The Faeman Quest fw-5

by Herbie Brennan

  ‘They have in a manner of speaking,’ Pyrgus told him soberly. ‘They’re breeding manticores.’

  ‘Manticores?’ Henry echoed.

  Pyrgus nodded. ‘Yes.’

  Henry said, ‘They’ve been messing about with manticores for years now, haven’t they? I keep reading news reports that they’ve built another one in their laboratories. Actually, I don’t keep reading them: I suppose I’ve seen a couple in the past five years. That’s the trouble, isn’t it? Manticores are very scary creatures, but it takes you a couple of years to build one, so they’re hardly a threat to national security.’

  ‘I didn’t say build, I said breed. ’

  ‘But that’s impossible. Breeding manticores is impossible.’

  ‘Apparently not,’ Pyrgus said. ‘They have herds of them now.’

  ‘ Herds? ’ Henry looked at Madame Cardui. ‘Did we know about this?’

  For the first time since he’d known her, Madame Cardui flushed a little. ‘We did not.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Partly because this has been a very recent development, but frankly also because Haleklind has never been a priority for our security services. Nor have manticores, come to that. The bottom line is we never considered them a serious threat.’

  ‘So what’s the Haleklind plan? Do we know?’

  ‘Not in any detail yet. But we can speculate about the broad outline.’

  ‘So speculate,’ Henry told her.

  But it was Pyrgus who butted in. ‘Do you know much about manticores, Henry?’

  ‘Big, scary, magical animals. Body of a lion, tail of a scorpion, head of a man, three rows of teeth, like a shark. In my world they’re considered mythical. Actually they’re considered impossible. In my world unicorns are considered mythical, but you could imagine breeding one out of a horse. Nobody could imagine breeding a manticore.’

  ‘The wizards imagined it,’ said Pyrgus sourly. ‘Actually, I like manticores. They’re intelligent, but they don’t think the way we do. The tail makes them poisonous: if they sting you, you’re dead. The lion body and shark’s teeth make them fearsome fighters – hand-to-hand combat with a manticore hardly bears thinking about. They can kill a horse with one blow, behead an armoured man much the same way. The one I had ate its way through a solid wall. The -’

  ‘You had a manticore?’ Henry interrupted.

  ‘Used to,’ Pyrgus said enthusiastically. ‘I called her Henry after you. But she broke out and made her way back to Haleklind. Actually, that was how we discovered what the wizards were up to. I followed her to Halek-’

  ‘You called a manticore after me?’ Henry asked, appalled. ‘A female manticore?’

  ‘She had a human head,’ Pyrgus said.

  ‘Now, deeahs,’ Madame Cardui put in, ‘perhaps we should stick to the point at hand.’

  ‘Yes, stick to the point at hand, Pyrgus,’ Henry growled.

  ‘The point is,’ Pyrgus said, ‘the Haleklind wizards have created manticores and now they’re breeding them. My contacts in the Haleklind Society for the Preservation and Protection of Animals tell me they’re modified manticores -’

  ‘What’s a modified manticore?’ Henry demanded.

  ‘Changed from what they are in the wild.’

  Henry stared at him. ‘There aren’t any manticores in the wild. The wizards had to create them in the laboratory – you just told me.’

  ‘All right,’ Pyrgus said impatiently, ‘modified when you compare them to the legends and myths about manticores in the wild, if you want to be pedantic. And I think there actually are some in the wild, if we could only find them. Nymph says -’

  ‘We are in a crisis situation,’ Madame Cardui interrupted firmly. ‘Please let us stick to the point.’

  Pyrgus glared at Henry. ‘The point is the Haleklinders have manticores that are spell protected – terribly difficult to kill. They have manticores that fight like demons – better than demons; far better than demons. They have manticores that are spell-bound to obey orders and have no fear of anything. They have manticores who are just as smart as you and I are in a fight: smarter in some respects because they think differently to the way we do and that makes them creative. They have thousands of them and they’re breeding more all the time. Can you imagine what sort of army that makes?’

