sound. In spite of himself he rose to follow.
She glided noiselessly through the trees and he followed, feeling himself almost float over the ground like a wraith. They came to a river of slime, but in the strange light it looked like a real river of fresh water. Tenari laughed noiselessly, caught him by the hand and they wafted over it without touching its surface. On the far side, beyond a thicket, they found a standing stone. Azkun drew back from it in fear, but its eye was not looking at him. It was preoccupied with the now distant city of the Gashans. Beside it ran a causeway like the one they had travelled on.
The next morning Azkun wanted to cross the river of slime. Menish protested, though feebly. His breath seemed to rattle in his lungs now, and he was unsteady on his feet. Every now and then he would double over in a fit of dry retching. The river was not in the general direction they had been heading, though that was hardly a forceful argument. There was plenty of dry ground to choose from, did Azkun have to deliberately find more slime for them to cross?
But Azkun somehow got both Menish and Althak across. On the other side he found no standing stone, but he did find the causeway.
The causeway heartened Menish. He had all but given up hope. It put length into his stride for a time as they followed it, though he could not expect to last much longer without fresh water. Following the causeway was better than aimless wandering. It must lead somewhere. Almost certainly it led out of the forest.
That afternoon they heard something they had not heard for days: the trickling of water. A stream of clear water flowed alongside the causeway. Menish bent towards it, dubiously at first, for he was wary. But he was desperately thirsty. His tongue felt like a dry stick and he could not swallow. He dipped a finger into the water and tasted it, ready to spit out foulness. It tasted clean. Gingerly he scooped up some in his cupped hand and poured it into his mouth. He coughed when he tried to swallow but the water began to melt the dryness. He drank some more, and more. It was fresh water, there was no doubt of it.
Althak had been unconscious for some time now, even the convulsions had subsided. His face was grey and his skin felt like wax. Menish checked him when he could find the energy to see if he was still alive. Now, with the fresh water, they washed his face and managed to pour some water between his lips. He seemed to rest more peacefully after that.
When they rose from tending Althak they heard a giggling laughter behind them. Menish reached for his sword as they turned to confront it. On the other side of the causeway sat an old man.
He was clothed in a tattered old robe that covered him down to his knees. His legs were thin and his feet were bare. The top of his head was bald but what hair he had hung down, grey and lank, to his chest and was matted into his dirty beard.
And he sat there, in the depths of the Gashan forest, leering at them. But he was not a Gashan. There was no look of murder in his eyes and, of course, he wore clothes. They relaxed a little, but they were still wary. Menish was disconcerted that they had not heard him approach.
He hawked and spat then climbed to his feet with the aid of a twisted stick and hobbled over to them.
“Greetings,” said Menish, his voice was still cracked with thirst. The old man did not answer.
As he drew closer Azkun noticed the faint outline of a painted eye on his forehead. It looked like the eye on the Eye of Duzral, or like the eyes on the Monnar stones. He seemed to see Althak lying on his litter for the first time and he looked suddenly concerned, or a comical mockery of concerned. It was difficult to read his expression because he was so shrivelled and ugly. He turned to Azkun and said something that was obviously a question, but Azkun did not understand his speech and nor could he see his mind. The old man was as blank as Tenari, and little more eloquent.
“He was bitten by a centipede,” said Menish, pointing to the bite on Althak’s arm. But the old man’s attention had shifted back to Azkun, peering at his face. He ran his fingers over the bite marks there, then he grasped Azkun’s cheeks in his palms and peered closely at the bite. He had to reach up to do it for he was quite short, and he thrust his face close to Azkun’s. Azkun wrinkled his nose. The man stank worse than the mire.
He released him quickly and began to cough. He said something else in his own tongue and waved his arms in a strange gesture that might have represented the curves of a woman. Then he shrugged and turned to Althak.
Neither Azkun nor Menish saw where he produced a tiny knife from, but before they could stop him he had made two slashes across Althak’s arm where the bite marks were. They welled dark blood. It happened in a flash of silver and the knife disappeared somewhere in the man’s clothing. He bent over the wounds and placed his mouth over them.
“He… he is drinking his blood. He is a Monnar!” Azkun recalled the Monnar he had seen in Gildenthal with blood around his mouth. He had not forgotten the ring of stones, he had not forgotten what Hrangil had said of them.
“Wait,” said Menish. “I think, yes he's drawing out some of the evil from the centipede.” The man lifted his head and spat on the stone of the causeway. He sucked at Althak’s arm a number of times then he washed it with the clean water that ran beside the causeway. He seemed very satisfied with his work, grinning all the while and displaying his bloodied teeth, though Azkun could see no difference in Althak.
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.
