Banished

by Liz de Jager

  I close my eyes and take a deep breath. I don’t have time to run around this plateau to figure out other ways to get down. I will have to climb down and hope I don’t break my neck in the process, thereby fulfilling Eilian’s words that I would not leave the island alive. I smile wryly to myself. Wouldn’t that be a laugh?

  My descent is slow and painful. The valley is even warmer than the plateau above, and the further I climb down, the hotter it gets. I slip a few times and dangle in the air, hanging off my fingertips, but it’s Jamie’s voice telling me to pull up my big girl panties and get on with it that lets me swing myself to the next handhold and the next. There is no way that I would be able to face him if I didn’t succeed. More than halfway down there’s a small ledge and I have the chance to rest for a few minutes. I have no idea what time it is. All I know is that I’m hot, that the rising sun is unpleasantly warm and that rivulets of sweat are running down my body in places I didn’t know I had places.

  I reach the bottom of the valley and crawl off to lie in the shade of one of the pillars that form the processional avenue. The sand is almost unbearably hot and the air shimmers in the heat, making me feel as if I’m surrounded by hordes of silent people. It’s a mirage, I tell myself. There really aren’t thousands of people crowding this temple complex, no matter what it may feel like. I pull off my boots, wincing at the pain in my feet. I check them over for cuts before putting them back on. The skin on my hands is torn and cut from the jagged rocks I clung to and my arms are shaking with the strain of hanging on and supporting myself against the cliff face. It takes me some time to get my boots tied but eventually I stand up, leaning against the carved stone.

  Squaring my shoulders, I turn to face the main pyramid. The place looks deserted but looks can be deceiving.

  I keep to the outside of the columns, moving from shade to shade. The air is still, with no breeze at all. As I near the entrance, with the doorway gaping impossibly black in the brightness of the sun, I become aware of a droning noise rising from within.

  I flash from the last column to the doorway, pressing my back against the black stone wall. I close my eyes for a few seconds, shutting out the bright sun, then duck my head around to look into the interior of the building. Shadows pierced by shafts of light. Motes dance in the air. The droning is definitely louder. I get the impression of cool empty space.

  The entrance leads to a deserted hall; there’s a small plinth in the middle of the floor and behind it there’s another doorway. From the angle of it I assume the passage must go down because from the outside the pyramid isn’t that large. I gather my courage and slip inside the building, keeping to the shadows. My eyes adjust to the darkness and I can see engravings on the walls. I edge closer. The art is similar in style to the stuff I’ve seen in my nan’s books about the Mayans. I see supplicants on their knees. I see tortured people, hearts ripped out, mouths gaping. Prisoners having their blood drained into a vast flat bowl. An executioner wearing a stylized helmet that looks part armour, part monster. I look closely and let my fingers touch the mask it’s wearing. It’s a white skull with an impressive feathered headdress. Above the executioner on a large platform are five beings, human in shape, but dominating the entire scene. Thousands of bodies are scattered around, and when I sharpen my gaze, I can make out the supplicants and the crowd beyond them, made up of both human and Fae.

  There are several scenes of debauchery, of death, of brutality. And in each set at least one of the giants is in attendance. The Elder Gods? Are these the creatures Istvan and Eadric are aiming to bring back?

  The scenes become worse as I move along the friezes. There are battles, awful casualties, and the large figures, which I’ve decided must be the gods, bathe in the blood of those slaughtered. It goes on and on. I’m deep into the building now, a good hundred metres. I hate it, but I become inured to the deaths depicted on the walls and my pace quickens and I give each panel a cursory glance but even so I notice fewer people sacrificing to the gods and fewer pictures of the gods themselves. Another fifty metres on, I come to the wall blocking my way. A doorway is cut into the rock; above and to the sides of it are the final pictorials.

  Above the doorway is the scene that’s the paycheque. A ritual is being performed. The gods are in shackles but they do not look penitent. They stand on a platform above a volcano. My heart clutches. There are only four of them – what’s happened to the fifth? I walk back to the previous panel that I skimmed and find it. A lone warrior stands over the fallen god, large sword raised above his head in triumph. I go back to the final scenes.

