by Liz de Jager
‘Allow me to help,’ he says, leaning forward before I can stop him. His hands hover just above my thigh, cupping my leg. It’s the same kind of heat I remember from when Olga healed my muscle ache. ‘I can’t do anything about the poison in your system, but this bit of healing will help with the pain.’
‘Thank you,’ I say with genuine gratitude. I test out my leg and although it’s still pretty sore, it’s no longer the only thing I can think about.
‘Weapons?’ Kieran asks after a few painful paces towards the doorway. ‘We have none.’
I leave him leaning against the wall and hobble back to find my sword and knife. I hold both out to him and he takes hold of the sword.
‘Nice blade,’ he says. ‘Yours?’
‘Yes. Before me it belonged to one of my great-aunts.’
‘I’ll try not to break it.’
We grin at each other and hobble through the doorway and down the narrow passage. The heat here is incredible and within seconds I have sweat pouring off my face. The voices are loud now and the sound of the drums reverberating through the cavern is ear-achingly loud. I can’t see much; the dais is off to our right but I can see the bound slaves and their guards.
I leave Kieran leaning against the wall and creep forwards on my knees.
The huge slab of stone dominates the stage, easily twenty feet high and maybe nine across. From this close, I can see that there are countless runes carved on the stone. I recognize a few: the one that means ‘ox’ for strength and the weird triangle one with longer points at the bottom that means ‘fate’. The others make my eyes hurt the longer I stare at them. The entire centre has the sheen of mercury with the light from the lanterns and braziers placed around the amphitheatre.
Istvan has changed out of his robes and now wears another flowing garment: this one the colour of early-morning mist. It floats around him and I’m horrified to see ghostly faces with open mouths press against the fabric. It roils unpleasantly and changes colour, from a dark grey to black, then grey again.
Thorn is standing before the great stone pillar, his arms and legs stretched wide by an iron chain anchored to two tall wooden pillars so that he’s effectively forming an X shape. He’s still wearing the weird iron collar. On a raised plinth in front of him there’s a wide shallow copper bowl that doesn’t look like it’s held a bit of salad in all its life. The world’s biggest sword rests in a cradle right in front of the stone slab.
I turn back to Kieran to find him kneeling next to me. His colour is better and he gives me an encouraging nod. I help him stand up and while everyone’s attention is focused on Istvan as he moves to stand in the centre of the dais, I help Kieran into the amphitheatre, keeping to the pools of shadow created by the staggered positions of the torches.
‘Go help my brother,’ he says, pressing his lips close to my ear.
I give his arm a squeeze and steal towards the dais, hunkering down, firmly ignoring the pain in my leg. Behind me the chanting has increased in volume but I have no trouble hearing Istvan’s thunderous voice. He’s speaking in a language that sounds as old as time and it makes my bones ache with fatigue.
When did it get this hot in here? I tug at the neck of my T-shirt and fight the urge to close my eyes. My heart thuds against my aching ribs in time with the cacophony of the drums. Panic wraps itself around me and all I want to do is run and run and never ever stop.
But instead I creep backwards, back towards the doorway that leads to the chamber. If I lock myself back in the cage, I’ll be fine, I tell myself. Or maybe even if I leave the complex completely, climb back up the walls and get to the top of the plateau and find the coracle and make my way back across the lake, it will be even better. Safer.
I nod to myself, aware that I’m in danger of whispering anxiously, repeating ‘must get away, must get away’ just under my breath. I’m in the passage and I turn to run (limp fast) but I’m brought up short in my escape by hobbling full tilt into the scorpion. Holding onto my sanity and pinning down my fear, I shift and duck as it grabs at me. I make it only a few paces away when two redcaps appear at the far end of the corridor. Their expressions of surprise would’ve been funny had I not been this scared.
