Read Online Lye Street by Alan Campbell, Dave McKean - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Alan Campbell, Dave McKean
Tags: Fantasy
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encompasses the aspect of himself represented by this forest. It will be a blade of superb quality, I imagine, and not a common gut-sticker."
"He didn't require us to take a particular branch from the last place," said Greene. "I just ripped off the first bit of wood which came to hand."
"At the time," said Cope, "Basilis was unaware that his vision could be removed from the hounds' dream. Who could have predicted that your vandalism would free a part of him? I myself would never have assaulted one of my master's trees.
"If Basilis could have foreseen the consequences of your actions, I think he would have preferred you to choose a more suitable branch, one with many more eyes, perhaps, or clearer vision."
"So which sword does he want us to take?"
Cope thought for a moment. "I shall ask him to guide us." He opened his topcoat, removed the branch, and peered into it. After a long moment he exclaimed, "This way, gentlemen!"
And so the demonic branch let them through this forest of terrible edges. The land sloped down into a shallow basin or valley. Overhead the sky changed from yellow to a peculiar fragile pink, a hue reflected in the polished steel. All turned pink: the metal boughs, the gleaming roots, the cruel points pushing up through the earth. As they descended the air became bitterly cold. A smell of oil or some other such preservative infused the forest. The further they went, the more the breeze strengthened, until a freezing wind was howling through the woodland, causing branches to shiver and clash.
Ravencrag held on to his hat. "This is madness."
"The gale is my master's lust for violence," shouted Cope. "Invigorating, is it not?"
"Cold is what it is," cried Ravencrag. "I can't feel my hands. Sal, how about lending me your coat?"
"Get lost, Laccus."
They came upon pool of clear water, its surface shuddering with the force of the gale. It appeared to be no more than a few inches deep, yet stretched far into the trees ahead, turning the forest into swamp. In places clumps of knives and silver spears sprouted from the water, like metal grasses and reeds. Greene stooped to wash his lacerated hand, but the thaumaturge grabbed his shoulder. "You have an open wound," explained Cope, "and nothing in this place is what it seems."
But just as the prospector rose, something curious caught his attention. A small island, no more than a mound of white and leathery earth, broke the surface of the waters. The hummock was bare, but for a single short-sword which sprouted from its apex, the tip pointing at the sky. The weapon looked modest, with a plain pommel and a simple cross-shaped guard, yet the blade shone like a beacon.
Cope had followed the prospector's gaze. "In a forest of giants, we find a sapling."
"You reckon this is the sword we're supposed to take?"
"I am sure of it, Mr Greene."
Ravencrag hawked up a gob of phlegm, swilled it round his mouth, then spat into the blowing water. "The demon leads us all the way here and he doesn't put some flea-men, or clickety sword beasts, or some other evil in our path? We just take the sword and go?"
"Why not?" said Cope.
"I don't like it," muttered Ravencrag. "The whole thing stinks."
"You sound disappointed," said Greene.
The phantasmacist did not reply. He yanked his little black hat further down over his eyes, then stuffed his hands deep into his coat pockets.
Cope waded into the pool. After a moment's hesitation, the old prospector followed. He gave an involuntary gasp as freezing water closed around his boots, yet the ground remained as hard as iron underfoot. He pushed onwards, the sound of splashing water now accompanying the whistling gale and clashing branches, but then he noticed that Ravencrag had hesitated behind him.
"You're not coming?"
"With my bones?" the phantasmacist yelled. "Certainly not! And I'll thank you not to call me a coward just because I don't want to get my feet wet. I hope you catch your death." He eased himself down onto the hard
"He didn't require us to take a particular branch from the last place," said Greene. "I just ripped off the first bit of wood which came to hand."
"At the time," said Cope, "Basilis was unaware that his vision could be removed from the hounds' dream. Who could have predicted that your vandalism would free a part of him? I myself would never have assaulted one of my master's trees.
"If Basilis could have foreseen the consequences of your actions, I think he would have preferred you to choose a more suitable branch, one with many more eyes, perhaps, or clearer vision."
"So which sword does he want us to take?"
Cope thought for a moment. "I shall ask him to guide us." He opened his topcoat, removed the branch, and peered into it. After a long moment he exclaimed, "This way, gentlemen!"
And so the demonic branch let them through this forest of terrible edges. The land sloped down into a shallow basin or valley. Overhead the sky changed from yellow to a peculiar fragile pink, a hue reflected in the polished steel. All turned pink: the metal boughs, the gleaming roots, the cruel points pushing up through the earth. As they descended the air became bitterly cold. A smell of oil or some other such preservative infused the forest. The further they went, the more the breeze strengthened, until a freezing wind was howling through the woodland, causing branches to shiver and clash.
Ravencrag held on to his hat. "This is madness."
"The gale is my master's lust for violence," shouted Cope. "Invigorating, is it not?"
"Cold is what it is," cried Ravencrag. "I can't feel my hands. Sal, how about lending me your coat?"
"Get lost, Laccus."
They came upon pool of clear water, its surface shuddering with the force of the gale. It appeared to be no more than a few inches deep, yet stretched far into the trees ahead, turning the forest into swamp. In places clumps of knives and silver spears sprouted from the water, like metal grasses and reeds. Greene stooped to wash his lacerated hand, but the thaumaturge grabbed his shoulder. "You have an open wound," explained Cope, "and nothing in this place is what it seems."
But just as the prospector rose, something curious caught his attention. A small island, no more than a mound of white and leathery earth, broke the surface of the waters. The hummock was bare, but for a single short-sword which sprouted from its apex, the tip pointing at the sky. The weapon looked modest, with a plain pommel and a simple cross-shaped guard, yet the blade shone like a beacon.
Cope had followed the prospector's gaze. "In a forest of giants, we find a sapling."
"You reckon this is the sword we're supposed to take?"
"I am sure of it, Mr Greene."
Ravencrag hawked up a gob of phlegm, swilled it round his mouth, then spat into the blowing water. "The demon leads us all the way here and he doesn't put some flea-men, or clickety sword beasts, or some other evil in our path? We just take the sword and go?"
"Why not?" said Cope.
"I don't like it," muttered Ravencrag. "The whole thing stinks."
"You sound disappointed," said Greene.
The phantasmacist did not reply. He yanked his little black hat further down over his eyes, then stuffed his hands deep into his coat pockets.
Cope waded into the pool. After a moment's hesitation, the old prospector followed. He gave an involuntary gasp as freezing water closed around his boots, yet the ground remained as hard as iron underfoot. He pushed onwards, the sound of splashing water now accompanying the whistling gale and clashing branches, but then he noticed that Ravencrag had hesitated behind him.
"You're not coming?"
"With my bones?" the phantasmacist yelled. "Certainly not! And I'll thank you not to call me a coward just because I don't want to get my feet wet. I hope you catch your death." He eased himself down onto the hard
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