‘But you tricked them, right?’
‘Well, we had to be able to get to the key quickly if need be, so … yeah. We tricked ’em. Me and the Elders. I added a key to the chest in front of the crowd, yes, but we’d swapped it out in secret before the ceremony. It was just another fake. We all knew I couldn’t keep the true key. Too obvious.’ She pauses. Swirls the booze left in her bottle. ‘It’s hidden in an ancient vault. There are twelve combinations to the lock. The Elders and I each entered a number in private – another fail-safe in case Roth returned. We sent a rider to inform them of your arrival in Arakaan. They know we’re coming. They’ll have everything prepared.’
‘And they’ll help us cross the dune sea?’
Elsa nods. ‘According to the Elders, no human has ever crossed the sea and lived to tell the tale, but we’ve found a way. Believe me, they’ll do anything to help us defeat Roth. Anything to get revenge for what he did to this world and their ancestors.’
A breath of wind makes the torches flicker and crackle.
‘What did he do to this world?’ I ask. ‘You mentioned a Great War –’
‘The Immortal War, yes. It ravaged this world. It’s a miracle anyone survived.’
‘Roth started it, right? So he could be the last of his kind?’
‘Yes,’ Elsa says, ‘and no. The war may have turned into a genocidal quest to conquer Arakaan and the Otherworlds, but it started with a jealous prince, a sacrifice, and an act of revenge. Stuff of fairytales, no mistake. Not one of those happy ones, either.’ Elsa turns to the starlit sky once again. ‘And it all began on a night like tonight, when Roth and his beloved partner, Neela, received some very bad news …’
AN INTERRUPTION
‘Wait a second,’ I say. ‘Roth’s beloved partner?’
‘Blast it, Jane, you ruined the vibe. I was really on a roll there.’
‘He actually loved someone?’
‘I was gazing into the distance and everything.’
‘And they loved him back?’
‘That’s generally what beloved partner means.’
‘Sorry, I just … vomited in my mouth a bit.’
‘Jane –’
‘How could anyone love Roth?’
‘– can I continue?’
‘Yeah. Sorry.’
‘Thank you.’ Elsa gazes out at the sky again. ‘Then I’ll begin.’
THE DAHAARI CULL
‘Before the mask, before the army, before his quest to conquer the worlds, Roth was a simple man. Immortal like the rest of his kin, the Dahaari, yes, but ordinary nonetheless. He was a farmer, on the outskirts of a city called Atol Na. The city lies in ruin now, but according to legend it was once the grandest in all of Arakaan, populated by Dahaari and mortals alike.’
Elsa leans her butt against the balcony and looks across the chamber at the mountains down south. I move closer so I can grab her in case she tips back.
‘They lived together in peace. The mortal tribes thought the Dahaari were gods. In turn, the Dahaari cherished the mortals; these curious, wondrous beings who lived, aged and died before their eyes, coming and going like the wind. The Dahaari revered the natural balance of their world. Saw it as their duty to keep everything just so, including the population of their own kind. Unchecked, an immortal empire could run any world into the ground. So, every century, there was a cull to stop their population from overwhelming Arakaan. And this went on for ages, Jane. Eons. Each century, five hundred men and five hundred women were chosen at random, taken to a sacred temple in the centre of Atol Na, and killed.’
‘Wait,’ I say. ‘They killed them? I thought the Dahaari were immortal. Invincible.’ Bloody hell, Violet was right. ‘You’re saying there is a way to kill Roth?’
‘I’m saying there was,’ Elsa says, ‘long ago.’ She raises the bottle, thinks twice, and tosses it over her shoulder, unfinished. ‘But it’s lost now.’
‘What was it?’ I ask.
‘Well,’ Elsa says, ‘weapons of rock, flame and steel were useless against the Dahaari. But weapons carved of Dahaari bone – the bones of their kin – could harm them, even kill them, if pierced through the heart. And there was only one such weapon. The Arrowhead of Atol Na.’
‘An arrow,’ I say. ‘Carved from bone.’
‘An arrowhead,’ Elsa corrects me, ‘carved from Dahaari bone. It had to be attached to a regular arrow, plucked out of its victims and re-used again and again.’
‘But … if the Dahaari were all immortal and invincible, how was it made?’
‘Nobody knows for sure,’ Elsa says. ‘Some say it was a gift from the gods. Others say the Dahaari only attained true immortality upon reaching adulthood – that the arrowhead was carved from the bones of a child.’
