say their skins take on the hue of the jewels with which they pay their mistress not to take their souls. They are the milkers of blood, who feed she who guards the Original Seed. They belong to this forest defending her and doing her bidding.”

“And you are their mistress? Guardian of that seed?”

She laughed then. Her voice was sweet silver. “If only I were, Red Archer. I am sustained by what the forest herself grows. For centuries now I have lived on bloodberries, sap and dew. But those warriors are kept alive by moonlight and when the moon is dark, they must seek the comfort of the great barrow. For they are not truly alive as you are alive. Like me, they are vitalized by dreams. But where their fellows dream of them, I dream only of myself.” Her voice was wistful, self-mocking. “I am kept from complete annihilation by the power of my own mind.”

An almost primeval growl rose in Rackhir’s throat. Though trained in the mystic arts, he yet felt deep suspicion of unexplained supernatural things. “Show yourself, madam,” he demanded. “Show yourself or, by Krim, I’ll…” But his voice trailed off, for he knew there was no threat he could offer her while she remained invisible to him.

And then it seemed sudden silver blossomed on the edge of the glade; a silver light which all but blinded him. With an oath, he covered his eyes. Then she stepped out of the light and he gasped at her beauty. She was tall, slender and her hair was the colour of polished brass. Her blue-grey eyes were slightly slanted and she had the finest cheekbones he had ever seen. Almost too beautiful to be real, she stepped towards him, her white garments drifting in a faint breeze, and he could easily believe that she was the figment of a dream. At her side, however, was a scabbarded longsword and matching it on her other hip, a thin dagger in a silver filigree sheath. Both looked real, and useful, weapons.

Keeping his eyes on her, the archer instinctively bowed, a tribute to her beauty as much as to her femininity.

“My lady.”

“Well, Sir Rackhir of Phum, what mischance brings you to the Roaming Forest? Or do you, as I once did, travel the dream-roads, seeking a return to your homeland?”

“I assume this is not the sphere where Melniboné yet rules the world?”

“By your answer, I understand that you traveled to Eerin unwillingly. I cannot say the same for myself. I was foolish enough to take a dream quest. Melniboné never existed here and maybe never will. My corporeal body is as real, if not more real, than this one. It still lies on the dream couches of the Dreaming City. We have a skill, unknown to you humans, which allows us to send a form, as real in blood, bones and flesh as our own, into other spheres. One hour might pass on the dream couches, but centuries go by elsewhere. That is how we learn so much and why our sorcerers are so powerful, for they carry the knowledge of a hundred lifetimes. As a cousin to Melniboné’s empress, I was allowed access to the dream couches. I longed to explore all the realms of what our wise men call ‘the multiverse’ and which an adept can investigate only by traveling the moonbeam roads, the roads between the worlds. But in my multiplicity of dreams, I became confused and lost the secrets of how to gain those paths. I made the mistake of trusting a local minor deity who said she would help me. Instead, she stole much of my memory and trapped me here in the Roaming Forest. Where I move, the forest moves. If I seek the sanctuary of a temple, the forest engulfs that temple. If I try to find safety in a village, that village is—is eaten. Her inhabitants are slain or made into slave-warriors serving the semi-sentient creature which lives in the deep barrow. So, if I do not wish to destroy those whose help I need, I can only move when the Roaming Forest moves. Moreover, even when I have been able to escape its confines by some trick of my magic, I grow less and less substantial. The closer I stay within the forest, the more my flesh feels like real flesh, the more alive I am.”

As an adept of Phum, Rackhir understood more of this than most men would. “And what of these?” he asked, pointing at the heaps of green bodies which still surrounded him. “Why have they not killed you?”

“They dare not. Their superstitions have made me their goddess. They believe that if I die, so will the forest die. And if the forest dies, so will they.”

Rackhir wondered privately if there was more to what she said. What if the forest could only move when she moved? What if she herself sought villages whose inhabitants would feed these unholy trees.

