She could see nothing, no trace of light. Her steps were uncertain and slow. If she stepped into another drop, it might kill her. She counted her paces. A hundred and twenty. A hundred and eighty. She took a deep, shuddering breath and realized that she felt a breeze in her face, not much of one, but a gentle draft of air that smelled of green growing things. Somewhere the passage opened up to the outside.
Holding her teeth tight against her desire to cry out from her aches and her fears, Ishara took her slow steps in the dark. Two hundred and forty.
Now the stone floor seemed to incline upwards, and a dull hope began to grow inside her. She paused to rest and heard only her own breath, startling and loud in the darkness. How long had it been since a human had walked this passageway? What kept the creatures of the island from seeking a den in its cool, dark depths?
Questions she could not answer. She began to move again, limping because her muscles had become stiff. She was thirsty.
But the air in her face was cool and the scents helped to refresh her. She had to go on. And, if possible, she had to learn more about the seeds and the compounds—that, too, was part of her mission.
Alone of all the islanders, only the Storyteller could understand the full use of the seeds—if Ishara could bring back the knowledge. As for the golden statues the men above her were taking, let them go. Her knowledge was worth more than all the gold put together. The problem was that Magwich and his men were close, dangerously close, to where Ishara needed to go. One more explosion in the wrong place and her hopes—the hopes of all her people—would be gone forever.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
SKULL ISLAND
The Past
Ishara lost count of her paces. She stumbled on endlessly in the darkness, her legs dead under her, her mind almost a blank. And then—
Light.
She licked her cracked lips. Her lungs heaved, but she had no tears to shed. Ahead she saw an arch of light, daylight, sunlight. She was too weary to run. She limped forward, thinking only of the Storyteller and of how she had to deliver her message.
Something cold trickled onto her shoulder. She looked up and felt water splash her face. She realized that a spring must have found its way through the stonework of the passage. It pattered to the stone floor like a heavy rain, collected, and meandered in a winding streamlet toward the far side of the tunnel. Oji hopped over and drank greedily as Ishara cupped her hands. The water was fresh and tasted clean. She drank in small sips until she felt strong enough to move ahead. Oji stood beneath the drip and took a splashy bath before following, preening along the way. Ishara could only smile.
A sloping ramp of earth and rubble led up to the low arch. Ishara climbed it, emerging into the light of late afternoon.
She stood in a vast circular ruin. The stone walls to her left bore bas-relief sculptures, carved into them ages ago, showing Atu fighting Tagu. Vines spilled down from the rim of the far side of the enclosure, and Ishara made her unsteady way toward them. She saw now the scrapes on her legs, the ugly bruise that stained the flesh of her left arm. No matter. If she could climb to the top, she could find her way back to the village. Ishara paused, closed her eyes, and entered Oji’s mind, impressing on him the need for silence. He chirped once, then fell quiet.
She reached the vines, took a bundle of them in her hands, and tested their strength. They seemed sturdy enough to take her weight. Ishara breathed deeply and began to haul herself up—
“Ishara! What are you doin’ here, now, pretty lady?”
The shock of hearing the voice made Ishara release the vines as if they had been red-hot. She dropped a couple of feet and spun as soon as she landed. The tangle of vines ensnared her as she leaned back into them.
Magwich stood at the top of the far wall, a pistol in his right hand. He smiled down at her. Behind him, other people moved, sailors laden with heavy burdens and—
“Bar-Atu,” Ishara said bitterly.
“Queen Ishara,” the old priest said in a voice cold as hail. He turned and called, “King Kublai! See what has followed us!”
Kublai pushed past the others. For a long moment he stared down at her, his face stern and cold. He made his way around the rim, dropped his spear, and climbed down the vines. “Here,” he said. “I’ll help you.”
“Why?” Ishara whispered.
“Come. It isn’t safe here.”
She took his offer of help and they climbed up together. She poised to run, but Kublai hauled himself up and seized her arm. “You’re hurt!”
“I fell,” she said, trying to pull away from him.
Magwich had motioned to the others to stay put, but he made his way around the circumference of the hollow, passing the disjointed skeleton of a triceratops. “Little lady, you shouldn’t come here alone. The animals here will grab you up, and just like that”—he snapped his fingers— “toss you in the air, swallow you down whole.”
