The Tower of Bones (43 page)

A momentary exhilaration glowed in the Witch’s eyes, and they blinked, slowly and purposefully, as she registered the ruin that had once been her chief succubus. The ground trembled, as if in anticipation.

His hunger is best satisfied with live meat.

Faltana shrank back, as if she wished that the cracked and fissured bone might swallow her. Her flesh trembled like jelly with every floor-jarring thunder from below. Deep in the great multi-faceted eyes of Olc she saw the red glow come vigorously alive, become truly one with the fiery furnace that crackled and roared at the very lip of the pit.

‘Live meat, my Mistress? Then – then live meat shall it be. I – I will command it. It will be forthcoming in an instant.’

We think you will provide a sufficiency – for the moment.

‘I – I, Excellency?’

What use have we for a chief succubus who has lost her wits? Did you not offer to satisfy our every desire?

Faltana felt the Garg-tail whip torn from her grasp, and tossed towards the cowering herd of succubi. ‘But – but you would not – you could not …’

Your successor has been chosen. Hashiri!

Faltana’s eye wheeled to where a tall, bony-faced succubus, vigorous and youthful, detached from the cowering mob. A recent scar already disfigured Hashiri’s left arm, extending all the way from her elbow into her hand – the same hand that now picked up the Garg-tail whip. A warning against future disappointment of her Mistress’s expectations.

Inform this piece of meat of our instruction. It is our desire that it takes the necessary steps, backwards – bowing obediently as it does so.

Hashiri picked up the Garg-tail whip. She flexed it, staring at the former chief succubus, who was trembling against the blazing furnace of the pit.

‘My beloved, my heart – you surely would not ask this of me? Have I not served you with every mote of my being?’

You have served none but yourself – but we shall not waste another moment in useless debate. You cannot imagine the immortal glory of what is to come. Yet even the dirt-born such as you may redeem yourself. You may offer the sacrifice of your living flesh and blood to our transubstantiation.

‘Brave heart – ask and I will do it for love of you.’

We do ask it. Only thus shall we forgive you your venal weaknesses – and your excruciating stupidity. Be so penitent as to offer yourself to the pit.

The Witch’s eyes turned to Hashiri. The Garg-tail whip arced, then struck Faltana’s left thigh above the knee, raising a livid weal. Faltana screamed.

‘Please – say you but jest with me.’

But we do.

A last spark of defiance rose in Faltana’s outraged throat. ‘I will not do this – I deserve better.’

The Garg whip arced again, discovering the same weal, this time drawing blood. As Faltana screamed it arced again, and again.

The Witch tentacle stroked, with exquisite sensitivity, the tormented flesh where the whip had scourged.

‘Stop this – desist, my beloved Mistress. Or …’

Or what? Do you so quail with each stroke of the Garg tail? You, who were so profligate with its infliction upon others?

‘You – you spied on me?’

Observing your weakness was delicious, moment by moment.

‘You’ve been cruel – taken out my beautiful eye. And for what? For no transgression. I was ever dutiful. How dare you use me like this – how dare you abuse me.’

The whip cracked, finding the target of her calf. It cracked, again and again.

Sing, pretty ones. Sing to the glory of the rising power!

The succubi, scorched and blistered, shrieked their song, relieved that the fury of their mistress was turned on somebody other than themselves. The chamber reverberated with the rising chorus of their chanting, eliciting a sympathetic roaring from the pit.

‘Feed the beast! Feed the beast!’

Faltana had fallen onto her knees, but still she clawed with her nails at the cinder-filled floor. She was consumed by her own rage, the rage, even in the face of hopelessness, of a servant abused.

Several larger tentacles approached her, thick and muscular, nudging and pushing at her, ignoring the slaps of her hands. They tugged at her arms, ripping the fingernails from where they were attempting to find purchase. Then, rising between the mounds of her breasts, they encircled her throat, slyly embracing it. Then they began to squeeze, so the veins of Faltana’s throat stood out like bloated cords.

‘Oh – be-lov-ed. Plee-eea-se!’

There was a murderous thrashing of several thick tentacles before the screaming wreck of the chief succubus was consigned to the flaming maw.

