Feynard (61 page)

Kevin
flushed. “It’s just a theory. Don’t get your knickers in a knot, old girl.”

“Humph!”

“The Acid Dragon should be found in this cavern,” said Snatcher. “I mistrust this place. This swamp is like no swamp I know.”

“Nevertheless, we must go through the next door,” Alliathiune said. “Finding the
Magisoul depends not on our feelings. Lead on, noble Lurk.”

For turn
upon turn, the Lurk led them deeper into the swamp. This cavern was far more extensive than the others they had encountered so far, vast and trackless, and wreathed in mists that touched their skin with clammy fingers and obscured their path in drifting banks impenetrable even to the Lurk’s deep sight.

At length Snatcher muttered darkly that he was lost, and that was exactly when they became aware of the presence of a great number of Lurks all around them. As a body they pressed
inward, filling the space around the companions with hundreds of bodies–they were slighter and lighter than Snatcher’s own, and accordingly more limber and adept with their digits. Each Lurk clutched a weapon, and every one of those weapons was trained on the travellers.

“Greymorral Lurks,” whispered Alliathiune.

“What do they want?” Kevin asked.

“I don’t know. Listen, they’re
speaking to Snatcher.”

“They aren’t putting their weapons down, are they?”

“Observant as always, good Kevin.”

Alliathiune and
Kevin watched the conversation closely, following it by mood and body language as much as anything else. Kevin understood a little, but found the words too fast to follow. Snatcher shook his head a great deal, explaining something which the other Lurks clearly found offensive, for his words made them chatter angrily amongst themselves and some shook their spears and clubs in his direction as if wishing to employ them to tattoo his hide.

Snatcher stepped back and lowered his head. “They are consumed with hatred for my kind, noble friends.
Apparently they have been trapped here since the reign of Ozark, somehow frozen in time, or perhaps the seasons have passed more slowly. I cannot explain this.”

“Right.”

“Good outlander, that is their claim and I cannot disprove it.”

“So, what do they want?”

Snatcher swallowed. “My head. Pickled with eels, preferably, and served on a silver platter.”

“Pickled with eels?”

“A Lurk delicacy,” he groaned. “They’re most upset to be confronted with one of the Greater Lurks, who sold them to a terrible fate. They want revenge.”

“What about a return to Mistral Bog?”

Snatcher looked startled. “I had not thought of that. Let me ask.”

If the previous exchanges had been strained, this one was positively explosive. The Lurk who appeared to be leading the Greymorral tribe screamed at Snatcher and spat a gobbet of green phlegm at him, which struck his shoulder and smeared down his chest. Several spears struck his body, but his thick hide protected him from any
thing more than superficial damage.

“Ah,” said
Kevin. “Perhaps not the best idea?”

“No,” Alliathiune smiled at him. “A good idea, but not one they like. Let me speak to them, Snatcher.”

“Very well–but they did not want to speak to one from Driadorn, and even less so one who is not a swamp-dweller.”

“I’ll be the judge of that. Does this Lurk speak
Standard Driadornese?”

“Of course.”

Alliathiune marched up to the leader, bowed, and introduced herself. There followed a very long conversation of which Kevin heard hardly a word, for a sudden weariness had overcome him and he sank into the mud with his head on his arms. He was famished.

A handful of nuts washed down with water
and a tangy bit of cheese later, he felt recharged for the fray. The Dryad was still talking, but if he was not mistaken there was something more positive in her body language. He peered up into the mist. Did it ever get dark in here, or was it always the same uniform, dull overcast like an English winter’s lighttime? Was it possible that they had been trapped in a time bubble? If he was not mistaken quantum physics allowed for such a possibility, but only on a microscopic level. Great Scott, there was a lot to learn about Feynard. This world was amazing!

At length Alliathiune returned and helped herself to the last of the
waycrust.

“Well?” said
Kevin.

“Well I have learned something very curious,” she said. “These Lurks are all female. There is not a single male amongst their tribe, for they were all killed by Ozark the Dark on one terrible
lighttime. They are dying, Snatcher. Only twenty-three of their number remain who are of childbearing seasons.”

“How terrible!”

“It gets worse than that. Ozark used them to kill the Dragon that used to live here, the Acid Dragon. He was hoping to claim the Magisoul for himself, you see. But with its expiring breath the Dragon melted the only key they had–the key that opens the way to the treasure itself. When Ozark learned what had happened he swore that they would die here, in this cavern, and inflicted them with a terrible curse. They would remain trapped within these mists for ten thousand seasons, unable to find a way out. And they would die slowly of a disease that causes them agonising pain. The air here is poisoned.”

“So
we cannot lead them hence?”

Alliathiune sighed heavily. “I tried that argument. Simply put, they do not trust us–
they believe Snatcher will betray them, and we are little people, not Lurks.”

“So they will not show us the way to the
Magisoul?”

“They do not know the way, good
Kevin. They cannot know because of Ozark’s curse.”

Kevin
ran his hands though his hair in frustration. “There must be something we can do!”

“Why don’t you speak to them? I have had enough of speaking as though to the most stubborn of boulders!”

“I can do no worse than you.”

“Thanks.”

“I mean–oh, fiddlesticks and toad oil! I’ll just sew my lips shut and I won’t have to annoy you any more, Alliathiune.”

She chuckled briefly at this. “Good
Kevin, now more than ever we need you to concoct a brilliant plan. I can’t see a way out of this mess that doesn’t lead to Snatcher’s head being served with pickled eels.”

“I don’t know, dear girl–I just don’t
… oh. Yes! I have a thought …”

He paced in a tight circle, hands clasped behind his back, watched by several hundred pairs of hostile eyes and two hopeful ones. A cold sweat trickled down his chest.

