by Robin Jarvis
“He says he knows nothing of what happened to Mulligan after that, nor what became of the enemy who assailed them. His speech is peculiar and I soon tired of it but I do not trust him. There are ramparts of deceit behind his eyes—he knows more than he says.”
Thomas laughed and shook his head. “Don’t go accusin’ poor Dimlon of conspiracies an’ such,” he told him. “Why, there’s nothing sinister ’bout him. We should know, we’ve travelled with him fer days. Your trouble, Captain, is you’re too busy lookin’ for enemies at every turn—you done forgot what friendly folks are like.”
“He’s right,” Woodget put in. “Dimmy’s as harmless as we are—more so in fact, and Mulligan done trusted him.”
The mongoose stared at the prisoner a moment more, then gestured to the guards to release him and at once Dahrem hugged the others in a show of deliriously happy greeting.
Lifting his paws, Captain Chattan held up Mulligan’s precious fragment and studied it with a morbid fascination as though he was looking on something hideous and thoroughly evil.
“I do not need to tell you that the piece long kept within the Shrine of Virbius had been taken by the pagan curs,” he breathed to Karim, “so now their High Priest possesses seven of these baneful things. If we had departed when I first desired that might not have been.”
Breaking off from greeting Thomas and Woodget, Dahrem turned to look at the device in Chattan’s gauntleted paw and the livid light that pulsed within the gold-encased jade inflamed his black and merciless being.
There it sparkled, the ninth fragment—the missing piece that for so long had confounded the lore masters of his infernal brotherhood. No trace of it could ever be found in any manuscript ransacked from the temples they had despoiled, and far over the globe had the murderous agents ranged to discover word of it.
Now that very fragment glittered before Dahrem’s eyes, yet it was out of his reach. How he longed to put on the poisoned talons that were hidden inside his satchel and cut off those defiling paws which held the hope of his insane, fanatical kind.
If he could only return to the Black Temple, where the glorious statue of Scarophion reared in demonic splendour and dreadful majesty, with this, the long lost answer to all the empty years without their Lord. Then would there be a new High Priest to overthrow he who stood behind the prow of the golden ship and ordered the rising of the tempest. A new tyrant under the command of the Coiled One would emerge and all would wither before his pitiless armies.
Dahrem blinked and dismissed the delicious daydreams; there would be time for such fancies later when the skulls of his enemies lay piled about him. Now he must remember the role he had set himself and, with a shake of the head, became Dimlon again.
“Right,” Thomas was saying, facing the mongoose captain squarely, “time for some answers. I want to know exactly what’s going on and what is that thing of Mulligan’s anyway? All this talk of Dark Despoilers—we done heard that afore, yet we was told it were nowt but a legend from ancient times. Me an’ Woodj got a right to know and we won’t be fobbed off no more.”
Captain Chattan smiled faintly.
“There is much we both wish to learn,” he said, “but first let us sit and eat. Tales are digested better if they accompany more tangible nourishment. Come, we shall prepare a meal and you three shall sit with me.”
Thomas could not argue with that. He suddenly realised how hungry he was and agreed to wait a fraction longer to discover the answers to his nagging questions.
So, upon the shore, five fires were lit, made from the shattered wreckage of the Calliope that had already dried in the baking sun. Around the flickering flames, groups of warriors sat and from their mist enshrouded ship, the Chandi, provisions were fetched and cooked over the scorching heats.
Woodget, Thomas and Dimlon sat in the largest group of nine mongooses, which counted Captain Chattan and Karim amongst its number, and the fieldmouse hummed happily to himself as a great iron pot was filled with vegetables, herbs and wonderfully fragrant spices that tingled in his nostrils when he sniffed them.
As Thomas began their story, Chattan and the other warriors listened attentively, the captain halting him on occasion to question him more closely about some point or detail. When Thomas touched upon Simoon—the prophet, a curious expression flitted across the mongoose’s face but he made no comment and let the mouse continue. Thus the entire journey, from the skirmish upon the quayside, right to the destruction of the Calliope, was related and at the end of the tale Karim let out a low whistle of admiration.
