Riding the Serpent's Back (49 page)

He pulled his coat tight and urged Sky on.

He knew the courser didn’t like these rough, cold conditions. They were beasts of the central regions of the Rift – no wild courser would normally come so far north. He spotted a line of dots flying low over the water: scoters, the black ducks of the sea.

Eventually the northern sea itself spread out before them.

Leeth had never seen it before, despite his descriptions of it for Cotoche. It was vast, there was no other word. He had been in a boat on the lakes, so far out that land had been lost to sight, but all the time he had known that it was still
there
, just beyond the horizon.

Now, he looked north and he knew there was nothing for thousands and thousands of leaps. It was known that, eventually, the sea became so cold that it froze, but that was such a great distance away that it was almost inconceivable.

He glanced back and saw the mountains of the Rim were only a jagged grey band across the horizon. He followed their line around to the west until they were lost in a distant mist. They were flying across an enormous bay, just as Cora had described back on Ten Thousand. Ahead, somewhere in the mist, was his destination.

~

A volcano in miniature. A perfect cone with slightly concave sides, cast from a stone of pure creamy white which was marred only by the grey staining of the gases continuously vented at the top. It was almost an island, Leeth saw, as he circled high above. Half of the volcano’s near-circular base was surrounded by angry white-toothed waves, relentlessly breaking and receding along its flanks. The other half of its base was surrounded by a low band of jagged rocks, pitted with steaming fissures and cracks.

It was hard to believe that even a mage could make his home in such a place, but as Sky dropped lower, Leeth spotted the causeway to the west: a long ridge that cut across from the top of the cliffs, sea lashing one side, those jagged rocks on the other. Almost opposite the causeway, concealed from it by the volcano, was a narrow stone bridge.

Leeth studied the volcano. He knew there was a network of caves tunnelled into it, a subterranean palace, but there was no external evidence of this. Cora had told him Donn maintained the volcano on the knife-edge between stability and eruption – for the flux of risk, the continual flow of earth-energies. She had never been there herself, but Donn had visited Laisan on several occasions over the years and he had told her about it repeatedly.

There was nowhere for Sky to land, he realised. The flanks of the volcano were too steep, the causeway too narrow.

He landed on the top of the western cliffs, where a track rose away through the foothills of the rising Rim mountains. “Go on,” he said to Sky, then thought the command-shape into the courser’s head.

He watched the beast hold her wings in a V to catch the wind from the sea, then tip forward and lift up. He turned, facing down the slope. All the way here, he had not paused to doubt what he was doing, but now he hesitated and searched the sky. The only flying things apart from Sky were a pair of grubby brown jaegers mobbing a fat crow.

He started to walk.

~

There was a slim wooden barrier across the beginning of the causeway. He looked at it and reached out cautiously.

“I wouldn’t,” said a voice. A man emerged from behind a buttress of rock at the foot of the cliff. He was portly, fiftyish, with an enormous shaggy moustache.

He was also carrying a rifle, resting casually across the crook of his arm. The weapon looked well enough made, but Leeth knew that even the best Tule could produce was only accurate over about twenty paces.

He eyed the distance between himself and the man. About twenty paces.

“Oh no,” said the guard. He jogged the gun on his arm. “I wasn’t threatening to shoot you.” He picked up a stone and tossed it at the barrier. As soon as it struck the wood it spun away with a flash and a fizzing sound.

Then the guard wandered casually across and rested his backside on the barrier. He patted it with a hand. “If you’d touched it you’d have lost your hand up to the elbow,” he said. “But not me. I’m the master’s gatekeeper.”

“I’d like to see him,” said Leeth. “I’ve come a long way.”

The gatekeeper cocked an eyebrow at him. “Just like that?” he said. “I have no instructions to let anyone through this year.”

Leeth spread his hands. “Please,” he said. “I must see Donn. I...I discovered yesterday that I am his son.”

The gatekeeper chuckled.

“What’s funny about that?”

