The minotaur stepped into the fire and immediately started screaming. Any sane person would have jumped back out, but the minotaur just stood there with hot coals burning his hooves, and the flames searing the hair from his body, as Tol’uk whispered encouragements to him.
“You’re doing so well,” he said calmly, in the tone of voice someone would use to help someone do a push-up, rather than convincing them to burn themselves alive in a fire.
I watched the roaring flames and heard the shrieks of agony. The smallest of frowns crept to my brow. Surely, something was wrong here, wasn’t it? But Tol’uk didn’t look worried. In fact, he looked happy, and the young ones were even starting to cheer as the cries from the fire began to weaken.
“Alright,” said Tol’uk, as the figure in the fire stumbled suddenly. “You can come out now.”
The minotaur staggered from the fire and collapsed to his knees. His hair had been scorched from his body, with only a few small smouldering patches remaining. The flesh beneath was beyond red and blistered, burnt black like a roast just out of the oven. His chest rose and fell with shallow breaths; though it seemed a miracle he was even managing that.
The troll children were closing in now, rubbing their hands together and licking their thin lips with black tongues. Tol’uk grabbed the minotaur by his charred shoulder and, ignoring his groan of pain, forced him to turn around and face the chief’s throne. The chief made an elaborate show of making up his mind before eventually nodding and raising his hands in a slow clap.
“Good, very good!” he roared. “God on Mountain has blessed us well. Come, younglings! Come, while flesh is still fresh!”
The children descended on the minotaur, tearing the flesh from his body in long strips. Blood seeped from the rare-cooked meat, and whoever was closest lunged forward to drink. The minotaur howled but didn’t struggle, and all we could do was look on as he was slowly devoured alive. After a while, the hand on his shoulder was not enough to keep him upright and he keeled over, disappearing beneath the crowd of scavenging trolls.
Suddenly, something cold brushed against my hand and I almost screamed. I felt around and whatever it was pressed more firmly into my palm. The thing vanished, then moved to my leg, a long solid body pressing up against me like a cat. A glint of white out of the corner of my eye made me gasp, before the sleek reptilian body of the baby monster I’d saved in the cave moved to stand in front of me.
“You’re alive!” I gushed immediately.
The creature had been so small, so sickly, that when it had run away from me, I’d been certain it would have perished. I’d never been so overjoyed to be wrong. Relief and happiness rushed through me. I blinked, mind clear and alert. The sights and sounds of the troll village, which had previously been filtering in through a kind of fog, now hit me with a terrifying clarity.[12]
We had to get out of here. I struggled against the ropes while trying to make it seem like I wasn’t.
The monster baby watched me with its head cocked in curiosity. After a moment, it got up and scampered away behind me, and started gnawing at my ropes with its sharp teeth. As soon as they slackened, I wanted to jump up and flee, or go untie the others, but fear rooted me to the spot. What could I do? I’d be noticed the moment I got up.
Without moving too much, I tried to signal to the lizard, pointing insistently at the others. “Go. Free them as well,” I whispered.
Though the creature eventually scampered off, I had no way of knowing if it had even understood me, let alone been willing to fulfil my desperate request. All I could do now was pray, but you could never tell what kind of mood the gods were in on any given day.
I turned my attention back to the fire and the now-still body I could see between the legs of the troll children. I hadn’t even known his name. What were these feelings of guilty relief? He’d died so horribly. Was it wrong that I was still glad it hadn’t been me, or the people I cared about? I felt like a monster.
Tol’uk looked up, and I flinched as his eyes met mine, and narrowed. Wiping his hands off on his shawl, he approached, his face splitting slowly into a grin the closer he got, until he was standing over me, all teeth.
“Does our hospitality not suit you, woman?” He nudged me with his foot, but the force was more than enough to throw me to the side. “How did you get loose?”
I didn’t know what to say and could only stammer out a weak apology.
“No matter,” he said. “Your meat will be a fine snack.”
