‘Why, this sounds like a riddle! What am I? I do like riddle games. Perhaps if I guess correctly, you could reward me in the age-old fashion? In this case, by bringing me down to earth.’
‘Random or purposeful, that is usually the question that follows me,’ the Hortha continued. ‘There is a pattern. There is always a pattern. You can beg and plead, make a bargain with your gods, you can try to bribe and cajole me, or run faster, or hide, or wish, but the pattern can never be changed. And I am bound into the very fabric of it, into the weft and the weave. I have all faces and I have two faces, and in the end I have only one. I am both a being and a symbol.’
‘Good! Good! I like this. I think I am almost there! Give me another clue.’
‘Tell me what you learned from the Brother and Sister of Dragons.’
‘I learned that they are vicious beasts, and that everything they say about their own nature is a lie!’
The Hortha began to lower Callow’s head back into the water.
‘Wait! Wait! You want information! I understand. A valuable nugget, something that will help you to find them, perhaps? Or . . . Ah, I have it! Something that will give you power over them. Knowledge is power! Yes, indeed.’
‘Continue.’
‘They carry a lantern that is not a lantern. Within it is one of their own kind, a genie in the lamp, one who has two faces like yourself - a man and a blue flame! And he is the key to everything they do. Not just their guide, but also a manifestation of that sickening Pendragon Spirit,’ Callow gabbled. ‘Is that the kind of thing you want?’
‘Yes. It is.’
‘Then bring me down, my good man!’
Once again, the Hortha began to lower Callow into the water.
‘Wait! My reward!’
‘You have your reward. You have crossed my path and still you survive. Others, in a similar situation, would not have survived. On this occasion, the great forces of all there is have shifted around you and moved on.’
‘No!’ Callow shouted.
‘You still do not understand your good fortune. That, in itself, is unfortunate.’
Allowing Callow’s head to drop back into the water, the Hortha moved on. The razor-worms returned to their eternal task, and Callow to his screams.
7
Alone in the stifling heat of the room, Church worked at the rope around his wrists fastening him to the chair. Blood slicked the fibres and a deep ache jabbed towards his elbows, but he ignored the pain, focusing instead on Ruth and everything she meant to him.
The Libertarian had grown bored with tormenting him long ago, but that only made Church more anxious, for now his other self might be with Ruth, exacting his promise of torture. Church couldn’t think about that, nor his other doubts: did the Libertarian’s departure mean his future-self knew Church would not escape, or was this another of his memory blank spots? Where was his sword? Was Veitch already saving Ruth, while he was trapped there impotently? Was that a scream he had heard echoing through the wall, or just his imagination? If he allowed himself, he could get lost in the questions and the infinite permutations.
Focus on the now, he told himself. He used the pain in his wrists to clear his head.
The lamps and candles fizzed as they attempted to keep the dark at bay. Sweat coated his body. But still the rope would not give.
8
‘Shouldn’t we have a rope or something, or chalk so we can scribble some arrows, or some other shit like they have in all those old stories?’ Veitch asked uneasily as they picked their way through the twists and turns of the dusty tunnels beneath the queen’s palace. Bearskin and Shadow John had found two torches to light their way, but they revealed no distinguishing features on the stone walls.
‘My nose will lead us back out,’ Bearskin said, before adding with a hesitance that masked a touch of distaste, ‘Fragile Creatures have a distinct aroma.’
‘You can smell the woman?’ Shavi asked.
‘Not yet. But when our paths cross . . .’
Shavi’s hand jerked to his alien eye.
‘Seeing things?’ Veitch asked.
‘Just flashes . . . flickers on the edge of my vision. It happens like that sometimes. I cannot tell what they are until they come into focus.’
Bearskin held up a hand to bring them to a halt. ‘I smell . . . something. ’ He listened intently. ‘The beast still roams this place, but not near, not yet.’