“Then an agent of the Scale was indeed aboard your ship,” Chattan murmured. “It is clear to me that Mulligan was aware of this. No doubt he intended all along to entrust the fragment to you should anything befall him.”
“Now it’s your turn,” Thomas prompted. “Just what is going on?”
The captain stiffened and his face became grave. “A desperate road have you travelled,” he began, “and some horrors have you witnessed along the way. Yet they were but glimpses—the merest snatching glance at the great turmoil which confronts the present world. A corner of the fearful curtain which cloaks that evil from prying eyes have you twitched upon your voyage, but no one I fear is strong enough to behold all the secrets which it conceals.
“Yet know this and be glad that the sun is shining for the recounting of it—for the dark is no place to hear such nightmares.”
At that he paused, for the meal was ready to eat and Karim served it into bowls which he passed around the group.
Woodget’s pink nose thrilled at the aromatic scent which steamed from the stew, but he was too enthralled by Grattan’s words to attempt any sampling mouthful and he waited for him to resume.
“Whilst generations of your families have slept at peace in your remote, contented land,” the captain murmured, “a stinking blight has crept over the other regions of the earth and if it is not checked, one day it shall reach even your blissfully ignorant shores.”
A loud slurp interrupted him as Dimlon sucked on his spoon and the loathsome creature actually managed to blush before returning to the meal with more dainty manners, but all the while his ears were alert and he revelled in the discomfort the tale of his glorious brotherhood brought upon those who sat beside him.
“In secret has the peril grown down the uncounted ages,” Chattan told them, “spreading like a black, creeping fungus over the face of the land, but now openly does it go to war and our defences are found wanting. Can you but imagine a tenth of the evil that now rises in the East?”
“Are you really telling us that this snake god is still worshipped?” Thomas muttered sceptically. “Even the jerboa said it happened ages ago and I didn’t believe all that stuff he told us anyway. Demon serpents—it’s all rubbish isn’t it? Like the myths about Hobb and the two-headed ratty thing in Deptforth or wherever, back home.”
“Oh I don’t know, Tom,” Woodget broke in, blowing upon his first spoonful of stew to cool it. “Simoon was pretty convincin’—had me believin’, he did.”
The mongoose shook his head. “Doubt is ever a ready weapon of evil,” he declared to Thomas. “Only when it is too late does the cynic realise his folly and thus is he brought to ruination. Know now the truth of Suruth Scarophion. He whom we in Hara name Gorscarrigern—the Coiled One. You have said that Simoon the prophet told you some of the tale. Let my tongue relate it all and you will understand the events in which you have been embroiled.”
Thomas and Woodget put down their bowls and, although he was famished, Dahrem copied them. It was strange hearing the ancient scriptures from the mouth of this filthy snake-biter—but he swallowed his revulsion and assumed the same rapt expression as the others.
“Upon the steps of his most ghastly temple was Gorscarrigern finally assailed,” Chattan uttered. “Then, by the enchantments of the many worthy sorcerers and cunning folk that dwelt in that age of the world, his terrible might was bettered and into the tumbling ruin of his shrine did he flee.
Then were the spells which knitted his repulsive flesh finally broken. His black blood was spilled and, caught in that gushing tide of death, the magicians and seers who had wielded the power of the Green were cruelly slain.”
“Like Mulligan...” Thomas breathed in consternation.
“Just so,” the mongoose starkly affirmed. “For later it was discovered that the few detestable disciples who survived the bloody battles of the time crept back into the unroofed temple when the hosts of the Green had departed, and from the reeking corruption of their slain master’s carcass they gathered up the venom. Undoubtedly, after all these ages they must still have great store, for the self-same poison was used upon the Irish nomad.”
“Then the Scales do exist,” Thomas whispered.