He wrapping a hand around my neck and dragged me to my feet. My bag slipped from my shoulder, as my hands went to his wrist, clawing desperately.
“W… wait! I… I thought you liked me,” I said, a hesitant hopefulness in my voice. “For… for other things, I mean.”
Tol’uk paused and seemed to consider my words, his eyes roaming unashamedly over my body. “Well you are not a troll, it is true. But I suppose we could fit together if we tried hard enough.”
He dragged me around the edge of the fire to stand in front of the chief’s throne. With no concern to my comfort, he lifted me into the air to show me off. He spoke to the chief in a harsh guttural language that I could not understand. The chief listened, his chin resting on his hand. He eventually nodded, responding in the same tongue.
Tol’uk dragged me away from the fire and towards one of the bent-tree huts. A simple flap of canvas acted as a door, and the inside was barely furnished, with only a small stone cooking pit, some mismatched pottery, and in the corner, a woven grass mat for a bed.
He threw me onto the mat and reached for his loincloth. I recoiled against the wall of the hut, eyes wide and terrified as the material hit the floor. There was no possible way. He’d kill me.
The troll’s face split into an ugly smirk at my fear. “Let’s see how strong your belly is, woman.”
He took one step towards me then froze, eyes wide, his breath catching in his chest. He looked down, and I followed his gaze to the dagger sticking out of his side. The thin blade had slid cleanly between the ribs and up to the hilt, a small, long-fingered hand clenched tightly around the handle.
“Do you think,” Tol’uk said, a pained edge to his voice. “That a blade that size is enough to bring a troll to his knees?”
“No, the poison will do that,” spat Skeever, wrenching the dagger from the troll’s side as violently as he could.
Tol’uk staggered and coughed wetly, a trickle of black blood bubbling up between his lips. Though he tried to stay standing, whatever had been on Skeever’s blade was burning through his body fast.
He fell heavily to his knees and turned furious eyes to his attacker. “You will never get away. From us, or the island. Try, and the God of the mountain will devour your bones.” He laughed and splattered the floor of the hut with blood. “You’ll soon find that the fire would have been the better option.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” said Skeever sarcastically, before turning his attention to me. “Are you alright?”
“Yes,” I replied standing.
“Did he—?”
“No.”
“Good.” He turned to leave, then paused. “You will speak of this to no one, understand? I’m no hero, and I’d rather it stay that way.”
Outside, Conon and Harmon were standing back-to-back, surrounded by the trolls who’d been by the fireside. I could see my bag tossed over Conon’s broad shoulders, the strap pulled taunt across his much wider chest, making it more of a backpack now than a loose-hanging satchel. The children had vanished, leaving the remains of the crewman’s body behind. The trolls watched the two minotaur with amusement, rather than anger or any concern for their own safety, including the chief who lazed confidently on his throne. Harmon had his fists raised, and the knuckles of one of his hands were bloodied. The troll standing directly in front of him was smirking, hand raised to gently massage his jaw. He spoke, but it was in the troll’s language and the crowd laughed. Realising the minotaur couldn’t understand him, he made a sho
w of pointing at Harmon then mimed snapping something in half with his hands. The crowd laughed again.
Conon, who had been scanning the village looking for our reappearance, perked up suddenly. “There they are!”
He looped his arm with Harmon’s and made a beeline for us, dragging the younger minotaur behind him.
“I can take them!” Harmon protested loudly, though he didn’t fight his forceful removal from the village.
The trolls roared in what was clearly a battle cry and gave chase, their chief barking orders in the troll tongue.
“Go!” roared Conon.
The four of us sprinted out of the village and back into the jungle.
I could hear the trolls behind us, crashing through the undergrowth with their huge bodies. My legs burned in an effort to stay ahead of them, and keep up with the two minotaurs who ran with long, confident strides.
“What was that?” demanded Conon as they ran. “What did they do to us? I just couldn’t say no.”
