The Blue Moon - 15. Chapter 15

"Yesterday we went into battle against the magikhans on the outskirts of the town of Dak Marga. We managed to kill those Darkurian witches - thanks to the ingenuity of Knobnose and Marl - but I fear we have been spotted. Now we'll have to sneak the rest of the way like a bunch of miserable outlaws. Yet we are still nowhere near Astray Mountains and our true destination.

I am becoming increasingly sceptical whether this journey makes any sense. But I will not question Anden's leadership. The man of the steppes does not go back on his words. I'll keep my crossbow ready and see what happens next. Be it a traitor or a dreader."

- Trebomir Galna's travel journal, 22th of Snowdrift month 1562

* * *

Franz
Somewhere in eastern Andiol

The setting sun tinted the sky as three horsemen trudged along the bumpy cart track. Around them, the darkening forest sighed. They moved slowly, the riders reluctant to trot their horses, which had already endured many days of exhausting travel.

Fortunately, the shelter they had chosen to spend the night in was close by, and their horses would be able to reach it before dark. They were in the uninhabited hinterland of Andiol, and a covered night's lodging was a rare stroke of luck.

For Franz Landez, at least, the knowledge of a place to sleep was more than welcome. He longed to be under his blanket in the glow of the fire. His limbs were stiff from the long ride and he felt like a rag that had been wrung out.

Though tired, Franz was not in a bad mood. Troubadour Karl and Ikarr Knobnose were odd, to say the least, but he had grown to enjoy their company. This was helped by the keg of wine Ikarr had taken from his nest, from which Franz was also served a drink from time to time.

When you were tipsy, the monotonous journey was almost a feast. The scenery was not exactly eye-catching, but there was something strangely captivating about the wilderness of small lakes and coniferous forests. As a townie, Franz had never appreciated the peace of nature, but now he knew he would long for the rest of his life in the wild, among the quietly whispering, pine-scented woodlands.

Not even the fact that Franz knew neither the destination nor the purpose of the journey dampened his enthusiasm. Troubadour Kharl had claimed they were chasing the villain of Andreuz Sandkan's novels, Masked Thief. It was the stupidest thing Franz had ever heard, but since the men had given no other answer, he had settled it for now. With the Shadow Cross making it impossible to return to Paidos, travelling alongside the eccentric duo was better than nothing. Besides, it would be interesting to see how far they intended to go in pursuit of the non-existent Masked Thief.

They were now several days away from Paidos. The direction all along had been north-east. Franz had been able to tell that from the movement of the sun. That meant they were approaching eastern Andiol - the land of robbers, drifters and mercenaries.

He shuddered at the thought. Franz had devoured tales of those savage lands. There was so much to see: the dusky town of Eastkeep, where bandits, deserters and who knows who else gathered in taverns to plot and swap information. It was equally compelling to imagine the steep, mist-shrouded mountains with their fabled fortresses, the eastern outposts of the Great Empire, peering out from their caverns. And somewhere beyond them, frighteningly close, lay the front line, the foremost rampart against the Ksingis' onslaught.

"We are here." Ikarr Knobnose's gruff voice jolted Franz from his reverie.

His mare Sowthistle had already stopped obediently, following the example of the other horses, and Franz realised that they had indeed come to the campsite. And it was not just any old clumsy rain shelter.

Some kind soul had built a nice lean-to in the middle of the wilderness. The structure had a shingled roof. The walls were made of rough logs, except for the open front. There was a place for a campfire piled with stones at the mouth of the lean-to. The grate over the fireplace was used to roast food, and an iron rod above the fire was good for heating a teapot.

Ikarr had brought some kindling from his nest, and the fire quickly burst into flames. Franz sat by it, watching the sparks dance upwards into the fading sky. The slightly damp wood smelled acrid when it burned.

Troubadour Karl had taken out his flute and was playing plaintive tunes into the darkening evening. Ikarr was happily sipping wine from a tin cup and turning roasting pieces of meat and turnips over the grate. Franz smiled to himself; it was good to be there. In fact, he didn't really miss anything or anyone right now.

"At times like this, around a campfire, one longs for a story," Ikarr muttered, taking a swig from his cup.

Kharl took a pause and looked at the old drunk. "Franz and I would be honoured to hear your story."

"I have nothing to tell you. You're the hero here."

"My friend, you can read about my adventures in books. Everyone, including young Franz, already knows them. But the dizzying tales of Ikarr Knobnose, they just beg to be heard!" Kharl persuaded with his exaggerated style.

"Stop this fucking fawning, or I won't say anything!" Ikarr grumbled and concentrated on the fire.

For a while, no one said anything. Franz was a little sorry that he had no exciting stories to tell. After all, grown men were certainly not interested in the shenanigans of adolescent boys.

