Farlings wall, p.1
Farling's Wall, page 1
FARLING’S WALL
Chris Turner
Copyright 2011 Chris Turner
Cover Design: Chris Turner
Published by Innersky Books
Discover other titles by Chris Turner here at Amazon.com
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in these stories are either fictitious or are used fictitiously.
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“Farling’s Wall, built strong and tall,
In days of yore, before stories were told,
Should the wall crack or crumble,
Or eventually tumble,
Who will grieve?
For the people of the Lim …”
—Old children’s rhyme from Gumbold’s ‘Tales of Spooks and Faeries’.
I
The outlaws Baus, Valere and Poli have escaped the clutches of the buccaneer Zoren and his cutthroat band. Washed ashore on the Tholsa coast, they make for the great City of Sloe and apply for employment as ‘Entertainers’ at the Royal Palace. The upcoming nuptials of Princess Solstress is to be a grand event. Unfortunately, they are exposed as imposters and forced to make a hasty retreat, fleeing northward up the coast. Harried by Squands, the elite guard of her Queen’s service, with a price on their heads for thwarting the princess’s arranged marriage, they travel by cart under the guise of bumpkins.
A harrowing chase forces them to abandon the cart and take to the wilds. They have a new recruit to their band, ‘Sansix’, who has given them nothing but trouble, who has provided knowledge of the area’s geography, but is at best unreliable, if not a traitor.
A surprise attack by the ‘Auk King’, a half man-half bird flying demon nearly has them disembowelled and they tread on ginger feet through the forests by the mysterious Farling’s Wall. In the woods, their prisoner and guide, Sansix, has gone missing, giving them further cause for disquiet.
Valere, a former sea-captain, a red-bearded swordsman has become an unspoken protector of the band. Baus is a black haired young rogue and wolf’s-head whose sly tricks and art at dissembling has saved him and his allies more than once on his adventuring. Poli is a blond-haired thug whom Baus befriended on the erstwhile ‘Last Laugh’ pirate carrack. While a formidable fighter, he never ceases to exhibit his naivety.
I
Dawn came in swirls of mist. The countryside was blotted out with grey fog. Only the incessant cricketsong gave backdrop to the river’s nearby purl, fostering them any hope or sense of location.
Gradually the company’s perceptions sharpened. Gathering confidence, Valere shouldered his companions aside. They bent to their task, plodding on through the overgrowth with bellies bursting with hunger. They saw the river weave around a torturous bend. To their left, Farling’s Wall stretched, a tall, knitted wooden rampart of disturbing nature. Hucklethorn made progress difficult, no less the gimp briar and elf-shrub. Baus saw many black-shadowed water-stumps protruding from the inky water.
By midmorning, the mist had dissipated, revealing other strange flora: blue bottlegum cedar, hedgerot, yamroot, moss-log. Across the river stood a tantalizing moor—awash with golden flaxhack and ancient magnolias. Sunshine streamed through the tattered cloud, warming their faces.
Baus sighed. The sights and sounds, though they cast wonder and awe in him, frustrated him. He realized maddeningly that he and his colleagues were trapped on this sinister side of the river, between river and wall. To sprout wings and fly across … better to try for the moon. The strip of unkempt bush that stretched a half mile, narrowed in width to a few uncomfortable hundred yards at times. To sneak back to the village Farfus, cross the ropeway was a foolhardy wish …
The future remained in the hands of Butu—the Auk-god, and the comrades’ spirits sunk to new lows. A swarm of migrating bees assailed them, then a cloudburst, a lone wandering garialis, finally a gang of bandits eager for coins and their boots, but nothing could be done. Perhaps it was the outlaws’ draconian training by Zoren the pirate that saved them from the thieves’ attack. Blades chopped; men fell, spurting blood. The raiders were so unnerved by the outlaws’ ferocious resistance that their swords and halberds fell short and had the attackers stumbling headlong into the muddy shallows.