‘That’s pretty grim.’
‘History often is,’ Elsa says. ‘Anyway, where was I? The Cull. Yes. The chosen Dahaari were taken to the sacred temple and shot through the heart with the arrowhead. It was seen as a great honour. Afterwards, their bodies were taken east of the city and dropped into the fiery pit of a sacred volcano – honestly, everything was sacred to the Dahaari – whereupon their remains would sink to the core of Arakaan and fuel their world forevermore, maintaining balance. It was their duty – or so they believed – to keep the fire burning.
‘The Honoured were chosen from a pool of the eldest Dahaari, but the royal family were always spared – the wealthiest families, too. Funny that, huh? Neela and Roth were neither. According to legend, they were only ten thousand years old, give or take, when all this went down. Far too young to be considered for the Cull. But there was a prince, see, who’d always had his eye on Neela. Wanted her so bad he put Roth’s name in the pot, even altered his birthing record so no-one’d be suspicious. Surprise, surprise –’
‘Roth was chosen,’ I say.
‘The prince rigged the whole damn thing,’ Elsa says, ‘but here’s the rub. Neela offered her own life in Roth’s stead. Roth protested, of course – the prince, too. Thing is, to offer one’s own life was – you guessed it – a sacred pledge. Couldn’t be broken.
‘And so, the Honoured were taken to the temple. Roth tried to stop the ceremony – it took five warriors to restrain him. Neela, on the other hand, was resigned to her fate.’ Another pause. An almost-smile. ‘I’ve always admired her, really.’ And just like that, the almost-smile vanishes. ‘I suppose I should pity Roth for what happened next, but I don’t. Not one bit. The thought only brings me joy. Neela was his life, his everything. All he could do was watch as the archer let his arrow fly.’
‘Right through her heart,’ I say, and Elsa nods.
‘Roth was enraged. The prince tried to have him killed as well, but the king and queen wouldn’t have it. The quota had been met. Balance maintained. Instead, they banished Roth for trying to stop the ceremony, cast him out to the desert.’ Elsa shakes her head. ‘They should’ve known better. Out there in the Great Southern Wastelands, Roth swore revenge. He would kill the warriors who restrained him, the archer, the king, the queen. And last of all, the prince.’
I frown. ‘But without the arrowhead –’
‘He couldn’t do a thing, exactly, which is why he waited till the guards lowered their … well, their guard. Months passed before he snuck back into Atol Na in the dead of night, broke into the sacred temple, stole the arrowhead from its altar, and fixed it to a new arrow. Bow in hand, he crept through the city and took out the first warrior. With this kill, he made a new weapon.’
‘Oh, gross, you mean he –’
‘Carved a sword from the first warrior’s left femur, yes.’ A brief pause. ‘Or maybe it was his right femur. One of his leg bones, anyway.’ Elsa shrugs. ‘Either way, it was a heinous act that hadn’t been done since the arrowhead was carved.’
My hands are shaking, and it isn’t from the cold. I can see it all too clearly. Roth, bent over the warrior’s body with the arrowhead in his fist. A splatter of blood, like red paint flicked from a brush. ‘So he ki
lled them all,’ I say. ‘Everyone he blamed for Neela’s death.’
‘Almost,’ Elsa says. ‘Roth killed the warriors and the archer, the king in his bed. He could’ve killed the queen, too, but at the last moment, he stopped. He wanted the prince to know the pain he felt. Wanted him to watch his mother die. So he dragged the queen from her bed and held the bone sword to her throat. Guards streamed in. The prince came running, too. Roth took his time – wanted to savour the moment. While he was banging on about vengeance and the like, the queen broke free of his grip and wrenched the sword from his hands. Brought Roth to his knees. The guards leapt on him and disarmed him of the arrowhead.’
‘Why didn’t they kill him?’
‘I’m sure many wanted to, but in the queen’s eyes, death was too light a punishment for killing a king. She wanted Roth to suffer as no-one had ever suffered before. Several days later, before all of Atol Na – a cheering, jeering crowd of Dahaari and mortals – she stabbed Roth through the chest with the sword he’d made – not through the heart, but through the lungs – and left seven fragments of bone in there, one for each of the lives he’d taken. Then she bound and buried him deep beneath the sacred temple, so he would slowly rot from the inside out for all eternity – forever in pain, but never dying.’