Ishara glared at him.
Magwich’s friendly smile did not change. “King Kublai, your queen seems a bit upset with me. Maybe you’d better explain things to her.”
“They are going to help us,” Kublai said, staring into Ishara’s eyes. “They’ll give us weapons, make us masters of the island—”
“No!” The word escaped Ishara’s lips before she knew she was going to yell. In her own language, she whispered fast and feverishly, “Kublai, listen to me! I am sorry I did not understand earlier, but I do now. I know what you have been trying to do and the dangers you face. Husband, I support you. I am your wife, I love you. They do not! We have been together since we were children—listen to me! There is a better way, a safer way, for you to achieve your goals, our goals. I carry it with me! All we need is—”
“Tie her!” Bar-Atu ordered, looking over his shoulder. “Take what she is holding and bring it to me!”
Ishara took a half-step away, but Kublai quickly spun to face the two men Bar-Atu had sent. “How dare you! She is queen!”
Magwich aimed his pistol at her. “Take one more step, my boy, and she’ll never take another.”
Kublai’s face wrenched itself into a mask of rage. He struck down Magwich’s arm. “You lied! You have sided with Bar-Atu!”
“Easy, lad. I haven’t sided with anybody. I only hedged my bet.” Bar-Atu’s men looked back at their leader, and Magwich said easily, “Let’s not do anything hasty, Bar-Atu, until we see what’s what. Kublai, outside this bloody island of yours there exists another world. And that world values gold. I’m only making sure that I can get along in my world, the same way you are trying to make sure you can get along in yours. You see, there’s not much difference between us.”
Bar-Atu growled something too softly for Ishara to hear, but his men started forward.
“Remind ’em who has the guns, lads,” Magwich said, and his seamen worked the bolts on their rifles.
Everyone knew what that sound meant. Kublai, Bar-Atu, and their men froze where they stood. Drips of water echoed in the silence as they fell into the opening below. Then a spear streaked through the air, missing its target and striking sharply against stone. Magwich whirled, his gun spoke thunder, and the Atu warrior who had launched the spear screamed, reeling backward. He fell back across the frill of a ceratopsian skull, then crumpled to earth, dead.
In the island’s language, Magwich spoke loudly, calmly, firmly: “Nobody else needs to die. Give us our gold and we’ll be on our way. Kublai, get your boys to pick up the loot. Bar-Atu, keep yours back. We can kill ’em all as easy as I did that one.”
The sun was low in the west. Bar-Atu carried his staff in one hand and in the other an apparently dead torch. But he blew on it and it began to send up a thin blue smoke. One of the sailors pointed a rifle at the priest, but Magwich said, “No, leave him be. He’s planted the boat we need to get off this blasted island just where I need it. If he wants to go down in this hole and follow the tunnels, let him.”
Bar-Atu kept his eyes on Magwich as he breathed on the torch. T
he smoke billowed thicker, but the torch did not burst into flame.
In English, Kublai said to Magwich, “You promised us weapons—what did you promise him?”
Magwich shook his head, a smile of mock apology still on his lips. “Lad, I like you, and that’s a fact. But it’s also a fact that we got a long, long way to sail before we can reach a port to spend some o’ that gold. Now, that ship of ours for some reason took too much time to repair—lots of unusual mishaps, if I recall. I found out that there was a reason for them all, and that reason was you.”
Ishara put her hand on her husband’s shoulder to keep him from lunging at the man.
Kublai said, “I never did anything to your ship! If anyone did, it was him, Bar-Atu!”
“Well, somebody did it. Anyway, I had to cover my bets, lad, so I sided with both of you. I couldn’t take the chance of me or my men bein’ sacrificed to that god-awful Gaw, now could I? Now, what if I’d been your friend, and then somethin’ happened to you, and old Bar-Atu here decided he’d be better off without me? Get my meaning? See, all I ever wanted was to get my ship seaworthy, collect a little loot for my troubles, and set sail. I’m not your enemy, lad, though I might not be exactly your friend.”
Bar-Atu waved the smoldering torch. “You gave your word, Magwich! Do what you promised!”
