I was lost. Spinning through the lines of power, falling between moments in a place I could not understand. Beneath me Syerfu twists and turns, squeals and bleats as she changes form, trying to regain control of herself. Behind me I feel the stone I passed through. I feel it fighting against another presence. I can sense movement between places. Feel the footsteps of others. Cahan has used this. The darkness within him as he travelled through this un-place has left a trail of breadcrumbs that the creature behind me is desperate to follow and I can feel something else, some other effect I do not understand, just as I do not understand how to travel here. We twist and spin and we spin and twist and Syerfu cries out and I cry out.
Only one of us is a fool who has forgotten the walknut in their pocket.
Once the walknut is in my hand the spin steadies and stops. I find myself on a strand of golden silk in a night as black as black can be. Deeper than the black of Wyrdwood in the moments before the plants and animals explode into light. Through the darkness strands of light spread a million golden paths, all of varying thicknesses and strengths, like the paths through a forest, some wide and often walked, some thin and barely there. An infinitely complex weave of light, but the light of the paths does not spill over from them. From each path, or maybe to each one, are more lines, invisible but there, so thin as to be unseen, while carrying power that I cannot help but feel. Yet, it is incomplete. I sense this with the same sense that sees the lines. This web is makeshift, it is chaotic but should not be, there is a sense of order denied it.
Scar tissue.
Where that came from in my mind I have no idea, but it feels right. The way flesh grows differently when it is broken, so something here has been broken, and is trying desperately to fix itself. This must be what I was knitting with my needle, and maybe its breakdown is what I have been fighting. But I never stood a chance, the chaos is everywhere, and I can see great dark areas where there should not have been. Looking upon it I have the feeling of walking into a house that has been left to ruin, not through carelessness, but because its occupant was overrun. And I have no doubt, none at all, that we, the people of Crua, are somehow responsible for this. A sadness falls upon me as I think of the land I had travelled through as a monk. It contained such great beauty, the vast and verdant forests, the waving plains of grasses and the multitudes of animals. We had been given a great jewel and ground it in the mud. Ranya wants me to arrest this desolation of our world, and yet here, in the pathway between death and life, in a place I barely understand, I am overwhelmed.
Then Syerfu bites me.
The bite brings me back to my senses and she spins around on the spot, showing me the way we have come, far off a bright white spot of light.
“No, Syerfu,” I pull on the steering rope, “that is where we have come from.” Syerfu bleats in such a way that it convinces me she thinks I am a little stupid. Maybe more than a little. “We must find Cahan.” I pull harder but Syerfu ignores me and I feel her body melting, taking up the form of the garaur which she uses for battle. “Syerfu, no!” I said “We must find Cahan!” I can feel where he has gone, his route through the web.
Ranya’s web.
This is it.
Of course.
How could I be so foolish. This is what moves throughout Crua, what touches all, what is broken and must be fixed.
Too much.
It is all too much.
Syerfu bleats again.
“What is it?”
And I see what upsets her.
From the spot of light comes a darkness, a sickly blue glow leaking into the gold. In the centre of it a purple and blue tentacle, questing, tasting. It has the same sense about it as the path Cahan has left and his travelling through the web has, if not let this thing in, then at least kept the door ajar for it.
“You are right, Syerfu,” I say, “it must be stopped.” And with a shout of “Hai Syerfu!” we streak through a golden tunnel, moving at a speed beyond sound or seeing. Once more to raise my needle spear, once more to fire my golden arrows. Twice I have fought this creature’s foul spearmaws, now I will fight it rather than its servants. Spear to tentacle, I will strike a blow for Ranya because whatever is wrong here, this beast is a large part of it. So I will fight this battle, and it may be against great odds but I will not shirk or run. I will use my Lady’s name as my battle cry.
“For Ranya!” I shout. “For Ranya!”
And only at the last, as Syerfu and I close upon the creature, do I realise how very, very big it is. How it drips a strange and poisonous power. How a fearsome strength and noisome, differentness emanate from it that chokes me as I approach.
But we do not cower. We do not back down. I leap from Syerfu’s back, my spear becoming a bow. My arrows fly straight and true, impacting against the creature, driving it back in a horrific cloud of screams and squalls. But more tentacles push through, seeking out what hurt it. Syerfu, screeches and launches herself at the beast. Sharp teeth cutting through ropes of purple flesh. Another scream from the creature. It retreats, and if we can only push it a little further back I am sure I can close the door. Use my needle spear to sew it up and deny passage. In I go. Bow becoming spear. A thrust, I parry, I jab, I cut. The air fills with a purple haze of blood energy that stinks like a battlefield sickroom. The creature’s screams a physical force and yet I, Udinny Pathfinder, servant of Ranya prevail. My spear is fluid as water, bright as the Light Above. Bringing the vengeance of Ranya down on her enemy.
I am unstoppable.
Until the moment I am not.
A shock.
A stopping.
Looking down, a glistening tentacle pierces my chest. Through it I feel the creature’s triumph, and its hatred. It grasps Syerfu in two tentacles and with a huge wrench it tears my companion apart. Then the tentacle withdraws from my chest, leaving a hole of sparkling gold and I can not move, can not do anything. The creature pushes through the door and past me in search of whatever such things search for.
Then, for the second time, I, Udinny Mac-Hereward, the pathfinder of Ranya, crumble into ash.