The Dark City

4

It is vital to remember that the powers the Order claim to have are a complete illusion.

Rule of the Watch

Journal of Carys Arrin Atelgarsday 3.16.546

Two days ago, at last, I found the cromlech.

As I wrote in my last report, the people of the forest hate to talk to strangers; finding anything out is difficult. I’m still traveling as a pack-merchant, so bribes have been easy to give, but it’s cost me a great deal in fabrics, buttons, agricultural tools. (NB—Claim the money for this when I get back.) The forest is an eerie place, and most of our charts of it are wrong. The old superstitions of the Order hang around here; also a number of fugitives and vagabonds. Other areas are empty. Once I traveled for three days down airless green paths, slashing my way through, and saw no one. Jekkles have attacked me twice—once scaring the pack-beast almost berserk. Fire seems to keep them off. There are also blue spiders that bite; as I write this my hand is swollen and black, but I killed the thing fast enough to save my life.

Once I’d found it, I watched the cromlech for three hours. No one came near it. Finally, wary for traps, I crawled out, gathered the pack-beasts together, and picked my way down. The slope was steep and rocky. Night was coming; strange mists and veils of murk clung around the rotting tree-stumps, and the enormous stones stood like shadows. As I clambered down to it, my whole skin prickled. The foul witcheries of the place hung on the air.

Someone had been living there, that was clear. There were fire-marks, a pit dug for rubbish, a lot of footprints. But the ashes of the fire were about a day old, and had already been scattered and scratched at by some animal. The Relic Master had gone.

There was no chance of following straightaway—twilight was closing and only four of the moons were up. Warily I wandered around, searching the ground carefully. The place is all humps and hollows; a green ditch surrounds the stones, and as I crossed it I thought I felt a whisper of power. Galen Harn and his boy were here. I’m close to them.

But there was one thing that puzzled me. In the soft mud near the forest fringe I found hoof prints. They came near, but stayed outside the ring. The horse had trampled the ground as if it had stood there and been restless for some time. Then it had gone, back among the trees.

Could Harn have gotten hold of a horse? Could it carry both of them? In one way it would make tracking them easier, but they would move fast then, faster than me.

Don’t make problems, old Jellie used to say. Think things out, be clear, and always watch your back. I remembered that when I turned around.

The cromlech is huge, close up. One great lintel-stone balances on three others, the whole thing black against the sky. It must be thousands of years old. I don’t know if there are any bodies buried under it, but there are carvings; spirals and strange zigzags, powdered with lichen. It seems impossible to me that the Sekoi could have put these up. There are so few Sekoi, and they always seem so lazy.

I didn’t spend the night by the thing, but up in the wood, and I wasn’t comfortable. Noises whispered among the branches; a faint breeze made the beasts restless, and endless insects plagued me. Once when I sat up and looked down the slope, I had the feeling the stones were looking back. (None of this will go in the report. I don’t want to look a fool.)

At first light I set off. The horse-tracks were lost in marsh, but they started to lead west, so that’s the way I’ll go.

Atelgarsday, evening

I’m writing this in a village called Tis. At least I think that’s what they call it. No one here has seen Harn or the boy Raffael, but I’ve found out one thing—we’re not the only ones looking.

A woman here told me that about a week back, a horseman came through. He was asking for a man named Galen Harn, and even knew what he looked like—dark, hook-nosed, a limp. No one could help, and he went off east.

I’m assuming this is a stranger to the Watch, not one of us. So who? It’s clear to me he’s already found them—the horse-tracks at the cromlech must have been his. A red horse. Painted. They may have gone with him somewhere—if there was word of a relic, the sorcerer would have been drawn to it, undoubtedly.

After careful questioning and a lot of bribes, I’ve found out the names of a few likely villages, and one nest of bandits. That might be the best bet, as not many villagers have horses. It’s west of here, an old Maker-ruin, a lair of thieves. The villagers say the warlord is called Alberic, and if he’s the one on our files, then Galen Harn might well be in more trouble than he knows.

And my job might already be done for me.