As if in response to his words, a low, mournful growl echoed along the tunnels from deep within the Labyrinth, but Veitch understood that the odd acoustics of the place could mean it was much closer than it sounded. He drew his sword in readiness. ‘How do we know it hasn’t already eaten the girl?’ he asked.
‘We do not,’ Bearskin replied.
Stooping to avoid scraping his top hat along the tunnel roof, Shadow John peered nervously into the dark. ‘’Pon my soul, this place is dismal. Can you smell the rotting bodies of the recently departed, Bearskin? How far am I from the parlours I usually inhabit. How very disturbing this all is. At least we have two Brothers of Dragons to save us.’
Veitch and Shavi exchanged a don’t count on it look.
For the next hour they stumbled around the maze of branching tunnels and dead ends, clambering over piles of rubble or wading through ankle-deep pools of water. Occasionally blasts of warm air threatened to extinguish their torches and Bearskin and Shadow John fought to shield them with their bodies. The origins of the air currents were unknown, but suggested some shift in the Labyrinth’s structure, or the opening and closing of doors to the outside.
At every junction, Bearskin’s nostrils flared as he searched for telltale scents, and at one he let out a low growl. ‘More of those skull-headed warriors have entered the Labyrinth,’ he said, one hand unconsciously going to his blunderbuss.
Their journey was repeatedly punctuated by the low, mournful sound of the beast that lived there, sometimes so distant it was barely audible, sometimes unnervingly close at hand making Shadow John jump and shiver, his long fingers folding into claws.
Finally the endless blur of grey tunnels gave way to a hexagonal area about twenty-five feet across. In the centre of the space was a pile of yellowing human bones arranged in a circular pattern with a hollow at the centre.
Bearskin plucked a thighbone from the heap and gave it a cursory examination before tossing it over his shoulder. ‘A nest,’ he said.
Shavi spun swiftly. ‘Something is here.’ He came to a halt before one of the six tunnels that led away from the nest. ‘Gone now.’
The mournful growl of the beast issued from another tunnel, so close it raised the hairs on Veitch’s neck.
‘Hurry, now!’ Bearskin insisted. At a rapid pace, he led the way into the opposite tunnel, before a crash of bones and the sound of pursuit echoed behind them. Though the echoes were disorienting, Veitch was sure the beast moved on four feet, but it occasionally issued a rasping laugh that was eerily human. It was fast, drawing closer.
‘We’re going to have to stand and fight,’ Veitch gasped.
‘Not advisable,’ Bearskin shouted back. The flames of his torch trailed behind him as he loped, and to Veitch he now looked more animal than man.
Somehow they avoided dead ends as they ducked this way and that down the many tunnel options presented to them, but the beast at their back never slowed. The rasping laugh came faster, accompanied now by the gnashing of teeth.
‘Get set now,’ Bearskin roared furiously, ‘and run as fast as you can!’
As they raced past the point where another tunnel crossed their path, Veitch glimpsed the pale forms of the Aztec warriors approaching from their left. A moment later the tunnel reverberated with a terrible rending and tearing accompanied by the beast’s human laughter as it attacked the warriors.
By the time Bearskin brought them to a halt, the beast no longer followed. Resting his hands on his knees, Veitch filled his searing lungs, but Bearskin was already pacing around, sniffing the air.
‘We are nearly there. Yes, I think we are!’ he exclaimed. He set off again, and after a few more minutes they proceeded down a short stretch of tunnel that ended in roof-fall. Crouched at the foot of the rubble, hugging her knees and whimpering, was Rachel. Her tear-stained face was streaked with dust and her clothes were dirty. She cried out as Bearskin approached her.
‘Let me,’ Veitch said.
Her blinking eyes recognised on some level that they were the same species, but the fear held her in thrall for several moments.
‘You,’ she said weakly. ‘I saw you . . . when I first arrived in this . . . in this . . .’ She gulped a mouthful of air. ‘Awful place.’ Breaking into wracking sobs, she collapsed into Veitch’s arms.