She moved a step or two closer. “We are all of a supernatural piece, you see, Sir Rackhir.”

When she used his true name, the archer’s suspicion of her increased. He had heard of the wiles of these humanlike, alien people who ruled over the so-called Young Kingdoms of the West. He had been taught not to trust them, that reptilian blood, the blood of the ancient dragon folk called the Ph’oorn, ran in their veins, that they had the power to converse with serpents. Yet she was very beautiful and he wanted very much to believe her. He looked hard into her blue-grey eyes. She stared back frankly. He could do nothing, he realized, but believe her.

“Lady, I would rescue you from this if I could,” he said.

“And I would be rescued. We both belong to the same realm. Believe me, I have waited for centuries in the hope that such a one as you would come to the Roaming Forest and save me, make me real again.”

“How may I do that, lady?”

“There is only one way I know. You must find the Original Seed and destroy it. That will have the effect of destroying both the forest and its natives and opening up the moonbeam path which, with my guidance, we can cross back to our own realm again.”

“And have you tried yourself to find and destroy this seed?”

“Of course. And you are not the only man—or, indeed, woman—whose help I have sought. All died or were otherwise destroyed in pursuit of the Original Seed.”

“And why should I have any better chance of succeeding?”

“Because you are a Warrior Priest of Phum and I am an Imperial Princess of Melniboné.”

Rackhir had discovered the corpse of his horse. What kind of barbarians slew a horse for no good reason? A valuable horse? He stood over the beast, frowning. His saddle bags were untouched. There had been no attempt to rob him. What had they wanted? He turned, putting this question to O’Indura.

“They wanted your blood,” she said. “They wanted your blood to feed the Seed. That was why they fought so cautiously and why you defeated so many with such relative ease. They killed the horse to hamper your escape.”

This made sense to Rackhir. Then another question came to him. “Do you live amongst these people?”

“I do not. I have to maintain their superstition, their fear of me, or they would use my blood, too, to feed the Seed. Yet they believe I am the spirit of the Seed. Its personification, if you like. With a variety of allies I have made many attempts to get close to it, but it lies deep underground, in a chamber I have never been able to negotiate and it is guarded by the creature who lured me here in the first place, whose language I spoke, a monstrous three-eyed serpent, one bite from which entails an agonized death. She claimed to be the forest’s victim, but now I understand she is its life.”

“You do not make the prospect attractive,” he declared.

“I have no intention of doing so. You are still able to leave this forest and you would best leave while the moon is hidden. I, however, cannot do so, as I’ve explained. Unless I can make a moonbeam road to lead us out of here, I am trapped for ever. If you go, go soon. For you can be sure that, while the moon stays high, the forest will follow you now that it has your scent.”

Rackhir sighed. Thinking deeply, he went from corpse to corpse, skillfully removing his arrows, wiping them and replacing them in his quiver. How he longed for home. And he knew he must believe most of her story, since she spoke the common tongue of his world. For some odd reason his spirits were lifting. He turned to the silver princess, a strange battle-humour playing over his handsome features.

“Very well, lady. I am mightily tired of this island and would continue on my way to Tana Lorn. If you know a way to escape and return to our own sphere, we have a mutual motive. Let’s rest in the shelter of the trees for a short while and then we’ll seek this seed of yours or die in the attempt.”

CHAPTER THREE

The Original Seed

         

Later that morning Ronan awoke to a rustling in the trees and reached for his bow, but then he realized the sound was made by birds, a black flock with strange, golden eyes, which hopped along the lower branches, heads to one side as they regarded him, he thought, with a certain hunger.

The forest had not moved. Waking, the silver woman, O’Indura, stretched and wiped her hands in the dew. She yawned, pushing back her long hair to expose the slightly pointed, delicate ears of her race. Rackhir-called-Ronan knew the appearance of Melnibonéans. They appeared on bas-reliefs in the temples of Phum. In the daylight her almost translucent skin seemed to shine and he drew a sharp breath when he saw her full beauty. She turned and smiled at him, as if she knew she had entranced him.

