Quest for the Sun (23 page)

There was the rasp of a key in the lock; the door creaked open. Instantly we were on our feet, Zenith instinctively reaching for his sword — but I saw that for the first time since I'd known him, he wasn't wearing it.

The dank reek of the Faceless seeped through the doorway, followed by the croak of a voice. ‘The King of Darkness has summoned you. Set your weapon aside and follow me.'

Reluctantly I unbelted my sword and laid it next to Blade, then followed Zenith through the low doorway. Automatically I turned the way I'd come, but a choking cough almost like a laugh stopped me. ‘No. This way.'

I turned back, puzzled. In the other direction was a dead end, the iron grill … but now the grill was gone. Side by side we followed the cloaked figure to the opening and stepped through into the emptiness beyond. I stopped short, my mind racing.

We were standing at one end of a vast circular amphitheatre. Ahead and on either side tiered terraces rose into the shadows, darkness pressing down from an unseen roof overhead.
Torches were set at intervals round the perimeter, their dim light revealing row upon row of shadowy figures, hunched and intent. Waiting …

A glance behind me showed a row of barred windows — the cells where we'd been held. I caught a flash of a small face with a ruff of fur before it ducked out of sight.

In the centre of the floor yawned a circular pit of fiery coals. A haze of blue flames danced above it, heat lapping outwards in a red glow that stained Zenith's skin and stung my cheeks.

At a signal from our guard we moved forward over the stone floor.
Stone, not sawdust …
Now I could place that half-familiar smell I'd noticed in the corridor — freshly honed steel, well-oiled scabbards, the supple leather of gauntlets and harness: scents as familiar to me over the past few weeks as glonk dung and burnt porridge.

We were in a gladiatorial arena. That was why the gladiators of the wildlands were captured and brought here: to slake the thirst of the Faceless for bloodshed and death. Zenith knew. He'd worked it out in the lonely hours of waiting; been about to tell me, but I'd said it didn't matter. Now I knew it did, as much as life itself … or death.

I forced my mind back to here and now — to where we were heading. In one section of the grandstand the perimeter torches were massed to form a frame of light, and in its centre I could make out a dark, motionless shape.

I felt his gaze before I saw him … and at once I knew he had changed. Before, I had sensed wickedness, but weakness too — dependence, greed, fear … humanity. Now all that was left was evil in its purest form.

We came to a halt below his throne, squinting past the flickering border of light surrounding him. Slowly a black figure took shape out of the darkness, the body oddly bulky and undefined, the head bulbous and misshapen.

‘So … we meet again.' The voice was strangely distorted, a hollow echo. And suddenly I realised what the grotesque form
was. It was armour, the voice muffled by a helmet with a single narrow slit at eye level.

‘Look well upon me, little princes. Yes, second-born son of Zane, I know you. Who would not? Zephyr and Zenith: two birds, one trap.

‘Well, Zephyr: how the wheel has turned full circle! You believed you had vanquished me, and behold: my forces are more powerful than ever, rooted in the depths of the underworld and fed on darkness. That is what lies within this helm, beneath this black armour. Darkness. Now I am truly immortal — for what can vanquish the dark? Only light from the natural world — and here there is none.

‘And what of the kingdom you seek to save? Already the darkness deepens in Karazan; leaves are withering, crops fail. The light fades from men's hearts. What you thought my defeat has turned to victory, Zephyr — a victory greater than ever I imagined. Now all that remains is for you to say your last farewells … and meet your end like the princes you claim to be.'

One arm lifted in a clumsy signal, and something spun towards me out of the shadows. Instinctively I lifted my hand and caught it. It was a sword — my sword. Not the real one — the wooden replica Zenith had carved for me.

Still I didn't understand — but Zenith did. ‘Wait!' His voice rang out over the silent arena. ‘If you wish to see blood spilled, so be it — but let it be mine! Give me a sword of steel, a wooden sword, no sword at all … I will welcome the challenge of any with the courage to face me — even you, so-called
king
.'

‘Even me? Tempting … but I think not. Your reputation goes before you, Wolf Flame. I have no appetite for sport; I desire blood, fear, pain — the simple pleasures of sacrifice and execution. Return him to his cell.'

In moments Zenith was surrounded by grey cloaks. It would have been pointless to resist. They led him past me, close enough to touch. A single glance passed between us, the brush
of a hand … and something more. Something soft, with a heaviness that shifted and clinked … and an urgent whisper:

‘Take it … use it.'

It was his talisman; his luck. I hung it round my neck, feeling its weight beside my own. Then I raised my sword and turned to face whatever might come at me from the darkness.

It was already waiting: a figure silhouetted against the red glow of the pit. Tall, cloaked, motionless. I fell instinctively into the guard position, sword poised. Wooden or not, it felt like an extension of my own arm, perfectly balanced and comfortingly familiar.

