The Vorrh

cyclops, who jerked around to look at it.
    ‘She’s getting restless,’ said her owner. ‘She wants to move on.’
    ‘She?’ asked Ishmael nervously.
    ‘It’s a long story,’ answered Williams, walking over to the bow and bringing it back to his side to rest between them.
    Ishmael looked at its long, narrow form and felt a radiance exude from its maroon-black surface. He touched it gingerly with the tips of his closest fingers; it was warm and moist.
    ‘Don’t do that,’ said Williams with a sharp, empathic correctness. ‘I am the only one who touches her.’
    Ishmael’s hand flinched back. ‘Forgive me!’
    ‘No need. But you must understand: I have had that bow a long time. She is my only real possession.’
    Ishmael murmured an understanding. Distracted, he asked, ‘Does it have a name?’
    ‘She did once; I think it was Este.’ As he spoke, a profound change came over the Bowman’s face. He looked shocked at the name in his mouth and appeared to be searching for something; the next word, or the next moment.
    ‘What does it mean?’ asked Ishmael.
    Williams changed again, staring oddly at the cyclops with an expression that made Ishmael feel anxious and unsafe. He decided to say nothing more about the bow and lowered his head out of the stranger’s disturbing gaze. He looked down at his hands; the skin, where the tips of his fingers had traced the surface of the daunting object, was wet and stained.
    ‘I don’t know,’ said Williams, in answer to a question that Ishmael could not remember asking. ‘I don’t know!’
    Ishmael discreetly wiped his fingers in the dust of the rock and changed the subject quickly. ‘I meant to thank you, for saving me from those savages.’
    There was no response from the distant man.
    ‘It is said that all manner of creatures live in these trees. I think those must have been the worst; if it was not for you, they would certainly have hurt me again.’
    ‘They would have eaten you!’ Williams announced, clicking back into the unease of the moment. Ishmael stared at him, suddenly feeling very queasy and tired. He slipped slightly in a disjointed, groggy movement.
    ‘That will be the tincture I gave you,’ said Williams. ‘It will heal you and help you to sleep.’
    Ishmael touched the palm of his hand against his face, seeking some basic, instinctive reassurance. He smelt the liquid of the bow on his fingers; it took his softening mind very far away. He turned to look at Williams, to ask him what it meant, but the words turned to jelly and gas, and he faded into the growing gravity beneath him. His eye closed; somewhere in its narrow slit rested the dark bow, whose name he had already forgotten.
    * * *

    Tsungali found the remains of the slaughtered demons. He kicked them over and examined the wounds. He had never seen flesh and bone torn apart like this. It impressed him, and he longed to be the owner of a weapon that could cause such utter devastation.
    He had tracked the two men from the place with the fallen tree, up to a rocky outcrop. It was getting dark, which placed him in a quandary: he did not like the idea of climbing the rock in the failing light, of coming across the owners of the powerful gun from a point beneath them; however he did not know what still lived below – the demons might well be nocturnal.
    His options were few, and he eventually decided to spend the night perched on the fallen tree; it gave him the best vantage point and better options of defence or attack. He climbed up and onto the vast, fallen giant and walked its length, looking down onto the forest floor for signs of activity or seclusion. All was quiet. He knew the other two waited above. He would find them tomorrow and decide then whether they should live or die. The weapon they carried made him favour the latter – it would be cleaner that way. Then he could move on to find the Bowman; perhaps his first use of the novel firearm would enable him to watch its effects on his wandering prey.
    He found a cleft in the tree where he would sleep and set watching charms along the length of the trunk before settling in for the night.
    Nocturnal creatures began to wake, climbing and slithering through the trees, rustling in the undergrowths. He knew their sounds, and found them comforting: it meant that neither man nor demon lingered nearby. He set his hearing for silence or flutter and drifted into sleep.
    He dreamt of his grandfather and his carved house. He was a boy