From his purse the archer-priest took a packet of dried sheep meat and offered some to her, but she shook her head, patiently waiting for him to chew the tough stuff before she stepped closer to him across the dark green turf.

“Tonight the moon will still be strong enough to move the forest,” she said. “So we must do what we can during the day. Come nightfall, it will be more dangerous. We should act quickly. I will lead you to the Place of the Seed.” She stretched out her hand.

Rackhir took the soft fingers in his own hard, suspicious grasp. He wondered how many warriors like him had been lured to their deaths or worse by this sorceress…

“Tell me,” he said, as she led him past all the corpses of those he had slain in last night’s battle. They were black with the same golden-eyed birds which filled the trees, no doubt waiting their own turn to feast. “Tell me, lady. How many others sought to help you find this seed?”

“Oh, I forget,” she replied. “A score, maybe. Two score?”

“And they have all perished?”

“They were not archer-priests of Phum,” she told him. Her reply gave him little comfort as he padded beside her, looking hard at the old trunks and wondering if they had any means of harming him. More than once, he felt he saw a branch move in an unnatural way, but when he stared back, there seemed nothing amiss.

“Who are these warriors who move with the forest?” he asked her. “What’s their bargain with it?”

“They guard and feed the Seed and for this they are repaid with a form of life. Did you pass through a village a night or so ago?”

“I did.”

“Few of those villagers lived. They became the most recent Feast of Blood. It was my fault, I fear. I saw you from the trees and thought to seek your help. I had hoped the forest would not follow, that I could reach you before my form faded to nothing. But the forest did follow. And she dined, sparing some who elected to serve her and were amongst the warriors who attacked you.” O’Indura’s voice broke and she stopped speaking, lowering her head. But Rackhir had seen what he thought was genuine agony in her eyes. For the first time, he let himself be convinced by what she told him.

The undergrowth grew thick and the two of them were forced to use their captured broadswords to cut a way through. A path became faintly visible beneath the shrubs and saplings.

“We are almost at the Barrow of the Seed,” she murmured. “A few days ago this path was cleared. That’s how quickly the forest grows when it has blood to feed it.”

And then they had passed through a narrow gap and entered a gloomy glade, an arena of heaped earthworks in which red clay lay exposed from the turf like the wounds of battle and on which low bushes grew, like patches of hair.

“This is the Barrow,” she said. “Now we go underground.”

But Rackhir hesitated, every instinct in him refusing further movement. Surely, once he descended into the earth, into the very bowels of this beast that adopted the appearance of a forest, he would be trapped for ever?

“I am not certain—” he began.

She lifted her silvery arm and put soft fingers to his lips, staring hard into his face. “You must be certain, Red Archer. Your eye must be as steady as never before. Your aim must be true and your confidence complete. For unless we possess the Seed we shall both of us doubtless die here today. My faith in you causes me to risk all the life I have left. We cannot hold off such a weight of fighting men for more than another night. And if we fail? We die and are already buried. But if we succeed, we walk the moonbeam roads. I will lead you back to your own realm—our own world—and set you on the path to Tana Lorn. This I promise.”

So he took hold of his strength and his courage and he said: “Lady, I believe your promise and my heart aches for home. So I will do this thing.”

At her bidding they approached the tallest part of the earthworks and there, hidden from casual view, they found a mouth of a cave into which a great stone arch had been built. The arch was fitted with ancient oaken gates. He guessed this was a familiar action for her as she leaned to push upon the gates. They swung back with an unnatural slithering sound. A profound, impenetrable lightlessness was revealed. A horrible, waiting blackness.

