Since then, the broad road had become a track, the weather had grown hotter and the surroundings had become a little desolate, but nothing to justify Chalkhill’s incessant moaning. The porters were carrying the crate and their supplies. The only thing Chalkhill was carrying was a mechanical click-gun, a primitive device compared with the spell-driven weapons at home, but what could you do? The penalty for smuggling magic was slow dismemberment and he hadn’t been prepared to take the risk.
‘What’s this place called?’ Chalkhill asked belligerently.
‘What place?’
‘The place we’re going – what’s it called?’
‘Koob ban Eretz Evets,’ Brimstone said. ‘Roughly translates as The Mountains of Madness.’
Chalkhill frowned. ‘Madness?’ he asked. ‘Mountains?’
‘Yes.’ Brimstone wished Chalkhill would stop talking. It was hot and he was tired as well (tired, but uncomplaining) and most of all he didn’t want the natives listening in to his business. They pretended they didn’t understand Faerie Standard, but Brimstone knew differently.
‘Then we’re not close,’ Chalkhill snarled, ‘If we were close, we would see them. You can see mountains for miles.’
Brimstone sighed inwardly. ‘Not these ones,’ he said. ‘They’re screened.’
For a moment he thought Chalkhill might be satisfied, but no. ‘Magic screened?’ Chalkhill frowned, ‘I thought you said there was no magic in -?’
‘There isn’t,’ Brimstone said quickly. It didn’t do to talk too much about magic in front of the porters. The natives had a reputation for killing anybody they suspected of sorcery. He’d told Chalkhill that (and made him switch off his stupid spell-sparkle teeth), but the man never listened. ‘It’s an optical illusion. Like a mirage in reverse.’ It was one of the reasons he’d chosen Koob ban Eretz Evets for this little jaunt. The mountains were hael to find without a current map. The mirage effect changed with the seasons, then changed again due to some random factor nobody quite understood. If you mapped them immediately after a change, you had a six-week window before your map became obsolete. The map Brimstone was following had only days left, but by then they would be there. He planned to leave a personalised tracer to help with the return visit and to hael with what the locals thought about magic.
To his irritation, the illusion intrigued Chalkhill. ‘How do you reverse a mirage?’
‘It’s not really a mirage,’ Brimstone said shortly. ‘A mirage is just a reflection of something a long way away: it isn’t real. The Mountains of Madness are real enough, but there’s something in the atmosphere that reflects different territory on top of them.’
Frowning, Chalkhill said, ‘So you think you’re looking at a field or a lake when you’re actually looking at the mountains?’
‘Something like that. More likely desert. Most of Buthner is a wasteland.’
‘Why madness? Why are they called the Mountains of Madness?’
‘How should I know?’ Brimstone snapped. ‘Maybe the illusion drives the locals mad. How would you like to live where mountains keep appearing and disappearing?’
‘When does it stop?’
‘When does what stop?’
‘The illusion. Or do you find out you’ve reached the mountains when you walk into them?’
It was entirely possible, Brimstone thought, that he would murder Chalkhill after all. The man was a haemorrhoid and always had been. He never stopped talking, he never stopped complaining and he was a total liability on a trip like this. His money had admittedly been useful, but once they reached the mountains, Brimstone planned to pay off the porters. Wouldn’t do to have them see where he hid his treasure. He and Chalkhill could haul it into place between them, but once he’d set up the protections, he had no more need of Chalkhill. Or his money, heh-heh-heh. He’d have more money than he could ever spend for the rest of his life. And more power. It would be a pleasure to enjoy it without Chalkhill in his face.
‘What?’ Chalkhill asked.
Brimstone looked at him blankly. ‘What what?’
‘You’re thinking,’ Chalkhill said. ‘That usually means trouble.’
Brimstone smiled at him. ‘No, not at all. Thinking? Perish the thought! I was just pondering how intelligent your questions were. About the hidden mountains. Intelligent. Very. But you won’t have to walk into them. Bump your nose? Good grief no. You’ll see them soon. One minute not there, next minute they’ve appeared. Just like m – ’ He stopped himself in time. ‘Just like a perfectly natural, completely understandable optical illusion caused by the unique layering of the air in this wonderful country. So keep a look-out, Jasper, because-’ He stopped. Chalkhill’s mouth was hanging open and his eyes were bulging in their sockets. Brimstone turned his head.