"Blah!" Ikarr finally grunted. "So be it, but just this one time."

Troubadour Kharl slapped his palms together in encouragement. "What story are you going to entertain us with?" the moustached man inquired, straightening his long legs into a better position.

"I thought I'd tell you about how Marl Gaidok rescued Rheena from the clutches of the brutal bandit chief."

"I know the story!" Franz chuckled, unable to contain his excitement, for Marl Gaidok was his great idol. He had heard the stories of Marl's exploits many times. "Marl crossed the Starveds' Desert and killed the bandit chief with his sword!" Franz explained, but got no further when he was bluntly interrupted.

"Shut up!" Ikarr shouted. "You're wrong. It didn't go like that at all."

"So I've been told," Franz muttered, offended by the old man's rudeness.

Soon Ikarr spoke again, and his words made Franz forget his anger for a moment: "Those who told you the story were certainly not with Marl on this journey. I was."

Stunned Franz stared at the man. Was this a joke? Or was he telling lies? "Do you know Marl Gaidok?" he managed to ask.

"At least I used to," Ikarr replied. "You do have wine, don't you? It's not a short story," he added, raising his cup to his lips.

Franz did as he was told and quickly leaned over to the wine keg behind him to fill his mug.

Then Ikarr Knobnose began to speak: "The Southland is a huge continent, many times larger than Andiol and Malkania put together. Only a small part of it is inhabited, and much of it is still uncharted. In the middle of the continent is a dense jungle, through which flows a murky river teeming with crocodiles. Marl Gaidok and I sailed this river to the other side of the jungle almost twenty years ago. Somewhere out there, the bandit chief had taken Rheena. After weeks of boating, we finally reached a large lake downstream. But our troubles were yet to come."

"You can't imagine it," Ikarr said, looking at Franz. "Beyond the great lake, a marshland awaited us. A soggy mass of vegetation on the horizon, with pools and bogholes. Do you know what they call that wretched place?"

"The Swallowing Marshes," Franz whispered, and the old man nodded in approval.

"Sometimes we paddled through the stinking mud without making much progress, sometimes we dragged the boat over the quaking, mossy tussocks and little later we were submerged in a boghole. All the while, nasty mosquitoes were buzzing around us, trying to suck us dry of blood. But we kept going because Marl was driven by the one thing mankind knows no stronger: love."

Ikarr took a lingering sip from his cup before continuing. "We camped for the night in the swamp. The clouds covered the starry sky and the darkness enveloped us in its suffocating embrace. There we were alone in the midst of a hostile nature. The bone-chilling dampness and the thousands of clicks, hisses and screeches of the nocturnal swamp made it impossible to sleep. Shivering in the cold, we watched in the dark, not even daring to light a fire. That's when the will-o'-the-wisps started to blaze."

Franz felt a shiver run down his spine and was suddenly aware of how the night had settled down around their camp as well. He stealthily moved closer to the glowing embers and let Ikarr Knobnose's raspy voice carry him back to the ominous desolation of the Swallowing Marshes.

"One by one, the will-o'-the-wisps flared up in a greenish glow around us. Their white flames fluttered across the windless marsh like ghosts reaching out of a swampy grave. When we tried to fix our eyes on them, they would suddenly go out, only to rise a moment later a little further away. These sickly-coloured fires flickered as if to lure us closer, to peer into a boghole and then drown in it. I cannot describe in words how captivating it was to watch them cavorting at night."

"In the early hours of the morning, the lights gradually went out. The ghosts retreated to their swampy burrows to continue their dance the next night. But something else, something far worse, had just begun its hunt. The gnawers had smelled us."

"Gnawers?" Franz asked, his voice trembling. This was the part of Marl's adventure he did not remember. "I thought Marl found a treasure in the Swallowing Marshes that..."

"Bah, again you think you know the story," Ikarr interrupted, furrowing his bushy eyebrows. After a while he continued his story. And so Franz heard about Ikarr's and Marl's tight battle against the beasts of the swamp. He also learned how they had crossed the vast sandy wasteland known as the Starveds' Desert and eventually found their way to the bandit chief's lands - to the diamond mines and Rheena.

* * *

When Ikarr's story came to an end, the darkness surrounding the campsite resonated in a new way. Franz imagined every whisper of the wind and vague crackle as an approaching gnawer.

He asked Ikarr only one question: "Why did you go on such a dangerous journey with Marl?"

"I went because he needed someone to help him," Ikarr said dryly, moving the ripe turnips away from the still red-hot embers. Then he made the fire blazing again.

Franz looked at the old man with admiration. Despite the nagging hunger, he would have liked to hear more. What sad things had happened to Marl Gaidok and Rheena? Was Marl still alive, and if so, where had he disappeared to?