Ishara felt a rising despair, but she said nothing. Magwich grinned at Bar-Atu, but when he spoke again, it was to Kublai: “My other little bargain. You’d help me if I’d give you guns and powder, but the priest offered to help me, too, if I’d give him something.”
“What?” asked Kublai.
“You, lad. You.”
Kublai glared.
“Sorry, son. But look at it this way: I’m a man of my word, after a fashion. I promised the powder and shot to you, so the witch-doctor here doesn’t get it. I promised you to him, but between us, I think you could take the old man in a fair fight. ’Course you’d have to find some way of makin’ it fair.”
“Ishara, you were right,” Kublai said between his teeth. “I was a fool to trust him!”
“Hold on, son,” Magwich said. “I like you, and I never liked this here baboon. We’re precious short o’ powder ourselves, but I’ll leave you some. We’ll come back to this island in a year, two years, an’ I’ll bring all you need then—and I’ll give it to whichever side has won out. What you and Bar-Atu work out, well, that’s none o’ my business. That’s up to you. But just between us, I hope you win.”
Fury rose in Bar-Atu’s eyes. He opened a pouch slung at his belt and took from it a fine gray powder, which he sprinkled over himself. “Kublai,” Ishara said in a warning voice, “Stop him!”
“Heathen superstition,” Magwich said with a shrug. He squinted as he focused on the men from every side, who were already shifting in their places. The sinking sun shone in his eyes and in those of his men, a position Bar-Atu had stealthily orchestrated with every slow movement he and his men had made. Eyes darted nervously as hands shifted on guns, knives, and spears. The ones with the guns held the others at bay.
“Stand by for squalls, son,” Magwich said softly. “All hell’s likely to break loose in a minute. Stand by me, and I’ll stand by you, and that’s a promise.”
Ishara felt her skin tingling. Oji had flown up into the treetops. Something was building, but it had nothing to do with the Atu warriors. She realized that Magwich was focused just on Bar-Atu, but something else was coming, something other—
From every side, as quick as lightning, deathrunners bolted out of the brush with ear-rending screeches. Razor-sharp sickle claws on snake-quick feet struck, and men fell: Kublai’s, Bar-Atu’s, Magwich’s.
Magwich snatched his rifle to his shoulder and fired once, twice. Other guns thundered. Screams burst from everywhere. From the trees, Oji fluttered to Ishara’s shoulder. She grabbed the pouches around his neck, opened one, and flung the dust it contained first over Kublai, then over herself.
Charlie lurched to his feet, still dazed, and Kublai leaped past him, lowering his spear as a deathrunner charged. Instantly Oji made a screeching swoop into the creature’s eyes. The deathrunner flailed to remove the nuisance. Kublai lunged, thrusting his spear through its heart. As it hit the ground others of its kind began to devour it. “This way!” Ishara cried, pulling Kublai into an opening where ancient worked stone had fallen in a jumble. The space was hardly big enough for two, but somehow she, her husband, and Charlie jammed into it.
Without warning a terrifying guttural roar froze even the deathrunners. Before Ishara realized what had happened, the remaining marauders were gone and in their place a shadow loomed, rocking ever so slightly as though to camouflage itself as a gentle breeze.
The survivors looked up in mute horror as Gaw’s massive form blocked out the low-lying sun. Ishara had never seen the monster this close, this clearly. Gaw’s sinister eyes, set deeply in an oversized cranium, gleamed with intelligence. Without warning, her head flung back and roared as she sprang forward. Her great tail balanced the heavy body, sweeping as Gaw charged.
Magwich froze, too awestruck to pull the trigger. Men sought to run but found the deathrunners had circled, forming a living and deadly barrier. For some reason the creatures did not attack, but only prevented them from leaving.
Magwich shouted to his men to reload.
Kublai cried, “Where is Bar-Atu?” Ishara had seen the greater part of the priest’s men cut down, but not Bar-Atu. He had faded from view, and now the remnant of his men and Kublai’s had rallied around the Europeans, facing the saurian enemy.
The great flesh-eater Gaw charged, ignoring spears and bullets. Men scattered in every direction. Deathrunners fell from shots fired at point-blank range. Kublai, Ishara, and Charlie stared at the slaughter.