My opponent moved smoothly forward — and shock jolted through me. After weeks watching, training, observing, I knew the way he moved and held his sword as well as I knew the shape of my own hand. It was the Masked Man.

Automatically I joined him in the intricate dance of advance and retreat, parry and thrust, my brain spinning with confusion. Did Zeel's amusement lie in pitting friend against friend — brother against brother in a warped corruption of the fellowship of the arena? If so, he would have to do without his pleasure. The two of us had sparred together often enough to stage a display of skill with our eyes closed. If it was swordsmanship he wanted, he could have it; if it was blood he was hoping to see spilled, he'd be disappointed. Nothing and no one could make me harm a brother-in-arms.

Suddenly the Masked Man's sword flashed out in a lightning lunge that ripped my jerkin from neck to hem. Pain lanced through me. I back-pedalled, my chest on fire; glanced down … saw a line of blood blossom and well. ‘What are you doing?' I hissed. ‘Are you crazy? Fake it — we've done it a million times! Play for time …'

I circled warily, keeping my distance, trying to gauge the feelings hidden by the leather mask. Had he misjudged the distance in the gloom … made a mistake? But the Masked Man didn't make mistakes.

His sword lashed out again in a plunging cut from above, missing my chest by millimetres. I rolled my body sideways, deflecting his blade with a counter-thrust that snagged on my wooden blade, then closing my guard. My heart was thudding so violently I thought I was going to throw up. Cold sweat coated my palm, making my sword-hilt feel greasy and strange. ‘What are you
doing?
' I croaked … though I already knew. He was fighting — for real.

He was a better swordsman than he'd ever allowed us to see: way better than I could ever hope to be. Seeing that familiar mask in front of me I found myself battling the stubborn belief that he was somehow still a friend, a comrade — though logic told me it wasn't true.

As if to prove it he came in again, driving with a downward thrust that snicked my belt-buckle and missed my thigh by a hairsbreadth. I leapt back with a last desperate appeal:
‘We don't have to do this!'

His reply was a charge that forced me into a running retreat, his blade flashing in a deadly combination of cuts and thrusts that would have hacked me to pieces if I hadn't managed to deflect them with my sword. I winced at the catch and tug of the razor-sharp steel slashing into the wood — slowing him a fraction, but doing fatal damage to my weapon in the process.

That's when I realised that to get out of this alive I was going to have to fight on my terms, not his. What was it Zenith had said?
Every strength has a weakness …
If it was true, I could guess where the Masked Man's weakness might lie.

I darted forward, taking him by surprise with the suddenness of my attack; feinted with an open thrust to the left to distract him and draw his blade, then ducked inside, brought up one booted foot and kicked him squarely in the groin. He doubled over, his breath wheezing out in an agonised gasp. If I'd been fighting for real I would have finished it then, but I couldn't.

I smashed the pommel of my sword down hard on his
head and as he staggered back, I grabbed the binding of his hood and yanked. Before he knew what was happening it was off. I skipped backwards, my trophy in my hand, my heart in my mouth, praying it was all for real and I hadn't made some unforgivable mistake. Slowly he straightened. I don't know what I expected to see in the hellish light of the coals … but it wasn't this.

Facing me, murderous with rage, was the melted-wax face of Tallow.

My mouth dropped open and my sword-arm turned to putty. I stood flat-footed, gaping. ‘What … how …'

He could have run me through then as easily as skewering a kebab. Instead, the melted mouth gaped open in a mockery of mine, and my own voice echoed back at me, pitch-perfect:
‘What? How?'
Then the mouth twisted into a smile and he began to circle slowly, sword at the ready, dark eyes fixed on me like a snake's. And now the voice was Shaw's, heart-breakingly familiar: ‘Easy as pie, young Adam, that's 'ow. And ter think yer never guessed.'

‘But …' I was back in my stance, revolving clumsily to keep him in view, my mind still reeling. ‘How did you get into Karazan? The computers were all smashed …'

‘And you think the great Quentin Quested had no back-ups? All it took was a word from me:
Adam's in trouble, Q — you 'ave ter let me go an' 'elp 'im
— and I was on my way with his blessing.'

‘But he wasn't there! He was at the hospital with Hannah …'

‘And who told you that?
Wee 'annah
was in the room next to mine with Q, having her bedtime story. You chose the wrong door, Prince Zephyr, then made the mistake children always do: of trusting, and believing everything you're told. After that it was a simple matter of following, watching and listening.'

So Hannah was OK.
With the wave of relief came cold anger and new determination. Tallow was basking in the glow of his own deceit and trickery. I'd keep him talking, play for time … and rack my poor befuddled brain for some kind of plan. Because once he tired of bragging, I'd be in serious trouble.