I look around the narrow passage, wondering how to evade them, and then how to get outside into the fresh air and away from this place. The scorpion doesn’t bother thinking any of this. Instead, it picks me up and throws me bodily at the two redcaps. I manage to twist and curl into a ball, using my momentum to knock one of them down. It bounces, hard, lets out a groan and lies still. I land badly and roll off him, feeling faint with pain. I stand with difficulty and face the remaining creature. I’ve managed to keep hold of my knife and I reverse the blade against the length of my arm and close with the remaining redcap. Its bulging eyes widen in surprise at my audacity and it throws a low blow that hits me in the lower ribs, just as I slice the blade across its forehead. A gush of blood drops into its eyes and it staggers away, desperately trying to clear its eyes. The pain in my midriff, combined with the throbbing in my leg, brings me back to reality. Kieran’s spell has somehow managed to drag me into its net, despite his assurances. With a muttered curse, I spin and hobble towards the scorpion chimera as it makes for the door leading into the amphitheatre.
Chapter Forty-Five
Gateway to the Gods: This is an ancient relic housed in the deepest dungeons of the Citadel, Alba’s primary city. The gateway was used during the great banishing of the Elder Gods in the Time Before Time and was thought lost for a few thousand years. An item of extraordinary power, the piece of ancient basalt has a variety of runic symbols carved across its surface. It is unclear how the item is activated and, as far as we understand it, it is unstable and not easy to control. (See Mount Pelée – eruption 1902)
From an archived report filed in HMDSDI HQ, 1919
‘Kit!’
The voice behind me startles me and I swing around to see Olga running towards me. She’s dressed in light leather armour and looks impossibly at ease carrying a sword. I don’t even stop to think how she got to the island and came to be here, looking as fresh as a daisy, ready to kick ass.
‘Olga,’ I gasp in relief, holding my side. ‘Istvan’s calling them,’ I say to her, pointing down the passage.
‘Watch her,’ she says as she sweeps by, and as she does, she looks over her shoulder and commands, ‘Lock her away.’
I follow her gaze and spot the redcap running towards me. Abstractedly I wonder how Olga expects me to lock her up because really, why wouldn’t I just knock her unconscious? Then I realize Olga wasn’t talking to me, but about me and by then my aggressor is almost on me.
I drop into fighter’s stance, my knife low and ready. The redcap dummies left, then comes in right, leaving its entire flank exposed. I step in and sink the blade up to the hilt beneath its armpit. It lets out a surprised yelp and drops to the floor in a rapidly growing pool of blood.
I move hurriedly away from the blood as my brain painstakingly puts things together.
Flashes of a limping Olga helping us at her house, of the chimeras lurking outside her house, attacking Scarlet. I remember Olga telling us of Holds being attacked, the trolls’ location, closely followed by Ioric Brightwing’s attack on Thorn. She arrived at Aiden’s with a manuscript that she ‘found’ at the shop, our first exposure to the prophecy. She’s been shadowing our every move and I recall her passing on her private conversations with Aelfric, actually drawing us to the site of the final confrontation.
Olga is helping Istvan. The thought makes me nauseous.
I try to keep calm as I ghost down the passage and hesitate a few feet from the doorway. I can’t screw this up, I tell myself. Regardless of how tired I am and how sore I feel, I have promises to keep.
Slowly, painfully, I move forwards, stopping just inside the doorway, and peer out. I catch sight of Kieran hugging the shadows. The scorpion chimera lies at his feet, its limbs hacked off and its head sitting neatly on its thorax.
Kieran’s wearing one of the captives’ grey robes, but instead of facing Istvan on the dais, he faces the bound slaves with outstretched palms. The slaves don’t look as immersed in their chanting now. Some are clawing at their manacles, desperately trying to escape. Others are openly sobbing in terror. There is no sign of their guards, which is not necessarily a good thing. The drummers above are heedless of the panic below, hammering away, their eyes blank.
Olga is on the dais with Istvan, shadows whirling around her in agitation. She too has her voice raised in supplication, holding the gleaming sword aloft in one hand. It could even be the same sword wielded by the warrior in the frieze.
Movement catches my attention and I lift my eyes to the mirrored surface of the stone and I feel my insides clench. It had been reflecting the packed amphitheatre but now it shows a vast expanse of ink-dark sky. Things are moving in there, just beneath the surface, big things that dwarf this hellish island. I pull my gaze away from it with difficulty, finding the void dangerously hypnotic.
