The Jungle Tomb of the Ice Queen (The Flying Tooth Garden Book 1)

by M Harold Page

By the time they carried away her enemy’s remains, the sun was sinking behind the temple, dyeing the city’s marble a warm pink. It was the time of day when she would retire to her chambers to prepare for the evening meal. Courtesy of a secret passage, she and the Marshal would have a precious two hours. Sometimes they would slip out in disguise and wander the city, pretending that they might simply walk away, take on false names and buy a small estate on which to grow old together.

  A pillar of fog appeared beyond the Conclave siege lines. Eerie chanting echoed through the warm evening air.

  The fog folded in on itself to let in the glare from another land where it was still full daytime. Still chanting, a column of grey-robed figures emerged from the portal.

  33 Humanoids. Unknown. Supernatural.

  The Grey Cortège—they were real.

  The late Gronchard’s forces parted to let them through. Servants unpegged tents and dragged them aside. Soldiers wheeled away mobile shields.

  Zenobia half-sprinted, half-tumbled down the stairs. Attendants streaming behind her, she rushed to where they had laid out the Marshal’s body.

  The monks were already stripping him of his armour.

  33 Humanoids. Grey Cortège. Supernatural.

  “Wait!”

  They ignored her. She pushed between them.

  Form 2. Performing Virago at level 22.

  No single wound had killed the Marshal. Rather, his pale old flesh was punctured in a dozen places, his undershirt soaked crimson.

  A cold hand caught her shoulder.

  She twisted.

  There were no faces under the cowls, just a hazy grey-white glow. She could not tell whether they were daemon, or humans in the grip of some spell.

  33 Humanoids. Grey Cortège. Unknown challenge.

  She decided to risk all and gathered up her presence.

  Using Virago, Commanding Presence +10 5/6, cost 1 Potestas, 1 of 27 remaining.

  “I know who you are,” she said. “But I shall say farewell to my Marshal, and you shall not stop me.”

  The monk released her.

  Result = 22 (Performance) +12 (Feat) +1 (Luck) -32 (Challenge) = Tentative Practical Response for a few moments.

  Virago, Commanding Presence +10 advances to 6/6 and is secured.

  The demon made no effort offer to unlock another Virago feat.

  Zenobia let out a bitter laugh.

  Until this very moment, she had been walking in the footprint of dead selves—but then she had always dreamed of ruling over strange lands; how could she not have been a queen or an empress before?    Now she had exceeded every other person she had ever been, and—despite the grief and fear—it felt liberating. She understood now why the Marshal wanted to end his cycle of reincarnation. She brushed the grey hair from his brow and kissed it. “I am sorry, my love,” she said.

  If her demon said something at that moment, she chose not to hear it.

  Then she stood aside so the monks could finish their task. They shrouded the naked corpse. Still chanting, they returned to the portal.

  Under cover of night, the Gronchard’s army pulled back from the walls of Yinkesia. It could have been that they were incapable of fighting on, now their God Emperor had been temporally slain. However, Zenobia liked to think that in summoning the Grey Cortège, The Marshal had somehow saved the day.

  # # #

  Zenobia never again wore her golden mask.

  Nor, though she had many lovers to warm her final years, did she again press lips to flesh; she had left her royal kiss on the forehead of the Marshal.

  Nor did she plan an Imperial mausoleum.

  In her next life, she vowed, there would be neither throne nor protocal.

  On her deathbed, she ordered trusted retainers to bury her under the desert sky, with a book of magic, a bag of coins, and her true love’s sword.

  Chapter 3: Tempted!

  “I am wholly present in the now!” sang Acolyte Torstag.

  Unlock Scout, Forest Proficiency, Foraging? whispered his Tempter.

  Torstag did not pause in his weeding. The season was turning and dusk brought with it a cold wind that whistled down the Untrodden Valley. The sooner the weeds were gone, the sooner he could warm his fingers. He continued, working in time to the words; “Present now and forever.”

  “As am…I,” sang back Acolyte Ingar, a shrill tenor to Torstag’s increasingly deep baritone. “Forever and forever.”

  The two acolytes were fighting back an infestation of Creeping Mandrake in the planting beds by the parapet of Middle Terrace, one of five massive platforms raised out of the towering rock walls of the Untrodden Valley.