Two of them were pulled under by lurking gariali; another was torn at the shins by green vipers. The only survivor was a lean, scruffy-faced bandit favoured to find the far shore, but was seized in his mad scramble by a dark shape that descended from the sky—a familiar Raksoi—the Auk King.
Taller than a man, this winged nightmare hauled its prey aloft, flapping back safely beyond the Farling’s Wall to do with its victim what it wished.
Baus shivered. The companions snatched themselves to defence. A brief sprint by the riverside had them dashing under a sumac cluster, with terror beating in their hearts. They crouched like gnomes, glaring at the retreating god-bird with its grey and gold feathers. Its bicorn crown gleamed under the mid-morning sun like a blazing jewel. In a hoarse falsetto, Baus croaked out something about the impermanency of life.
Valere agreed, though he was not much of a philosopher.
“I suggest picking a course that obscures our passage from view from the sky,” Baus urged. “This allows us to defend ourselves from attack behind and in fore.”
“And how can we do this?” grunted Valere. “We have no clue as to when the next fiend may attack us—from above, below or by some other mysterious means.”
“Trust nothing but our own eyes,” Baus muttered. “Not even our own shadows, for that matter as they are semblances of deception. In this wise, one should not even breathe!”
Poli retained a critical frown. “And how is going purple in the face going to help us?”
Baus cried out in exasperation: “If something comes at you, Poli, you stab it with your sword. You strike, you spear, you menace—everything else is ancillary!”
“A statement of overkill,” announced Poli dryly, “but at least it’s something I can understand.”
“Very good! Now let us begin. We advance with stealth. If we detect enemies then we stab first, alert others second. Furthermore, if we spot the robbers’ boat, which is likely tucked away in some dark nook along the shore, we may yet survive this predicament.”
The outlaws devoured the only sack of flaxmeal left behind by the thieves. They laid out a search perimeter but discovered nothing. The robbers likely had never had a boat and Baus felt a mild resentment at the fact. He rubbed hands to stave off the marrow-thistle scratches he had incurred. He flexed his palms, gritting his teeth.
The day passed … trepidation mounted. It was not unlikely that another Auk would soon come lancing out of the sky, but one could never be sure …
The creature, however, made no further appearance. By the end of the day the fugitives began to foster dim hopes that they had outdistanced their enemy, perhaps progressed beyond its hunting ground, in which case there would be no sudden beak snapping at their throats.
A disquieting presence was the imposing wall itself. The rampart hovered above them fifty feet above the river. It was crafted of woven trunks of an odd bluish hue. Each bole was marked with a sinister endless graffiti, and in some places, the trunks were dangerously cracked or splintered. ‘Cracks’ even looked like odd peepholes from where forest dwellers behind could glare at passer-bys. Baus was not enthused by this situation … especially when enemies could scope out advantages on them.
A gap suddenly appeared in the thickets.
Baus stumbled over to inspect the station of wall that towered unnervingly before them. To the touch the outlaw found the material chalky and old, like some punky barn-wood that infested the Sarch backwoods of his homeland. At certain places fungus grew, along the wall’s foot with a variety of moulds and fungi.
The outlaw wrinkled his nose. He test-banged his fist on a weathered section. A hollow thud came to his ears and he felt some odd resistance—or resonance, as if the trunks were hollowed out or eerily composed.
Valere and Poli joined Baus in their astonishment. All rubbed their chins, assessing the graffiti with utmost scepticism. There were several crayon markings scrawled on various logs, with notations like ‘Hoodoo was here’ and ‘Waste no wood’ and ‘Think fast before the pasts collapse’.
It was nonsense, but who had written it?
Baus could discover no answer. Poli read further along, where a lengthier stanza was inscribed in bold characters:
“How do you fool an old Wickle?
Do you stuff her in your pocket,
Or do you plunge her in your red locket?
Or do you toss her into a pot?
Whatever way, don’t let her spy with her peepy little eye,
The likes of your hide or your fabulous bride,
Betwixt river and wall where the wisest must fall!