“They call it ‘Speaking Magic.’” said Skeever. “It’s shamanic, like a kind of hypnotism or mind control.”
“If you knew about it, why didn’t you say anything back at the clearing?” snarled Harmon.
“I didn’t have time! As soon as the bastard opened his mouth, we were done.”
“Then how did we break it?” I asked.
“No idea!”
Suddenly, the trees dropped away in front of us, and my foot caught on something. With a surprised yelp, I went sprawling across the suddenly-hard ground. Conon was instantly at my side asking if I was alright. I knelt up with a wince, my only injury some grazed palms, and looked around. I was sitting in the middle of a wide road. It was slightly overgrown at the edges, like whoever had built it hadn’t maintained it recently, but the ground was still solid. The path was long, disappearing off into the distance in both directions. Behind us, it curved away back into the forest, and ahead, started to climb the side of the mountain.
A hand on my upper arm pulled me roughly to my feet.
“Come on,” said Conon insistently. “They’re right behind us.”
“Are they, though?” asked Skeever.
I looked back to where the man was pointing. Far from the path, in the darkness of the trees, I could see the dark shapes of our pursuers. They had stopped dead, and didn’t seem like they were planning on going any further anytime soon.
“What do you think stopped them?” I asked.
“Don’t know,” Conon replied. “But let’s not stick around and wait for them to change their minds.”
Chapter 16:
The Temple
At the base of the path’s first hill, there was a tall archway decorated with animal skulls. The oldest of them appeared to be dogs of some kind. They were hung at the top of the arch and positioned in such a way so that they were looking down at the path as if guarding it. Around the base, there were newer skulls, a mismatch of birds, reptiles and small monkeys, though given the presence of flesh and fur, they were closer to just being a collection of decaying heads. All the heads were stacked in such a way that they were all pointing up at the arch. The smell wafting off it was less than pleasant.
“Looks like an offering,” I said.
“I don’t want to know what a group of trolls think they need to make an offering to,” deadpanned Conon.
Though the path that wound through the forest was partially-overgrown pressed dirt, the road past the archway was paved with pale orange bricks. A series of darker patches made the shape of large paw prints, alternating sides so that it appeared as if a massive creature had walked the path before them.
“You don’t suppose those are based off anything, do you?” I asked.
“I hope not. Something with paws that big is not the kind of thing you want to go up against.”
Skeever knelt down next to one of the paw-prints and started sniffing around the edges. Though his face was covered with his head scarf, I could see his nose twitching beneath it.
“Would you believe,” he said, sitting up again. “The colour stains on the bricks are older than the bricks themselves?”
“How is that even possible?” asked Harmon incredulously. “How can footprints older than the path, be on top of the path? That doesn’t make any sense.”
“It’s spiritual residue.”
“More magic?” Harmon groaned, sounding fed-up. “Why can’t this shit keep to itself?”
“Are you saying something walked up the mountain, made the footprints, then when the path was built the prints just… bled through?” I asked, desperately trying to wrap my mind around what Skeever was saying.
“Burnt through, actually, judging by the smell,” replied Skeever, rubbing his nose through his head scarf. “But yeah, I’d say that’s a pretty good theory.”
“Alright, so what are the chances that whatever left them is still around?” asked Conon.
Skeever made a 50-50 gesture with his hand.
“Well, that’s reassuring,” said Harmon sarcastically. “What say we don’t follow the path then?”
“Where else would you have us go?”
“Back the other way?” said Harmon, as though it should be obvious. “Maybe the path goes somewhere else, like closer to the beach?”
“Say it does,” said Skeever. “How long do you think it will take before they grow some balls and come after us again?” He jerked his thumb at the paved mountain path. “Whatever is up there looks to be the thing they’re avoiding.”
“Their ‘God on the Mountain’?” I asked.
Skeever nodded. “Sounds better than them just being deathly afraid of paths.”