He held her tightly until her crying subsided. ‘Yeah, this place can be a nightmare until you realise how it works. But we’ll soon get you back on your feet.’
‘Home,’ she said. ‘Take me home. Please.’
‘First thing, we need to get you out of these tunnels. Can you walk?’
Nodding, she appeared to see the Labyrinth for the first time. ‘I don’t know how I got here. It’s all a blur since I last saw you.’
Helping her to her feet, he briefly introduced her to the others, though she shied away from Bearskin and Shadow John and refused even to look at them.
‘Understandable,’ Bearskin said. ‘Fragile Creatures find it difficult to adjust to the wonders of the Far Lands, if they ever do.’
‘I do not understand how she got here,’ Shavi whispered to Veitch once they were back in the tunnels. ‘Only those with the Pendragon Spirit can cross to the Otherworld without paying a price, and she cannot be a Sister of Dragons.’
‘That’s something we can work out later, if we actually get out of this hole,’ Veitch said.
Whimpering intermittently, Rachel stumbled along close to Veitch, occasionally reaching out to touch his arm for comfort. He was moved by how quickly she had placed her faith in him.
Following Bearskin’s nose, they cautiously retraced their steps, senses attuned for the approach of the Labyrinth’s guardian. At the junction of the two tunnels, the half-eaten remains of the Aztec warriors were scattered. Once the nest was far behind them, their spirits eased a little, but the beast’s occasional echoing growls still troubled them and sent Rachel into paroxysms of sobs.
It felt as if they had walked miles when Bearskin announced, ‘We near the exit. This is the most dangerous time of all.’
The words had barely left his lips when he pitched forwards to the ground, unconscious.
Shadow John let out a cry of alarm. ‘Something rushed by me!’ He whirled round and round, but his torch revealed nothing.
Veitch prised Rachel’s fingers from his wrist and drew his sword. A moment passed as they all waited tensely, and then the staccato laughter rolled out of the dark only feet ahead of them. Shadow John held Rachel tightly against him to prevent her from fleeing back along the tunnels.
‘Right, you bastard,’ Veitch growled, raising his sword above his shoulder, ‘let’s see what you’ve got.’
Veitch only glimpsed a flash of the beast as it erupted from the dark into the tiny, flickering circle of torchlight: a human face, distorted across a broad head, slanting silver eyes, and then the long, lean body of a jungle cat ending in a thrashing, sinuous tail tipped with sharp quills. As it bore down on him, the mouth wrenched open to reveal three rows of snapping teeth.
‘The Manticore!’ Shadow John cried.
A weight crashed into Veitch’s midriff as he prepared to swing his sword, slamming him into the wall and then down onto the flags, winded. It was not the Manticore, for the beast passed over him a second later, turning fluidly mid-leap to rake him with its enormous claws. Instinctively, Veitch rolled out of the way as the creature crashed to the flags, so close he could feel its hot, meaty breath on his cheek.
Disoriented, Veitch heard Shavi shouting, but his words were drowned out by the sound of Rachel’s screaming. Scrambling to his feet, he had a split second to search for whatever had knocked him down before the Manticore leaped again. His legs went out from under him before he could even raise his sword. Through his shock, he just heard the last of Shavi shouting, ‘. . . something else here!’ and then the Manticore pinned him down. The distorted human face pressed close, made worse for the lack of any intelligence in the wild eyes. Deep in its throat, the laughter rumbled and then it tore its jaws wide.
Veitch’s vision was filled by the rows of teeth. Suddenly the Manticore convulsed and turned on Shadow John, whose fingers were hooked into cruel claws. The Manticore’s side had been raked open.
Stepping in front of Shadow John, Veitch said, ‘Thanks for the help, mate, but stay back. Protect the girl.’
‘I see it!’ Shavi called.
