Page 74 of The Simurgh

The seven-league boots were astonishing, almost as wondrous as being upon Lalassu’s back. Almost.

The world was not a blur exactly, but Bess’s boots had the world whizzing by well enough, each footstep taking him seven strides, like he were a chess piece making a grand move. He was not elegant in his journey. Unable to see clearly, Silas had collided with several leafless saplings so far, trees like none he’d ever seen, the trunks and branches bone white and with a strange texture upon them, reminding him of the crocheted doilies Jane so liked. The bark was more like the weave of cotton, and spongy too. He didn’t so much collide as bounce.

Everything around him was strange. No sky in the human world held this colour, that of pond algae, not even when hail was hidden in the clouds. And the mist of the purebred cities was a dreary grey, never indigo, as it was here.

Silas skidded in sludge, but Old Bess’s boots had him steady in a heartbeat and back on track. Thoughts of the Child of Melusine were sharp. He’d left Bess in a desperate situation, and nor had he sent warning to those who followed after him in the carriage. A selfish disregard he would despise himself for…later.

But now he was a man possessed. Not only was there the Morrigan and the fae to contend with, but the King of Daemonkind, too.

It was a temperate day, there was that at least, caught in the grip of twilight but with no hint of a sun or moon in the viridian sky. Silas was warm, too much so with coat and cloak, but that was the least of his worries.

His breath hitched as he leapt over a jumbled pile of rocks that appeared ahead. Out of nowhere they came, in the oddness of the lands. The way ahead would look clear one moment, then rising out of the indigo mist would be an obstacle; another pyramid of stones piled high, forcing him to take a drastic turn, or a shrub that resembled Medusa’s snake-adorned head, with its spiralling branches.

Silas stretched his stride over the mud. He would have assumed the Faelands to be something of beauty, but so far he’d seen only marshlands, deep with sludge.

Bloody endless, he fumed. Then grew irritated at his own thought.

Christ, let Pitch be well. Let the prince believe that rescue was on the way.

Let Silas reach him before Lucifer did so.

The mud was deeper here in this section of wider open plain. There was scant hint of the doily-like trees, few landmarks to take note of. Or hide behind.

He’d not considered what he’d do if challenged. Right now Silas would charge through the Herlequin himself if he dared get in the way.

‘Just run, just keep running.’ Thoughts of the Nephilim tied an anxious knot in his chest. He did not fear facing the creature, but Silas was terrified of the delay an encounter would bring.

Tyvain’s talk of foreboding and lost time had not left him.

Time was slipping away. From Pitch, from them all.

Silas knew it for himself already, this life was likely his last, but he’d be damned if the same could be said for Pitch. The daemon had not yet lived with any true freedom. Silas would not allow him to die a prisoner.

The mud grabbed at his boots, and the wrench at his hip joint was eye-watering. One moment he was steaming ahead, making ground on the rising notes, the next he was on his knees, the mud claiming a part of his thighs and seeking to drag him down, drown him. But he had no time for drowning today.

‘Damn it.’ Silas battled with the insistent clutch of the sludge. He was panting by the time he found sturdier ground, a place where he was not in fear of sinking up to his neck. He shoved back the cloak, and smeared his dirty hands down the length of his coat. The hues of brown were hardly different, but the mud held specks of colour throughout. Dull pieces, pinks and reds and yellows, gritty as broken eggshell.

Silas ran on, his ears straining to catch the bandalore’s tune which at times was so hauntingly faint he thought he’d lost it. The mud was treacherously deep. His calves ached with the effort of each dragging step. He stopped to tighten his laces, fearful he’d find himself barefoot before too long. With a quiet groan he straightened, ready to carry on.

The bandalore’s melody stopped.

Silas froze, standing perfectly still, his breath held. Waiting. For the notes to return. The marshlands were impossibly quiet. And his mind equally so.

‘Shit.’ Silas twisted the ring, trying to ignore the fear that toyed with him. ‘Come on, come on…find me.’

But the melody did not return. Silas inhaled so deeply his head spun, but if it served to keep his head in order, so be it. No need for panic. He knew what direction the scythe had called to him from, did he not?

Silas spun the ring about his finger. His nail catching at skin.

He just had to keep going, and not let his thoughts torture him as he did so. The scythe had not been able to reach him outside the cockaigne, this simply meant it had been thwarted again. Fae magick, divine magick, whatever sordid obstacles blocked it now, he would surmount.

The bandalore was still out there. Pitch was still waiting for him.

Silas clenched his fist, readying to launch back into a run.

He was calf-deep in mud.

‘Shit, shit, shit.’ He jerked and twisted, and sank to mid-thigh, the dampness penetrating his trousers, sucking at the cloak.