Faerie Lord fw-4

by Herbie Brennan

  ‘The best thing,’ said Lorquin soberly, sounding more grown-up than he looked, ‘would be for you to get more sleep. Sleep through the night, if you can; just lie still and rest if you can’t. You have to gather up your strength – you’ll need it.’

  ‘Why?’ Henry asked.

  ‘I have to amputate your leg tomorrow,’ Lorquin said.

  Forty

  Henry came to again feeling worried, without being able to remember exactly why. It was morning now. The fire was a small pile of glowing embers and the air had a dawn chill, but the sun was already dominating a cloudless sky with the promise of another brutal day to come.

  He was still lying underneath his boulder and somebody had covered him with a very light, leathery membrane, like the wing of a giant bat. Lorquin. It was the boy Lorquin who’d saved him. He struggled to sit up.

  Lorquin was squatting just a few yards away from him, watching him intently with large, round eyes. Henry blinked. The boy wasn’t black at all, but blue skin, hair, eyes – just like the creature Henry had seen in his dream. Except it wasn’t a dream and it wasn’t a creature. That must have been Lorquin too. He wasn’t quite naked either: he carried a small pouch on one hip, tied round his waist with a leather thong.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Lorquin asked, ‘I didn’t think you would survive the night.’

  Henry placed his back against the boulder, ‘I’m fine,’ he said automatically, then caught himself and added, ‘I’m okay. Bit shaky, weak. But I’m okay, I think. Who brought me here?’

  ‘I did,’ Lorquin said.

  In daylight, the boy seemed smaller and skinnier than ever. ‘How?’ Henry asked.

  ‘Carried you,’ said Lorquin. He had a wary look about him. His eyes kept flicking away from Henry to check his environment.

  Okaaay, Henry thought. Maybe the kid was boasting, maybe he was stronger than he looked. Didn’t really matter. At least Henry was here – wherever here was – and not dead.

  ‘How is your leg?’ Lorquin asked.

  The memory flooded back at once. I have to amputate your leg tomorrow. Or had he just dreamed that? Cautiously he said, ‘It’s sore.’

  ‘And numb?’

  ‘Yes. Numb,’ Henry confirmed.

  ‘Vaettir got you?’ When Henry didn’t answer straightaway, Lorquin added, ‘Looked like a vaettir bite.’

  ‘Don’t know,’ Henry said. ‘Got it from a thing in a tomb.’

  ‘Pale and thin and fast? Nasty teeth?’

  ‘That’s it.’

  Lorquin nodded. ‘Vaettir all right. They’re not exactly poisonous, but when they bite you, the wound mostly won’t heal. It gets infected and stays infected and ‘ventually kills you. Better have another look. Take your trousers down.’

  Henry hesitated, then realised modesty hardly came into it when you were dealing with a boy who ran around naked. He unfastened his belt as Lorquin rose to his feet and trotted over with a curiously loping gait. As Henry carefully pushed the trousers downwards, he realised he might be in bigger trouble than he thought. The leg looked horrible. The swelling had extended well above the knee and into his thigh. The whole thing was hideously discoloured.

  Lorquin bent over it and sniffed. ‘Wound smells bad,’ he said conversationally. ‘Think I was right.’

  After a moment Henry said, ‘About what?’ He had a nasty feeling he knew the answer.

  Lorquin straightened up. ‘Bad enough if it stays in the leg. If the infection travels into the rest of you, it shuts down your innards. When it shuts down your heart, that kills you. Of course by then you don’t really care.’ He looked at Henry. ‘If it spreads. Only sure cure is to take the leg off.’

  ‘I’m not having my leg off,’ Henry said.

  ‘You don’t have to do it yourself,’ Lorquin said, ‘I can do it for you – I have a very sharp knife. I have a saw thing for the bone.’

  ‘I’m not having my leg off!’ Henry said again.

  ‘I work really fast.’

  ‘What age are you?’ Henry asked.

  Lorquin blinked at him. ‘Ten. ‘Leven. I dunno. What’s that got to do with anything?’