  Henry could imagine it all too easily. ‘We need to wake up Blue,’ he said.

  ‘No need – I’m awake now,’ said Blue’s voice from the doorway.

  Thirty-Seven

  ‘Where are we?’ Brimstone asked. He knew perfectly well where they were. They were lost, that’s where they were. They were walking – creeping really – beneath a leafy canopy that filtered out the best part of the sunlight, leaving only a green gloom. The path they’d been following had long since become a track then petered out altogether, leaving grass and undergrowth beneath their feet. Around them, the forest stretched endlessly in all directions.

  Chalkhill grunted.

  Brimstone was not particularly worried: he trusted George to get him out of most tricky situations. But at the same time he was beginning to think it might be time he parted company with Chalkhill. The man had been useful in springing him from the lunatic asylum and for a while there he looked as if he might have some interesting plans – an assignment to kidnap the Princess had to be a nice little earner. But in true Chalkhill style, he’d already begun to cock things up. Not only had he annoyed Lord Hairstreak, but he’d managed to kill off the Queen, send the King Consort barmy and arouse some deep suspicions in the mind of the Head of State Security. Worse still, he’d implicated Brimstone in the mess. In the circumstances, it was difficult to see what Brimstone might get out of their old partnership. Perhaps best just to slit his throat and steal his purse, then make his way back to the capital, lie low for a bit and set up a little business with the money once the fuss died down.

  The only thing that made him hesitate was that Chalkhill had used a concealment spell on the ouklo when they abandoned it and Brimstone had no idea how long it would take him to reach the capital on foot. He wondered vaguely if George could carry him.

  Brimstone expanded his consciousness to see if that would help. There was an incredible amount of life in the forest – his old enemies the cockroaches were there, lurking and waiting, as were termite colonies and insects of every description, each and every one carrying its own unique threat. (If he hadn’t had George for protection, they’d certainly have eaten him by now.) There were wolves and badgers and sliths and haniels, not to mention militant diseases and those dead things that ate dried leaves and faerie meat. The place was crawling with them.

  ‘Where are we?’ he repeated.

  ‘Where are we?’ Chalkhill mimicked crossly. ‘Where are we? Where are we? We’re in an assassin’s tunnel so we can get through the magical defences.’

  What magical defences? Whose magical defences? Brimstone thought. Aloud he said, ‘What’s an assassin’s tunnel?’

  ‘An assassin’s tunnel,’ Chalkhill said with heavy patience, ‘is a knot in spacetime established by the Assassin’s Guild that allows its members secret access to every country in the Realm. Everybody knows that.’

  Everybody doesn’t, Brimstone thought vaguely. This must be a new development since they’d locked him away in the Double Luck. So many technical advances: it was positively bewildering. To keep the conversation going before Chalkhill lapsed back into gruntspeak he asked, ‘So we’re walking through a knot in spacetime?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Put there by the Assassin’s Guild?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It doesn’t feel any different.’

  ‘How would you know what walking through a knot in spacetime felt like, you old fool?’ Chalkhill muttered, quite audibly as it happened, given Brimstone’s expanded senses.

  ‘Where are we going?’ Brimstone asked.

  ‘Haleklind,’ Chalkhill told him shortly. ‘The tunnel means we skirt their magical defences.’
>
  Brimstone opened his mouth to ask another question, then closed it again. Haleklind was probably the best place they could go. Haleklind was a country independent of the Realm and while theoretically the two were on friendly enough terms, there was no extradition treaty between the two, unless that was something else had changed. So even if Madame Cardui discovered Chalkhill had been ultimately responsible for the death of Queen Blue and King Consort Henry’s madness, there was nothing she could do about it legally. She’d probably have him quietly bumped off, of course, but she’d never bother with Brimstone himself, who’d only played a small part in the whole affair. Well, smallish. Or not the major part, anyway; and besides he could always plead insanity. It would still be prudent to lie low for a time, but far more prudent to lie low in Haleklind rather than the capital.

