by Michael Kerr
“We’d best follow it and see where it leads,” Figwort said.
They walked in darkness for hours, slightly uphill, not knowing if they would ever find a way out, but having no alternative. The only other choice was to give up, which was no choice at all. Even if they had no chance of surviving, they decided that they would keep going, determined to free the other fairies and return the crown to King Ambrose, or perish in the attempt.
Gorf had grown up in the Desert of Storms, and to the east of that arid land he had seen the glow of the Mountains of Fire, and sometimes heard the booming explosions of volcanic eruptions. Dark clouds of smoke always filled that corner of the skies, and at times the winds would blow hot ash to coat the sand with a grey carpet. Now, standing at the foot of the mountains, Gorf readied himself to lead the others through them, though wished that they could find a way to go round. But time dictated that they take the shortest route to Farland, which lay beyond the mighty range.
“You do know that we may all get burned up,” Gorf said to the others. “We do not have the protection of the Chalice of Hope on this trip. No magic will protect us from any danger.”
“It’ll be a piece of cake, Gorf,” Sam said. “If the horgs can cross these mountains, then so can we.”
“I don’t understand what cake has to do with it, Sam,” Gorf said. “But have you thought that there may only be one safe route, and we don’t know it?”
Tommy shrugged. “No one said it was going to be easy.”
“If it had been up to me, we’d have stayed in our own world,” Ben added.
“Nobody forced you to come,” Sam snapped. “If I remember correctly, you followed us through the portal.”
“Yeah. I must be mental. I should have remembered that everything in Weirdworld wants to kill us.”
“If anyone wants to turn back, now’s the time to do it,” Sam said. “But I have to go on.”
“I want to go back,” Pook said. “I preferred being at Charlie’s. But I know that no one else will come with me, so I suppose I’ll have to grin and bear it.”
Tommy chuckled. “That’s funny, Pook.”
“What is?”
“Grin and bear it. Being as how you’re a bear.”
Pook scowled. “Do you see me laughing?”
“Come on. The sooner we find a way over these mountains and get the job done, the sooner we’ll be back,” Gorf said, striding off to where a path led up a slope to higher ground.
It became sizzling hot as they climbed ever upward towards a ravine that Gorf believed they would be able to pass through. It reminded him of Doom Mountain, which was also volcanic, and where they had fled from the stone gargoyles that had tried to crush them in a canyon that had been littered with the bones of other animals and even fairies. He hoped that there were none of the stone demons here, for they would not be airlifted to safety by Fig and Speedy this time.
The deep rift that they found themselves in protected them from the worst of the heat and smoke. It was no more than a long split, but ran north, which was the direction they wanted to go in.
After several miles, the gorge opened out and the naked, roasting rock gave way to a cracked surface that was more the texture of baked clay. Dotting the landscape were giant plants with thick, round waxy leaves that curled out in rambling coils for hundreds of feet, covering the ground like black ropes.
“How can anything grow in this heat?” Sam asked.
“Easy,” Tommy said. “There are plants that live in deserts in our world, just like these. The long leaves collect dew or moisture from the air, and suck it down to their roots.” As Tommy talked, a lizard the size of a Komodo dragon lumbered out from cover close by. It made its way towards them, using its long, purple, forked tongue to ‘taste’ the air and smell them.
Gorf pulled an arrow from his quiver and fitted it to the bowstring. He saw the reptile as a feast on legs, and was partial to lizard meat, cooked or raw.
One of the lizards’s clawed feet stepped on one of the plant’s leaves, and the touch triggered an immediate reaction. The whip like leaves shot towards the animal, to wrap round it and begin to tighten in the way boa constrictors and pythons will constrict their prey in the coils of their bodies, to crush the life from them.
The lizard twisted and struggled and snapped its jaws at the living leaves, but to no avail. Bones snapped within its muscular body, and blood gushed from its slack jaws as it gave one last shudder and became still.