To drift and wither, as all things thither.”
He frowned, reading yet another:
“Fool your Wickle!
Or end in a pickle.
Give me a nickel,
For every wretch snared by a Wickle,
And I’d be rich in a stitch!
There’s no doubt of that, dear lout,
So be wary! not scary,
And don’t tarry,
By the gloom of Farling’s Wall …
Baus stared at the verse with somewhat bewildered disapproval. He remarked how ill-composed the verse was, and how somebody’s property had been defaced, exposing neither art nor subtlety.
Valere blew out a sour grunt. “I despise this place—this poesy reads most ridiculously.”
Poli managed an impish smile: “I think the verse is actually quite witty.”
Valere clipped him in the ear. “We didn’t ask for your opinion!”
Poli leapt at him and the two were soon fighting tooth and nail on the ground like curs.
Baus pulled them apart with annoyance. “Listen, you imbeciles! ’Tis paramount that we pool our resources and remain vigilant. Mischievousness abounds in this evil precinct. Possibly misanthropic forces.” He flourished his dagger in a flamboyant manner. “Even Lolispar gleams a baleful green. We harbour no solace of belly, or plan. To stay here is a death—we must keep on if we wish to survive the day.”
* * *
A day passed and then another. Soon the river cut an eerie path ever closer to Farling’s Wall. The brooding forest seemed to hem them in like a noblewoman’s girdle, winding them in ever more tightly. Disturbing tumult issued from beyond the mysterious wall whose shadow draped them in damp chill. Now cool skies teemed with weird unsettling fowl which haunted the air: elfin nightjars, misshapen jackdaws, condors, some with discomfiting horns, others with upturned beaks, many with gangly snouts and stubbed wings, strangely indicative of human qualities.
The birds swooped low and fought over scraps of meat that inevitably one of them had stolen. They gnashed their beaks like predatory scavengers. Such birds became ever more diverting concerns.
Baus loosed a strangled grunt. Rising above the wall loomed clumps of spinifex, green creepers, serpentish leaves and umbrella-shaped fronds.
The river purled ever fainter to their right. With more subtle currents the river dragged its sinuous mass across the lands. A leaden glint winked eerily through the twitchwort. Water-stumps crowded the foreshore; feathery reeds swayed farther out. Steadily the murky waters slid by with surreptitious stealth, carving musk clumps and sod in its wake. On the opposite shore, hills huddled, blocking the pastures and cutting the company off from any signs of human habitation. Bridges and boats were nonexistent here, likewise ropeways or human trails—indeed villages were not to be found.
The outcasts slogged onward, with the sodden slush of their boots squishing in their ears. Often they found themselves gazing toward the Lim’s far shore where ever more rank smells and sights greeted them: water-stumps and sedge rooted in fiendish clumps. Slit-like vents opened and closed like gills of evil blowfish on the stumps. The river’s uncanny movements stirred their growing fear.
More than once they thought of building a raft to gain the far side.
The plan was abandoned. The river was too wide, and the thought of rogue gariali lurking below-waters remained an ongoing horror. The pilgrims gazed at the sodden heathland ahead of them. The strangely-forested valley was ancient—alien, as if it would never alter its course.
With the early light of evening growing dim, the three stood parch-mouthed at the brink of a festering bog. The mire joined the river in a soggy wetlands. While an anaemic sky stretched overhead, lowlands spread far and wide—oily masses of lily pads, pimpled stumps, drowned bottlegums and bogwort, reflecting the solemn emptiness of the sky.
With difficulty, the comrades skirted the morass, then too they saw certain half-sunken ruins arching out of the waters.
Baus voiced a murmur. He gazed upon what he thought, a half toppled ziggurat. Several lichen-eaten slabs eroded beyond measure may have been statues of kings at one time. The whole scene brought Baus to a sudden melancholy. He imagined an opulent civilization once here with ancient rotundas and pergolas of the finest splendour. His mind travelled back to the ruins on the river islands spied before Farfus. He could only guess that this region had once supported an ancient culture—lands eerily disposed and invested with a memory of a lost population guarding wiser ways.