“Assuredly they do,” Chattan said. “Nothing is more certain to we who dwell in the Eastern Lands. For many years now we have known that the heathen creed were multiplying and baptising more newborn unto their evil cult. I fear that somewhere, in some secret, distant region a new temple now stands and the rites of Gorscarrigern continue under the auspices of the cruel priest and priestess.”
Narrowing his eyes until they became dark slivers, he lowered his voice as though enemies surrounded them and muttered, “Yet the worst horror I have still to tell. For now I speak of Mulligan’s burden and you too shall know of the dread that has plagued our thoughts for centuries.”
Woodget shifted uncomfortably. He was not certain that he wanted to know after all, but he couldn’t very well ask the captain to stop now. So, with his mouth dropping open and a chill creeping up his tail, he learned the awful truth about the glittering fragment and his flesh crawled as though a horde of ants was swarming beneath the skin.
“When Gorscarrigern had finally expired,” Chattan told them, “and the terror of his momentous corpse’s ghastly presence had dimmed, the bravest of the Green host which had surrounded the barren, scorched hill upon which the vast, unsanctified temple now stood in ruins, stole forth. Into that terrible place they crept, avoiding the rivers of venom which still flowed from the corrupting flesh of the gargantuan demon, and made search amongst the destruction for any members of the Coiled One’s retinue which might have survived.
“So it was they discovered a hidden stair that wound deep into the earth and countless dungeons and cavernous pits did they find. Then, housed within the bottommost grot was unearthed a hideous, great altar and there the most ancient and jealously-guarded secret of Gorscarrigern was finally revealed.
“Atop that pagan altar which flowed with hot fresh blood and the hearts of those sacrificed, was kept his last and greatest hope.
“Long had he laboured over it, instructing the countless high priests who served him down the years upon its construction, and the skill of thousands was poured into its making. From the bowels of the earth, from the bones of mountains and the flesh of stones was it crafted.
“Nine segments of precious jade, carved and polished by dedicated claws, did he command to be brought before him. Nine priceless pieces in tribute to the nine stars which burned in the heavens during the length of his blaspheming reign and which blaze still when his unquiet, banished spirit draws closest to the living plane.
“In the dark years of his hateful sovereignty, when his power was waxing, he weaved terrible spells about those fragments—instilling his inglorious might into each and every one.
“Then was gold gouged from deep mines and in the furnace of his throat he smelted it and spewed it over the ground for his wrights to work into the shapes of his malevolent desiring. So were the fragments of jade clad in gilded traceries, and when the puzzling pieces were brought together his devoted servants knew what they had built.”
“What was it?” Thomas urged.
Chattan held up the fragment that Mulligan had kept hidden for so long and everyone gazed at it, mesmerised yet repelled by its uncanny beauty.
“See the intricate golden fronds that twist and bud around the edge,” he said, tracing the shape with his finger and grimacing unconsciously. “Profane arts wrought them and the other eight pieces are similarly devised. But it is written that when the nine are brought together, the gold writhes with life and the carven images reach out and join until the final shape of Gorscarrigern’s unhallowed design stands whole again and is sealed with neither crack nor gap.”
Dahrem pretended to look afraid and in a quailing voice asked, “So what is this shape? What does Mulligan’s baublingsparklytrinket become—what is it a part of?”
“It is the hope of his followers,” the captain replied. “For before his flesh was vanquished, the Coiled One vowed to return. But only when the Green host discovered that infernal pit did they realise his threat was founded in truth.
“Upon the gore-dripping altar, guarded by the last of his adepts, they discovered the united fragments—and the joy of their victory was diminished.
“For there, nestling within the scarlet bodies and drenched in their hot, fresh blood was a sight to darken the doughtiest of spirits. At last the grand schemes of the Dark Despoiler were revealed to those outside his priesthood and in that desperate hour the ancestors of all free folk were mortally afraid.
“Fashioned in jade and covered with ornate patterns of furling gold was the object that would cheat them at the last—a great green and golden egg!”