“So much for it collecting moisture from the air, Dumbo,” Ben said to Tommy, scrunching up his face in disgust as pointed ends of the plant’s leaves forced their way through the scaly skin, and one entered the lizard’s mouth, to slip down its throat. “It’s a meat-eating plant, like a Venus flytrap. If you touch it, you’re history.”
Pook felt sick. He could see the outline of the tubular-shaped leaves rippling under the skin of the dead lizard, and could hear loud slurping sounds.
“Let’s keep moving,” Gorf said, not amused at having lost such an appetising meal to a plant. “And watch where you walk.”
As they travelled farther, the ground became yellow and soft, a little like warm plastic that sank under their feet and put Sam in mind of the rubbery skin on custard.
“Stop,” Gorf said, and punctured the spongy surface with an arrow. When he withdrew it, a stinking mud oozed out of the hole.
“That’s totally disgusting,” Sam said. “It smells just like that stink bomb Jimmy Smithers broke in history class on the last day of term.”
The tops of hundreds of rocks protruded through the skin that covered the lake of mud.
“There’s no way around,” Gorf said. “We’ll have to use the rocks as stepping stones.”
They moved slowly across the yellow lake. And as they picked their way carefully, sometimes having to jump wide gaps between the stones, the skin on the surface became thinner, and gas-filled bubbles burst to form a smelly mist, and gobbets of hot liquid mud were thrown up into the air.
“I can see the other side,” Gorf shouted back to the others. “Not far to go now, and we’ll be back on solid ground.”
No sooner had Gorf spoken than catastrophe struck. Tommy lost his footing as he almost did the splits to step from one rock to the next. He stuck his arms out to try and regain his balance, swayed back and forth for a few seconds, and then fell sideways to hit the now wafer-thin skin and break through it, to vanish with a loud plop.
Pook had been sitting on his shoulders with one leg either side of Tommy’s neck, and was thrown up and out. Being much smaller and lighter than Tommy, he bounced on the springy covering and shot up into the air, somersaulting as if he was performing acrobatics on a trampoline. Missing jagged rocks by inches, Pook bounced another three times before finally plunging through the skin and sinking.
Tommy had managed to take a deep breath of air before going under. He closed his eyes and tried to swim up to the surface, unaware that like being in a swamp, he was sinking down further into it.
Something grasped his arm tightly and Tommy emitted a silent scream and was about to breathe in the warm liquid clay as his head broke the surface and he was thrust up and placed on top of a large, flat-topped rock.
“Did you see that?” Sam shouted.
“Yes,” Ben said. “Something alive. It saved Tommy. But where’s Pook?”
As if in answer, the surface of the mud lake erupted and Pook was pushed out and seemed to ski through the gloopy substance to the rocky shore a hundred feet in front of them.
Gorf nimbly bounded back to where Tommy lay, picked him up and took him to where Pook was spluttering, wheezing, and wiping the mud from his eyes with his paws.
“You okay, Pook?” Gorf asked as he sat Tommy down next to him.
“Never better,” Pook replied sarcastically, then shook himself and sprayed Gorf with a shower of yellow mud that flew off his soaking fur. “Did you save me?”
“No,” Gorf said. “You and Tommy would still be in
there if something hadn’t fished you out.”
Tommy was coughing and retching. He had swallowed some of the foul-tasting mud. “I felt something grab hold of me,” he said. “And the next thing I knew I was back up on a rock. Did you see what it was, Gorf?”
“No. It happened too quickly.”
Sam and Ben joined them, relieved to see that Tommy and Pook were conscious, and apparently none the worse for their ducking.
It was Pook who saw them first and warned the others. Behind them, wading up onto the shore were a dozen figures. They were shaped like very stocky humans, with two arms and two legs, but with no necks, making them look as if their heads grew straight out of their broad shoulders. They had large, black eyes, gaping mouths full of long, pointed fangs, but no noses. And they were the same colour as the lake. All of them carried tridents– three-pronged spears. Fixed on one of the figures’ weapon was a giant wriggling eel. They had obviously been fishing.
