‘How can you be sure?’
‘Because I marked the food.’
‘Explain yourself.’
‘The food they appear to be ferrying to the chasm above the swamps. I noticed that the bearers looked as exhausted on their return as when they set out for the chasm. So I marked some of the haunches of beef and the sacks of flour.’
‘And?’
‘As it went out, so has it come back. The marked haunches and full sacks are returned, untouched, in the quartermaster’s stores.’
‘Which tells you?’
‘They are merely circulating the food, forward and back. Thus do they give the impression of an army about to march.’
‘When in fact they have been commanded to stand down?’
‘Indeed.’
Her eyes narrowed, savouring the thought. ‘If so, their mission is surely lost. The brat will die.’ She hesitated. ‘You could be mistaken?’
‘I’m certain.’
Kawkaw wondered if somehow, in a way as yet not altogether clear to him, he could take advantage of such happenstance.
‘We cannot risk a second failure. You must test it again.’
‘I have already tested it twice. I assure you that the witch warriors are standing down. The expeditionary band is on its own.’
The Preceptress’s eyes were suddenly aglitter. She was pushing him towards the entrance flap of the tent, hissing between her teeth: ‘Get out!’
‘At once, noble lady!’
He saved his ear-to-ear grin until he was out of her sight. Had he not seen how the dagger was already clutched in her hands? And had he not read in that look in her eyes that she was about to use it to impart this new, and valuable, information? What a precious discovery was this, which he had made through the intimacy of sharing the single tiny tent with the Preceptress – that through the dagger with its sigil-embossed handle and its black, pitted, spiral blade, she had a line of communication direct to the foulness that was her Master!
Such knowledge might prove useful.
Fears and Suspicions
An exhausted Turkeya hid in the canopy of one of the twisted trees and wept for his cousin and childhood friend Kataba, who had died in the night, killed by his own hand because he knew he was slowing their progress. Turkeya blamed himself. Had he not insisted on joining the expeditionary force, in spite of his father’s reservations, and had that not resulted in his father insisting that Kataba should protect him – loyal Kataba, a born warrior, with a heart of oak – his cousin would still be alive. Turkeya grieved for Kataba, up here, where no one could witness his weeping. And he wept just a little for himself also, for the fact that his role as guide had been supplanted by the Garg, who claimed to be the son of the King, and whose posturing and arrogance should have warned Alan that he was not to be trusted.
Iyezzz, he called himself, which sounded if not ratlike, then surely serpent-like, and one very sly and over-grown serpent he was in spite of the fact he had helped Turkeya find the venom balm that had enabled him to treat Kataba, and at the very least lessen the inflammation that was consuming his leg. It was of small comfort that this treatment had enabled the Shee to construct a bier and carry Kataba this far, although this blessing had further delayed their progress and eventually provoked Kataba to take his own life in the dark of night.
Turkeya was feeling guilty, and on more than one account. He blamed himself for the death of Kataba. He also suspected that he was being overly suspicious about the Garg, but he couldn’t help the way he felt about him. He didn’t want to come down out of the tree into a camp that was rife with fear and paranoia. Through eyes dimmed by tears he stared around himself at the place the Garg led them to, a sheer cliff face within the foothills of a lofty range of mountains. What really awaited them here? The Garg had mentioned a City of the Ancients. But who in his right mind would trust such a creature? Turkeya had no faith in a giant bat that, whenever he grew frightened, covered his skin with an oil that stank. He couldn’t get used to the fact that the Garg’s eyes glowed – truly glowed like a forest wisp – in the dark. He would find himself squinting at Iyezzz when he wasn’t aware of it, taking a good look at those vicious-looking talons on his feet and the overlapping canine teeth poking out of his gaping maw. Whatever the truth of it, the Garg was excited by the prospect of what lay ahead, and that was enough to make Turkeya even more suspicious.