Behind him, the Mountains of Madness rose up in all their sudden splendour.
Forty-Seven
Brimstone was going to try to kill him, Chalkhill thought. The double bluff was typical. Hairstreak wants Brimstone to kill Chalkhill. Brimstone tells Chalkhill this, as if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth, to show he has no intention of killing Chalkhill. Then Brimstone kills Chalkhill anyway. Probably once they had this damn cage hidden.
Well, two could play at that game. Once they had this damn cage hidden, Chalkhill would move first. With Brimstone out of the way and the location of the cage in Chalkhill’s head, Chalkhill could go home and negotiate any deal he pleased. He could have anything he wanted with this knowledge: more wealth, fame, power, whatever. And more importantly, he could enjoy it all without Brimstone in his face.
It would be easy to kill Brimstone. The old fool wouldn’t be expecting it and Chalkhill was the one with the click-gun. But not quite yet. Although the porters were dismissed, the cage still had to be put in place and that was a two-man job.
‘How much further do we have to push this?’ he asked breathlessly. His legs ached, his arms ached, his shoulders ached and he was positively pouring sweat in a hideously disgusting smelly manner.
‘As far as we need to,’ Brimstone said irritatingly. He was one of those skinny old men who never seemed to sweat at all. Not that it made much difference to his smell. Even now, with the good old days of demon servants a receding memory, he still had the whiff of sulphur about him.
‘Yes, but how far is that, Silas?’ Chalkhill asked. Before they got their marching orders, the porters had lugged the crate high into the foothills. Once they’d gone, Brimstone had discarded the packing and released the nants to lighten things up a bit. With everything stripped away, the cage itself was a lot lighter, but even so, getting it as far as the cave mouth had been a struggle and now they were manhandling it along a warren of tunnels that ran deep into the mountain itself. Brimstone had clearly been here before, for he seemed to know exactly where he was going.
‘Not far,’ Brimstone said in exactly the same tone he’d used when he told Chalkhill the mountains were close. Then, rather surprisingly, he nodded towards the cage and added, ‘Feeds on light.’
Chalkhill stared through the bars. ‘Seriously?’
Brimstone paused to lean against the cage and nod his head. ‘Photosynthesis. Nearest thing to a leaf who’d have thought it. But then you can’t really imagine one taking a dump, can you? Anyway, we have to hide it away so deeply it won’t be found, but it must have a light source otherwise it starves to death. No good to us dead, eh? But I have just the place. Come on, you’ve caught your breath now: a bit more effort and we’re there.’
It took more than a bit more effort, but when they finally did get there, Chalkhill had to admit Brimstone had chosen an amazing location. It was a vast cavern deep in the heart of the mountain, guarded by a complicated maze of tunnels. Crystal formations clung to every wall and hung down in stalactites like chandeliers. But the stroke of natural genius lay high above in the vaulted ceiling. A crevice in the bedrock of the mountain let in a beam of sunshine that shone into the cavern like a searchlight and reflected back from ten thousand
crystal facets.
‘Shouldn’t go hungry,’ Chalkhill remarked.
‘Let’s get it underneath the beam,’ Brimstone said. ‘That way we’ll be sure.’
Together they manhandled the cage across the cavern floor and into the beam. It looked like a display piece or a particularly elaborate stage set. Chalkhill stepped back and reached surreptitiously for his click-gun. Then hesitated. If he killed Brimstone now, he might have problems finding his way out of the mountain. He thought he knew the route through the winding tunnels, but frankly he wasn’t sure. It was difficult enough pushing a heavy cage without trying to remember exactly where you were going. Best to wait until they were out in the open again. Unless Brimstone tried to kill him, of course, in which case he’d use the click-gun and take his chances.
‘There now,’ Brimstone was saying. ‘Isn’t that a pretty sight?’ He stepped back and briskly brushed the dust off his hands. ‘Now we’d better set up the Guardian.’
Chalkhill blinked. ‘Guardian?’ Brimstone hadn’t said anything about a Guardian.