“What...Who are you?” Sam asked them as they squelched up the shore.
“Mas droovas,” the nearest figure to them said in a gurgly, liquid voice.
As with all languages in Otherworld, the creature’s words were somehow magically transmogrified to become understandable.
‘Mud people’, the dripping, yellow being had said.
“Thank you for saving Pook and me,” Tommy said.
“You’re welcome. My name is Slud. What are you strange beings, and where are you from?”
“We are humans from another world,” Sam said.
“And I am from the Desert of Storms,” Gorf added.
“And I am a bear,” Pook said.
“Why are you risking your lives by venturing into the Mountains of Fire?” Slud asked.
“We are heading to Farland,” Sam said.
“Then I must advise you not to proceed any further, for the horgs kill and devour all who venture across their borders, or put them into the arena to face all manner of wild animals. You would be wise to turn back and go somewhere more hospitable.”
“We can’t, Slud.” Ben said. “The horgs have taken many fairies as prisoners, and have stolen something that must be returned.”
“Then you are on a mission that will no doubt be the death of you. It would be a far quicker and less painful fate to jump into the mud lake and drown.”
“We’ll take our chances with the horgs, Slud,” Gorf said. “Can you tell us how far we still have to go, and the best way to get there?”
Slud handed the trident with the eel attached to it to one of his companions, shuffled over to a vent in the rock from which a jet of steam and hot water spurted, and began to wash the thick, drying mud from his body. Beneath the yellow coating was a grey being with a shiny skin resembling that of a dolphin or seal.
“That’s better,” Slud said. “Now, if you insist on being foolhardy, listen carefully. The stronghold you seek is through a pass up ahead that I shall lead you to. It winds down the other side of the mountain, sheltered from the fire and lava.
“From there you must journey for two moons through a dense jungle that will bring you to the base of the Black Tower, which is a mountain that stands alone and reaches up to the clouds. A trail will lead you up to a plateau on which the horgs’ fortress stands.”
“Thank you, Slud,” Sam said.
“Your thanks is not accepted, human. For I am aiding you to make a one-way journey from which you will not return.”
Taking the still writhing eel to eat on the way, Slud led them through a network of narrow gullies to the mouth of a wide pass that led down like a giant ramp to where, in the distance, they could see the treetops of a jungle.
“Remember this,” Slud said. “The only good horg is a dead horg. They are born of evil, and are followers of the Dark One’s son, Ganzo.”
They said farewell to Slud, and he returned to the lake of mud.
“I wonder what weird and not so wonderful things live in that jungle,” Tommy said as they started off towards it.
“We’ll soon find out,” Sam replied. “It can’t be any worse than what we’ve already been through.”
Little did Sam or the others know that death in a hundred guises lurked ahead of them.
― CHAPTER SEVEN ―
DEATH IN THE JUNGLE
Reaching the end of the lava tube, Figwort, Speedwell and Squill stood for a while and gazed at the blend of green, yellow and orange from the three moons that cast a ruddy, luminous light to merge with the glow of the flames and smoke that rose from the peaks of mountains that had belched fire night and day without pause since this world had been formed in the distant past.
Squill took a deep breath and flew up high into the baking, choking air of the night sky to survey the surroundings. His sharp vision picked out the silhouette of a single, large mountain that seemed to float above a thick expanse of jungle. Sparks of light speckled the mile-high plateau, which Squill supposed were from fires. He was sure that he was looking at the stronghold of the horgs.
Back down on the ground, with his wings slightly singed and smoking, Squill reported to Figwort and Speedwell what he had seen.
“We are almost through the Mountains of Fire,” Squill said. “By sunup we should reach what appears to be a vast jungle, and beyond it is a towering peak that I am certain is where we will find the prisoners and the crown.”
The three fairies flew side by side, down to the foot of what was a range of active volcanoes, to where plants and small stunted bushes and trees grew from the hard ground. Up ahead of them, they could see an evergreen rain forest, more commonly known as jungle.