“It’s up to Snatcher, really.”

“Me?” rumbled the Lurk. “What can I do but land you in trouble for accompanying a hated Greater Lurk like myself, noble outlander? Speak, and I will do
as you command.”

Kevin
grabbed Snatcher’s paw. “You are the key to all this. What say you to this: you remain here as a hostage while Alliathiune and I collect the Magisoul. We return and heal these Greymorral Lurks from this curse that Ozark the Dark placed on them. We lead them out of Shadowmoon Keep and back to the Utharian Wet. Everyone lives happily ever after.”

“Assuming we can win through the thousands of Trolls who are thirsting for our blood up there.”

“Anything is possible, Alliathiune.”

“I’ll grant it is possible–but so is flying to Indomalion and back.”

“But we Greymorral Lurks would still be childless.”

Kevin
, Alliathiune and Snatcher turned as one to face the leader of the Greymorral Lurks, who had approached unnoticed during their conversation.

“We would still be dying,” she reiterated, shaking her head slowly. “
Little one, your speech is nothing but the buzzing of mosquitoes and the croaking of toads to my ears. We will flay this traitorous Lurk alive for the sins of his kin. That is the Lurkish way.”

Kevin
, far from being dismayed, clapped his hand to his forehand and yelled, “Of course!” And he whirled Alliathiune around in an impromptu jig, chortling like a mad scientist in the throes of a blinding breakthrough.

“Slow down, good outlander!”

“I am a genius.”

“
Kevin!”

“Just tell me I’m a genius, good Dryad.”

“Before or after I slap you?”

He turned to the Greymorral Lurk, and greeted her in his best Lurkish. Blinking her nictitating membranes in surprise, the Lurk returned his greeting.

Kevin said, “I understand you are the last of your kind; that there are no other Greymorral Lurks in all of Feynard?”

“Nay, good outlander,” she grated between teeth that audibly ground together at his question, “Ozark the Dark did ensure our demise with all the thoroughness typical of his foul reign. This pain lingers through the seasons, because of the perfidy and treachery of the Greater Lurks!”

“But you can have children, can’t you? You’re able to?”

“We call them pups, outlander,” the Lurk corrected him. “Yes–I cannot, but
some can. We are ill and wearied with pain, but twenty-three remain who may possibly be fruitful.”

“So
, how many males would you need?”

“Excuse me?”

“Males. How many?”

The Lurk blinked. “Even one would do
, I suppose?”

“Then I know just the Lurk
to amend this ancient wrong–a fine, strapping fellow, who is the bravest, kindest, and truest companion one could wish for.” Kevin ignored Alliathiune’s gasp of horror as she realised where this was leading. “One would make a wonderful father to all the Greymorral Lurk pups which will be produced. I give you your future–Snatcher!”

Pandemonium!

*  *  *  *

“I hope Snatcher is up to it,” Alliathiune giggled, taking
Kevin’s arm as they marched up from the swamp’s shallows towards the next door–finally. “I didn’t think four tons of Lurk could squirm like that.”

“
It’s hard for him to act in a way that he judges will dishonour his faithfulness to Fragrant.”

“That’s very insightful of you, good
Kevin.” Alliathiune seemed impressed. But then she giggled again, clearly in a buoyant mood. “How long do you think it will take him to mate with all twenty-three? Father of Lurkish race and all that?”

Kevin
’s complexion resembled red roses. “Gosh, Alliathiune. Do you have to be so brazen?”

“
Poor Snatcher, with all those females clamouring for his attention!”

Kevin
did not want to think about it too much. He said, “He wanted to come with us to the Magisoul. He felt guilty about leaving us to face the last Dragon alone.”

“Don’t be such an old stick,
Kevin.”

“I am not an old stick.”

“Are too.”

“You are just obsessed with procreation.”

“Lizard droppings and earwigs to you!”

“On that note, did the Dryads ever come back to you with an answer about planting a new Elliarana tree?”

An unreadable shadow crossed Alliathiune’s face. “No. I should ask again, I suppose.”

“You should,” said
Kevin, repulsed by the lie. Well, hadn’t he lied to her about reading the letter? A pretty pair, the two of them! “It will be important when we reach the Well to know what must be done to heal the Forest.”

“Yes. Indeed it will.”

They approached the next door in silence. It was green and overgrown with a tough kind of creeper, which they had to push aside in order to find the keyhole. This was small and perfectly circular, again composed of the blue korialite stone that was so similar to his Key-Ring–and to his hand. Kevin steadily worked his way through every key he owned. At length, he pressed his head to the door and groaned.

The Dryad said,
“This cannot mean the end of our journey–can it?”

He looked despairingly at Alliathiune. “I don’t know. I am at a loss. None of the keys I have fit this door.”

“Oh Kevin, don’t despair! You’ll think of something.”

“I’m
just so tired. I cannot help but think of what we have endured to reach this point, and now the sheer futility I feel is too painful to bear. I cannot help but think of the companions we have left behind and may never see again–Amadorn, Akê-Akê, Hunter, the Witch–will the sacrifice of their lives have been all for nothing? And poor Zephyr. We have nothing left of him but his horn. His horn, for goodness’ sake!”

Tears
rolled down Alliathiune’s face. And Kevin found that his cheeks were wet too.

“I feel sick,
” he moaned. “How can the Dark Apprentice win because of the lack of one stupid key? What kind of cruel injustice is this?”

He offered Alliathiune his handkerchief–one paltry square of cloth that had been in his pyjamas pocket when he had dared to wander around Pitterdown Manor in the dead of
darktime.