  They sang in unison: “Verily, for all Eternity, Life After Life, My Every In…car…na…tion. In accordance with the Book of Obedience.”

  On this cold day, the words were like stones settling in Torstag’s belly, but they were supposed to silence the Tempter and if you didn’t keep singing, the monks would beat you.

  The sun flashed on the snow-capped peaks of the mountains making up the opposite wall of the valley. Torstag imagined standing there and seeing the world beyond.

  Unlock Scout, Mountain Proficiency, Climb? whispered his Tempter.

  Acolyte Ingar edged a little closer. “Even as putrefaction takes each and every of my mortal forms.” He flashed a wolfish grin from under his cowl. He was a head shorter than Torstag. However, his freckles gave his round face a dirty lived-in look, making him seem older. “Hey, Torstag?”

  “Shush!” hissed Torstag. “We need to stay out of trouble.”

  “Pish and boll-ocks,” sang Ingar. “The monks won’t no…ooo…tice”—he made an arpeggio of that last word—“as long as we sing this blo…uh…uh…dy stu…oo…pid…song.”

  They chorused, “In accordance with the Book of Obedience.”

  Torstag glanced around the terrace. The Grey Cortège had harvested Ingar from his theatrical troupe at the advanced age of twelve, a crucial two years later than normal. Six years on, and Ingar still hadn’t settled to monastic life.

  Today, however, Ingar was lucky; the garden terrace seemed empty. If anybody was listening, they were far enough away only to hear the melody, not the words.

  Torstag leaned closer and hissed, “We can’t mess around any more.” He glanced over his shoulder—still okay. “If we want to become priests.”

  That was the plan; to qualify as priests, get posted to some distant temple, and simply fade away into the Ten Thousand Realms.

  “There are otherererererer wa—ays to get ow-ow-ut of here,” sang Ingar.

  “Not safe…ways,” sang Torstag. “The Portal To Outside is guarded day and…night.”

  “There must be a route…down the…cliffs,” sang Ingar. “When I get out…I’m going to fuck all the women and drink…all…the beer.” He added in his speaking voice, “Though not necessarily in that order.”

  “If we want to get out, we need to—” said Torstag. He found himself staring past the parapet and wondering, not for the first time, where the Untrodden Valley led to.

  “Torstag?” prompted Ingar.

  Torstag returned to singing. “-obey the rules as set out in the Book of Obedience.”

  “Do you even want to escape?” said Ingar.

  “Yes,” said Torstag. “I want to be my own man.”

  “You’ll have to be your own man before you can escape,” said Ingar. “You do know that, right?”

  Torstag looked beyond his friend to the distant peaks.

  A weed bit his finger.

  He pinched the plant’s head and twisted it off. “Damn.”

  Unlock Scout, Forest Proficiency, Foraging, or Entertainer, Geeking?

  He Tempter was louder now. It helpfully supplied an explanatory vision of biting off chicken heads while carnival-goers jeered and cheered.

  “I am wholly present in the now!” sang Torstag, firmly banishing the Dead Memory. He straightened and sucked at his wounded finger. His back, meanwhile, reminded him th
at he was now too tall to spend days stooping at the planting beds.

  “Oh, really?” sang Ingar. He moved close enough to bump shoulders. “There’s a g…uh…uh…rll in the Stone Grove!”

  “A what?”

  “A girl,” whispered Ingar. “Like a boy, but with curves and other…features.”

  “I know what a damn girl is.” Torstag stamped and rubbed his hands together against the cold. “But it’s not possible.” Then he sang, “I do…not…wa…aa…ont…to know!”

  “There is! There is!” sang Ingar as he edged closer. His eyes were bright. “A Girl. A Vessel of Ini…qui…ty.”

  Unlock Homesteader, Horticulture, or Entertainer, Geeking? murmured his Tempter.

  Now he had flashes of himself tending strange blooms under a canopy of greenery and while nearby a naked, blue-skinned woman pounded at a quern, flesh quivering enticingly as she—and then back to biting off chicken heads in the carnival.

  A rod bit into his shoulders. “Acolyte Torstag! You stopped chanting!”

  He turned but did not flinch.

  Brother Neutrality, who had a way of stalking up unnoticed, brandished the implement. “You were listening to your Tempter!”

