He breathed in deeply, feeling ravenously hungry. ‘And you, Ainé – is your sleep tormented by this place?’
‘Normally I sleep without dreams – but here …’
Alan was silent, sensing she was of a mind to say more.
‘I awoke to memories of my grandmother-sister.’
He had to reflect a moment or two on that. Then he recalled a memory. ‘Once, at a time of great danger in another forest, your mother talked to me about her mother-sister. How she died in the Great Arena in Ghork Mega.’
‘My mother-sister, when still a child, was captured with her mother-sister at the fall of Ossierel. They were taken prisoner to the Tyrant’s city. There, in the arena, my grandmother-sister was made to fight in protection of her daughter. She fought a Legun – the one they call the Captain.’
Alan coughed ash from his throat. ‘It was this same Legun that killed your mother-sister.’
He saw the Kyra look at him askance, those glacial blue eyes that so easily could turn to a terrifying glare. How little Alan understood the Shee, or for that matter their Kyras. All that stuff about ancient lineages and the sharing of memories across those lineages! He knew, for example, that the Kyras were related by blood to the martyred high Architect of Ossierel, Ussha De Danaan, who had refused to use her oracular powers in defence of the ancient capital.
Then the Kyra surprised him, her eyes gazing away into the distance to where in the north sky the red glow emanating from the Tower of Bones was unmistakable, even in the early light. Her oraculum ignited to a gentle background glow in which whorls and arabesques of silvery light metamorphosed and pulsated. ‘If I were to dream, it would be to see myself kill that one. I would kill him a thousand times, in a thousand different ways, in a thousand different dreams.’
‘Huh!’ Alan dropped his head. It was the closest thing he had ever come to an intimate discussion with a Shee.
Once more gazing towards Kate in the distance, he couldn’t help but reflect on the strangeness of his situation. He wouldn’t have described himself as imaginative. And yet to be faced with Leguns! Witches! Immortals! How could an ordinary guy come to terms with this place? There were times when he felt such a desperate yearning for his ordinary world, for Earth with its easy logic, its respect for what was demonstrable, measurable, comprehensible …
‘Have you thought about what I suggested – the return of your mother-sister’s memories?’
The Kyra’s reply was pitched low as a growl. ‘I’ll admit that I have considered it. I will speak of it with Bétaald …’
She hesitated, as if uncertain whether to elaborate further. Indeed Ainé had fallen into a silence so deep he wondered if she was any longer aware that he was present. Then he realised she was listening. The Kyra was instantly alert, and the mood of alertness moved, like a contagion, throughout the Shee.
Alan climbed to his feet, probing their surroundings as he did so. The warming air appeared stiller than ever, without even the rustle of the wind.
‘The Garg returns!’
Even following the direction of her gaze it was several seconds before he saw the swooping figure appear out of the mists, then Iyezzz alighting, with the flapping of those enormous leathery wings, onto the ground just feet away.
‘How far are we from the Tower?’ the Kyra demanded.
‘A day’s march!’
‘And a night’s rest,’ Qwenqwo had joined them. ‘If rest is possible.’
The Kyra growled: ‘What new perils can we anticipate?’
‘The wolves – we call them “witch’s teeth” – will hold back until you are closer to the Tower. More immediately you will enter a landscape permanently cloaked in mist. I know not what malice to expect there.’ The Garg’s face looked pensive. ‘Though there are stories …’
Alan turned to Qwenqwo. ‘You talked about this – back on the beach, when we had the counsel. You mentioned shadow creatures – a thousand times more dangerous than Gargs?’
‘Hah!’ Qwenqwo laughed. ‘Well might a warrior regret his battle-talk, born of the flagon around the campfire. Now sober, I will admit that they may be nothing more than yarns to frighten children.’
‘Not so, Fir Bolg!’ Iyezzz dropped his eyes, speaking softly, his neck gills purring with a high-pitched vibration that Alan interpreted as awe. ‘The Witch took pleasure in punishing succubi, according to her whim. One would be selected and forced to endure a night outside the Tower.’ The young Garg’s skin colour paled and his eyes performed a prolonged blink.