  Henry wasn’t sure, except that it was hard to take a little kid seriously. And Lorquin was a really weird little kid. Henry wanted to ask him why he was blue, whether that was his natural colour or some sort of dye. Henry wanted to ask him what he was doing out in the desert all on his own without his mum and dad. Henry wanted to ask him if he really had carried Henry, how he knew about vaettirs, why he wasn’t wearing any clothes, how…

  Lorquin was the most self-assured youngster Henry had ever seen – far more confident than Henry had been at age ten or eleven. And the way he stood there, all blue and naked in the sand: he looked like he belonged in the desert. Which he probably did. He must do. Anybody who could wander about naked in the desert without dying had to live here. And if he lived here, he had to know things. Actually it was obvious he did know things. He knew about vaettirs and lighting fires when there was nothing to burn and finding bat stuff to cover people who got cold. Maybe he knew about bite wounds as well.

  Henry’s leg twinged with such sudden violence that he gasped.

  ‘You okay?’ Lorquin asked at once.

  When his heartbeat settled down a bit, Henry said, ‘You say cutting off the leg is the only sure cure. Is there any other cure that isn’t so sure?’

  Lorquin looked thoughtful, ‘I once saw a clever man lance the infection. That works sometimes. Only when the wound isn’t as far gone as yours, though.’

  ‘Let’s try it,’ Henry said.

  Lorquin produced a piece of knapped flint from his pouch. It looked for all the world like a prehistoric arrowhead from a museum exhibit and it took Henry a moment to realise this was his knife. He swallowed. ‘What happens?’

  ‘You cut at the heart of the wound and it lets the badness out. Sometimes you have to squeeze the leg.’

  ‘I’ll do it,’ Henry said quickly. He licked his lips. ‘Heat the knife in the fire.’ Heating the knife would sterilise it.

  Lorquin stared at him as if he’d gone mad. ‘Fire will crack the knife,’ he said.

  It probably would. What the hell, Henry thought, he had so many malevolent bacteria in his leg already, a few more wouldn’t make any difference. ‘Give it here,’ he said, holding out his hand.

  ‘Don’t put my knife in the fire.’

  ‘No, I won’t,’ Henry promised. He took the flint and noticed with a flicker of relief the knapped edge really was razor sharp. ‘How do you know the heart of the wound? Where the teeth marks are?’

  Lorquin shook his head. ‘Look for a place where the swelling has gone green with a black dot in the middle of it.’ He pointed. ‘There – see?’

  The skin around the area was stretched taut and hurt like hell when he pressed it with his finger. ‘This it?’

  ‘Yes. Cut deep.’

  Henry licked his lips again. He took a firm grip on the flint. The kid was probably right. It was like lancing a boil. It hurt a bit at the time; then the pus oozed out and all the pain and swelling were relieved. Well, maybe it hurt a lot at the time. Didn’t matter. It had to be worth it. He stared at the stretched skin and thought about the pain when he’d poked it with his finger. Poked it gently. With a blunt finger. He couldn’t begin to imagine what it would be like to cut it with a stone knife.

  ‘And wide.’

  ‘Pardon?’ Henry said.

  ‘Cut deep and wide. All the badness must come out.’

  ‘You do it,’ Henry said and handed back the knife.

  Lorquin slashed once across the taut skin, passing directly over the black spot in the middle. Then he cut again swiftly at right angles. A splattering of blood and pus stained his blue skin. More blood and a greenish ooze flowed copiously down Henry’s leg. Lorquin dropped the knife, reached across and squeezed the leg firmly with both hands. ‘Ahhhh!’ Henry screamed. The pain was indescribable. For a moment he thought he was going to faint. Then
he thought he was going to die. Then it ebbed.

  Lorquin leaned forward to look. ‘Might not have to lose your leg, after all,’ he said.

  Forty-One

  ‘I thought we were going to Haleklind,’ said Chalkhill.

  Brimstone shook his head. ‘No.’

  ‘New Altran?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘The Feltwell Crescent?’

  ‘Hairstreak has cousins in the Feltwell Crescent.’

  ‘Where then?’ Chalkhill demanded.

  ‘Buthner,’ Brimstone told him shortly.

  Chalkhill blinked. ‘That godsforsaken wilderness? The Faeries’ Graveyard?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘There’s nothing there,’ Chalkhill wailed. ‘The country’s run by savages and half the population are nomads. They eat people in Buthner.’