This time Rackhir did not hesitate, but, while the woman held tight to his arm, strode forward with an almost animal growl. He smelled blood and filth—the stink of men and other, fouler, things—and again he was forced to control his fear. Then the gates swung shut behind them and they stood in pitchy silence. He realized with surprise that her scent was stronger than all the terrible stenches assailing his nostrils. Her warm softness pressed against him and he knew suddenly that even if this were, indeed, an inescapable hell, he would follow her anywhere. But he took a tighter grip on his captured broadsword and was glad he had decided to stick that captured war-axe in his belt.

The tunnel twisted like a beast in pain, back and forth. The Red Archer knew that, should he have to find his way back alone, he would be lost here for ever. A new, unidentifiable stink blended with that of men, damp, rooty soil and ordure until every breath he caught was thick in his throat, threatening to choke him. Yet her soft hand led him further and further into the belly of the earth.

At last he sensed rather than saw light ahead and he began to identify the smell. He had not experienced it on this island, but it was yet familiar and the strongest he had ever known. The stink was reptilian. And it raised his hackles. What was the story? That Melnibonéans were part-reptile, blood brothers to the legendary Ph’oorn? Every instinct told him to turn back. But he knew he could not. His only choice was to continue and pray the Melnibonéan woman had not lied to him.

She was hissing in his ear now. “We are nearing the Chamber of the Seed. Remember that its guardians know only how to die protecting it. There will be no parleying with them. But you are an archer. This is your advantage over all the others who have come here. The first chance you have you must string your bow and let fly three arrows.”

“Three? Why…”

“You will see.”

Then they were in the chamber, a sphere whose walls curved beneath their feet. The source of the light came from three spots near the centre—a steady, greenish glow. But now, emerging from the floor were the silhouettes of men and the archer readied himself as they began to lumber towards him. He glimpsed glittering green eyes, open green mouths, bared green-grey teeth and he knew these were the hardened warriors who had sent the others forward to be killed during his first fight.

Reaching for the axe, he prepared to stand against them, but she murmured in his ear. “Quick! Your bow. Those three points of light! While you can. Three arrows!”

And reluctantly he stuck the axe in his belt and strung his bow, nocking one arrow to the string, the other two held against the staff. In that darkness he wondered how he could possibly strike his targets. The first arrow flew and, to his astonished relief, struck true in the central glowing orb. Immediately the chamber was filled with an horrific shrieking and wailing, a hissing and thrashing. Rackhir wanted to cover his ears, but did not dare. That warm hand touched him, strengthening his resolve. The green warriors paused, as if uncertain.

“Let fly!” she cried. “Now! Now!”

He obeyed.

A second arrow whispered from the thrumming string, and a second orb was pierced. Again came that terrible noise, half-howl, half-shriek. And the darkness of the barrow shook to the thing’s massive convulsions. The noise grew, at once deafening and deep, shrill as the cry of some enormous seabird.

Then the warriors were upon him and he was forced to tug the axe free of his belt and strike two down, ducking beneath the sweep of their swords. A third fell, head split in two by the bright, bronze blade. He grew aware of her back against his as her own deadly sword and poignard whispered and shivered in the darkness. Blood spattered against the Red Archer’s face. He spat it out in disgust, carrying the attack to two more of the warriors. He was encouraged suddenly by the realization that they could see hardly better than he could. The pressure on his back was gone, however. He had lost contact with the woman. Where was she? Had she betrayed him? Had she left him to his death? Was this what she had done with all the others who had ventured here to steal what she called the Original Seed?

Again, he had no time to call out, to demand her continuing aid. With astonishing speed, one brilliant viridian orb came closer and closer. It was almost upon him. Yet still all around him he felt the press of the warriors defending the Seed. Stinking breath struck his face. He continued to hack blindly, this way and that. His arm cut an arc of death. He was soaked in that thick, green, unnatural blood.

“Rackhir!” She no longer whispered. There was tangible terror in her voice. “Shoot! Shoot! If you do not, we are both doomed!”

He stepped to one side, slammed his battle axe into another body and, using it as a temporary shield, raised his bow and his remaining arrow.

“Rackhir! Let fly!”