  There, before the platform, are two men, one human, one definitely a Sidhe warrior. They are dressed finely and wear impressive headdresses. I wonder if they are priests, representing both human and Fae. On the platform above them stands another lone warrior, wearing a similar breastplate to the warrior who presumably vanquished the fallen god. He carries a sword almost as tall as he is and looks superbly fierce. The next scene shows only slight changes, with the young warrior standing closer to the four gods. He has the sword levelled at them and seems to be speaking to them.

  The gods’ faces are emotionless as they regard him. The armed warrior holds fast to four chains – one tied to the neck of each of the Elder Gods.

  The human and Sidhe Fae face the armed warrior, their faces proud at his deeds. In a daze, my eyes drift to the next panel. The volcano is erupting but in the distance I see towering waves crashing towards the scene. The young man has bound the four gods to him, using the giant sword to twist the heavy chain in a complicated pattern and planting it point first into the ground.

  The flames consume the gods and the warrior. The Sidhe and human are shown clambering into a coracle, not dissimilar to the one I used on my own lake crossing. Then the water is there, covering everything in huge cataclysmic stylized waves.

  The next relief shows the human and Sidhe in conversation before parting ways; each acknowledges the other before leaving. They are shown sailing away from one another in what look like square boats. I reach out and touch the carved figures, realizing that this is the Sundering, where the Fae and human worlds part. This is where the Frontier and the Otherwhere came into existence.

  I lean my forehead against the carved wall, feeling dread spread through me. As bad as the Sundering was, it’s the return of the Elder Gods that genuinely scares me. If Eadric and Istvan succeed in bringing them back, these scenes of slaughter will become commonplace once more. It means that none of us, either Fae or human, would be safe again, no matter how we try to run.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Holding my magic close and sending a slender strand out before me, I venture along the dark tunnel. I’m right and it slopes downwards at a steep gradient. There’s an odd smell in the air, not quite damp and not quite sulphurous, but something in between. The droning noise is louder, and it sounds more and more like a huge nest of angry wasps.

  I creep forward, carrying my sword, every bit of me listening, watching, alert. I’ve not gone a hundred metres when there’s a noise from behind so slight I almost miss it.

  There is nowhere to hide from the oncoming group of soldiers behind me. I slide my sword back into its scabbard and peer upwards. I don’t have much of a choice in the matter so I apologize to my aching limbs and cut hands before I close my eyes, throw a prayer to Lady Luck and climb the wall. I press my back against the rough ceiling and hope with all my might that my precarious hand and foot holds don’t crumble.

  The group of redcaps pass by below me grunting at one another animatedly. I hold my breath, hoping that none of them looks up. None of them do, but even so I wonder if they would have seen me in the shadows, clinging to the ceiling like an ugly spider. I wait up there for a few more minutes until my arms start shaking. Getting down is a little noisy and a little difficult and inelegant but I take it as a win because I’ve managed not to get myself killed.

  Creeping further down the passage is frightening and my heart thuds so loud
ly in my ears I have to stop now and again to try and calm it down. I’m almost on the lone goblin sentry when I notice him. He’s dressed in dark clothes and has his back turned towards me.

  I carefully lay my sword down and ghost up behind him. He’s not much bigger than I am and I have the element of surprise. My arm whips around his neck then I tighten my hold.

  He bucks beneath me in shock and tries to shout out, but with so much pressure on his larynx, nothing comes out. I focus on my training and grit my teeth as he squirms and twists in an attempt to escape. He rams me into the wall and I hit my head, but I refuse to let go.

  Eventually his movements still but I hold my grip a bit longer just to make sure I’ve choked him into unconsciousness. I make quick work of tying him up, using his handy rope belt. I rummage in his pockets, trying not to gag at the stench of him, and find a slimy handkerchief. I stuff that in his mouth and, using my knife, I hastily cut a strip from his shirt to bind his mouth.

  Next, I drag him further into the small alcove and leave him trussed up like a turkey, ready for the oven.