I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Don’t know what to say.
‘Life went back to normal for the Dahaari,’ Elsa continues. ‘The queen reigned for a thousand years. The prince fell in love. The Dahaari Cull continued each century. Balance was maintained. For the mortals of Arakaan, Roth passed from legend to myth, his name all but forgotten. But under their feet, Roth endured, consumed by grief and rage. Trapped in the dark, he was forced to look inward, day after day, year after year, century after century, and what he found was twisted. Ugly. Eventually, he awoke within him a powerful ability long lost to the Dahaari. A dark power that would let him wreak havoc over all of Arakaan.’
Another chill rattles my bones. ‘The power to read minds …’
Elsa nods. ‘Roth reached outwards with his mind, up through the rock, calling for someone to help him. As I said earlier, the Gorani had long been kept to the shadows of Arakaan. Most dwelt in the desert, but many were kept as slaves in the city, by Dahaari and mortals alike. According to legend, three Gorani had been charged with maintaining the sacred temple. Nobody batted an eyelid as they made their way inside, night after night. The Gorani were like well-trained dogs to the Dahaari. Obedient to a fault. Perfectly harmless, or so they thought.’
‘Roth was calling out to them.’
Elsa nods again. ‘Gorani are more susceptible to Roth’s power. They wouldn’t have known who or what lay deep underground. All they would’ve heard was a mysterious voice promising freedom, food and water. Riches beyond their wildest dreams. They were drawn to it. They wanted it. Roth was possessing them. On the fifth night, the three Gorani killed the temple guards and started digging, their hearts filled with terrible adoration. As the suns crept over the horizon –’
‘Roth was free,’ I almost-whisper.
‘Free of the temple, yes,’ Elsa says, ‘but a slave to his thirst for revenge.’ Finally, she quits leaning on the balcony, and turns to face the northern horizon. It’s lighter out there now. ‘The queen had created a monster far more dangerous than the man she’d buried. The love Roth once felt for Neela was gone. Corrupted. All he knew was malice, and with his new power he would bring Arakaan to its knees.’
THE WEAPONS OF BONE
‘Roth’s chest wound had healed, but the bone fragments remained, slowly tearing him apart day and night, poisoning his lungs. His jaw started to rot. His breath, like acid, burned those around him. Racked with pain, he fled deep into the desert with the three Gorani to the rest of their kin and convinced the slaves that he had freed them. Promised freedom for their entire clan, thousands-strong. The Gorani swore their fealty. The bond was made.
‘They marched at once. The Dahaari had discovered Roth’s empty tomb in the sacred temple and tripled their defences, but Roth’s army was too great. The Gorani swarmed the city, killing any mortals in their path. They couldn’t yet harm the Dahaari, but Roth had a plan. He captured the queen’s courtiers and guards. Drained their thoughts and learned her secrets. He discovered she had long since disposed of the king’s body. The archer, the warriors and the bone sword, too. She’d thrown ’em into the volcano to ensure no more weapons could be made.’
‘But she kept the arrowhead,’ I say, ‘to perform the Cull.’
‘Wore it around her neck to keep it safe,’ Elsa says, nodding. ‘The queen and the prince were about to be smuggled away, but Roth tracked them down. Grabbed the arrowhead, killed the queen, then slayed the prince at last. Roth had finally killed everyone responsible for Neela’s death, but he didn’t stop. He’d taken Atol Na. The world lay ahead. Warships, planes, trucks and tanks – Roth used them all to spread his reign of terror. With every Dahaari kill, his weapon supply grew. The Gorani carved swords and axes. More arrowheads, too. Atol Na was transformed into a weapons factory, forever stained with ash and blood, filled with corpses.’
‘Wait a minute,’ I say. ‘If everyone died, how do we know all this?’
‘Because some managed to escape. Dahaari, and mortals, too. They fled across the desert to other, distant cities and villages, warning of the coming purge. Soon, the surviving Dahaari formed an army of their own. Battles were fought, won and lost, upon ancient seas and desert plains. Bedlam reigned for thousands of years. Born into a world of chaos, some mortals fought alongside the Dahaari. Most fled to the far reaches of the world. All of Arakaan suffered. The oceans dried up. The air turned rank and foul. Roth never stopped, never slept, focused all his efforts on killing the Dahaari. Clash after clash, they fell … until he was the last one standing.’
‘The last immortal,’ I say.