Olga walks forward to stand before Thorn and touches his shoulder. Her face looks different. Older and more mature. Her dark curls move in a soft breeze and there’s a lushness to her features that stuns me. She looks more vibrant, more alive and, I hate saying this, like a true demi-goddess.
Thorn speaks and she smiles at him. One of her shadows drapes itself around her like a cloak as she runs an almost tender hand down Thorn’s face and neck, leaving marks like ink on his skin and I notice she’s careful not to touch the iron band around his throat.
‘If you don’t say the words, Thorn, your little caged pet dies, I promise you. She’s right over there, locked away, where she belongs.’
‘If you touch her I will kill you.’
Olga shakes her head and tuts. ‘How?’ she asks. ‘Your magic is bound to our cause now.’ She turns to Istvan and gestures to him. ‘Do it, brother.’
My mind reels. Brother? They’re related? Or is it some kind of cultish title?
I stare but I just can’t see the similarity, except maybe in their build and a certain slant to their eyes. Olga is wild and vibrant and stunning. Istvan is all about darkness, hidden things, bad things.
Ugly tendrils smoke between the three of them, binding them tight.
Istvan lifts the copper bowl before him and drinks deeply. He passes it to Thorn, who refuses it. Thorn’s powerless to withstand when Olga makes an impatient noise and grabs Thorn’s jaw, forcing whatever is in the bowl down his throat, which then spills down his bloodstained shirt in a mess of dark liquid.
She takes a delicate sip herself before returning it to the plinth. My fear spikes as Istvan turns back to face the mirror.
‘Let us begin.’
He brings his hands together with a loud clap, and a low rumble from above answers him. I peer upwards instinctively, into the roof of the giant cavern. To my surprise, there’s a gap in the ceiling, big enough maybe for a large plane to fly through. Smoke from the many braziers streams towards Istvan as a wind whips through the cavern, carrying the scent of heavy tropical flowers and thunderstorms. The smoke swirls hypnotically around the central column of stone and something draws me a step forward before I can help it. Istvan has shed his previous dour demeanour and seems almost manic. He’s now hurling streams of energy towards the stone, his movements faster and faster. The entire block of stone lights up like a beacon, the runes on its surface shining vividly in the dim light of the cavern.
Olga runs her hand down Thorn’s arm and grips his hand. I expect to see Thorn refuse or do something, but it’s clear that whatever he’s drunk has dropped him into a stupor. She leans forward, unhooks the iron collar from around his neck and gives him a nod.
For a second he stares at her blankly but then understanding dawns.
I recognize his voice immediately. It’s pitched perfectly to be heard above the drums and the chanting. I don’t know the words – it’s not in any language that’s been spoken for the past several thousands of years – it is both beautiful and frightening, made more so by the depth of feeling and yearning in Thorn’s voice.
The tiny hairs on my arms lift in response to his voice. It’s filled with rich expression, with need and love. It’s the voice of an acolyte kneeling in supplicant prayer to his god. It’s private and beautiful in a way I can’t actually explain.
I blink against tears forming in my eyes and shoot a glance at Istvan and see that he’s as captivated by Thorn’s voice as I am. The droning behind me has fallen quiet; the entire amphitheatre is still, except for the drums and Thorn’s voice.
I creep up the stairs, praying that Istvan’s attention is wholly on Thorn as he performs the summoning. Olga will have to be dealt with separately, I decide, but actually hope that Kieran will take care of her.
I stay as low to the ground as my aching leg allows and edge close to the edge of the dais, keen to stay in Istvan’s blind spot. I’m three feet from him when he turns to look at me, his face completely blank, his eyes a dark red, the colour of heart’s blood.
I explode to my feet and launch a neat roundhouse kick to Istvan’s head. It snaps his head back but he moves with the blow, taking a few steps sideways. He shakes off the kick and looks at me in surprise before coming at me with the blade in his hand. My leg protests as I ready myself.