  The thing to do, Brimstone thought, was to follow this mysterious ‘assassin’s tunnel’, which, in practice, meant following Chalkhill. Once they reached Haleklind, he could slit his throat and steal his purse. Actually, Haleklind would be an even better place to set up a little business. They didn’t have any stupid regulations about black magic and with his previous experience as a demonologist, he could certainly manufacture some very interesting spells. The whole magical industry was very sophisticated in Haleklind. He wouldn’t even have to open up a shop: he could wholesale the cones direct to a distributor and saturate the nation within months. Might even make him rich.

  ‘Keep close,’ he said to George.

  ‘Pardon?’ Chalkhill asked.

  ‘Just clearing my throat,’ said Brimstone.

  Whatever he knew or didn’t know about it, walking through a knot in spacetime didn’t feel much different to walking through a normal forest. There were the same trees, the same undergrowth, the same bushes, the same plants, the same flowers, berries, nuts and fruits along with the occasional sight or sound of some animal. But after a while Brimstone did start to sense the strangeness. Although there was no noticeable path, they somehow managed to keep moving. Trees and bushes blocked their way, yet they somehow managed to avoid them. His expanded senses told him that the whole place teemed with life, yet somehow nothing managed to attack them. There was an oddness about the sounds as well. Birdsong echoed creepily. The rustle of a passing beast hung in the air long after the movement had gone.

  Then suddenly it stopped. There was a path beneath their feet again and the sighing on the wind sounded just like the sighing of the wind should sound. They walked another hundred yards before emerging from the trees on to an open plain.

  ‘Is this Haleklind?’ Brimstone asked. He sniffed the air for any scent of magic, but there was only the distant tang of manure.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I thought we’d be in a city. Creen or somewhere.’

  Chalkhill sighed. ‘You can’t have an assassin’s tunnel opening into an urban complex – far too noticeable. Creen is about a day’s march away if we can’t steal some transport. But we’re inside the magical border checks and I have forged papers for the two of us that will see us through the rest.’ He shouldered his backpack. ‘Come on.’

  Brimstone hesitated. ‘What are those?’ he asked.

  Chalkhill followed his gaze. ‘What are what?’

  With his expanded senses, Brimstone could see a herd of creatures grazing close to the horizon. They might have been cattle, except he knew they weren’t. The trouble was, he couldn’t make out exactly what they were. His perception kept sliding off them, slipping sideways as if he were trying to grasp a heavily greased pig. That meant only one thing: the creatures were magical. But he’d never heard of a magical creature that went about in herds; and certainly not in herds this size – it was vast. Brimstone pointed. ‘Over there,’ he said. ‘Near the little copse.’

  ‘Oxen,’ Chalkhill told him promptly. ‘Farmer must have turned them out to graze.’

  Brimstone was frowning. ‘Those aren’t oxen.’ The distance made it difficult to judge, but he thought they might be bigger than oxen. Maybe even a lot bigger. What he was sure of, absolutely sure of, was that the herd had spotted them. The animals had begun to move in their direction.

  ‘Cows, then,’ Chalkhill said. ‘Doesn’t matter. They won’t bother us if we don’t bother them. Now come on – we haven’t got all day.’ He turned and began to walk off briskly westwards.

  Brimstone hesitated. Chalkhill couldn’t hear it yet, but there was a rumble like muffled thunder building up from the direction of the herd. It was the most ominous sound Brimstone had ever heard. The beasts were about to bother them, whatever Chalkhill believed. The rumble was the sound of a rolling stampede.

  Chalkhill stopped and turned. ‘Are you coming?’ he shouted impatiently.

  They had no chance on the open plain. The creatures were already moving fast. Even if they were only cattle, they’d flatten anything that got in their path. But the sound they made was not the sound of hooves, unless the hooves were padded. Brimstone was certain now they weren’t cattle: they were some sort of magical monster. They were huge and the herd seemed to stretch for miles. Their only chance, his and Chalkhill’s, was to get back to the forest, maybe even get back into the assassin’s tunnel. But when he glanced behind him, they seemed to have wandered further from the forest than he’d realised.