Curiosity bubbled up in the pit of his stomach, but Franz did not open his mouth. He sensed that Ikarr was no longer in the mood to talk. It also felt somehow wrong to ask more. The story had ended with a heroic victory for brave Marl. Why break the spell by hearing potentially depressing details, details that might even have shaped the untarnished image of Marl in Franz's mind. That was not what he wanted, at least not that night.

Troubadour Kharl had been silent for an unusually long time. But now he interrupted Franz's brooding. "Thank you for the story, my dear friend. May your example bless us in our search for the notorious Masked Thief," Kharl said, blowing a booming note on his flute.

"Quiet, you fool!" Ikarr snarled. "Or you'll invite all the beasts of the forest to share our meal."

In the glow of the flames, Franz could see Troubadour Kharl winking at him with amusement as he wrapped his flute out of sight.

He really is out of his mind, Franz thought, but decided to take the opportunity to ask for more information: "What kind of man is Masked Thief?"

Ikarr coughed, but let Kharl answer. "Oh, Masked Thief, that scheming bastard! A man he truly is, but a very foxy one," Kharl described, and Franz regretted his question. It was obviously impossible to have a normal conversation with the oddball posing as Troubadour Kharl.

Old Ikarr must have noticed Franz's frustration, because he growled: "You'll meet Masked Thief soon. Now have some food."

Franz accepted the plate and, as he ate, silently wondered if Masked Thief was a real person after all. Or even as real as the moustached man who thought he was the hero of adventure stories.

* * *

Franz was under a blanket and the fire kept him warm too. He had made himself a comfortable place to sleep in the lean-to, as close to the fire as possible. It had been a long day and sleep came quickly. But it was not the pleasant young man's dreams that Franz was used to. The night brought something else, something terrifying.

* * *

The spiral staircase to the top of the tower was dark. There were only a few torches on the walls, and their pale, flickering glow was not enough to illuminate the stone steps.

The walls of the staircase were also made of grey stone, but they had crumbled over time and were full of holes. Stones had fallen out of place and others were sticking out of the wall, as if the work had been finished in haste or carelessly. In any case, the masons who had done the work were long dead, for Franz Landez could feel under his feet the grooves in the stairs that centuries of wear had left.

Not a sound was to be heard. There was only the faint echo of Franz's footsteps and his ragged breathing. Again the staircase curved counterclockwise as Franz climbed up. He had to get to the top of the tower and meet whoever was waiting there. Someone knew he was coming, had known for a long time.

Around another corner, Franz stumbled onto a small landing. The window that once adorned the outside wall had been bricked up. Another torch was burning beside the blocked window. The last one. Franz knew that he was almost there.

Franz put his hand on the wall for support and turned to the right, where a new set of stairs began. After a dozen steps, he reached another landing. It was dark and Franz could feel his heart beating fast. He was afraid.

He climbed the last few steps to the top of the tower and reached a doorway. There was no door to knock on between the iron door frames. But Franz knew that he was expected. So he stepped through the opening.

Beyond the doorway was a dim space with no visible source of light. There was a small wooden table and a corner, where he had to turn right once more. Franz knew he had no choice. Someone was waiting for him around the corner.

He took two steps and found himself in a room surrounded by darkness. At the back, on the left, there was a narrow bed. Franz's attention was drawn to it. A cold shiver ran from his ankles to his head. On the bed, wrapped in sheets, lay a figure. The one who had been waiting for Franz.

Franz felt a sudden urge to rush down the stairs. Out of the tower, out of this horrible room. But his feet were chained to the floor. There was no escape, no more.

The figure on the bed had heard the boy coming. Slowly, it rose. It was difficult for Franz to make out the figure's size or features because the details were hidden in the darkness.

Then, without warning, the figure made a sound. It was a low hum, without words. The voice continued, splitting his head. It drilled into his brain and brought tears to his eyes. Franz flailed his arms, trying to banish the hum. It hurt, it hurt so badly and there was no escape, for the creature darted from the bed towards him and it was all too late...

* * *

"Whelp, your screeching will wake not only us, but surely every snagost in the area," Ikarr Knobnose's grumpy voice came from somewhere nearby.

Franz opened his eyes and sat up. The sky was dark, but the fire was still crackling. "It was a nightmare," he mumbled, embarrassed.

"I'll be your worst nightmare if you don't stop screaming," Ikarr said gruffly, turning his back on Franz.

"Don't be a brawl, old pal. Franz is just a boy," Troubadour Kharl remarked from the back of the lean-to. "I could croon something, then sleep would return more gently," he continued, and began to sing softly something that sounded like a lullaby.

At that extraordinary moment, Franz was very grateful for the moustached man's existence. It did not take long for him to catch up on his sleep. This time the dream was much gentler, just as Troubadour Kharl had promised.

* * *