Drawing the long shaft back, he aimed and loosed in one fluid, instinctive movement.

There came a pause. A terrible, threatening silence.

Now an unhuman scream shrilled loud enough to threaten both his hearing and his sanity. He saw the outline of the arrow quivering above him, then to his right, then his left, then below. Light streamed behind it, veining the darkness everywhere. Filthy liquid stung his skin. The stench grew stronger and stronger and he staggered, retching, fearing he must surely pass out. Then he would certainly die…

“Now, Ronan! Guard my back!”

Black shadows moved towards him and he sensed red rage threatening again. He had a glimpse of her lithe body against the failing light and once more resisted an urge to clap his hand over his ears. Again his hand gripped the long-shafted war-axe. Again he buried the blade deep into flesh, then swung backwards to catch the warrior threatening him from behind. He feared he might strike her by mistake. There arose a strange, pulsing green fog, outlining the huge, reptilian body thrashing from side to side now, flinging corpses and living men indiscriminately about the earthern sphere. And all the while came the noise, that deafening, hellish screaming.

Then she was beside him and he smelled something infinitely sweet. In the dying light of the last orb he saw her pale features and knew she had succeeded in getting what she sought.

“They are distracted by the beast’s death-throes now, if indeed she does die. They hardly know whether to fight or flee. This is our moment—our only moment—to leave.”

She took his arm and he backed along the serpentine corridor, striking out at more shadows as they approached.

The labyrinth narrowed, becoming marginally easier to defend. His eyes were better accustomed to the gloom. He could glimpse his enemies by the faint, reflected green light in their eyes.

And then at last they had reached the oaken gates. She pulled them open and they burst from the mound into air that was heavy with dense rain. Rackhir was glad of the rain. It washed the worst of the viridian blood from his body. He lifted his head and let the water pour down on him. But she was still in haste. He saw that she cradled in her arms a tall, wooden beaker carved with strange, alien forms. The thing did not appear to have been designed for human hands.

Now the remaining warriors were gathering under the stone arch of the entrance. Rackhir felt almost sorry for them as they looked in wonder at the cup O’Indura held. They could not believe it was being taken from them by the woman they had worshipped as its spirit. He nocked another arrow to his bow and shot an attacker through the throat. This did not stop the warrior at once. He came stumbling forward, bronze sword raised, his free hand reaching for the beaker, then his feet gradually moved faster and faster over the ground as his body fell and he died sprawling at Ronan’s feet. But more warriors were pouring from the entrance. Too many for him to fight in this natural arena.

The archer still did not wholly trust the Melnibonéan woman. He kept half an eye on her as he watched the warriors. He had no arrows left in his quiver. He felt a knot in his stomach, a sense of deep failure. Had he done all this just to become a meal for some predatory supernatural?

Then she was at his side again, clutching his arm and leading him backwards. “We have the Seed,” she said. “With it we can return to our home realm.” She reached into the beaker and took out something about the size of a walnut.

“What’s that?” He flung a battle-axe. A green-skinned warrior fell. How many more had filled that horrible chamber?

“The Seed,” she said. “Put it into your mouth. But be sure not to swallow.”

He could hardly believe what he heard. “Put that in my mouth? Why, by Krim, would I do that?”

“Have I failed you yet, Red Archer?”

“Why don’t you—?”

“I am not a man, nor a warrior. Nor am I human as you are human. Do it, Priest of Phum. You’ll not regret this!”

So, against all reason, he took the Seed and placed it gingerly in his mouth. He expected the taste to be unpleasant, but it was strangely sweet and delicate. He began to feel an entirely unfamiliar energy coursing through him. He recalled how he had felt, almost dying of thirst, as he crossed the Sighing Desert, questing for Tana Lorn. He had seen mirage after mirage as his fevered brain imposed its visions on the barren wastes. He was hallucinating again, surely?

