The Well Under the Sea sample chapter

Chapter 1

Shadowlight
The mind is its own place,
and in itself can make a heaven of hell,
a hell of heaven
Paradise Lost, Milton

Above the narrow gorge the small falcon flew, keen eyes fixed on the lyre-shaped vessel below – making its steady way along the dark river. A wind-filled sail bearing over-lapping circles – the new flag of Hyper-Eurus – could just be made it in the gloom, a square of pale canvas against the dark water. Above the gorge the land swept away east and west, a plateau of bare rock blasted by the elements. Fast moving shadows from the scudding clouds chased across this empty stone theatre. To the south the glare of the distant sea could be faintly discerned beyond the curvature of the horizon, still a day’s sailing away.

Out of the southern light came a raven holding a white twig in one talon. Feathers blue-black in the cold sun, it arced around in a graceful loop and joined the other, smaller bird in its flight south along the line of the chasm – a slit of shadow below.

‘Greetings, Lord Merlin,’ spoke the raven, a commanding female voice ringing clear in the feathered magician’s head.

‘My Lady Morgen, salutations,’ replied the merlin in clipped Scots.

‘You bring the windsmith with you?’

‘Yes, but he has much to learn.’

‘He has mastered the East Wind?’

‘Perhaps. He has not been tested yet.’

‘We will see to that. Nothing is of value unless it is earned.’

‘I fear he has already paid heavily for the knowledge of his art.’

‘Yes, I sense a deep sorrow in his heart.’

‘He averted the destruction of Hyper-Eurus – at great cost.’

‘Destruction which his very presence brought about! I will not have him en-danger Hyper-Zephyrus!’

‘His existence in Shadow World is an anomaly, I admit, but that very fact cannot be undone. Our art did not bring it about. A greater force caused this disruption. Its doom is set in motion.’

‘If you know who or what triggered this transgression, Lord Merlin, then speak!’

‘I think you know in your heart there is only one who could have had the art or the will to do this – and you dare not say her name either.’

The raven brooded awhile, inscrutable orbs of ebony gazing over the bleak land. ‘I will not sow the wind with her foul name, but if this is her doing then your Kerne will never enter Ashalantë!’

‘Wait, Lady Morgen! There may be wisdom to this that even its maker cannot discern.’

‘Be careful, Lord Merlin, lest your self-interest cloud your judgement! It is clear why you use this mortal fool – so you can be free of your bird-form if he succeeds in his quest – but can your heart ever be free of the hurt it feels, or the revenge it seeks? Beware! Beware!’

The raven flew away at high speed – swooping into the chasm, an arrow of black flashing past the ship – heading downriver, vanishing into the twists of its slow destiny.

‘And be careful, Lady Morgen, of old enmities,’ murmured the merlin. ‘Even the Lady of the Blessed Isle is not without bitterness and ire. Old wounds run deep.’

***

Darkly the river flowed on.

Grizzle-bearded, black brows furrowed in concentration, Isambard Kerne gripped the cold brass wheel, steering in silence. The shadow-walled chasm of Achyron commanded it. Even if it had been called something less forbidding it could not be more Styx-like. Night-flanked and sheer, the gorge continued to vanishing point in both directions, veils of liquid light cascading from an unknown land above, catching the shafts of weak sunlight, which only penetrated at midday on this north-south aligned river. Occasionally, a beam would illuminate Kerne’s gold lozenge-shaped breast-plate, buckle or silver arm-torc, exposed by the cut-off sleeves of his old flying overalls – the remnants of his Royal Flying Corps unifom that had seen better days. A deep blue cloak was cast about his shoulders, attached by a silver salmon-shaped clasp. Over moss green breeches, held up by his Sam Browne belt, his officer boots were lashed together with gut.

He must have made a strange sight, a figure out of place on Earth and in Shadow World, and so he straddled both, he thought grimly – like the Long Man of Wilmington, the chalk figure from the South Downs of England so very far away.

Would he would ever get back there, he wondered? Would he ever see those chalk cliffs again? Set foot upon good English soil once more? Behold the gentle green hills he loved? [B1]Logres called to him from the core of his being. Home.

A world away, on the other side of death. That ultimate barrier – that only his death could breach.

Or perhaps, perhaps, the art of the windsmith… And it was this slim chance that drove him on.

Since his arrival on the BoneMountains, a year or more had passed. His journey into the ForbiddenKingdom to rescue Bronwen had confused his chronology, for time ran slower there – so how many years had passed back on Earth, he dreaded to think.

All he could do was apply himself to the present – in fact his life depended on it, as his vessel was swept along by the fast-flowing current of the stygian river as it was funnelled along the gorge. A moment’s lapse of concentration and he might let Llyr, the yacht Ollav Fola had gifted him, crash into the jagged rocks looming on either side.

Yet he was not without help.

Llyr was[B2] propelled by more than Fola’s wind-summoning. An invisible crew smoothed its passage with little nudges of breeze — the wind dogs that now haunted the windsmith’s steps. Every now and then one would swish past his ear playfully and Kerne would throw it a scrap of food, which would be devoured before his eyes.