The Kyra intervened. ‘It would appear, then, that we need to be wary of new dangers in these mist-shrouded approaches. But what manner of dangers?’
‘You will arrive at the valley of the Tower by nightfall. But thereafter, whatever sleep you might need in anticipation of a dawn attack on the Tower will be at your peril.’
The Kyra stared at the young Garg, the glare now full in those terrible eyes. ‘Up to now, the last defence before the Tower has been the guardian Gargs. Can we anticipate an attack by your people as we sleep?’
‘There will be no threat from the Eyrie People.’
The Kyra’s glare was unrelenting. ‘These perils ahead – their threat in sleep must be graver than bad dreams?’
‘Among my people there are rumours of mist wraiths – creatures of the night that feed on the soul spirits of the living as vultures feed on the dead. Rumour or fact, I know not. But if the rumours are true, any attempt at sleep in such close proximity to the Tower of Bones may be more dangerous than what you have encountered in the swamps or the forest of the thorn trees.’
The Kyra remained pensive. ‘I must know more. The Great Witch herself – what of her designs?’
The young Garg’s eyes met those of the Kyra without flinching. ‘Olc has sacrificed all to resurrecting the soul spirit of the titan, Fangorath.’
‘What does this resurrection mean?’
The Garg opened wide his wings in what might be the equivalent of an expression of uncertainty or even awe. ‘Stay clear of the Tower itself. Such is the conflagration that consumes it, the very bones are splintering, as if about to explode.’
More and more of the company were gathering about Iyezzz, while a breeze blew rain-matted ash into their faces and clothes. People were staring up at the Garg with eyes agog but the Kyra remained practical.
‘I must press you. In your judgement, has the Witch succeeded in reawakening the soul spirit of the titan?’
‘I know not – how would one judge such a thing? If I were to hazard a guess I would imagine that while the Tower yet stands, she has not succeeded. But that moment surely approaches.’
Ainé stood stiffly erect, her oraculum pulsating strongly, and confronted both Alan and Kate. ‘Are you still set on this?’
They nodded – Alan first and then Kate.
‘Then there is no time to be lost in further discussion. We must make what progress we can by daylight.’ The Kyra signalled the Shee to make haste to break camp. What nourishment they needed would have to be taken on the move. They would keep to a steady pace, with no possibility of rest before nightfall. The surviving Shee formed a trapezoid about Alan and Kate, and without further preamble all headed out into the thickening mists under the bloodied sky.
What was the matter with him? Iyezzz had warned them not to fall sleep so close to the Tower and yet Alan found himself, for the second night running, being woken from a nightmare by a hand shaking his shoulder. This time it wasn’t the Kyra but the older Shee, Xeenra, who was rousing him. Attempting to blink the heavy sleep from his eyes he found that his mind was unusually clouded, as if the torpor of sleep was one with the dense mist into which he had awakened. Seduction, he thought – the idea trying to break through into his consciousness. Seduction – such as the Witch employed through her succubi! He struggled to his feet, alarmed to find that even the Shee guardians were sluggish with that same torpor. Many appeared to have fallen asleep, with only a scattering of alert warriors protectin
g the fireless encampment. Xeenra, with a finger to her lips, was urging him to silence.
What now?
The Kyra! She mouthed the words without speaking them, sweeping an arm wide, as if to indicate that the Kyra was somewhere out there, in the mists.
‘Where is she?’
Between thumb and forefinger, she waggled the lobe of her left ear.
Silence!
Alan was still, feeling the chill of the condensing mist on his skin. His own breathing sounded loud in his ears.
Xeenra raised a finger. Something comes!
Damn it – I let this happen! I couldn’t resist the drowsiness. Iyezzz was right in his warning. There’s something in the mist – something that must be attacking us in some subtle kind of way.
Alan peered around the camp but saw nothing. There was no intimation of movement. Sniffing at the still air, there wasn’t even a scent. Yet through the oraculum he sensed something terribly wrong, an ominous presence all around them.