“An egg?” Woodget cried. “How come—what fer?”
“From his withering corpse, the foul spirit of Gorscarrigern had meant to flee and into that glittering shell he no doubt purposed to enter and thus would his fleshly body be reborn into the miserable world—refreshed and seething with new, burning life.
“Yet his striving with the magicians upon the temple steps had weakened him more than he had bargained for, and their mastery had sent his dark soul out into the cold void from whence it originally came. So, when that final cavern was reached, the warriors of the Green host found that the egg was still empty—nurturing naught but stale air and the hopes of his remaining disciples.
“Then was the altar thrown down, but in the ensuing destruction the egg would break only into its nine elements and no hammer nor force of violence could smash them.
“To the upper airs were these invulnerable pieces taken and the decision was made to keep them separate and divided, for then the Coiled One could have no chance of returning.”
Chattan turned Mulligan’s secret treasure over in his paws and frowned deeply. “So it was,” he muttered. “Eight pieces were entrusted into the care of the mighty kings and generals who were gathered there and their armies bore them back to their cities in triumph. Yet little faith was put in the enduring strength of fortress walls, for time levels all strongholds and they knew that the influence of the fragments would speed the decay.
“Thus did they resolve that the ninth and largest piece of the egg should not remain in any lone place forever and into the custody of one faithful to the Green was it given. Such was the unending doom placed upon that loyal house; every nine years it was decreed that the fragment must be conveyed to another place of sanctuary—one year for each unhallowed element. So, throughout the tireless ages, that is what the descendants of that virtuous bloodline have done, voyaging across the globe, visiting each holy shrine in turn—bearing this glittering thing of dread.”
Thomas sucked his teeth and scratched his head, bewildered. “Are you telling us,” he began, “that Mulligan...”
“Mulligan was the last of that honourable ancestry,” Chattan said firmly, “heir to the terrible burden of the ninth fragment.”
Woodget stared down at the ground, immersed in a terrible rush of guilt for ever having doubted the Irish mouse’s motives. How could he have suspected him of stealing? Everything he had done since they had first met now became clear and he reproached himself bitterly.
“But,” Thomas uttered in a wavering voice, “you said that the Scale now have seven of these bits. Are they really trying to find them all?”
“They will
not stop until the egg is reassembled and their demonic master is reborn,” the mongoose told him.
“Is that really possible?”
Chattan fixed him with his eyes. “Oh yes,” he answered in a sombre, sepulchral tone. “For though the unclean spirit of Gorscarrigern has long been exiled and shuttered from the world, there are times, when his constellation shines in the night and we brush close to the realms of the dead, when the way opens for him to return.”
“So where’s the eighth piece?” Thomas breathed.
Chattan glanced at Karim before answering. “In the city of Hara,” he said simply.
Thomas chewed his bottom lip. “Mulligan told us to go there,” he murmured.
“Indeed,” the captain nodded, “and when we set sail you shall accompany us aboard the Chandi. But now I have spoken long and the food is growing cold. Yet before we eat, I must return this foul thing unto its rightful custodian.”
Lifting the golden fragment, Chattan reached across and placed it in Woodget’s cringing paws.
“To you the Irish nomad entrusted this horrible legacy. Guard it well and let no member of the Scale discover your secret. To my city you were bidden to journey, yet what counsel you shall be given there, it is not my part to judge. May the Green watch over you, for in the terrible time to come I fear you will need his blessed protection.”
Woodget stared aghast at the gold-encrusted jade that sparkled in his grasp and with a look of fear upon his stricken face he gazed up at Thomas, whilst at his side, Dahrem Ruhar smiled slyly to himself.
11 - The City of Hara
In a subdued silence the meal was finally eaten, but neither Thomas nor Woodget were in any mood to savour the new and unfamiliar flavours of the eastern spices. They ate merely because they knew they had to; all thoughts of hunger had gone and any enjoyment they might have had was lost.