Turkeya wiped his eyes with the backs of his hands, matting the fur with his tears. The truth was he no longer knew what to think up here in the canopy, high above the ground. Was he being unfair to the Garg? Was he being overly mistrustful – he, the shaman, who was supposed to empathise with all manner of creatures? But this place, and the beings that populated it, so oppressed him in heart and spirit that he was in danger of losing his faith in nature.
He was familiar with forests, of winter greens or leaf-fall. He knew the names of most of the plants and trees in his homeland, the times of their budding and flowering in the spring, and the bounty of leaf, nut and fruit. But these plants and trees were not bountiful at all. These were alien to sight and scent and to the shaman’s deepest instinct. The boughs were purplish or deep blue, with limey spatters of spots – colours and patterns Turkeya associated more with toadstools than trees. And they did not narrow to a fine lace of twigs, carrying leaves of green, but twisted and turned in amongst themselves, forming a labyrinth in which one expected danger at every step. There was a heavy smell too, a cloying pungency that thickened in the night, so that when the Kyra allowed them a few hours of sleep they breathed in a murk of toxic aromas.
He empathised with nothing here.
The fact that he – it – the Garg – seems comfortable here, why it’s all the more ominous and perfidious!
On occasion, Turkeya had caught him sucking at stubby protrusions of a pinkish colour on certain of the trees. Turkeya had been disgusted to see him licking the traces of the sticky juice that stained his muzzle-like mouth. All of this sucking and licking he went about with a relish that made Turkeya think back to the rat clenched in the Garg’s foot when they had found him trapped by the maneater. And it had made Turkeya feel physically sick when Iyezzz had opened his eyes wide and, with that serpentlike sinewy movement of his long thin body, indicated that Turkeya should copy him and suck at the nipple-like things.
‘Ugh!’ Even now, with the memory, Turkeya couldn’t help but grimace.
‘Hsst – shaman!’ The Kyra’s voice was calling him down out of the canopy, her cat-like face peering up at him through the twisted boughs.
When Turkeya descended he found the company was examining strange carvings in upstanding rocks standing on either side of the entrance to a tunnel. The carvings were of ungodly figures, with staring eyes and bared fangs.
‘Surely,’ the Kyra murmured, ‘these are intended as a warning.’
Alan called up the young Garg, asking the meaning of these totems.
‘Kwatekkk!’
‘What does this mean?’
‘Kwatekkk – it means entrance is forbidden. By order of Mahteman – high shaman to the King.’
‘Forbidden? Like under pain of death?’
‘Yeshhh.’
When Alan translated for the others, there was a disquieted murmuring, even among the Shee.
‘Yet this is where you’re leading us?’
‘Aarrhhkkkuusss!’
Alan recognised the expression from when they had first met the Garg. ‘What? The way is forbidden – because it’s sacred?’
‘Aarrhhkkkuusss – yeshhh!’
‘But it is the only way that will take us to the meeting – to Kate?’
‘To the Sacred Pool – the City of the Ancients!’
‘So, if we enter the tunnel, our lives will be in danger! But we have no option if we are to meet the Momu – and Kate?’
‘Yeshhh!’
Alan shook his head. He paused to talk it over with Ainé and Qwenqwo. Turkeya studied the Garg for the slightest sugge
stion of treachery. If the shaman was no longer their guide, he still felt responsible for the safety of his friends. He muttered: ‘Does he think we’re just going to believe everything he tells us? I don’t trust him one bit. I sense that he has ideas of his own, things he is failing to tell us.’
All of a sudden there was a distant howling in the forest. It was followed by gong-like sounds that sounded like drums.
‘Gargs!’ the Kyra hissed.
‘Gargs on the ground,’ Turkeya cautioned, ‘with no pretence of being friendly.
Alan confronted Iyezzz. ‘What does that mean? You told us the Gargs were withholding attack.’
‘They have assumed that we threaten the King.’
‘Our shaman thinks you’re leading us into a trap.’
Turkeya looked up into those yellow eyes and saw there a mixture of cunning and deceit. He snorted with disbelief when the Garg insisted, ‘Iyezzz does not lead you into a trap.’
Alan pressed him: ‘Have you ever been to this meeting place before?’