He grabbed the spear of Lug. Suddenly he had an idea his stupefied mind had been slow to think of. He turned the oraculum to the mind of the Shee. It shocked him – terrified him – to discover the fear that proliferated there.
In Xeenra’s mind he found himself sharing a memory. Like many of her sister-warriors Xeenra had been unable to stay awake. She had drowsed fitfully in this blighted land and, in brief snatches of sleep, had witnessed dreams she now saw as omens. Her mother-sister, also called Xeenra, had witnessed similar omens immediately prior to her death. In Xeenra’s dreams a darkness had fallen on her from the sky, entered her being and stolen her soul-memories. It was the worst fate that could possibly befall a Shee, for the soul-memories were the most precious inheritance the mother-sister bequeathed to her daughter-sister. A Shee devoid of her soul-memories was bereft of meaning, no more than a husk. Neavrhashvahar, the sacred union with life, was ended.
My God!
Alan wheeled about, the spear of Lug erupting into flame, searching in all directions. A fury of power danced in the runes running over the edges of its spiral blade. But still nothing was visible, there was no sound, no scent, but the ominous presence was closer now. He kept an eye on Xeenra, stayed connected with her mind as, ever watchful, she unsheathed her sword and brought its greenglowing blade to her brow. He heard the plea for absolution she sent to the Kyra of Kyras, the late High Architect and Shee, Ussha De Danaan.
I, Xeenra, of the matrilineal line of Desuccorr, embrace my death. Let me be one with the communion of mother-sisters. Let my daughter-sister be the future and hope of the unbroken circle.
Alan’s eyes followed those of the Shee as they swivelled up to the darker patch within the mist overhead. He saw the first rancid drop of the spittle as it fell, a pearly grey gobbet that struck Xeenra’s brow even as her sword sprang up to pierce the spectral tentacles that were descending over her amid a deluge of slimy malice. Alan thrust the spear into the vile thing that hovered in the air above the Shee. But as he did so Xeenra shoved him forcefully away from the trap even as she screamed with pain, while the spittle, like the most powerful acid, bored through the skin of her brow and invaded the bone. In seconds it had reached her brain, where it fed on her mind, gorging on the memories it found there, stealing her hopes and dreams in the moments before death.
Ainé arrived in time to see the horror of what enveloped and consumed the body of the dead warrior.
A vaporous thing, jelly-like and phosphorescent with putridity, enveloped the Shee like a shroud. Then it slid off the white-glowing bones, like an insect shedding its skin. There was a shape of sorts, vaguely humanoid, with sheening pinpoints of light where the eyes should be. Keeping Alan behind her, the Kyra ran her sword through the vileness, but it had no effect. She might as well be running the blade through water. A sound rose from the thing, a wrenching sigh, as if sated. Even when the Kyra tried again, touching the blade against her oraculum until it shone with green fire, the blade simply went through the ghost-like wraith, which ascended like smoke into the misty shadows overhead.
Ainé stared after it, horrified.
Alan rushed among the sleepers, waking them, warning them to wake all the others. Everybody seemed unusually bleary, unnaturally disorientated, as if their minds were as fogged as his had been.
‘What is it?’ a drowsy Qwenqwo demanded. ‘Are we under attack?’
‘Yes – but by what, I don’t know.’ Alan could only do his best to describe the horror of what he had seen. Even as he spoke there was another heart-wrenching scream, quickly followed by several others: more Shee, or Aides, dead. Alan’s oraculum burst into brilliant red flame.
But the dwarf mage held his arm, restraining him from running in the direction of the scream. ‘Shadow spawn!’ he hissed.
As more and more screams erupted in the mists, Qwenqwo’s roar sounded out throughout the camp. ‘These beings are stealers of souls. Hear me – if you would survive this terrible place! There is nothing to gain through concealment. Our enemy knows where we are. Make noises. Light fires – and a firebrand to every hand. These ghouls are said to prosper in the dark of night, and in the silence. Above all they fear the flame.’