At first light Iyezzz drew a picture of the valley ahead in the mud by the side of a rank-smelling stream. At its centre was the Tower of Bones, where they were now headed. It was the day after the meeting by the Sacred Lake, and the expeditionary force, which now included Kate, had rejoined Turkeya, Mo and the others to be led out of the subterranean chambers of the Ancient City by their Garg guide. Dusk had fallen by the time they emerged so they were forced to rest, allowing time for stories to be told and friendships to be renewed. All night long the sky had flashed and glowed a lurid red, and the distant thunderous detonations had reverberated in the ground beneath them as they attempted to sleep.

For Alan and Kate, just being able to hold one another, to kiss, and to lie in each other’s arms, was heaven – even if they had to put up with the gentle banter of their friends. On awakening, Alan had found Kate’s head still resting
on his shoulder and her sleeping body still cradled in his own. He just couldn’t believe that his Kate was by his side again. Looking down into her sleeping face he was reminded of how beautiful she was, though the girlish roundness of her cheeks had been replaced by hollows of hunger. He kissed her brow, careful not to wake her, covering her over again with the blanket they had shared. But light as it was, his kiss caused her eyes to flutter and his whispered name to come from her dreaming lips – lips he couldn’t stop himself kissing with a butterfly gentleness before rising quietly to join the others.

Squatting by Iyezzz as he sketched in the dirt by the morning campfire, Alan couldn’t help but reflect on those hollowed cheeks. It was a reminder of what she must have gone through, and it made him all the more determined that the Witch would pay for it, and soon.

‘How long before we reach the Tower?’

‘For me – half a day’s flight. For humanshhh,’ the Garg lifted his yellow eyes to gaze into Alan’s own, ‘three days, perhaps, of hard and dangerous march.’

Alan nodded to himself. This really was a menacing place. Up to now he had thought of nothing but freeing Kate from the Witch’s clutches. But now that Kate was free, the enormity of the continuing danger loomed larger in his mind. He was also aware of Kate’s vulnerability in accompanying them in their attack on the Tower. She would be returning to the place of nightmare and torment.

How brave you are – my Kate!

His eyes returned to her sleeping form, and in particular to the green triangle in her brow. At that moment he deeply resented it – not because he saw it as a rival to his own power but rather because of the weight of responsibility it placed on her emaciated shoulders.

Qwenqwo spoke to Alan. ‘Ask him to describe the actual stronghold.’

The young Garg hissed, ‘It takes the form of an almighty skull – vast and up-reared as a Tower designed for war. If rumour be true, the skull is that of Fangorath himself, at the very place where he fell.’

‘How did he fall?’

‘In a disastrous war fought long ago, in the most distant mists of time. Older by far than the histories of the Eyrie People. Perhaps as old as the City of the Ancients. If legend is to be believed, the war was fought between titans and dragons.’

‘Titans and dragons?’ Alan pursed his lips in a sceptical smile.

‘Titans, Duvalhhh. Demigods! Born of the union of gods, or goddesses – and worldly beings.’

‘And Fangorath was one of these titans?’

‘In legend he was King of the titans.’

‘And Fangorath destroyed the dragons?’

‘Alan – don’t mock Iyezzz.’ Kate had woken and had come over to join them, the blanket still wrapped around her shoulders against the morning chill. ‘This dreadful war – it isn’t just a legend. It’s true.’

Alan wrapped his arm around Kate’s shoulders and squeezed her, but he was still shaking his head and smiling.

‘I told you last night that I met one – a real dragon!’

‘In your dreams, maybe.’

‘It wasn’t a dream. I resurrected it – from a fossil in the rocks. We became friends. He helped me escape from the Witch.’

‘I thought you were just kidding me.’

‘I wasn’t kidding.’

‘And he confirmed this – your dragon? He told you about this war – and this titan, Fangorath.’

‘He let me see it, in his memories – his dreams.’

‘If legend be true,’ the Garg continued, ‘the war between titans and dragons was the most terrible war in the history of Tír. The beings that fought were gods in themselves. The war tore the world apart.’

‘The dragon, Driftwood, told me the same story. He said that his people couldn’t bear the terrible destruction, so they ended it by biting off their own wings and drowning in the oceans.’

Alan shook his head, his arm still wrapped around Kate’s shoulders. ‘It sounds like a fairy tale – and it hardly makes any sense.’

‘I saw Driftwood’s scars – the stumps of his wings. I healed him so that he could become whole again. So he could fly.’

Alan smiled again. He just couldn’t help his scepticism.
‘Hey, Kate – you’ve been through a terrible time. Dreams can seem real.’