I shook my head, playing dumb, letting my sword-tip dip as if I'd forgotten it. ‘But you're a dissembler. You can take any form you like, so why a stupid leather mask?'

He laughed, Shaw's deep chuckle, morphing to Hannah's infectious chortle. I felt my hackles rise and my grip on the sword-hilt tighten. ‘There was time for only the most basic disguise … and the best concealment of all: silence. And there was much of interest to overhear in the shadows.'

I remembered way back in Karazan, when I'd told the others I had a twin: the feeling that there were listening shapes hidden in the swirling mist … that whispered exchange between Lyulf and Blade by the campfire. Tallow must have been skulking in the darkness … ‘You knew! You figured out who Lyulf was! That's why you disappeared. You told them you'd found us, Zenith and me.'

‘Very clever, little prince. Yes, the Faceless are always within call in the wildlands, if you know where to look. When the trap snapped shut you were gone but I knew you'd follow. And now …'

Though I'd been struggling to distance myself from it, the sing-song rhythm of his voice had lulled me into a kind of stupor. His blade flashed once, twice; I felt impact and a wrenching jerk, jumped back … and gaped in horror at my sword.

The top half was gone, sliced clean away. Almost in slow motion I saw it spin backwards into the darkness, landing with
a clatter on the brink of the pit. Tallow gave a soft hiss of satisfaction, and closed for the kill. If my weapon had seemed pitiful before, now it was worse than useless. I might as well toss the stump into the fire and fight on bare-handed …

No! I wouldn't give up — even if he sliced the whole sword to sawdust! I wasn't beaten yet.
Every strength has a weakness.
Zenith and Blade had drummed into us the importance of knowing our opponent and using that knowledge against him. What did I know about Tallow? That form and spirit had been melted and remoulded to the service of evil; that his face bore the scars in the form of the molten wax of a candle …

And suddenly the outline of a plan was in my mind — and with it the faintest breath of hope. If I was right, Tallow's weakness had been there under his mask all along. And I could use that weakness against him if I was fast enough, and my plan worked, and I got very lucky. Tallow might not be scared of me, but there was one thing he was afraid of. He had to be.

I backed away towards the pit. He prowled after me, cat-and-mouse, grinning, in no hurry to end things. I took a deep breath.
Now
. A single quick movement and my cloak was off; a fumble and a twist, and it was wound tightly round my free hand. Not as good as I'd like, but a lot better than nothing — and I needed all the help I could get.

I could feel the heat of the coals on my back as I moved closer, the cloth of my breeches scorching my legs. I kept my eyes fixed on his face, waiting for his eyes to signal an attack — that microscopic tightening Zenith had taught us to watch for. They gleamed back at me, red with blood-lust in the light of the fire. His plan was right there in his eyes: he'd trap me against the rim of the pit and butcher me at leisure. But there was something else too, the slightest hint of uncertainty, a hanging-back …

My heart leapt. I'd been right. In one fluid motion I spun and plunged the stub of my sword deep into the pit, using the hand swathed in the thick woollen pad — even in the second it took, bare skin would have blistered in the searing heat. I leaped
sideways and up, the stink of singed hair and burnt wool in my nostrils … and the blazing torch of my sword held high.

Now Tallow stood between me and the fire. He tried to turn with me, but his foot caught on the broken end of my sword and he stumbled and almost fell. His eyes stared from their sockets, wide with horror and denial, his ravaged face contorting as he realised his own trap had been turned on him. Behind him was the furnace, a wavering wall of heat; in front of him I stood, knees trembling and heart knocking wildly, praying the flaming torch thrust in his face would keep him at bay.

‘Give up,' I panted. ‘Admit you're beaten, and we'll stop this now. Tell Zeel … tell him to let us go …'

Even as I said the words I knew that here there'd be no
pax
, no easy truce or surrender. There would be only death — for one of us.

I took a half-step backwards, staring, sour bile rising in my throat. The face I'd thought was twisting with rage and fear was liquefying, the runnels deepening, drips bulging from the skin like sweat and dribbling down his chin in a grotesque goatee of molten skin.

I staggered back with a cry of horror, hurling my blazing sword away. He lurched after me with a gargle of triumph, sword jabbing awkwardly, then flopping as the strength in the arm that held it drained away. His legs folded as if they were made of jelly and he crumpled to his knees. His cloak billowed behind, floating just out of reach of the dancing aurora of fire — then combusted in a
whoosh
of flame.

I threw my hand up against the searing heat, turned and stumbled into the darkness, my eyes squeezed shut against the pictures playing in white-on-black negative in my mind: a kneeling figure rimmed in flame, arms outstretched, mouth gaping in a soundless scream … then crumpling backwards slowly, so slowly, to melt without trace into the ravenous depths of the furnace.