In the time it took to get several fires blazing, and sufficient torches to fill every waking hand, many more died. And so it was, clustering together for protection about the fires, and in the light of the firebrands, they saw a terrifying sight, with shadow spawn appearing out of the dark in hundreds, perhaps thousands – their sickly forms floating through the mists, as if weightless. The more they searched in all directions, the more numerous the shadow spawn appeared to be. Yet at the slightest touch of a firebrand, the seemingly indestructible creatures, whose diaphanous bodies had felt no sting from sword or spear, were consumed to smoke. Moaning horribly, as if they couldn’t bear to deny themselves this feast of life, they still descended to attack again and again, often in dozens at once, in spite of the fact that the flames consumed them. Only with the first light of dawn did the exhausted company see them retreat into the mists, their wretched eyes sheening like balefire.
‘Qwenqwo – you saved us!’
‘We were fortunate, those of us who survived the horror,’ Qwenqwo said, as the sky lightened over the guttering bonfires, ‘that we had such a ready supply of dry tinder from the ruins of the thorn trees.’
‘But why,’ asked Kate, ‘would the Witch attempt to kill us before ever we get to the Tower when she wants to draw Alan into her trap?’
‘Maybe she doesn’t intend to kill me – or you, Kate.’ Alan’s head had fallen, but now he lifted it to look at her, dawn’s glimmer reflecting in his eyes.
‘The Mage Lord is right,’ Qwenqwo nodded. ‘The power of your oracula might very well have saved you from thorn trees and shadow spawn. But not us – your protectors and guardians.’
Qwenqwo paused, lifting his head to listen to the sound that cut through the early morning air. Now that they were so much closer to the Tower, they heard the first howling of its guardian wolves. It was an unpleasant welcome for the new day for a company with no option but to trudge on northwards, under an increasingly livid sky, its blood-red light penetrating the mists with thunderous detonations of awakening power.
They moved on cautiously, on the lookout for any new traps that might await them. In the daylight it was sobering to witness how reduced was their company; no more than half the original Shee now guarded them. And despite their fabled reserves of strength, the Shee were obviously exhausted, physically and mentally. The Kyra, reassured that the sun was now well above the horizon, called for a brief rest, during which the surviving Aides allowed a single sip of healwell to aid the flagging spirits of the warriors. Although the Kyra denied herself.
Alan rested in the company of Kate, Turkeya, Qwenqwo and Mo, the exhausted friends flopping down in the arid dirt, their backs resting against the trunk of a long-dead tree that had grown within the fossilised ribs of some monstrous beast. Too tired to make conversation, Alan held Kate�
��s hand, each only too aware of the fears and uncertainties that must be rising in the heart of the other and wondering where they would find the courage to face what they must face very soon.
The landscape here was reduced to lifeless dirt and rock, its surface pitted with irregular craters – traps filled with stagnant water to drown the unfortunates who might take a wrong step. The wolf howls sounded closer now, and Iyezzz frequently sniffed at the air, his head twisting in an arc, as if searching for any new manifestation of the enemy.
‘Can you see it, from here?’ Kate’s voice was a husky whisper addressing the tall, winged figure, who alone stood erect with his wings folded across his back, their tips extending from high above his head to his scaly feet.
‘Indeed. The Tower of Bones is all too visible from the air, even as a shadow upthrust against the sky.’
‘Then, she – the Witch – can also see us.’
It was a statement, and not a question. The Garg acknowledged this, retracting his eyelids in a respectful silence.
There was no point holding it off any longer. Alan hauled himself back onto his feet. He wondered if the circle of destruction provoked by his own power had reached even as far as here. Cinders and ash blew against his face, stinging his eyes, causing him to hold the sleeve of his coat against his face.
‘Okay! It’s not much of a plan. But I guess that from now on we save every ounce of strength for what’s to come.’
A new smell, the acrid stench of sulphur, penetrated through the sleeve; he thought he could taste it on his tongue. He didn’t think it came from the thorn trees. It had to come from the Tower. Turning the oraculum inwards, he felt the First Power invade his being. He allowed it to grow to the point of pain, coursing through the tired muscles and sinews, feeling its charge invade his heart, until he could feel the pulsations of its chambers swell the arteries in his throat.
The Tower of Bones Page 36