“You don’t know how many times I’ve heard that one,” he said. “I’m sorry.” He straightened. “You might not believe the number of people who’ve come here thinking they can fool the master.”

“I have no intention of fooling him,” said Leeth. “I want nothing except to see him and find out why he’s messed my life up so much.”

“Oh, that’s a good one.” said the gatekeeper, laughing again, tears in his eyes. “And I thought I’d heard them all! Indignant’s a new one, indeed.”

“Will you let me past?”

The gatekeeper shook his head. “I’m sorry,” he said again. “But even if you’re telling the truth, do you really think the master will care? I’m sorry, but I just can’t let you through like that.”

~

Leeth approached the bridge. It looked even flimsier than it had from the air: a single span of a semi-translucent black stone, a bit like bottle-glass – obsidian, he realised – perhaps a standard pace wide. It didn’t look substantial enough to support its own weight, let alone that of a man, but Cora had told him this had once been the only access to Donn’s home, before the causeway had been built.

Leeth eyed it cautiously. It spanned a distance of about a hundred paces and it was unguarded. He was certain the way would be blocked at the other end, but it was his only hope of gaining access.

He put the flat of his hand across his heart and remembered his mother’s plea that he should change himself internally, too.
Learn to be your own hero
.

He picked up a pebble and tossed it along the bridge. It bounced a short distance and then stopped. No flashes, no sparks. The way must surely be blocked at the other end, then.

He stepped out onto the bridge and stopped. He flexed his knees and tried to bounce but the bridge felt solid.

He walked out a little farther.

When he came to the pebble, he kicked it out of his way. His eyes followed it as it dropped. It seemed to take forever to fall about thirty paces to the rocks. He watched and watched and, eventually, it struck the edge of a jagged boulder and ricocheted away.

He shook himself, trying not to feel dizzy. He mustn’t look down.

He advanced again, cursing the stiff breeze coming in from the sea. At least it was a steady breeze: gusts would be far worse.

Seconds later, the breeze dropped, then suddenly a powerful gust surged in, almost knocking him off balance.

He walked on, his legs bent at the knee, his arms spread as if that would stop him falling. He stared at the bridge as he walked. He focused just ahead, where his feet were going to fall next.

He walked.

It seemed to be taking forever. He glanced up, and the volcano was ahead of him as before, about eighty paces distant.

He dared to look back, and wished he hadn’t.

The cliffs were about a hundred paces away, already part-screened by the haze of sea-spray. He was certain the bridge had only been about half that length before.

He made himself continue, teeth chattering with the cold.

When he looked up again, the volcano appeared to be about sixty paces away. Behind him, the cliffs were lost in the haze.

He should turn back, he knew. It would be foolish to continue.

But the volcano
did
look just a little closer.

He set out again.

He was sure the bridge was narrower now. Back at the start it had been easily a pace across, yet now it was only so wide that he could stand with his feet slightly apart.

He looked back, but the bridge did not seem to be narrowing: it was the same width for as far as he could see.

He walked on.

The bridge was getting narrower. Now, he had to be careful where he placed his feet. With every gust of wind he feared he would stagger and miss his footing. He didn’t dare look down at the sharp rocks below.

He decided to crawl, gripping the edge with his hands. He went like this for some distance before suddenly he realised that he was trapped: the bridge had become so narrow he could not turn around.

If – or when – he decided to go back, the only way he could do so would be by crawling backwards.

The bridge became so narrow he couldn’t keep both knees on it at the same time, and his hands could no longer rest side by side. Suddenly, he realised how it would become: obsidian was used for the blades and points of traditional weapons – eventually this bridge would become so narrow that he was crawling along a cutting edge.

He felt his body starting to respond when the bridge was about the width of two fingers.

For some time, he had been lost in concentration, his entire body aching with the strain of maintaining his balance. He had done plenty of climbing as a boy, but never anything like this.

Then he realised what he was seeing as his eyes focused on his hands: they were no longer normally shaped hands; the fingers seemed to have merged into a single block of flesh, the thumb to have solidified into a chunky hook that was latched onto the bridge. His hands had become runners, formed perfectly to fit the track along which he crawled.