‘Don’t think we can leave a thing like this unguarded, do you?’ Brimstone snapped. ‘We’ll put a Guardian in the outer cavern.’ He frowned suddenly. ‘Or do you think it would be better wandering the tunnels? We want something that keeps people out as well as keeping that -’ he jerked his head in the direction of the cage ’ – in.’
Chalkhill stared at him. ‘Just a minute, Silas – you did say Guardian?’
‘Yes, yes. What do you think I said?’
‘A magical Guardian?’
‘Of course a magical Guard – ’ Brimstone broke off and a slow smile spread across his face. ‘You don’t really think I’d come on a job like this without my spells, do you?’
‘But they dismember you in this country if you bring in spells!’ Chalkhill wailed. It had never occurred to him Brimstone might risk it. But the old scrote obviously had. Which meant that he, Chalkhill, was standing here armed with only a click-gun, while Brimstone could well be stuffed to the gills with magical armaments.
‘Only if they catch you.’ Brimstone grinned. ‘Right, I’m going to need your help again.’ He started to walk back towards the outer cavern.
Chalkhill stood for a moment, open-mouthed, then hurried after him. ‘What sort of Guardian are you going to set up?’ he burbled. ‘You can’t use a demon since they made Blue Queen of Hael. A captive spirit will find a way to break free eventually. I don’t think a thought form is going to hold what we have in here. I can’t imagine-’
Brimstone stopped and looked him soberly in the eye. ‘I was thinking of the Jormungand,’ he said.
‘My gods,’ squeaked Chalkhill, ‘not the Jormungand!’
Forty-Eight
Compared to the crystalline cave with its sunlight beam, the outer cavern was gloomy, but not entirely dark since quite a lot of light shone through. Water filtered through as well, a rare commodity in this parched country, leaving the cavern dripping and dank. In many ways a perfect home for the Jormungand.
Chalkhill was still whingeing, of course. Are you sure about this, Silas? Do you realise how dangerous this is, Silas? Couldn’t you try something less adventurous, Silas? Adventurous! The man wouldn’t recognise an adventure if it bit him in the backside. There was no two ways about it, Chalkhill had long outlived his usefulness. Realistically, his mother should have thrown him away at birth. Except that there was one small use for him now. The raising of the Jormungand required a sentient sacrifice.
Brimstone pasted on his most reassuring smile. ‘It really is a very simple operation, Jasper,’ he said kindly. ‘But if it makes you feel any better, you can be gone before the Jormungand actually gets here.’ Gone. That was a good one. Chalkhill would be gone all right, ‘I just need your help with the initial preparations.’ He jacked his smile up a notch, then jacked it down again at once. Overdo the smiles and Chalkhill was bound to get suspicious. With good reason, of course.
‘What sort of help?’ asked Chalkhill suspiciously.
‘Oh, just setting things up,’ Brimstone told him vaguely. ‘I’il do the actual work.’
Chalkhill licked his lips, ‘I thought the Jormungand came from Hael. I mean, won’t that be the same as using demons now? I mean, won’t Queen Blue’s new position…?’ He swallowed and trailed off, looking at Brimstone imploringly.
It was worth being patient. A little patience would reassure the idiot, make him much more tractable when the time came. ‘Not exactly from Hael, Jasper,’ Brimstone said patiently. ‘Although many highly intelligent people have made that mistake. Actually, the Jormungand comes through Hael, but its natural home is Midgard, another level of reality altogether.’ The nether regions of Midgard, but no sense worrying the poor soul with that little piece of information. ‘So you see, Queen Blue has no jurisdiction in the matter whatsoever.’
‘But won’t her demons interfere?’
‘Why would they? It’s none of their business and the creature passes through their world very quickly.’ It was a half-truth, of course and a slippery one. Since the Jormungand was a water creature and Hael a fire region Blue’s newly liberated demons would experience considerable disruption as the thing passed through. But there was nothing they could do about it except send a diplomatic protest that would end up in Midgard anyway. Meanwhile – Brimstone risked another innocent smile – Chalkhill would be reassured.
Chalkhill wasn’t reassured. ‘Won’t it disrupt the Realm?’
‘The Hael Realm or the Faerie Realm?’ Brimstone asked blandly.