He felt a sudden, euphoric kinship with the surrounding trees. He was one of them. He had more than two legs, more than two arms. He had instead countless numbers of sturdy roots and branches. And each branch ended in something like a weapon. He swung one of his branches, knowing at once that if he were hallucinating, then so were the green warriors. Clubbed, the man went flying back towards the entrance of the barrow. He swung again. Another warrior was sent hurtling backwards. He sensed that the silver Melnibonéan had climbed onto his back as he gradually moved out of the glade, killing and scattering warriors as a terrier killed rats, until at last their antagonists became afraid and followed them no longer. As he paused, resting, her long, warm fingers reached into his mouth. He thought to resist, but it was too late…

And he was a mortal man again, standing beside her as she replaced the Seed in the cup and then spat into it. Suddenly her other hand, which did not hold the cup, shot out and in it was her silver knife.

“So—you’d betray me, after all,” he growled, lurching to seize her wrist, but she was too swift for him. He yelled in sudden, extraordinary pain as the cold knife sliced through his wrist and she held the cup to catch his gushing blood. “You hell-bitch! I’ll—”

She grinned into his face. “You’ll do nothing. I am saving your life, Red Archer!”

With the speed of a striking snake she sliced through her own wrist and her blood mingled with his in the cup.

“The Seed needs our nourishment. It will take us home!”

The warriors were regrouping now. He saw them through the trees.

“Look,” she murmured. He saw that, even as he staunched his own blood with his kerchief, some crimson shape was forming in the cup. The Seed was glowing like a ruby and pulsing within the beaker. It was growing bigger. Her widening eyes reflected its light.

He heard a creaking groan as a huge tree fell suddenly into the glade, pinning several warriors to the ground. Before his sickened gaze the men began to sink into the earth, absorbed like the water. Then another tree fell. Then another. And this time when a tree collapsed it sent up a vast cloud of dust into the rainy air. The dust danced like freed souls. The trees around him were petrifying, crumbling. In what should have taken centuries, the whole forest was dying before their eyes.

O’Indura looked down. He followed her gaze. The grass itself was turning to dust. The blood which had kept the forest alive had lost all power. Whatever she had done to the Seed had sucked the very essence from the predatory forest and its creatures.

Then the Melnibonéan woman dashed the cup through the air and the liquid within streamed out in a great arc, turning from scarlet to green and then to gold before their eyes.

The thing spread into the air and hung there like a long-veined leaf, shimmering and curling in the cool rain. The forest continued to collapse, slowly becoming as tangible as smoke. The great leaf, however, remained, almost more substantial than themselves.

“Climb onto it,” she said. “Help me.”

With his remaining strength, he handed her up until she was standing on the leaf, which curled its edges to support her. Then with her help, letting the axe and the sword fall into the grey dust, he clambered to join her. She said something quietly in a language he did not recognize and made a motion with her hand causing the world around him to fade while the leaf stretched further and further ahead of them until it was like a long, many-tendrilled vine sending its shoots into the dark blue depths surrounding them.

Rackhir, the Warrior Priest of Phum, looked ahead at the wide tendrils, thick as the thickest tree trunks, which now stretched in all directions.

“Lady,” he murmured, “what sorcery is this? What have you created?”

She smiled, linking her arm in his. “I have made a path,” she said. “With a little luck, Red Archer, it will carry us to the moonbeam roads and from there we shall find a way which, with inspiration, courage and intelligence, will take me to Melniboné and you to your Tana Lorn…See?”

And he saw indeed that there were many more long roads, like tendrils of a vine spreading in all directions through the dark blue depths. And there were other beings, not every one of them human, walking on those wide, thick vines, back and forth at every level, above and below, walking through the multiverse.

“We have reached the moonbeam paths,” she said. “We have found the roads between the worlds. Now comes the final task.”

His face grew taut with weariness, with something close to despair, for he could fight no more. “What is that, lady?”

Seeing his expression, she laughed and pressed her warmth and her softness against his hard warrior’s body. “To discover which of these roads, Rackhir the Red Archer, will carry us home.”