Page 75 of The Simurgh

‘I do not have fucking time for this.’

To drown, not in the water but in this muck? Gagging on grit and slime. Not a cursed chance.

One of the delicately-shaped trees draped a branch within lunging distance. He took hold. It was cold and hard as marble against his skin. What had reminded him of crocheted patterns was actually carved stone. But his weight was far too much for it. Barely had he heaved himself an inch and the branch snapped.

The rebound pushed him deeper nto the mud.

He let loose an ugly tirade against the ground and the Erlking, the Seraphim, the entire living world itself, as the mud squelched its way over the waist of his trousers and seeped into the crack of his arse. The cloak pulled at his neck where it was fastened, as the mud claimed it too.

It was rage, sheer and pristine, that stirred a fire in his belly, one the coldness of the mud could not deaden.

‘Do something. Free me,’ he growled at the scythe, and it truly was a growl. Coming from a deep, dark place inside that felt covered in cobwebs, it was so infrequently used. ‘I am your master, do not doubt that. You will heed me. Find us a way out of this.’

There was the hint of vibration along his finger. Balthazar Crane’s scythe slid from his finger and dropped into the mud. Silas waited, knowing himself heeded.

He remembered now what it was to be heard, to be the one in command. For too long he’d forgotten, blundering around like the oaf he’d been named.

He’d never lose what it was to be Silas Mercer again.

‘Hurry up, damn you. Do what you intend.’

The scythe shot clear of the mud, and Silas was ready for it. His hand lifted with an instinct long buried and now fully returned. He clutched at the length of silver that dangled before him, clean of the muck despite just leaving it. It was not quite a string, not thick enough to be named rope, but it was perfect for his grasp.

Overhead, at the end of the length of silver, flew a shining silver kite.

‘Bloody hell, of all things?’

The scythe’s chosen form was questionable, but then, he’d begun this journey with a bandalore. Equally ludicrous.

Silas was yanked from the mud, and he freed a hand to grab at his trousers, lest they remain behind.

‘Wait, the boots, damn it,’ he exclaimed, barely managing to get the toe of one boot beneath the heel of the other as it threatened to slide free. The scythe gave him a brief reprieve, holding steady long enough to get his footwear in order.

Then they were off again. Quick but not high.

Silas hung by one arm, the rope twined around it to the elbow, fingers locked tight. The seven-league boots were just barely clear of the terrain, at times not even that. His heels clipped a partly-submerged rock of lemon yellow, then a marble-hard stump jutting from the grime.

There was no return of the bandalore’s melody, but the scythe followed his direction, keeping to the same path followed when the notes guided them. There was nothing resembling a sun here to navigate by, nor any decent wind. The scythe moved along by its own current, the kite darting and weaving just as those Silas had seen in the parks of London.

Why the bloody hell had he not used this method of transport earlier, instead of struggling through the marshland?

The mound rose from the mud like a spectre. Blocking the way. Large enough he could not see around or over it.

‘Shit.’ Silas drew up his knees, and the kite immediately dragged him higher. But neither of them were prepared enough. His ankle snatched awkwardly at the suddenly-there ground, the pull at tendons enough to have him hissing.

‘Damn it.’

Another mound strained from the mud, slightly less in their path but enough that the scythe had to swing him wide to avoid it. Then another rose, slower than the others but considerably larger, which had the kite performing a neck-jarring halt in the air to avoid a collision.

The scythe flew him down the far side of yet another small peak that sought to block his way. They were popping up everywhere, the kite forced into a nauseating zigzag to steer clear. The ground was giving birth to hills.

A rising bulge of earth to Silas’s right revealed the curious truth.

These were not spurting peaks at all, but rather enormous creatures, reminiscent of tortoises. If tortoise could grow to the size of a hill and sport grossly serpentine necks. The creature blinked colossal eyes, wider than carriage wheels, revealing unexpectedly beautiful shades of daisy yellow. Thoughts of the hamadryad, Robin, struck him. But all comparisons crumbled when the creature opened its mouth. There seemed to be no bones at all in the jaw, enabling it to bloom open like a grotesque flower, exposing a slithering red tongue, forked like a serpent’s, with dulled rows of teeth covering the entire gaping maw.

A maw he was headed for.

‘Christ.’ Silas thrust a foot forward and managed to land it square upon a tooth, pushing off as hard as he could manage. Flying time was over. He let go of the rope. In the brief moment it took for him to hit the ground, the kite vanished, the scythe transforming itself into a much more practical, and rather glorious, longsword.