‘I didn’t dream it, Alan.’

‘So how come the titan died? How come he’s buried here, in this valley? How come the Tower is his skull?’

Qwenqwo interrupted Kate’s reply. ‘Mage Lord – we should listen to what Kate is telling us. It may be important in what we are facing.’

‘What – the Tower really is the skull of Fangorath?’

‘What if the titans were punished by the gods? Since it would appear that in their arrogance, they challenged the world that was itself the creation of the gods?’

‘The goddesses, more like,’ added Kate. ‘Granny Dew is close to the Trídédana. She sent me to the island where I resurrected the dragon.’

Alan shook his head. ‘You mean – like, one goddess in particular? One that might well have had the power to destroy Fangorath?’

‘Yes – I’m talking about Mórígán! Do you recall what your grandfather, Padraig, told us? She’s the … the raven of the battlefield. And Driftwood talked about her – how the loss of the dragons’ wings had been a last desperate sacrifice to Mórígán.’

‘But if Mórígán destroyed Fangorath, how could the Witch resurrect him?’

Qwenqwo answered that question: ‘A demigod is immortal. He could not die. But he could be banished.’

‘Banished to where?’ Kate pressed.

‘I think I might have an idea,’ Alan replied. ‘When the Tyrant tried to destroy me, he said I would be condemned to haunt the wastes of Dromenon. Like some kind of ghost.’ He squeezed Kate tighter, then returned his attentions to the sketches the Garg had been making in the dirt. ‘Iyezzz, can you tell us more of the dangers we will face in the approach to the Tower?’

Iyezzz inhaled, as if astonished by what he had been hearing, then blew a sigh-like vibration through the slits in his throat. ‘It can be no accident, then, that the Witch chose the Tower as her lair, for the spirit of darkness may linger there. To get to it, you must cross a wasted land – truly a wound on the face of the world.’ The Garg’s eyes closed to slits, as if he were choosing his words carefully. ‘A river valley once lush and fertile, yet now utterly desolate, and baited with traps for the unwary.’

They set out soon after a snatched breakfast of fish soup and rock-hard bread, with Iyezzz to the fore and the Shee mounting guard on all sides. After several hours of marching through rock and scrub their progress was blocked by a withered forest, with skeletal trees as grey as ash and barbed with thorns, some a foot long and sharp as blades. It looked impenetrable.

They called a halt, asking Iyezzz for his advice.

‘You face the Forest of Harrow. Its trees are unlike any you know as such – they do not grow, nor do they bear leaves, only the thorns that you can see. Yet you must pass through it in a single march. Rest, or attempt to sleep
within the forest, and it will encircle and destroy you, for the trees can move, ensnaring the unwary, as a spider weaves.’

The Kyra pressed him: ‘Then we have no recourse other than to hack our way through this bane of thorns?’

‘It is the only way for those who travel on foot. But have a care as you do so, for the prick of these thorns is poisonous.’

Iyezzz took flight, holding his position above them; in this tangle of forest his wings would be too great an encumbrance, but from the air he could guide them through where the tangles appeared less dense. And so, yard by yard, they began to hack and slash a narrow course through branches that were as tough as bones and whose thorns were daggers that would penetrate deep and poison the flesh. They saw no evidence of life here, not even the pests of biting insects. By midday there was nobody among them who wasn’t tormented by festering scratches, so they were forced to call a temporary rest to allow the Aides to busy themselves with tending wounds and administering sips of healwell.

Mo and Turkeya followed the beckoning Kyra to where three severely injured Shee were being treated. All three were comatose. Mo watched as Turkeya knelt by the injured warriors, examining forearms and calves that bore livid puncture wounds.

‘Come – see!’ The shaman pointed to the flares of
inflammation around the punctures, tracing the red lines that ran from there and ascended the limbs.

‘What does it mean?’

‘The poison has entered the deeper flesh to become blood-borne.’ His look told her what that would mean.

‘Can’t you do something?’

‘I can try.’

Mo watched intently as Turkeya heated a very sharp knife in a torch flame and then, with a sizzling slash, lanced open a septic puncture wounds so the stinking pus spurted out. The stricken warriors moaned and writhed with pain. Then the Aides attempted to pour a sip of heal-well into their troubled mouths before packing the gaping wounds with herbal balms that would nullify the poison and soothe the hurt.