  ‘What’s that noise?’ Chalkhill asked abruptly. ‘You don’t think it’s going to rain?’

  Brimstone closed down his expanded senses, but even without them he could see the herd now, hear the approaching rumble Chalkhill had mistaken for thunder. They were coming at an incredible speed. ‘Look!’ He pointed again.

  ‘Oh my Gods!’ Chalkhill gasped.

  The herd was filling the whole horizon, bearing down on them with the inexorable inevitability of an army of ants. And like ants, there was something insectile about them. Every second brought them closer and now Brimstone could make out the waving stings that served for tails. The smell of the creatures preceded them, carried by a sweeping wind. It was a hot, magical smell. A sudden, deathly terror gripped Brimstone’s abdomen.

  ‘Manticores!’ he gasped. It was impossible, yet he was watching them approach with his own eyes. He could see their faces now, their glowing eyes. They only had one chance. ‘We have to get back to the forest!’

  Chalkhill was already running, abandoning his old partner to his fate. He was a younger, fitter man than Brimstone, but even so, his chances of escape seemed nil. The herd was almost upon them now. Brimstone allowed himself the smallest of chill smiles. He might have rescued Chalkhill if Chalkhill had played fair, but Chalkhill had chosen to make it every man for himself. Which was A-OK with Brimstone.

  ‘George,’ he called imperiously. ‘Carry me to the forest at once. Just me. Not Chalkhill.’

  To his surprise, nothing happened. The manticores bearing down on them were gigantic. He looked around desperately for George. But George, the great, hulking, invisible idiot, was gambolling delightedly to meet the manticores, a big cheese-eating grin pasted wide across his face. And now, Brimstone realised, it was all too late. Whatever about George, the herd was upon him.

  Thirty-Eight

  Lord Hairstreak had heard of the phenomenon, all right. It had been whispered about in the playground while he was still a child as one of the most amazing things that could happen to a boy. According to the stories, it always came out of the blue when you least expected it. It changed your life because it changed you. It turned you into a simpering, whimpering, well-washed, over-dressed, mouth-dribbling, verse-scribbling, soppy, floppy, stupidly happy, fun-loving factotum in the service of…

  Well, it could be anybody, of course, but the playground consensus was it was most likely to be a girlie with whom you would become so instantly enamoured that you would be prepared to kiss her bum! There were gasps at this revelation, sniggers too, and expressions of doubt or disgust from the more squeamish. Young Hairstreak was not among them, for even at the age of six he was aware depravity knew little bounds. All the
same, he could never imagine bottom kissing would ever appeal to him.

  The phenomenon was called the thunderbolt because of its likeness to a weapon once used by the Old Gods to punish – actually to obliterate – recalcitrant faeries. The original thunderbolt, according to the children’s tales, was always unexpected, always amazing and always absolute in its effects.

  The thunderbolt once again became a topic of serious conversation when the young Hairstreak reached adolescence. By now the emphasis had moved on to the interesting myth that the thunderbolt never struck just once. If it happened to you, it invariably and automatically struck the focus of your affection as well. With hormones racing through the bloodstream, this was an important, even vital, point. Aroused young men no longer thought what they might be called on to do for the girl of their dreams, but rather what the girl of their dreams might do for them… and bottom kissing was the least of it.

  When called to university, Hairstreak discovered the self-styled Thunderbolt Club, a student organisation devoted to researching the phenomenon. He joined out of curiosity and was only mildly disappointed to discover the society had a strictly academic emphasis and was generally concerned with the thunderbolt as a belief system. At its meetings, speakers presented learned papers tracing the roots of the belief to prehistoric times. One particularly clever young man suggested that the term ‘thunderbolt’, with its undercurrent of violence, might actually derive from the prehistoric practice of clubbing faerie women into submission. When a terminally bored Hairstreak polled his fellow members about whether they believed the thunderbolt phenomenon, as described in the myths, might actually exist, the No camp achieved a solid ninety-six per cent. He was far from disappointed. Even as a boy he had decided the thunderbolt fell into the same category as the Reindeer King of Crippenmass or the Tooth Human.