  ‘That’s an urban myth,’ said Brimstone.

  ‘How can it be an urban myth when there aren’t any towns?’ When Brimstone failed to answer, Chalkhill pressed, ‘Why a haelhole like Buthner?’

  ‘Can you think of anywhere better to hide something?’

  He had a point. Chalkhill stared through the window of the coach, wishing it was an ouklo. Although they were only just approaching the southern border of Altran, the weather outside looked oppressively hot. Heaven only knew what it would be like when they reached Buthner. And why didn’t they have any guards? They were going to need someone to protect them from the savages.

  The coach hit a pothole and jarred Chalkhill’s spine. ‘Why couldn’t we have flown?’ he demanded. ‘An ouklo would have been ten times as fast and a million times more comfortable.’

  ‘Hairstreak may be watching the airports.’

  ‘He doesn’t have the manpower for that any more! The little creep has hardly any money. Except mine now,’ Chalkhill added sourly.

  ‘Oh, you can stop payment on the draft,’ Brimstone said, as if suddenly remembering something unimportant.

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Perfectly. I don’t need the Brotherhood any more. You can stop payment at the border – there’ll be banking facilities.’

  The old cretin was infuriating. Why hadn’t he mentioned this before? It might be too late now, although Chalkhill would bend heaven and earth to make sure no gold was actually transferred. Because he was angry at Brimstone he said, if you’d told me that sooner, I could have used the cash to hire a private flyer. Quite untraceable.’

  ‘It won’t fly,’ Brimstone said. He had a small purse on his lap and was fiddling inside it.

  ‘What won’t fly?’

  Brimstone nodded back towards the trailer that was transporting their captive.

  ‘Of course it will fly!’ Chalkhill exclaimed. ‘It’s a full-grown -’

  ‘Quiet!’ Brimstone hissed urgently. ‘If the coachman finds out what we’re carrying, we’re finished. These carriages have very thin roofs.’

  ‘All right, I won’t mention what it is,’ Chalkhill said. ‘But you know what I mean.’

  ‘Of course I know what you mean,’ Brimstone said crossly. He dropped his voice another notch, ‘It will fly under its own power, but it panics if you try to put it into anything spell-driven. Darkness knows I tried. That’s how it got injured.’

  ‘How ironical,’ Chalkhill said. It was hard to get his head around. But then there were a lot of things about this little escapade that were hard to get his head around. ‘All the same – ’ he began.

  Brimstone waved him to silence. ‘We’re coming up to Customs. This is the tricky bit. So keep your mouth shut and let me do the talking.’

  ‘Gladly,’ Chalkhill said. ‘It’s your head.’ Except it wasn’t. If Customs found out what they had in the trailer, it would be both of them for the chop, however much he pleaded innocence and ignorance.

  The border was marked by a flimsy rustic fence that looked as if it wouldn’t stop a migrating slith, but its spell coatings were guaranteed to halt anything short of a full-scale invasion. The Customs Houses, build in the reign of Scolitandes the Weedy, were on a monumental scale, with vast warehousing to hold confiscated goods. The times were less troubled now, the formalities far more relaxed, but the Customs Officers were watchful and anybody found trying to smuggle contraband usually disappeared for a very long time. If he wasn’t hanged.

  Chalkhill shuddered as Brimstone climbed down from the coach.

  The officer was covered in braid and as self-important as a pigeon. He ignored both Brimstone and the driver while he strutted round the coach and stared up at the covered trailer behind it.

  ‘What’s this then?’ he asked.

  ‘Crated nants for export,’ Brimstone said. He produced documents in triplicate and handed them across. ‘You’ll find the papers are in order.’

  ‘Maybe I will and maybe I won’t,’ the officer told him. He studied the papers carefully.

  ‘Clement weather for the time of year,’ said Brimstone conversationally. Coaches leaving the country passed through the archway up ahead and into a short tunnel. When they emerged, they were on foreign soil.

  The officer ignored him. After a while he glanced up towards the trailer. ‘Those things live?’

  ‘Not much good dead,’ Brimstone said.

  ‘Let’s see then.’

  ‘They’re crated,’ Brimstone said.

  ‘I know they’re crated. Let’s see them.’

  ‘That’ll mean opening the crate,’ Brimstone said. ‘It’s very well sealed.’

