Saga Mac Brón: Chapter 6

10 minutes

The People of the Worm

A red dawn was breaking. Mac Brón found the pilot asleep in his booth, and shook him.

“You again,” said the stocky man through a great yawn. “Planning to kill any more of my passengers?”

The warrior glared at him. “Stow us somewhere away from them. Now, before they board.”

The pilot rose obediently, and led them to the small cabin at the stern. Inside, the same pikeman whom Mac Brón had paid to lie low the night before still slept on a cot. He stirred when the company entered, and rubbed his eyes.

“Ah, my friend,” he said, then glanced at Rusu and Tammet. “Family outing, is it? Pilgrimage to the Devil’s lands?”

Mac Brón did not answer him. He was wretched with fatigue. Noticing this, the pikeman gestured at his cot.

“You can sleep here, if you need it. I won’t be getting any more today.”

Mac Brón grunted his thanks, and went immediately to the cot. Suddenly, he turned back to the pilot.

“When we get to the shore, wait a bit. Let the others shuffle off into the canyons before you come to get us. Better they don’t know we’re on board.”

The pilot and pikeman looked at each other

“They’ll know,” said the pikeman. “Don’t need to see you for that. Some of ‘em don’t even have eyes.”

Mac Brón sighed. “Even so.”

The two boatmen shrugged, and left. When they’d shut the door, Mac Brón saw the boy go over to it. There was a heavy bar latch on the inside wall, and Tammet slid it across, locking them in.

The boy’s mother came to the cot, and tried to say something to Mac Brón. But he could not listen. He’d been up all night, and the worst part of their journey still lay before them. The warrior closed his eyes, and sleep gathered him in.

---

“Hush,” said the empress, placing her hand on his brow.

Only an hour had passed since he’d lain down. The warrior had begun to groan in his sleep. His eyes, when they opened, were wide with terror. He sat up so quickly that he nearly fell out of the cot.

“I’m sorry to wake you,” she said.

He shuddered. “I’m glad that you did.”

Mac Brón glanced quickly at the boy, then back at her.

“They’re aboard, then,” he muttered.

She nodded. The boy looked at the two of them, wondering what knowledge these two could possibly share. He observed the effect that his mother’s brief touch had had on the rough man. Mac Brón breathed slowly now, his features calm, and softening. In that flash of fright and relief, the boy saw something in the barbarian that had so far been hidden.

Tammet looked away from them, distracted by the swinging lantern that hung from an iron loop in the ceiling. It painted the cabin with erratic strokes of orange and red, marking the barge’s choppy movement through the icy lake. There was an oppressive feeling in the air that made him want to open his pack, and put his sword in his hand. He swore he could hear the Péistghrá pacing just beyond the walls.

“Mac Brón,” said the boy, watching the door. “What are they? Where did they come from?”

The warrior didn’t answer. The boy looked back at him, and repeated the question. Mac Brón glanced at Tammet’s mother. Tammet knew that look. It was the look of adults considering what to tell a child. That rankled him.

“You needn’t withhold information from me,” he quickly said. “I’m not a…”

But he didn’t want to finish the sentence, for it sounded too much like the exact thing a child would say. Mac Brón waved his hand; shook his head.

“I know, I know,” said the warrior. “It’s not that. But,” — he lowered his voice — “they’re just outside. Let us keep our voices low.”

The boy nodded. Mac Brón seemed to gather his thoughts. Tammet looked at the door. The pacing and shuffling outside seemed to suddenly stop. The boy crept over, and sat down beside Mac Brón.

“It is better to know and think little about them, is all,” muttered the warrior. “It’s to their advantage that men fear them. That is how they rule.”

“But what is it that people fear?” whispered the young prince. “It is said that some of those Bolghim exiles to the Black Lands are murderers, or warriors fallen out of favor. Surely they could have mounted some resistance long ago. I’ve never understood what keeps them there. The stories say that they just go on mining gold until they go mad.”

“The stories are true,” said Mac Brón. “Even the soldiers who guard the Devil’s Beard must be changed out every month. It’s too much even to look down every day into that black valley, let along to live inside it. The fear…”

“Of what?” said the boy.

“Of it, boy.”

Tammet stared at him, and said nothing. Then the latch on the door began to rattle. As if he were in a nightmare, the prince found that he could hardly move.

“Mac Brón…” he managed.

The warrior’s hand moved to his sword, but slowly, as if in quicksand. The heavy bar latch, which Tammet had pulled across with two hands, now slid back of its own accord. The door swung open. In the gap stood a figure all in black, flanked by a dozen more. Like great spiders, the black figures began shuffling into the cabin. Tammet’s eyes darted to Mac Brón, but the warrior only stared at the intruders, his lips twisted back, his teeth clenched together.

The people of the worm seeped into the cabin, like some oily liquid spilt, and staining all the world, inch-by-inch. One stood out from the others, nearest to the boy. Now it raised a robed arm. Black fingers — not the dark brown of the Southrichi, but a deep, unnatural pitch — emerged from the folds. The worm-lover meant to touch him. It floated ever closer. The boy would have run for his sword, and struck off the vile hand, but he could not move. The black fingers were but a foot away. Half a foot. A hair’s breadth.

“Dhian Tsolais.”

The words were gently spoken, but the inky fingers pulled back as if singed. The figure hesitated, looking past Tammet, toward the one who’d uttered them. Slowly, it retreated toward to cabin door. Behind it, the other dark figures did the same. Their movements made Tammet think of ink were being un-poured, and slipping back up into the bottle. When they’d all cleared the room, the open door revealed a great crowd of black robes at its border. Behind them, but still far off in the distance, the dark crest of the Devil’s Beard traced the sky.

The boy stared at the door, still unable to go and shut it. His mother placed a soft hand on his shoulder.

“Do not be afraid,” she said.

Walking past him, she went to the threshold, and looked straight into the crowd of dark figures. They crept back from her, their bodies forming a concave border as they slowly retreated. She shut the door, latched it, and sighed heavily. The empress turned to face her son.

“As the warrior was saying,” she whispered, “it is better to think little of them.”

Tammet nodded. For the rest of the voyage, he asked no questions.

TO BE CONTINUED

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