The lyre-shaped craft eased its way tentatively between the dark flanks of the gorge towards the crack of light ahead. He had been heading towards it for days now and the sheer buttresses were beginning to oppress him. He longed for a horizon, for the open sea. Yet, incrementally, the gorge had been steadily widening this last morning. The light at the end of this particular passage gaped invitingly. Within the hour Kerne would be reaching the tail-end of the only passage from LakeMandorla to the WyndarkSea. In the distance he could hear the boom of crashing waves, a rumble that resonated the length of the chasm like thunder, a sound he found strangely reassuring – as if he was in a kind of womb, buoyed by amniotic tides towards some kind of birth.

Ahead, the sunlight glinted, pale and enticing, but the fact remained, the fact which haunted him from battle-strewn Hyper-Eurus: he had paid the price of his illicit crossing with another’s life…

He felt so very alone.

And yet, over the last few days, he had discovered he wasn’t as alone as he thought… At first, he had thought it was a trick of the light, or his imagination getting the better of him. Whenever he turned it wasn’t there, but disturbed his vision out the corner of his eye … a streak of white, like the elongated skull across the face of Holbien’s famous Flemish painting, ‘The Ambassadors’. It flashed, vanished, reappeared elsewhere, hugging the complex rock faces of the ravine as though climbing sideways, following in silence. It unnerved Kerne, until even fear became commonplace and he grew to accept its disquieting presence, like the residents of an old house would a ghost. Yet deep down it oppressed his mind, and grated his nerves, like a distant song he could not place the words of…

The events of the last year haunted him. Only now, alone at last, could Kerne start to reflect upon what had transpired. He carried with him both honour and shame.

Around him were the gifts bestowed upon him by his friends and allies: the compass and charts from Ollav Fola, the copper star-disc from Fandar Grey and Baramis; the Eye of the Moon from the Nine; the mace and breastplate and buckle from the Tribe of the Horned One; the gramarye of Ogmios… and so many memories, not all of them good. He looked back at what he had done, as though watching some body else. Kerne the pacifist had become Kerne the killer.

He had blown out the brains of his brother-in-arms. Whether done in self-defense or to defend the Chalklanders, the cold fact of the deed hung around his neck like an albatross.

It had all happened so quickly. The fall of Moot-holm. Ogmios’ murder. Madoc’s victory. Then the gun had dropped into his lap.

Did he have Merlin to thank, or to blame? His guide seemed contemptuous of him at the best of times. He had made it clear why he was helping Kerne. Only a mortal could release him. The secrets of the Four Winds could release them both, so they had a shared destiny – fledgling windsmith and feathered magician – for now.

High above the swift silhouette of Merlin could fleetingly be seen, as elusive as ever – an arrow of shadow, hunting for some lunch now doubt, mused Kerne, who also felt his stomach rumble. He broke off some of the waybread given him by Brigantia and chewed absent-mindedly on it: a bannock of honey and oats his palate had grown bored of. He’d have to try his hand at fishing when he reached the open sea, he decided. He had line, hook and bait

Three days in this chasm – and its oppressive gloom was beginning to get to him. Kerne felt that he was being crushed. It evoked memories of the Void. The very thought of that dismal place made him shudder and he pulled his cloak tighter about his shoulders. It wasn’t the dark he was afraid of, but the creatures that dwelt there, the chimera who had threatened to tear his mind and body apart. And who had burst through into this realm when his presence threatened the equilibrium of Shadow World. The demons in the Void who had nearly been the end of him during those nine nights in the abyss, and who lurked there still, waiting for him to use his gramarye, waiting for their chance.

The boat lurched and he jolted out of his reverie – he had to pay attention, if he wasn’t going to run aground! Every so often a rock would break off and plunge into the water, with deafening effect, as if the gorge was still being formed – opening up as he went.

Kerne had a long way to go – his path lay from Hyper-Eurus to Hyper-Zephyrus, the Land Beyond the West Wind. His destination was to the Isle of the Blessed, Ashalantë –‘as the mer-folk call it’, according to Ollav Folla the Salmon-King – where he could learn the secrets of the West Wind, ruled by its god, Zephyrus. But it would not be plain sailing, by the sounds of things. Merlin’s revelation about the ‘Agents of Discord’, was disturbing. Who or what they were, where they came from, and what was their agenda, were worrying uncertainties. Had they tainted and twisted Madoc into a tyrant? It seemed they had been responsible for the Cauldron of the Dead at the very least. Where else had such dark genius come from? He recalled catching a fleeting glimpse of one, with its elongated skull, spectral and sinister, next to Madoc on Moot-holm. Kerne shuddered at the thought of it. Who knew what other evil they had in mind?

It felt to Kerne as though he was being forced down paths not of his choosing, like some pawn in a larger game. How much are our actions our own? brooded Kerne. How much are our choices chosen for us?

The light gaped. Ahead lay the WyndarkSea, and beyond – the realm of the West Wind. The current swept him towards the stronger tide. ‘Let it come,’ he breathed. Then louder: ‘Gods, demons, do what you will! I am ready. Give me my fate.’

Extract from The Well Under the Sea by Kevan Manwaring

Copyright Kevan Manwaring 2009

Not to be reproduced without author permission