  ‘Better get on with it then.’

  Brimstone sighed and nodded to the coach driver, who climbed down and pulled the tarpaulin off his trailer. Chalkhill began to climb out as well, preparatory to making a run for it. ‘Get back in the coach,’ said Brimstone conversationally. Chalkhill recognised the undertone of menace and backed off at once.

  ‘See?’ said Brimstone as the huge crate came into view.

  ‘I see,’ said the official. ‘Now I want to see in.’

  Brimstone nodded again at the driver, who produced a crowbar from his toolkit and began to prise off one side of the wooden crate. After a moment, the siding fell away to reveal the cage inside. The heavy titanium bars were reinforced with fine wire mesh. Beyond it crawled the nants, several hundred thousand of them, their stubby wings beating furiously. Brimstone waited. The Customs Officer bent forward to peer closely through the mesh. As he did so, the nants set up their familiar, grating, high-pitched whine. The man drew back at once.

  ‘Would you like to go inside, Officer?’ Brimstone asked innocently. ‘There’s a double door to keep them from escaping.’

  ‘No, thank you,’ said the officer stiffly. He glanced at the papers again, then nodded to the coachman. ‘Crate them up again. You’re free to go on.’

  ‘Thank you, Officer,’ said Brimstone unctuously.

  The coachman pushed the wooden side back onto the crate and secured it roughly before drawing the tarpaulin over it again. In the darkness, the nants began to settle and their high-pitched whine died down. The Customs Officer stepped aside and waved them onwards with large, sweeping motions of his arm, as if he was suddenly anxious to get rid of them. The coachman climbed back into his seat. Brimstone made to join Chalkhill inside the carriage.

  From somewhere deep inside the covered crate, a voice called, ‘Help!’

  The scene froze for an instant; then the Customs Officer slowly turned his head towards the trailer.

  ‘Just my little joke,’ said Brimstone quickly. ‘I’m a ventriloquist.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said the Customs Officer. ‘Get it opened up again.’

  Forty-Two

  ‘Go!’ screamed Brimstone at the coachman.

  The man whipped the horses at once and the coach sprang forward, hurling Chalkhill backwards to fall heavily on a none-too-well-padded seat. ‘Squeak!’ he gasped.

  ‘Guard!’ shouted the Customs Officer. ‘Halt that coach!’

  Armed men began to pour in a steady stream from the Customs H
ouses. Brimstone leaned out of the coach window and tossed a multi-coloured ball towards them. As it struck the ground, it began to belch a rolling, rainbow smoke.

  ‘Look out!’ called one of the men. ‘It’s a screamer!’

  On cue, the ball emitted a blood-curdling shriek. Chalkhill clapped his hands over his ears. The running guards split into two streams like a river striking a stone. The screamer bounced between them, gathered speed and hurtled towards the open door of the Customs House building. As the smoke rolled over the men, they too began to howl. Several of them broke ranks, dropped their weapons and ran off in sudden panic.

  Brimstone struggled to close the window of the coach as it hurtled towards the archway. Behind him, the jolting motion disturbed the nants again and they set up a discordant wail that echoed the screamer.

  The screamer itself clicked loudly and metamorphosed into a score or more of smaller, multi-coloured spheres, which bounced, scattered and finally flew with unerring aim towards the windows of the Customs House.

  ‘Evacuate!’ someone shouted.

  Each of the smaller spheres was shrieking now, filling the air with a manic howling that scrambled thought and chilled the blood. The horses leaped forward as if stung, then thundered through the archway en route for the tunnel. Brimstone had the window closed now so that the noise outside was muted to a bearable level. All the same, Chalkhill could hear the sound of shattered glass as spheres crashed through windows.

  All went black as the coach plunged into the tunnel. From behind came the clump-clump of regular explosions. Then the coach emerged into the sunlight. Chalkhill dragged himself to his feet and opened the window again. He leaned out and craned to see behind. The massive structures of the Customs Houses were collapsing one after another in a pall of rising dust and smoke. The shriek of the screamer was replaced by a wailing siren. Flames leaped towards the sky as billows of black smoke rolled across the ground. Men were running everywhere, their faces grey with panic.

  The coach picked up speed as it drew away from the scene of destruction.