‘Never!’ The ugly head of the Garg was shaking solemnly from side to side, and the solemnity was also there in the low sort of purring rattle behind his voice. ‘Iyezzz would not normally enter here!’
Alan glanced at Qwenqwo, whose brow was deeply furrowed, not knowing what to make of the situation. They were all exhausted from lack of sleep. And the deaths of Llediana and the two Aides had made them jumpy and suspicious.
‘So why would you dare to go there now?’
‘Because it is where the Momu will be. She has called the meeting with my father at the Sacred Pool in the City of the Ancients. No meeting such as this has happened in a thousand years. Forbidden or not, I must be there.’
Qwenqwo squeezed forward, forcing himself between Alan and the Garg. ‘I trust the creature no more than the shaman. Have a care, Mage Lord!’
The drumming had started up again, causing the Garg’s ears to tense, their membranes veined like spiders’ webs. His face turned skywards and his eyes grew even wider, his wing-talon directed upwards. ‘The drums say that the spywings have your scent. You cannot hide from them. We must go.’
‘Mo?’
‘I believe him. But you must decide for yourself, Alan. You must trust to your own instincts.’
Alan hesitated, looking assessingly into the mouth of the tunnel, then back into the eyes of the young Garg. ‘There’s something else – some reason of your own why you want to be there?’
The young Garg sniffed through those gaping nostrils, as if he had perhaps said more than he had intended. ‘The King and the high shaman, Mahteman, will be there.’ There was a change in the Garg’s tone, a grimace about his mouth, when he used the name, Mahteman, that suggested a background anxiety or distaste. ‘They, alone, will hear the counsel of the Momu.’
‘Why would this worry you?’
Iyezzz stood erect, his nostrils twitching, and in speaking he spread open his wings, as if to embrace the entire company. ‘My father is old – and Mahteman older still. Their views will be conservative. Service to the Great Witch is deeply ingrained in that generation. Such subservience must be brought to an end. I, Prince Iyezzz-I-Noor, must be present – must be allowed to speak.’
‘Why is this meeting so important to you?’
‘The Momu will be accompanied by your friend, Greeneyes. She has the power to heal the wounded land.’
Alan nodded, swallowing against a dry throat. He was beginning to understand what was really going on. This was some kind of rebellion. If so, Iyezzz was playing a dangerous game. But if Iyezzz meant what he said about ending the Garg’s alliance with the Great Witch, it was a game that might also suit their purpose.
‘You know that I’ll be watching you. If you betray us, I’ll kill you.’
The young Garg stood haughtily erect, towering over all but the Shee. ‘If I fail on my mission my father, the King himself will killhhh me.’
Ainé, assuming a threat to Alan, pressed her tall frame between Alan and the Garg, as tall as each other, each too proud to be afraid. The Kyra had her hand poised on the hilt of her sword.
‘In my world we have legends that speak not of the City of the Ancients but of the City of the Dead. How do we know that you are not leading us into a trap?’
‘Killhhh me then, if you will not trust me!’
But even as the Garg and the Shee faced one another in an edgy confrontation, a renewed howling sounded from all around them in the forest.
‘Quickly! Before it is too late! The warriors will not follow us into the forbidden labyrinths.’
An Important Journey
A noisy trumpeting roused Kate from a restful sleep. She was surprised to find herself back in the sea-urchin chamber, with its walls glowing with light. Pulling the bedcovers over her face, she willed herself back into the dream-like state she had woken from, her mind serene in … a kind of revelation. She had spent many hours in the company of the Momu, during which she had been introduced to mysteries of being that were deeper than mere images, or words, or even feelings. She had experienced a transcendent level of communication, something deeply intimate, enabled by that wonderful language … and oneness … that thrilling level of communication that seemed to derive from music. Even now the memory of it was already fading and she didn’t want to lose it by waking. Was this what Granny Dew had intended? Had she directed her not only to meeting with the dragon, Driftwood, but also – maybe even primarily – to the Momu?