  The grey-robed man somehow seemed smaller than before. When they dragged Torstag away from his family’s tumbledown castle, the Grey Cortège had been terrifying giants. It had taken him a good season to throw off the memory of the white glare under grey hoods, voiceless gestures, and the cold hands taking his. It had taken longer still to lose the nightmares of his grandmother collapsing as they tore him out of her arms.

  Now, eight years later, this Brother, and all the others, seemed…breakable. He wasn’t sure that was the right world, but it would—he felt—be easy to break Brother Neutrality.

  Unlock Warrior, Pugilism Proficiency or Polearm Proficiency, Wrath Strike?

  That was louder than usual.

  Torstag’s gaze flitted to where they had propped wooden stakes against the parapet wall. Nearby lay a long-handled hammer. Come to think of it, swung properly…

  “Acolyte Torstag!” snapped the Brother.

  Torstag lowered his eyes. “Sorry, Brother Neutrality. It always comes as a surprise.”

  “Temptation should never come as a surprise,” pronounced Brother Neutrality. “It is as inevitable as Death and Rebirth. It is why you must chant to silence its voice.”

  “In accordance with the Book of Obedience,” recited Torstag. “Thank you, Brother Neutrality.”

  The Brother struck him again. The rod was heavy enough to smart through the thick robes.

  Torstag focussed on the mountains on the other side of the Untrodden Valley.

  “If you let it in…” Another blow. The Brother continued, punctuating his words with rod, “…then you will lose yourself to your past self, the dead hollowing out the living. This is not what your Past Self wanted. Is this what you want?”

  Unlock Warrior, Disarm?

  Torstag shook his head. “No, Brother Neutrality.” His fists clenched within his wide sleeves. However, something prevented him from raising them in anger. “Thank you for schooling me, Brother Neutrality.”

  “You were trouble from the beginning,” said the old man, turning away. “You’ll never be a priest.”

  Fuck you too, Smelly Newt, thought Torstag, but the fun had gone out of using the old nickname.

  Unlock Scout, Stalk Close, or Entertainer, Stunning Insult?

  Torstag wasn’t even sure what those were. Shut up! “I am truly present,” he sang.

  “As am I,” sang back Ingar.

  They carried on like that until Brother Neutrality was out of earshot. “There cannot be a girl the Brothers would have ex…pel…ell…ed her,” sang Torstag.

  Ingar’s hood bulged left then right—the youth was shaking his head. “They don’t know yet,” he said in a low voice. “Nobody uses the Stone Grove in cold weather.”

  “So who found her?”

  “Hohan. He’d been tending to the Temple of Gronchard and I guess he wanted some privacy to…you know…”

  Torstag pinched the bridge of his nose. He was getting a headache. “Really, I don’t want to know!”

  “Well, I’m going to take a look,” said Ingar. He hopped up onto the raised beds and made for the parapet. “I’ll be quicker without you, anyway.”

  “You can’t!” Torstag gripped Ingar’s arm.

  “I bloody can climb down. Watch me.”

  “No, I mean, Women are Vessels of Iniquity. Epicentres of Temptation,” said Torstag. He knew it was probably not true, but it felt true. His headache worsened. “It says so in the Book of Obedience.”

  “Just what I need,” said Ingar. “I didn’t choose to be here.”

  Torstag gasped. He grabbed the material of his friend’s cassock. “But you did. Your Past Self had an Epiphany.”

  “Bugger my past self,” said Ingar, “sideways, with a bargepole. I want me some iniquity and maybe a little temptation.” He shook free from Torstag. “As far as anybody’s concerned, I’m tending the Chapel    of Gronchard.”

  “You can’t.”

  “This may be the only girl we ever see.”

  “But we’ve both seen girls before we were taken,” said Torstag.

  Ingar flushed behind his freckles. “You know what I mean.”

  “I thought you had a plan?”

  Unlock Warlord, Commanding Presence or Sneak Raid?

  Ingar shrugged weakly. “Not a safe one.”

  “No,” said Torstag. “You don’t even know how far down you’d have to climb to get to the valley floor. And the monks would catch you.”

  “Ha,” said Ingar. “I’m more worried about not starving to death once I’ve escaped.”

  “Your appetite!”