“So what’s the plan once we’re up there?” asked Harmon.
“Find a way down the other side and follow the beach back to the bay.”
Maybe it was because Skeever was his superior, but Harmon held back on any further complaints, though it was clear by his expression that he had them in plentiful supply.
Climbing the mountain path was more pleasant than I had been expecting. It wasn’t particularly steep, and as we climbed, the cool winds passing over were nice and relaxing. Over the jungle canopy, I could see the wounded Seacow in the bay. Excitedly, I pointed it out to the others.
“Good,” said Conon. “At least we can orientate ourselves.”
Skeever reached into the folds of his headscarf and pulled out a mirror, though it was little more than a flat disk of glass. He held it between the thumb and forefingers of both hands, and facing the direction of the ship, started angling it around, the sunlight catching the reflective surface and producing a pattern of flashes.
“Think they’ll get the message?” asked Conon, watching the ship.
“I can’t say,” said Skeever slowly. “It isn’t particularly likely they’ll be looking in this direction, but maybe we’ll get lucky.”
Perhaps it was the string of bad luck we’d recently suffered, but the gods had chosen to be kind this time. A few minutes after Skeever had started signalling to the ship, an answer returned in a series of flashing lights. He waited until it finished, then signalled again. I had no idea what kind of code the man was using, but Conon seemed to understand it.
“You’re not asking for help?” he asked.
“Not for now,” said Skeever. “Let them focus on the repairs. We’re not in any immediate danger, and I don’t want anyone going back into the jungle unless absolutely necessary.”
With that, he put the mirror away, and continued up the path.
“I can take that back if you like?” I said to Conon as we followed, nodding at my bag.
Conon shook his head. “Its fine, I barely even know it’s there.” He rolled his shoulders and my bag barely shifted. “Don’t worry, it’s not going anywhere.”
At the top, there was another archway, this one crawling with vines. Beyond it lay expansive gardens, built in tiers like rice paddies from the archway to the peak. Even at a glance, it was easy to tell the garden had
not been tended in a very long time. Hedges were either wildly overgrown, or shrivelled and dead, their corpses choked with weeds. Thick grasses and thistles drowned the garden patches, smothering whatever had originally been planted.
The temple itself was built from large, perfectly-square sandstone blocks. Its columns and decorative arches were weathered and cracked, many lying in pieces across the overgrown garden beds. The jungle, it seemed, was slowly taking its land back from the temple’s absentee inhabitants.
“I don’t think anyone lives here anymore,” I said.
“Doesn’t look like it,” agreed Conon, his voice a whisper.
“Let’s look around, then,” said Harmon, not bothering to keep his own voice down as he strode inside.
The main room was longer than it was wide, the ceiling supported by two rows of simple square pillars. Every inch of the walls were covered in elaborate carvings of wolves, and a myriad of strange symbols I couldn’t identify. In the corners of the room and around the bases of the support pillars, there were piles of old bones. Though the air was musty from lack of use, the absence of the smell of rot suggested these skeletons had been picked clean long ago.
At the far end of the room, a balcony faced the mountain which towered over the temple. A small dais held an altar that was perfectly centred to the peak. Sitting on the altar was a wolf skull. It was roughly the size of a moose’s, and the bone had been stained black. Two huge gemstones had been placed in the eye sockets, and the way the light glinted off the faceted surface made it look like the long dead creature’s gaze was following you around the room.
“Do you think this is it?” I asked, stepping up the altar steps to examine it. “The trolls’ god?”
“Could be,” replied Conon, though he didn’t sound completely convinced. “Though, if this is supposed to be their god, why didn’t they want to follow us? You’d think the temple would be crawling with them. Priests or, I dunno, something?”
“I don’t know about you,” said Skeever, sniffing around the symbols on the walls. “But this style of architecture doesn’t really scream ‘built by trolls’ to me.”
The Island of Wolves Page 16