You will discover one both ancient and wise enough to understand your need … But now she asked herself: But what does that mean?
Was it possible that through this crystal in her brow, she had acquired an ability to communicate on a more complex level? Kate wasn’t altogether sure. She had no memory of being brought back to her chamber from the cave of the Momu and yet it felt as if her mind had expanded to embrace some important knowledge. As if she had, during the time they had communicated, absorbed a new level of understanding of the burden and power that had been placed on her shoulders.
It was at once exhilarating and terrifying.
She had also realised something vital to the survival of the Cill and their lovely underwater city. The Momu was dying. It was clear that her time was very limited. And this presented Kate with a dilemma.
A new Momu, young and vigorous, must be born. But before ever the Momu could give birth to her successor, she herself had to rise from her despair. And to do this she must have the blessing of hope. Hope for the future of her people so that her successor could bring the joy of new life into the world.
All of this Kate recalled before she drifted away again into a doze of contentment only to be woken for a second time by the trumpeting of conch shells. But this time she knew what it signified – an alarm sounding out throughout the whole of Ulla Quemar. Then she heard many voices answer the call, a cacophony of cries, musical, as would be expected of the Cill, but also strident and alien, like an orchestra tuning up for some grand performance in this wonderful city of beauty and peace. Even as she sat up in her bed the handmaidens arrived into her chamber, all of a bustle. They brought food, which they placed on a table before the window. But Kate was too excited even to think of eating it.
They showed her some strange new clothes. They clearly intended to dress Kate in what looked like a body-hugging material of a glistening, emerald sheen.
She was still attempting to shake the sluggishness of sleep from her mind. ‘What’s happening?’
‘The Momu waits. Greeneyes must make ready. She will accompany the Momu on her historic journey.’
‘What journey?’
‘Why – to counsel the Garg King, Zelnesakkk, in the City of the Ancients!’
Kate was too astonished to do anything other than to allow the handmaidens to wash her down from head to foot and then dress her, but all the while a thrill of alarm coursed through her. And with it, the oraculum flared in her brow, the most powerful flare she had felt since Granny Dew had implan
ted the crystal, suffusing her with an overwhelming wave of power that made her feel giddy. The chamber glowed with a crackling green lightning that coursed, like static electricity, over the walls and ceiling. The handmaidens stepped back a pace, astonished.
‘It’s all right! It won’t harm you,’ Kate attempted to calm them. But deep down she felt something changing within her. Somehow, as a result of her meeting with the Momu, her control over her oraculum appeared to be growing.
But there was no time to think about it. The handmaidens were hurrying her out of the chamber to where Shaami was waiting with an honour guard of six warriors. He took Kate’s hands in his, his turquoise eyes wide with excitement.
‘Shaami – what’s happening?’
‘For the first time in a thousand years the Momu is leaving Ulla Quemar. She has signalled her need for communion with the Garg King. There will be a Grand Council. You must accompany the Momu to the City of the Ancients.’
As they made their way down the gentle slope towards the waterfront, it seemed that the entire population was heading in the same direction. And more warriors. Kate saw the fearsome shapes of the Cill fighters everywhere. They were marshalling the crowds lining the streets, their strange medley of weapons glinting in the morning light.
‘Are the Cill going to war?’
‘I hope not. But the Momu, and Greeneyes too, must be protected on their important journey.’
‘But how? You can’t let the Gargs know about Ulla Quemar. And the Momu told me she can only travel in water.’
‘Yes.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘All will be revealed.’
Thousands of Cill crowded the waterfront. Where Kate had never known the Cill to wear clothes of any sort, today they were dressed in diaphanous hooded gowns – silk, like the clothes they had manufactured for Kate, and dyed in a wide variety of pastel colours. Given her conversation with the Momu, Kate couldn’t help but notice the absence of children. The Momu arrived at the waterfront only minutes after Kate herself, carried in a palanquin by four burly warriors, her elegant head towering above even the tallest warrior as she alighted, then turning to bestow a blessing on the population.
The Tower of Bones Page 30