Veitch only had a brief impression of Shavi wrestling on the floor with something he couldn’t see before he was surrounded by the Manticore’s snapping jaws and rending claws. Rolling to one side, he let the sword dance instinctively, the flames painting a sizzling blue mandala in the dark.
The Manticore’s laughter turned to shrieks, and it fell to the floor in a frenzy. Veitch hacked until it was dead.
Shavi continued to roll around the floor, welts and scratches mysteriously appearing across his face and hands. Shaking the daze from his head, Bearskin lifted Shavi with one hand and with the other wrenched out whatever invisible thing was clutched in Shavi’s grasp. One snap of his wrist brought the struggle to an end. In his hand materialised a lifeless thing that resembled a small ape.
‘The queen of the Court of Endless Horizons needs a lesson in fairness, ’ Bearskin growled. ‘Two beasts instead of the one she told her contestants they faced. And invisible to boot.’
Attempting to staunch his wounds, Shavi said, ‘So, this eye does have its uses.’
Veitch clapped an arm around his friend’s shoulders. ‘Good bit of teamwork there, pal.’
‘Just like the old days.’
Rachel’s cries ebbed away, and she looked on Veitch with the wonder only reserved for a true saviour. As he helped her to her feet, she asked with breathless respect, ‘Who are you?’
‘South London’s finest, darlin’,’ he replied.
Within fifteen minutes they were out of the Labyrinth. The city was still gripped by the darkness and the intermittent screams had not diminished, but now there was a new element: a slow drum-beat rolling out across the rooftops. It felt like a call to ceremony, but there was something in the quality of it that left them all inexplicably chilled.
9
After long moments of circling with not a hint of prey, the bird swooped down from the grey sky to land on a slab of granite jutting from the white slopes. The bitter wind ruffled the bird’s feathers and whipped up a whirlwind of recently fallen snowflakes that was the only sign of movement on the lonely wastes.
From the niche in the rocks where he had waited with inordinate patience for the better part of half an hour, Miller made a desperate lunge. His fingers almost closed on the bird before it took frenzied flight amidst the high-pitched koo-koo-koo call that Miller had come to know so well during the last few weeks.
It had been there! His fingertips had brushed the grey feathers! And now it was gone.
He collapsed onto the granite slab, sobbing silently, his frozen fingers blue, his eyebrows and hair encrusted with snow. Miller allowed himself one moment to wallow in the despair of his failure, and then he picked himself up, brushed the snow from his trousers and trudged back up the hard-packed track to the cave. It lay on the leeward side of the mountain, protected from the worst knives of the wind, the interior contracting into a tight tunnel before opening out into a larger rock womb. The refuge served the dual purpose of containing the warmth from the small fire he kept alight with kindling from the leafless trees that scattered the lower slopes, and providing protection from the Fomorii that relentlessly prowled the entire mountain range, their oily black forms always vi
sible against the white background.
‘Sorry, guys, we’ll have to delay dinner,’ he said breezily, warming his hands near the embers.
There was no response; Miller had only heard his own voice since the terrible plunge from the shattered bridge leading to the Groghaan Gate. Hunter, Jack and Virginia lay around the edge of the cave, their broken bones and burst organs now healed by the ministrations of Miller’s hands, but still only a whisper away from death. The rise and fall of their chests was barely visible. Their eyes didn’t move. Their skin felt as cold as the rock.
Once the life had returned to his fingers, he moved from one to the other, checking their vitals and, where necessary, placing a hand on their heart to let some of the thin blue glow leak out of him and into them. The healing energy was diminishing as his own strength flagged. A lack of food, the ever-present chill and the constant need to offer up the regenerative force was taking its toll. How long could he keep it up? Death tugged at Hunter, Jack and Virginia and he fought daily to keep them on the right side of life, but he only had enough energy to keep all their hearts beating, not enough to give them vitality; unless he let one of them die. Only then would he have the reserves to save the remaining two. But how could he choose? Who should he choose? If he didn’t make a decision soon, his abilities would be depleted and they would all die.
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