The Tower of Bones (4 page)

‘Sir – if all you are prepared to do is get ready for a siege, the Tyrant will win. The way I see it, there’s only one way to beat him. We have to take him on in his home ground and finish him once and for all.’

Prince Ebrit had barked a short laugh. He made no attempt to hide his scepticism. ‘And how, might I ask, would you go about such a feat?’

‘The Tyrant has opened one of the portals to the Fáil. Already he has begun to subvert it to his purpose. That leaves me no choice but to confront the Fáil myself.’

Ebrit had stared at Alan, his eyes wide with shock, and he had placed his hand firmly on his shoulder, bringing his lips close to Alan’s ear and reducing his voice to the most intimate of whispers. ‘Be warned, young man! I most earnestly beg you. What you contemplate is foolish even beyond your wildest imagining. As one who would be your friend and ally, I would counsel you to put this perilous course of action out of your mind.’

Recalling that conversation with the Elector, Alan shook his head, staring out into the incoming tide that that broke, thunderously and violently, against the sandstone rocks on the oceanic lip of the estuary.

If only Kate were here beside him. If only he could put his arms around her and hug her to him and take
strength from their love for each other. But the Gargs had carried her far from here, to that dreadful place across that glittering ocean.

A sudden sense of despair made his heart falter.

‘What is it, Mage Lord?’

‘Kate is hurt – in danger.’

‘How do you know this?’

‘I feel it, Qwenqwo!’ His voice had fallen to a groan, his hand reaching up almost to touch the flaring oraculum.

Staring out into the sunrise, despair overwhelmed him. He felt her loss as a wound in his heart that would never heal until he had her back or he died in the attempt. He didn’t care about the warnings of Milish or the Elector. He would face whatever danger the Fáil would bring if there was a chance it would free Kate into his arms.

In his passion, the oraculum pulsed suddenly, fiercely:

Kate! I’ll keep my promise. I’m coming for you!

On the promontory the violent flash of power startled even the young Kyra, causing her eyes to widen and the Oraculum of Bree burst into flame, even as the rocks beneath her feet appeared to quake.

‘By the Holy Trídédana!’ muttered Milish, who had to be supported by the left arm of the giantess. ‘How his power has matured since Ossierel!’

The Kyra stared at the alien youth, who brought the fingers of his right hand to his lips, as if blowing a kiss.
The eruption of power condensed to a tiny star of pure energy, emerging from his brow like a bolt of lightning. The Kyra’s eyes followed the razor-line trajectory of its flight, from the figure standing before the ocean to cross the horizon in what seemed less than a moment.

‘I think,’ she purred dryly, ‘the Council-in-Exile will see him now.’

A hesitation in the chanting of the succubi raised the hackles on the back of Kate’s neck. The Witch was here. Purplish-grey tentacles, like a dense heavy vapour, oozed from the cracks and fissures in the ivory-yellow walls, extending into the chamber from all sides to encircle the tiny trembling figure. Witch’s fingers! That was how Kate thought about them. They crept everywhere throughout the Tower of Bones, and far beyond, in deepest night, searching for prey throughout the ravaged landscape beyond.

The succubi choir started up again, though now some of the voices were themselves quavering. Already the sense of malice was overwhelming. The twin scents of blood and terror were attracting more and more of the livid vapour trails. Olc was sniffing … feeling … tasting …

Two great eyes appeared in the whirling vapours, eyes blood-red and multifaceted as a fly’s.

Faltana waved away the Garg, who released the Cill’s throat. There was no longer any need to stop the Cill escaping. The scored and bleeding figure was surrounded by the Witch’s tentacles, the focus of those terrible eyes. Kate gazed, astonished, at the hands of the Cill, which covered his face. The fingers were stubby and nail-less, and between the fingers she saw crescents of flesh – his hands, and his feet, now she looked down at them, were webbed. As those hands were torn from his face, his eyes blinked open and Kate saw their startling turquoise colour. The succubi fell to their knees on the chamber floor, beating the ground with their wide-splayed hands and chanting, in awe and rising terror themselves:

‘Feed the Beast! Feed the Beast! Feed the Beast!’