As they entered the greenery at first light, they passed between huge pillar-like tree trunks, and could hear howls, screams, trills and whoops that echoed from all around, and down from the branches above them.
“We could fly above the treetops,” Speedwell said, facing the thick foliage that would be difficult to pick their way through on foot.
“Too risky,” Figwort said. “We are not far from our destination, and there will be lookouts posted. We need to use stealth and surprise if we are to succeed in our mission.”
They made their way through the steaming jungle undergrowth, fluttering up and over the rotting trunks of fallen trees, ever vigilant for danger.
“The horgs must have built a road through the jungle,” Speedwell said. “If I fly up high enough I may be able to spot it.”
“No,” Figwort said. “The two that shot at you in the canyon may have somehow warned Ganzo that we are coming. His soldiers may be lying in wait.”
They continued on, heard the gurgling sound of running water, and followed it to a fast-flowing stream.
After washing the dust and grime from their faces, the three fairies cupped their hands to scoop up the water and drink their fill.
Squill stepped out into the shallow stream and began to splash himself from head to foot. He shouted with glee, enjoying being in the ice-cold water, after spending so long in the terrible heat of the mountains.
High above, unseen, a head snapped round and large golden eyes searched to identify the noise and movement.
The giant monkey-eating eagle plummeted down through the canopy, gripped Squill in its massive talons and flew off.
After only a second’s hesitation, Figwort and Speedwell set off in pursuit, flying after the bird as it followed the course of the river.
The eagle was no ordinary bird of prey. Its feathers were different shades of green, matching the colour of the treetops that it hunted from, so that it was almost invisible to the monkeys that were its main source of food.
The enormous eagle landed on the edge of a nest built from branches and twigs, and dropped Squill, who began to scream as three baby eagles that were already bigger than the fairy, began to attack him with their razor-sharp beaks. He curled up in a ball, covered his head with his arms and cried out for help.
Figwort concentrated on the adult eagle, and using magic, turned it into a small, harmless butte
rfly, as Speedwell hovered over the nest, gripped hold of Squill by the shoulders and pulled him up, away from the flashing beaks of the squawking nestlings.
The spell that Figwort had cast on the eagle only lasted for a moment. It swelled up, regained its former shape and size and attacked Figwort in mid-air.
Instead of trying to fly off, Figwort surprised the bird by ducking under its dagger-sharp beak, to wrap his arms around its neck and squeeze as hard as he could. The eagle screeched, flipped over and tumbled down through the air. Only feet from the ground, Figwort released his grip and darted sideways, out and away from the doomed predator.
With a sickening thud, the eagle smashed into the top of a rock that broke the stream’s surface. With a feeble flutter of its massive wings, it made a wet, croaking sound and fell into the water, to be carried away by the current.
Figwort was sad that the bird was no more, but glad that Squill had suffered only a few cuts from the baby birds’ beaks, and puncture wounds in his shoulders from the adult eagle’s talons.
Back on the ground, Figwort looked up to see another giant eagle land on a branch next to the nest. At least the chicks had not lost both parents. They would survive.
“Th...Thanks,” Squill said to Figwort and Speedwell. “I thought I’d had it.”
“Why didn’t you use your magic to escape?” Speedwell asked.
“It all happened so quickly,” Squill replied. “I panicked and my mind went blank.”
“You need to keep your wits about you, lad,” Figwort said. “Be ever on your guard, and expect danger at every turn, for I fear that great peril lies ahead of us.”
“I saw you turn the eagle into a butterfly, Figwort,” Speedwell said. “Why did it change back so quickly and nearly make a meal of you?”
“Because our magic is less effective on some animals and birds. Their brains are small, and hard to penetrate.”
As they followed the river north, Squill’s cuts faded and the holes in his shoulders healed up. Being a fairy had its advantages. Not a lot could send them heavenward. Unfortunately, one of the few things that could was the horgs, who they knew their magic was powerless against.