Magwich thundered, “Run, mates! Get to the far side of this pit!” The Europeans obeyed, and Charlie fled after them.
“Come on!” Kublai ordered, pulling Ishara from their hiding place. They ran, too, away from the carnage. The deathrunners were feeding on the fallen, pursuing the last of the islanders.
Magwich had dropped his empty rifle but held a pistol. He glowered at Ishara. “What did that old devil dust himself with? This stuff?” He wiped a finger against Kublai’s arm, leaving a trail. “What’s this do, eh? Keep him safe from the blasted monsters?”
Ishara heard something, a low sound, like thunder far off. Someone shouted from across the pit. Some of the men leaped into the pit, seeking escape, but two deathrunners followed them and savaged them.
Magwich glanced aside at the screams, but did not lower his pistol. Kublai struck, lightning quick, but Magwich dodged back. “I’ll shoot her!” he threatened.
Kublai roared in anger and dived forward. Magwich jerked the pistol toward him and fired, but Kublai had smashed into him and the shot went wild. Someone shrieked, and Ishara saw a huge form had burst from the forest from the other direction. It was a gigantic longneck, a horde of deathrunners driving it. Magwich snapped off an ineffective shot.
Rifles and pistols fired uselessly. The longneck lashed its tail, catching three of the Europeans and tumbling them into the pit. They landed heavily and did not stir.
Kublai again lunged at Magwich and dragged him to the ground, rolling to the very rim of the pit. Magwich, his face scarlet with effort, hung onto his pistol but could not break free of Kublai’s grip. Ishara shouted a warning. The longneck had rounded the pit, killing two more men. A moving mountain, cunningly provoked by the deathrunners, it raged toward them. Kublai and Magwich separated, forced back toward Gaw.
The longneck’s great weight loosened stone and earth. The dank smell of old jungle mixed with the ammonia reek of the creature itself. The edge of the pit caved beneath the creature’s weight, and it fell screeching, crashing to the floor of the amphitheater. That gave way, dropping the monster even deeper, snapping its neck. Dust and debris erupted like a volcano.
The commotion sent even the deathrunners into the forest, but not
Gaw. She stalked forward, her head lowered, her jaws gaping. Kublai and Magwich stood shoulder to shoulder, facing the deadly creature.
Ishara drew a deep breath and was aware of silence—a curious silence. Then a hundred flying creatures screamed and scattered into the air from the forest. A challenging roar, shattering, deep, and the splintering of wood jerked Gaw’s massive skull around as she focused on the sounds.
“Kong!” Ishara gasped, staring with wide eyes. The last of the kongs advanced like an avalanche towards Gaw. No longer a juvenile, he was a muscular, ferocious giant, twenty-five feet tall. The two deathrunners from the pit scrambled up and charged, but Kong flung them aside like rag dolls not even worthy of his attention. Gaw braced as Kong hurtled into her at tremendous speed, fists and teeth doing damage. Ishara felt the earth itself tremble, and the saurian staggered under Kong’s blows. She lashed her tail, hammering her foe hard, but Kong seized the brute and struggled with her, reeling on the edge of the drop.
“Kong is winning!” Kublai said.
The smashing blows crunched bone. Gaw, stunned, lowered her head, snapped. Kong was too quick. He seized a length of bone, a rib from the long-dead triceratops, and used it as a club, as a spear. With bones broken and a half-dozen wounds spurting blood, Gaw reeled, fell, and instantly the Kong was beside her and was about to strike at the juncture of spine and skull when the last four deathrunners attacked Kong’s head and neck all at once. Kong rolled off Gaw, flailing at the writhing mass which obscured his vision and ripped into his flesh. He roared in fury, snatching and smashing the creatures one after the other to the earth. The last one collapsed in death, and Kong beat his chest, whirling to meet Gaw again.
The gigantic ape snarled, lips drawn back, eyes darting, his weapon in hand. Ishara wanted to tear her gaze away, but she could not. Gaw, wounded but still form-idable, wasted no time in roaring, but sped toward Kong, bent low and glaring at him with malevolent intelligence.
Kong: King of Skull Island Page 15