Spectred Isle (Green Men #1)(40)

“Run,” Randolph said with force, and grabbed his hand.

They ran, stumbling and choking. Randolph was shouting something in an odd language which Saul only knew wasn’t English or Latin, and the earth felt more solid, less splashy under his feet, and then they were on grass, and the dark stand of trees was ahead. Saul’s legs, encased in sodden trousers, felt as though he wore armour; it was like running in a nightmare, every step too hard, too slow. But Randolph was dragging him, so that even if Saul was more falling than running he stayed upright, and they hurtled up the side of a grassy incline, tumbled over the top, and collapsed, gasping for breath.

“What the,” Saul managed. “What.”

“Fen-grendel,” Randolph said. “Watery wodewose. A monster of the marshes. Did it cut your skin?”

Saul struggled to pull up his sopping trouser leg and felt the cold, wet skin. “I don’t think so.”

“Good. Christ above.” Randolph sat up and leaned forward, elbows on knees. “That was all very inconvenient.”

“Are we at the castle?”

“Such as it is. It feels safer here, for what that’s worth.”

Saul looked around, but couldn’t see much except dark shapes, certainly no buildings. If they were at the castle site, either it hadn’t been built yet, or it had long fallen down. There was nowhere to shelter against the cold. He shuddered violently.

“You must be freezing,” Randolph said. “Blast and bugger. All right, take those off. You can have my jacket. Come on, damn it. I don’t like you being covered in that water.”

Saul peeled off his coat, his waistcoat, his shirt, which was sodden half way up his torso, and his undershirt, dropping the unwieldy, water-soaked clothing to the ground. By him, Randolph was doing the same thing. “Er—”

“We need to get you dry. Come on.”

Saul shed shoes, socks, trousers, finally his drawers. Randolph pushed something into his hand. “Use that as a towel.”

It seemed to be his undershirt, warm from Randolph’s body. Saul scrubbed at himself, legs and arms and hair. Randolph was a barely visible shape by him as the last light faded horribly fast.

“Here.” Randolph handed him the warm, dry coat. Saul slipped it on, shuddering with cold and gratitude, as Randolph picked up his discarded clothing and started wringing it out. “Huddle up there, by the, what, earthwork? Out of the wind anyway. I’ll see if I can do anything here.”

Saul stumbled to where the bank rose and sat against it, grass rough and cool under his bare arse and legs. He wrapped his arms round his knees, hearing the sounds of Randolph’s movements. There were no stars above, no moon, no fires or windows in the distance, no sign that any thinking thing existed or ever had in this bleak waterland plain, and in a moment he couldn’t see at all, no matter how he strained. It was as dark as an underground cell.

He dug his fingernails into his palms. This was bad enough for them both without him making a fuss, but he was sickeningly afraid in too many ways, memory and reality and the dreadful unknown all at once. He wanted comfort, or connection, or another human being in this abyss.

And, he realised, he could ask. He licked his lips. “Randolph?”

“Here.” He sounded so matter-of-fact. Saul had always loathed upper-class unflappability, as though inhumanity was anything to be proud of, but the calm in Randolph’s voice was a lifeline to which he clung. “All right?”

“I, uh. I can’t see you,” Saul said. The words sounded horribly thin and childlike in his own ears.

“Well, I can see you, very clearly. Don’t worry. I’m here.”

“What?” Saul seized the distraction. “How can you possibly see anything? It’s black as the armpit of hell!”

“Imagine my shrug. I can see in the dark, I promise you.”

Of course he could. That was typical Randolph, and reminded Saul of something that, under saner circumstances, would have been his first question. “What on earth did you do to that thing, before? With the plants?”

“It’s a knack.”

“I could hear what you said. It wasn’t like the other words, before. What language was that?”

“An old one. How are you doing?”

“You’re not going to answer, are you? Better than with a fen-grendel dragging me under the water. I think you saved my life.”

“My pleasure,” Randolph said absently. “You were doing us both proud before that. Is that what you did back at the Abchurches, when the dark came?”

“More or less. I’m not sure quite what I did, though. I just imagined being at Camlet Moat.”

“Imagination is a marvellous thing, particularly off the beaten track as we are.”

“Right. Yes.” Saul swallowed. “What do we do now?”

There was a whisper of movement and Randolph lowered himself to sit beside him, warm and ivy-smelling. He put an arm around Saul’s shoulders, pulling him close. “We live through the night, old fellow, whatever it may bring, and in the morning, we go back home.”

“As simple as that?”

“It’s perhaps not the most elaborate plan, but it’s what I have. If you don’t like it...?”

“I like it.”

“That’s all right.” Randolph’s arm tightened. Saul let out a deep breath, and allowed himself to lean sideways, against him, and be held. “And until then, we’ll just have to pass the time.”