Kate had heard them refer to ‘the Beast’ before, without understanding what they really meant. Surely they were not referring disrespectfully to their mistress? The Gargs had stopped whispering among themselves and were standing stiffly erect, their eyes reflecting the bloodred light that permeated the chamber – as if even their relish was now muted by fear, as with liquid hisses of excitement and a flush-like darkening of their naked skins, they awaited the cruel conclusion of the spectacle.

But the boy Cill would not sing easily. Already his waiflike body was changing hues madly, his instincts for the colours and patterns that would offer the camouflage of invisibility. But there was no escape here.

On their perilous journey sailing the Snowmelt River,
the Great Witch had sent one of her succubi to seduce Kate’s friend, Mark, into betraying them. Brave Mark had fought back against the power of the succubus. But the struggle had injured him, robbing him of his confidence and forcing him to question his loyalty to his friends. Kate hated the Witch for that. And now, in spite of her own terror, she watched for the slightest opportunity to thwart her.

If only she could divert the Witch’s attention from the Cill, to free him even for the briefest moment from that horrible focus!

But what could she do? The consequence of provoking the Witch in the act of consummating her hunger terrified Kate.

Yet such was her terror it alerted all her senses. There was something at the back of her mind, a memory prickling through her terror. Alan’s power, the ruby triangle in his brow, had been conferred on him by a strange old woman – Granny Dew. And Mo had called Granny Dew the Earth Mother. Granny Dew had given Kate a lesser power in the shape of an egg-shaped crystal.

Kate tried her best to remember the circumstances when Granny Dew had given her the crystal. But no clear memory would come to mind.

A feeling of hopelessness invaded Kate’s heart. The Cill child was losing its resistance. Faltana’s lashing was wearing it down so it was about to sing.

Please – just let me remember!

In the palm of her right hand she felt a throbbing sensation, a familiar distraction – the power given to her by Granny Dew. She recalled the extraordinary experience, it seemed so very long ago now, when, at the centre of a labyrinth of caves, Granny Dew had led Kate and her friends into a chamber whose walls shone and glittered. Here, Granny Dew had changed Kate’s mobile phone into a beautiful egg-shaped crystal, a soft luminescent green in colour and alive with shades of gold, like autumn leaves caught up in the whirls and eddies of the wind. Kate had lost her crystal – she didn’t recall how. But now she also recalled that there had been some magical union of the crystal with her body and mind. The same patterns of living colour had appeared in the palm of her right hand. The crystal had changed her – as the crystals had somehow changed Alan and Mark. They had enabled them to make contact mind-to-mind not only with each other but also with the Olhyiu and anybody else they met in this world.

Falteringly, tremblingly, Kate reached out now through her mind and attempted to make contact, mind-to-mind, with the Cill child. Was she imagining it, or was there a tiny response, a movement of his head towards her, a slow blink of his eyelids, which was followed by a strange contraction and then widening of the turquoise irises?

He had sensed something. But it wasn’t enough.

The Cill appeared to have erected some kind of protective mental shield. If only she could penetrate the shield she might be able somehow to make real contact and help
him escape. It was a very slight hope, but it was the only hope she could think of, and at least she was determined to try.

On her knees, with her hair still clutched in the fist of Faltana, Kate clenched her eyes shut, and she pressed every ounce of concentration into trying again.

This time she felt a flicker of contact. When she opened her eyes, she saw how his head swivelled to look at her. He was gazing over at her with enquiring eyes.

Yes
, she urged,
we can talk, mind-to-mind
!

His eyes beheld hers, imploringly

She pressed the thought to him:
I’m a prisoner too
.

She just knew he understood her. Why – oh why – would he not answer?

She tried again:
You mustn’t sing. Don’t give in to them. If you sing, the Beast thing will devour you
.

His head fell. She could see that his courage was failing.

Hold on, even a few more moments. I’m trying my best to help you.

His eyes closed, as if at the impossibility of the thought.

I’m going to distract them. If I can distract the Witch, even for a second, you might just have a chance.