‘Like the queen, Roth was wary of the weapons of bone, should they be used against him. He dumped ’em into volcanos all over Arakaan to ensure no mortal could get their hands on ’em. Every Dahaari corpse. Every Dahaari weapon. But, like the queen, he kept one – the arrowhead – on a chain around his neck, just in case a Dahaari had somehow slipped his grasp. The mortals made several attempts to retrieve the arrowhead over the next few centuries. All of them failed. Like the Dahaari before them, their time on Arakaan, it seemed, had come to an end.’
‘So what happened? What changed?’
‘She rose from the sands,’ Elsa says, a twinkle in her eyes. ‘Hali-gabera.’
The woman who died hundreds of years ago. The legend buried in Asmadin.
‘What do you mean, she rose from the sands?’ I ask.
‘That’s the way they tell the story. Means she came from a distant village across the sands, but you can’t blame ’em for getting creative. By all accounts, the woman was a marvel. Young, fierce, determined. There’d be no mortals left in this world it weren’t for her. Back then, most had retreated to some kind of stronghold, far from Atol Na, but not far enough for Hali-gabera. She knew it was only a matter of time till Roth found them.’
‘She got them out …’
‘Fought Roth first,’ Elsa says. ‘Hand-to-hand combat on the Cliffs of Kalanthoon, no less. Got her hands on the arrowhead, yanked it from the chain around his neck, and swung for her life. Took his jaw clean off.’
‘No way,’ I gasp.
‘Indeed,’ Elsa says. ‘Then she swung again, aiming for the heart. Almost got him, too, but the cliffs gave way. Hali dived and clung to a rock. Roth fell out of sight, buried in a landslide. She wanted to finish the job, but she was badly injured, body and soul. Roth had got inside her head, see? Tormented her. Anyway, Hali had a companion. Inigo. Nice guy from the stronghold. He made her flee while the going was good. While the Gorani soldiers worked to free Roth, she led the mortals of Arakaan on a pilgrimage north across the desert. They walked for months, until they finally reached a series of deep, deserted canyons. She founded Asmadin. Lived there for
years, building defences, sowing deep-shade crops, sinking wells. She was their salvation.’
‘Whoa …’ Violet’ll go nuts when she hears all this. The battles, the power of the Dahaari bones, the arrowhead. It’s real. It’s real and Hali-gabera took it to Asmadin. But wait – no. ‘You said there was a way to kill Roth. Not is. You said the arrowhead was lost. What went wrong?’
Elsa stares up at the sky. It’s awash with colour now: burnt reds, deep purples, watery blues. Looks like a healing bruise. ‘Hali knew Roth would never stop searching for her – not till he reclaimed the arrowhead and got his revenge. She knew the longer she remained in Asmadin, the more danger her people would be in.
‘One day, some Gorani scouts were spotted west of the city. Along with Inigo, Hali tracked the scouts to their camp. Discovered Roth was there, too.’
‘Wearing the mask now, right?’ I ask.
Elsa nods. ‘The time had come. Hali and Inigo made sure he spotted them. Led the battalion away from Asmadin. And so began a desperate, week-long chase through the Kahega. Hali and Inigo were so exhausted when Roth caught up to them they could barely stand, let alone fight. He dragged them to the summit of a nearby volcano, plucked the arrowhead from around Hali’s neck and destroyed it at last. He tossed the arrowhead – their last hope of defeating him – into the lava, where it sank and vanished.’ Elsa bows her head. ‘Then, according to Inigo, Roth pulled a sickle blade from his cloak and killed Hali-gabera, right there on the mountainside.’
And I thought I couldn’t hate Roth any more than I already do. ‘What about Inigo?’
‘Roth invaded his mind, showed him exactly what he wanted him to do: take Hali’s body back to their people and tell them the almighty Roth had won. Inigo staggered back to Asmadin weeks later, near death, carrying Hali’s lifeless body over his shoulders, wrapped in her cloak. He wouldn’t let anyone else touch her body – wouldn’t even let them near it. They were in love, you see. That kind of grief …’ Elsa slips into that thousand-yard stare. Shakes her head and pushes on. ‘Inigo prepared her body for burial, chose her tomb, and Hali-gabera was laid to rest at last. A time of great mourning passed. People feared Roth’s return, but he never came back. With the bone weapons gone, all his rivals defeated, he’d turned his mind to a bigger prize.’
Jane Doe and the Key of All Souls Page 8