‘The Faerie Realm,’ Chalkhill said. ‘Who cares about the Hael Realm?’ He plucked at Brimstone’s sleeve. ‘Look here, Silas. I really think this is getting much too dangerous, even to protect something like – ’ He nodded towards the entrance of the inner, crystal cavern, ‘I’m sure I read somewhere that the reason nobody calls the Jormungand any more is because it has such a disruptive influence.’
It would be pleasant to kill him now and stop this endless prattle, but that would hardly be a sacrifice. Brimstone made a monumental effort. ‘Only at a local level,’ he said smoothly. ‘Usually just an earthquake or two, rivers drying up, the occasional hurricane
… that sort of thing. In a godsforsaken country like this, who’s going to notice? Or give a toss?’
‘Will we be able to get away? Before the earthquakes and the hurricanes?’
‘Oh, it’s not immediate!’ Brimstone exclaimed. ‘The effect builds up over a period of several days – something to do with the strain on the fabric of reality.’ He smiled thinly. ‘You’ll be a distant memory, Jasper, long before anything unpleasant happens.’
To his relief, Chalkhill seemed reassured, for he said, ‘All right, Silas, what do you want me to do?’
The preparations took three quarters of an hour. When they were finished, the gloomy cavern was furnished with a temporary altar set with unlit spell cones at each corner, a circle of free-standing black-light candles and a series of tortuous glyphs painted freehand on the floor by Brimstone.
‘Is that it?’ Chalkhill asked. ‘Is that all you need to call up the Jormungand?’
‘Actually this calls up Bartzabel, the Jormungand’s keeper. But if you keep him sweet, he’ll lead in the Jormungand. The whole thing’s not as easy as it looks. It needs a lot of concentration.’ And blood, Brimstone thought, but pointless upsetting the sacrifice. ‘Now, I want you to stand over there in the north and don’t move unless I tell you. That’s very important. If you wander about it can disturb the energies with unforeseen consequences.’
‘Yes, all right,’ Chalkhill said and walked to the northern wall of the cavern. ‘Here okay?’
‘Perfect,’ Brimstone said. ‘Now stand still and shut up while I perform the orison.’
Most of it was in a language Chalkhill didn’t understand, but at the climax of the orison, things got a little clearer. ‘Thou House of Idleness wherein I shall set up the Throne of Justice,’ Brimstone intoned. ‘Thou col
d body that I shall fashion into a living flame. Thou dull ox that I shall turn into the Bull of Earth. Bartzabel! Bartzabel! Bartzabel!’
As usual, it was the name that did it. There was a shimmering in the air before the altar as something small and compact began to manifest. Chalkhill leaned forward for a better view. He’d seen several of Brimstone’s demon evocations in the good old days, but this seemed to be something of a different order.
‘I unbind thee from thy chains,’ called Brimstone loudly. ‘Come forth and manifest! Come now, in fair and pleasing form, from thy palace of seraphic stars! Come, be my slave, thou spirit Bartzabel!’
Chalkhill wasn’t sure what he was expecting – something creepy with horns, no doubt – but what he got was a chicken. He stared in utter astonishment as the bird materialised a few feet from the ground, dropped to the floor of the cavern, then strutted towards Brimstone.
‘Cluck!’ said the chicken fiercely.
Forty-Nine
In the old days, Brimstone would have wrung its neck, ‘In fair and pleasing form!’ he snapped, using the formula he learned in demonology school. ‘Preferably your proper shape.’
The chicken transformed at once into a motleyed clown who cartwheeled the remaining distance and whispered, grinning, into Brimstone’s ear, ‘You sure you really want to do this, Silas?’
Brimstone jerked back. ‘You’re not Bartzabel!’ he hissed.
‘Is that Bartzabel?’ asked Chalkhill from his station in the north.
‘I’m not Bartzabel!’ the clown roared delightedly and threw himself into a bewildering series of cartwheels that ended with him sitting on the makeshift altar. He spread his hands in the manner of an entertainer searching for applause and said, ‘Ta-rah!’
‘Don’t move!’ Brimstone called urgently to Chalkhill. He had a horrid suspicion he knew who this buffoon was, and if he was right, it was trouble.
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