Kate shrieked inside, as the agony of Faltana’s whip descended onto the back of her neck. The chief succubus had not missed the swivel of the Cill’s head, nor the look Kate had received from those tormented eyes as they found a natural ally. But Faltana’s attention was distracted by
what was emerging from the central pit, where a glow, like molten lava, was creeping over the lip of gnarled and pitted bone.

Kate was cast aside as Faltana flung out her arms to either side of her quivering chest. Her voice shrieked in ecstasy:

‘See my Beauty – my beloved Mistress! See how, in homage to your power, the Beast is rising!’

Kate sickened at the sulphurous smell, like burning hair, that was rising out of the pit. She despaired of finding any way of helping the Cill in time. Yet still she implored him to take heed of her advice:
Don’t sing – whatever you do, please don’t let them make you sing!

A premonitory keening, high-pitched, like the melodious sigh of a tormented soul, burst upon Kate’s eardrums.

No!
She implored the child.

But how could he resist any longer, as a lurid furnace of power was rising out of the pit and filling the air with dark energy. Deformed shapes whirled and spiralled within it. Hisses and sighs of expectation filled the chamber as the succubi and Gargs prostrated themselves against the bony floor. The ground trembled in the proximity to such power – a power battening on to terror, pain and blood. Kate shook with fright, dropping her head and squeezing her eyes shut.

Faltana had boasted more than once that it had been the genius of Olc to have discovered the monstrous
skeleton entombed in stone that was the remains of Fangorath, a legacy so obdurate and terrible it had survived from a time when darkness and light had fought for dominion over the world. A spark of that malice lingered here still, in the fossilised bones – a legacy of malice that Olc nurtured for her own scheming. She had chosen this blasted wilderness because it was the festering graveyard of a terrible battle that had involved creatures of magic. The witch tentacles that crept out into the landscape were searching for the soul spirits of these inhuman dead. In the residual malice that lay encased within the Tower of Bones, she had fastened on the most terrible of them all, Fangorath, whose soul spirit needed to batten on terror if it was to be resurrected to do the Witch’s bidding.

The frail body of the Cill child was outlined, trembling, against the pulsating red glow of the moiling furnace. In his nakedness, Kate saw that his slender body was devoid of breasts, his skin covered in gossamer-thin scales that reflected the red light with a curious luminescence. In the extreme of his terror, two fan-like structures opened out on either side of his small rounded head, like petals of lacy fronds three times the circumference of his head, sheening through a kaleidoscope of colours. Kate stared at them in astonishment. But there was no time to wonder what they might be. At the lip of the pit, she glimpsed Olc herself, a gigantic wraith-like face, bowing in homage before the horror that was spilling out
into the chamber, the soul spirit of the titan, Fangorath, re-emerging into the fossilised cavity of what had formerly been its skull.

Kate wept with fright.

The chamber warped and crackled with the expanding power. As the Witch herself manifested in carnal form, the air was filled with the carrion stench of her monstrous breath. Kate heard the pattering of claws on bone as the Gargs edged backwards, panic overcoming curiosity. Even the succubi had stopped their chanting. The silence was invaded by a thunderous clicking and clacking. Retching with horror, Kate realised that it was the sound of Olc’s own jaws, mounted sideways, like the gorging mouth of a praying mantis.

The Cill child began to sing; the notes of his terror rose on the air, the beautiful trill of an angel’s voice rising out of the cacophony of demons.

The lurid miasma thickened, as if the soul spirit of the Beast and the carnal presence of the Witch took strength from each other, the multifaceted eyes intoxicated with glee, clacking jaws closing slowly about the source of its attraction.

Kate stared, mute with shock, unable to breathe.

Something resembling antennae stroked the tiny singer, pausing over the wide open mouth, as if savouring the last morsel of his grief. There was a cawing rasp, like the voice of a jackdaw. The tentacles trembled, as if barely suffused with enough restraint to pause until the deathsong
faded. The clicking and clacking rose to a thunder, extinguishing all other sound.

At the height of her own terror Kate recalled a similar moment of fear on the summit of Slievenamon, the mountain that guarded her home town of Clonmel. Great danger had also threatened there. And Alan had found safety in a name. Kate’s eyed darted behind her. Faltana’s closed eyes gave her the opportunity she had been waiting for.