  With my sword back in my hand, I move painfully slowly down the passage. The passage widens into a beautifully carved archway and as I edge closer I play out my magic – millimetre by aching millimetre.

  I’m shown a natural amphitheatre in a cave. A wide avenue, splitting the seating in half, runs straight down the middle. The stage is at the bottom of the natural slope within the cavern and seats have been carved from the rock in some distant past, so that they face the stage. It looks nice enough, like Shakespeare in the Park if only there weren’t chimera patrolling the front of the stage area. The droning noise is coming from the throats of maybe a thousand bound people, neatly arranged in rows before the stage. Everyone is dressed in grey robes and seems to be in some kind of trance. The noise they are making rises and falls in cadence as they sway from side to side. I count maybe fifteen guards dotted around the amphitheatre. They are a mix of redcaps and chimeras and they all look tense. Their movements are quick and vicious when they feel someone’s not making enough droning sounds. I watch them kick and lash out at a few bound people and I feel my blood thump against my temples at the cruelty. The people are all bound with rope, and the ropes are tied to metal loops thrust into the ground before them.

  Up the slope, towards the back of the cave, is a natural overhang and up there are five ogres in charge of the drums that give the beat the rhythmic swaying. The sound isn’t entirely unpleasant and reminds me of the hypnotic rhythm of Celtic drums I’ve heard at folk festivals with my nan.

  But the rest of it, the people tied up, seeming to be in some kind of trance, I never thought I’d actually see anything like this in real life. I hunker down for as long as I dare to watch them through my enhanced sight.

  The amphitheatre stretches downwards towards a stage, which in turn is dominated by a curved slab of black basalt maybe two storeys high.

  I pull my magic back and consider my next move. The only way to get down into the amphitheatre is to walk down the ramp, in plain view of the guards and whoever else is watching. I don’t like that idea at all. There has to be another passage or something at the back of the stage area, or how else will people get up there, without jumping up at the front? I rest my head against the rough wall behind me and think hard.

  The seemingly random sentinel I took down, I realize, must have been guarding something, probably a gap leading to a passage I didn’t see in the dark. I creep back the way I’ve just come and find him where I’d left him, still slumped to the side and out cold. A faint whisper of air stirs my damp hair as I run my hands along the wall. I encounter a gap hidden by the folds of the wall, not very wide, but wide enough for me to pass through if I turn sideways. I drag the body behind me as I wind my way along the passage. From the way it curves and wends its way along, I know I’m heading in the right direction, flanking the side of the amphitheatre, meaning that with any luck I should come out behind the stage.

  ‘You will sing them back,’ demands a familiar voice.

  ‘Or what?’

  Thorn’s voice brings me up short. He sounds tired and hurt and thoroughly pissed off. I grin, relief flooding me. He is alive and channelling his inner brat.

  ‘I may be persuaded to see how many fingers I can remove until you agree,’ comes the other voice. Istvan! Hearing his voice now, without being able to see him, I recognize it from the mirror at the Manor and from the troll’s cave. Heavy with sinister intent, he’s given up any pretence of sounding like the king’s chamberlain and friend.

  ‘You think I will bring about the destruction of my world for the loss of my fingers.’ There’s a harsh tone of derision in Thorn’s voice now. ‘You are very much mistaken.’

  There’s a noise, a cracking sound, the smell of flesh burning and a muffled cry. I jerk forward, my anger flaring, and cat-foot it swiftly down the narrow passage, keeping my sword ahead of me so that it doesn’t clang against the walls.

  My magic pushes into the chamber and I crouch low, letting it be my eyes. The room isn’t very big, maybe the size of our conservatory at the Manor. Thorn is shackled with iron manacles to a solid piece of rock jutting from the ground. A strip of metal, probably iron, is cuffed around his throat like a dog collar and his skin looks red and swollen where the iron’s chafed it. There are bruises that weren’t there before and the cut along his cheekbone looks inflamed. His bottom lip is split and I watch him spit out a stream of blood and saliva.