For whatever reason, such glum feelings seemed incongruous considering the anguish he had experienced sailing on Zoren’s ship across the endless leagues of the Poesasian.
Heaving a sigh, he urged his companions to new speed. They struggled over the moss-covered mounds and left the dusky ruins behind.
Night came in a wash of cool mist. The sounds began again and the three hunkered down in the greenery for defence, hearing the familiar hootings and bewitchments drifting from Farling’s Wall. To their ears came the harsh thrash of some sordid viper slithering across the Lim.
Baus wormed his way deeper in his protective cradle. Tucked between a lichened boulder and a bottlegum cedar, he braced himself for the night, exposed to the elements and danger, which now was becoming a familiar mistress.
II
The first saffron rays brushed Baus’s cheek and he awoke with a start besieged with hunger. Also with a yellow feather plunked in his cap. Poli lay snoring at his left, with a fish spine cleaned of meat placed on his chest. His friend’s thick torso rose and fell in gentle swells.
Baus gave a cry and Poli bounded awake. Sansix’s ‘marking’ had occurred immediately after they had first encountered the mysterious wall—before the scoundrel had gone missing. Two more of their company were now marked.
The sign indicated foul things were in play and Baus threw his cap down in disgust.
* * *
By noon of the third day Valere managed to discover some mushrooms. Poli pointed excitedly, for some innocuous-looking bottle-berries lay in a shallow hollow. Hunger was their world; the travellers wolfed down their scant fare with gulps and smacks.
They limped toward a wild crab apple grove, parch-lipped and sore. Twitch elm ran in clusters down toward the wall and a faint coyote trail ran at its fringe, now forking in opposite directions—one bending parallel to the line of the river and away from the wall. The other continued dead ahead, ominously near to the wall’s shadow.
The junction was marred by a peculiar presence of an advancing figure—one looking very similar to their missing comrade, Sansix.
Baus frowned; his peers halted, perplexed.
The figure seemed exceptionally haggard; if it were Sansix, it was not the Sansix they remembered. The villain stooped, mumbling an inner dialogue of a queer flavour, pointing fingers up to the sky, as if cursing all things natural. He seemed to be pondering the pathetic choice of paths, with no small animosity.
Baus pulled at his nose, frowning deeply. Indeed, a peculiar sight … prudence was necessary. He felt a strong sense of distrust grow. What had caused Sansix to exude such a play of dementia, and no less, why in this particular locale?
He had no answers. Oddly, it seemed as if he were heading back in their direction. There was no reason for it—outside of folly, especially when there were only swamps, bottlegums and water stump in these quarters.
Catching sight of the three, Sansix raised a cry. He came trotting over on bowed legs. Nursing his left calf, perhaps from an injury, he seemed somehow bent and haggard. Baus, Poli and Valere retreated instinctively, all wearing expressions of bewilderment. He continued to shamble toward them, mumbling in a very foolish way. His unkempt hair skewed in all directions and his wiry physique looking very much undernourished. The gaunt person they once knew as ‘Sansix’ was invested with a curious diamond-shaped mark on his lower neck, by the bridge of the collarbone.
He rendered them an awkward greeting.
Baus gave a guarded reply. Sansix’s eyes, he noticed, were glazed and out of kilter and his face was flushed. Small beads of perspiration trickled down his brow as if he were running a fever.
“So, then, who do we have here?” Valere wheezed gruffly. “A fink creeping out of the brake?”
Sansix gave a mournful grunt. “I never thought I’d be glad to see you thugs—you are truly a sight for sore eyes!”
“Can’t say the same for myself,” grunted Poli.
Sansix seemed only to notice that Baus darted eyes to the lower path straggling toward the river. “I’ve been down that way,” he grunted, “there’s no good to be found. Unless, of course, you have a liking for quagmires, bogwort or gariali.” He drew them aside, his hand shaking slightly.