  “Talking of which,” said Ingar. He clapped Torstag’s shoulder. “Old Smelly Newt’s done his rounds. He’s probably toasting his feet by a fire right now. I’ll see you later.”

  There was a scraping sound from Torstag’s bucket. Some weeds were trying to climb out, so he stabbed them with his trowel.

  His Tempter whispered: Unlock Warrior, Dagger Proficiency, Multiple Jabs, or Homesteader, Butter Making?

  “Nice try”, muttered Torstag.

  “What?” said Ingar.

  “I’ll come with you,” said Torstag. “But we’ll have to take the Water Stairs.”

  Chapter 4: The Girl in the Stone Grove

  The Water Stairs were narrow stone steps that pierced the terraces to serve as run-offs for the winter rains. The Acolytes were forbidden to use them, supposedly because they were slippery, but really—Torstag was certain—because anybody using them was hidden from sight.

  As they descended between towering walls, Ingar lost his footing—swore—twisted, grabbed Torstag and brought them both down.

  Torstag went over on his back, scuffed the masonry, and landed on Ingar. He flinched. The blood rushed in his ears. Any moment, and weapons would batter at his armour, chip away at the gaps, drive up under the skirts of his cuirass…

  2 point of Vitality Loss. 1 of 3 remaining.

  Toughness 1 Negated and Surpassed. 1 Wound incurred.

  Hindrance “Stunned”. Form 0. No Feats possible.

  He stared up at the grey sky for a few moments.

  Will 3. Hindrance “Stunned” shaken off.

  You have still have Hindrance “Wounded.”

  He hurled himself to his feet. His right leg gave under him. “What the Hell?”

  Unlock Warrior, Armoured Combat Proficiency?

  “Fuck, Ingar, I’m sorry!” cried Ingar. The youth was sitting against the wall rubbing the back of his head through his red frizz. With his hood down he seemed soft and harmless, like the old dog Torstag had adored before the Grey Cortège stole him away.

  “Not your fault,” said Torstag. He helped his friend up. “The steps are slimy, that’s all.”

  “But you looked to being ready to rip off my head and shit down my neck
.”

  “Just the shock,” said Torstag, starting to hobble down the last of the steps. “A Dead Memory, that’s all?”

  “Must have been a hell of a flashback.”

  “Let’s just say there was fighting.”

  They emerged onto Orchard Terrace. This one was given over to apple trees. Here and there, bare branches webbed the sky like a cracked glaze, offering just enough cover from overhead observation.

  A gust of wind kicked up a cloud of red leaves.

  Torstag brushed some from his face.

  He’d scuffed his knuckles on the Water Stair. Now they were the same red as the leaves.

  “I really am sorry, Torstag,” said Ingar.

  Torstag shrugged. “Come on.” He set off at a fast hobble.

  “Hey! Slow down. You’re hurt!” panted Ingar, as he caught up. “What’s the sudden enthusiasm?”

  He was dragging his right leg, he realised. His ankle felt like somebody had driven a nail into it. Torstag shrugged. “I guess I feel like my own man right now.”

  A movement made him spin on the spot, drop into a fighting stance with his knees bent, even though it hurt.

  Just a pig snuffling in the leaves. Most certainly not people trying to kill him with spears. “Huh?”

  “Torstag, are you all all right?”

  It was probably how his father died, he realised. Yes, he was thinking about that for some reason.

  Torstag limped off along the path. “How did she get into the Monastery?”

  “What?” said Ingar, panting as he kept up. “I don’t know. Who cares? Temptation! Iniquity! Fuck all the women!”

  “Drink all the beer,” said Torstag. “Yes, but nobody’s supposed to be able to get in. I’m not sure she’s real.”

  “So why are you coming with me?” asked Ingar.

  “Temptation, I suppose,” said Torstag. “It was your idea.”

  Another narrow set of steps took them down to the cold pools of the Rice Terrace, and thence the entrance to the Stone Grove. This was more of a platform than a terrace: a walled half-moon a level lower than the Rice Terrace. Seen from above, its stone columns formed a spiral. However, as they walked out in amongst them, the columns really did make it feel like a grove…or what Torstag, who’d grown up in arid mountains, imagined one might feel like based on glimpses of the trees carpeting the Untrodden Valley.