  ‘How about now?’ Istvan says, prowling around before Thorn. He’s no longer wearing modern clothes, but instead is dressed in a dramatic carnelian-coloured robe with a high collar. It highlights his tan, making him look like a crazy emperor from a far-off sun-drenched land. His long dark hair’s scraped back from his forehead and tied back neatly.

  Thorn answers, dropping his voice lower. ‘Never, in a million years.’

  Istvan extends his hand and a line of darkly alive smoke snakes from his palm. It solidifies, then suddenly lashes out to strike Thorn’s chest. There’s a smell of burning flesh and Thorn gives a muffled curse but maintains his defiance. ‘Torture me all you will, Istvan. None of this convinces me to help you.’

  I’m about to move forward into the room when a movement in the gloom at the back of the chamber catches my attention. I recall my magic. I don’t want to alert anyone to my presence, however small the risk of detection, so I skulk in the shadows and stare but there is no movement now, just a half-suggested shape of something tall and spindly.

  Reluctantly I play a thread of magic out. I send it along the side of the room, creeping slowly, so slowly, so as not to draw Istvan’s attention.

  My sight creeps past cages with rotting carcasses of half-made things. Aborted experiments, I realize. There’s a workbench with all manner of tubes and glass vials. I see a silver tray containing various implements that look like torture tools. I try not to focus on these, or the way the light from the torches on the wall reflects off their rusted blades, or how I can see globules of dried blood and what looks like bone still caught in the teeth of a broken saw. The thread creeps past another opening in the wall, where I saw the movement.

  Apparently, not all Istvan’s experiments failed.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  The thing lurking in the shadows is a good six feet tall and for a second my mind is completely blank as I try and take in what I’m seeing. My first thought is scorpion and my second thought is Oh crap. I see a carapace, pincers set above a human mouth, a row of four round large black eyes across a human brow. It has four segmented arms on either side of its body, ending in obscenely large hands, but a top pair – the fifth pair – end in claws. And of course there is a tail. The sting is viscous looking with venom glistening on its curved tip.

  ‘I have someone to show you,’ Istvan says, and his voice sounds particularly gloating. ‘I think you’ll be very pleased to see him.’

  He makes a gesture to the scorpion creature, who disappears do
wn the dark passage. I hold my breath, watching Thorn. The cuts across his chest aren’t bleeding any more, which is good. From the look of hatred on his face he’s ready to tear Istvan apart if he could get loose.

  Istvan moves a few things around on a small table to the side. ‘We were lucky enough to capture him right at the beginning of the campaign. It was all so very exciting.’ He looks up at the movement by the door. ‘Ah, see? Here is my guest. I have some interesting plans for him, but first I thought I’d show you.’

  I bite my lip as the scorpion hauls a man dressed in tatters into the room. He is in very bad shape, with an arm dangling uselessly by his side. His face is a mask of bruises and cuts and his hair is matted with blood and gore. There are cuts across his body, revealed by the filthy torn shirt he’s wearing. His feet are bare and his leggings are dirty and full of blood. He’s leaning heavily on the scorpion creature, favouring his left leg – the other one looks broken.

  ‘Kieran?’ Thorn’s voice is hoarse with horror.

  Istvan walks to Thorn’s older brother and grabs his face, forcing the half-conscious prince to look Thorn in the face. ‘Guess who’s visiting, Prince Kieran? Your baby brother. Say hello.’

  With that he nods to the scorpion chimera, who lifts Kieran in the air and hurls him at Thorn. Kieran hits Thorn’s body like a sack of potatoes, head-butting him in the process, and slumps to the ground at his bound feet with a moan. Distantly he must be aware that no one is around him because he vainly tries to get up but Istvan stalks over and kicks him in the side, rolling him over onto his back.

  ‘Aren’t you happy to see your brother?’ he asks Kieran, bending close. ‘It took me some time to find him and bring him here. I know you’ve missed him so. Are you not grateful?’

  ‘You son of a motherless goat,’ Kieran grinds out. ‘You will rot in the lowest of dungeons of the Citadel for all eternity.’