He didn’t dare strain to see under his body to his knees and legs, but he felt sure they had shifted, too.

He continued on his way.

He had been right: the bridge became so narrow that it began to cut up into his body. He could see a red edge to the bridge, where it had scored bloody grooves in his hands.

He looked up. The volcano could be no more than fifteen paces away: the open mouth of a cave beckoned.

From somewhere he heard the cries of birds. Crows, jaegers, gulls. He put the noises out of his mind and concentrated on his hands and his legs.

There was an intense pain throughout his body as he watched his hands change, the hooked thumbs extending down the side of the bridge, spreading, the pad of the enlarged thumb pressing in against the blade’s side. Eventually, his hands took the form of large pincers, gripping the knife-edge bridge from either side, holding his palms clear of the cutting edge. This time he looked back and saw that his feet had become pincers too, squeezing the bridge from the side, keeping his body clear.

He started to shuffle along.

It was immensely hard work. He had to concentrate fully on each move, working the strange muscles to release and grip, release and grip. The effort hurt him even more than the cutting blade had done, but now the edge was so fine he was sure that without his arcane adaptation, his own weight would be enough to split his body in two across this blade-bridge.

He had to keep pausing, the effort was so great.

Suddenly, something struck his backside as it jutted up into the air.

He struggled for balance, then cried out as he saw the form of his hands shifting back to normal, his weight dragging him down towards the blade. He focused, restored his shifted form. Recovered his breath.

He glanced over his shoulder.

A cloud of birds blotted out the sun. Now he heard the cacophony of their calls again, a sound he had deliberately ignored until now.

He felt dizzy as he watched the swirling mass of silhouettes.

Suddenly, he saw three larger shapes. These three were much closer, each with the distinctive shape of a jaeger, with angled, thrusting wings and long central tail-streamers. As one, they caught themselves and hung in the air before swooping directly at him.

He ducked down, hugging his body as close to the bridge as he dared. He felt the rush of air as they swept past.

He stopped watching them, started to shuffle forward.

More harsh cries, and they swooped again, striking him in the side so that it was all he could do to retain his pincer-grip.

He started to sob with the effort, knowing that it was all, finally, over.

Ahead, the gaping cave-mouth was still paces away.

He peered at it, sure he had seen movement, a pale patch that might have been a face. But there was nothing.

He heard them first, and when he looked back it was as if the whole sky had darkened as the huge flock of crows and jaegers and gulls and ravens descended. He could hear the air stirring with their wings, feel their cries in his gut.

He closed his eyes and thought, finally of Cotoche. He pictured her clearly. “I love you, Cotoche,” he whispered.

And then he felt the claws on his back, gripping, sinking into the flesh. His back and his arms were covered in the tiny pin-pricks of their talons, pulling at him, tugging. He eased his grip on the bridge, and finally let go.

Instead of falling, he felt himself rising up, supported by the birds. He opened his eyes and everything was obscured by the swirling patterns of their wings all around.

They lifted him up, away from the bridge, until, seconds later, they released him and he fell. He thought of Cotoche again, and then of the fierce rocks below.

His knees struck solid ground and he gasped, opened his eyes, saw that he was sprawled across the small lip of rock at the mouth of the cave.

He looked back at the bridge – about a pace wide, perhaps a hundred paces long – and then into the cave. A man stood watching him, the spitting image of the gatekeeper except there was no moustache.

“Donn?” Leeth asked.

The man chuckled and shook his head. “No,” he said. “Just the housekeeper.” He stretched out a hand to help Leeth to his feet. “The master is expecting you,” he said, and headed off into the depths of the volcano.

The passage twisted and turned, to no apparent logic. Its walls glistened and glowed faintly with their own luminescence.

Leeth’s hands and legs throbbed and sent searing pains shooting up his spine. He felt as if his entire body was being pulled apart. The man walked quickly and he had to struggle against his pain and exhaustion to keep up, fearful of becoming lost.