He’s got the sickle raised and brings it down towards my face. I go high, grabbing his wrist with my left hand, holding it as tight and hard as I can, and swivel my hips as I plunge my blade into his neck to the hilt. Istvan drops like a stone and I turn to help Thorn but a blast of magic hits me full in my side and I stagger, falling hard on my knees on the polished black stone. My blade skitters across the floor, spinning out of reach. I smell singed skin and I know it’s mine, as is the scream of pain that tears from my throat as my leg spasms painfully beneath me.
Istvan rises slowly, his hand clasped to the wound in his neck. There’s very little blood coming from it, I notice in horror. Behind him his sister has turned to watch the commotion and she looks thoroughly pissed off.
Chapter Forty-Six
I scramble up and look over my shoulder at Thorn, who has not looked away from the mirrored surface of the stone at all. His voice is stronger than before, just as beautiful, and he seems mesmerized before the sheen, its limitless depths, seeing something to which none of us is privy.
‘Thorn!’ I shout at him. ‘Now would be a good time to snap out of whatever spell he’s put you under!’
Istvan sends another flare of magic at me. I expect this and twirl away, feeling very acrobatic in my head but really it’s more like a sideways crab-scrabble. As I spin, another blast, this time from Olga, hits me and I go flying into the base of the large basalt stone. I see movement in the amphitheatre as I struggle to stand up, sobbing with pain. Kieran’s been hard at work, releasing the people tied to the floor of the amphitheatre. Everyone is running, helping others get loose. I see three dead redcap guards and wonder how he killed them.
A great groaning sound comes from the column of rock behind me and I look up to see a giant horned head push through the surface of the mirror. The rock’s mirrored surface stretches and bulges before tearing with a wet sound, like an egg sack breaking. I look up at the creature towering above me as it opens its maw and trumpets out a sound that flattens me to the ground.
Istvan cries out and falls to his knees, abasing himself before the gigantically terrifying creature pressing its way millimetre by millimetre through the torn gateway. Olga, however, remains standing and looks at the creature with an expression of exultant adoration. A smile spreads across her face and she steps towards it, holding out her hands in a gesture of welcome.
I shoot a look at Thorn. He is still standing there in front of the plinth. His face is no longer a completely blank mask and he looks to be coming back from whatever place Istvan sent him.
‘Thorn!’ I scream, gasping as my ribs protest at the deep breath I draw to shout. ‘Get away from there.�
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He gives no sign that he’s heard me. Above him the thing is having difficulty getting through the archway. It roars with frustration and pulls its head back. The fissure starts closing but hands the size of two double-decker buses press through and start pulling at the gap, widening it. A massive armoured shoulder levers through and with it part of its horned head. An acidic yellow eye turns to take in everything before it. The pupil narrows and focuses first on Thorn, then on Istvan where he lies in supplication, babbling in a religious fervour.
Olga looks as if she’s having a fit of rapture. She’s tearing at her hair, her face, her clothes. I watch in horror as her skin starts rippling, revealing her true form beneath the disguise of her human shape. Then she raises her draconic head to stare up at the creature pushing through the portal and I know that, however long I live, I will never be as horrifically surprised as I am right now.
What I’m seeing makes no sense, yet all the sense in all the world. I let out a sob and put aside my shock and terror. Olga destroyed my home. She was the dragon. I don’t know how I do it but I stand up, sparing my aching leg as much as I can, and limp to retrieve my knife. I catch Thorn’s eye and he looks at me as if I’m a stranger. ‘Please,’ I say, my voice disappearing in the noise all around us. ‘Wake up.’
I will him to see me, to know who I am and get what is happening here. We stand like this for a few moments only, my heart thudding against my ribs so hard I’m worried they’ll break. I keep myself between Thorn and the gateway. There are sounds behind me that make me want to turn around and look, but I focus wholly on Thorn, showing him me, making him focus. I see that awful darkness in his eyes clear and he blinks and frowns uncertainly, his brow clearing. ‘Kit? What are you doing here? Are you hurt?’