The Perilous Tower: The Gates of Good & Evil Book 3

by Ian Irvine

  ‘Got to lie down,’ she slurred.

  ‘Not until you extract the scent of two-century-old virgin’s blood.’

  ‘I can’t!’

  Maigraith slapped her across the face, bringing tears to Aviel’s eyes. ‘Get it done. The smell of fresh blood doesn’t last.’

  The blow carried her back to her childhood, an unloved, unlucky seventh sister, taunted and picked-on by her six big slatterns of sisters until, in what still seemed like a miracle, Shand had rescued her, perhaps to alleviate his own feelings of guilt, and changed her life forever.

  The memory helped and she went to her bench. It took an hour and a half to extract and preserve the subtle scent of her own fresh blood, by which time she was so drained that she could barely stand up.

  ‘Bed!’ said Maigraith. ‘Remember nothing. Say nothing.’

  She stroked her fingers across Aviel’s eyes and pushed her towards the door. Aviel stumbled out, her surroundings blurring, and the next thing she knew was the rising sun lighting up her shabby room in reds and golds.

  She came back to the present, in her workshop, her fist still clenched around the memory-recovery potion. Dare she use it again, to find out what Maigraith had done to her next? Not now, it was too risky. Small steps.

  Her upper arm gave a painful throb. She pulled up her sleeve and the scab was gone, leaving a small, unobtrusive scar. Better get to work.

  Over the next three days Aviel used the memory potion as often as she dared, and relived making the stinks and odours for Maigraith’s dark potion. Most were unpleasant and hard to get rid of – the reek of the Golden Stinkbug clung to her fingers and she had to scrub away the outer layers of skin to get rid of it. But when she looked through her racks of phials it was not there, nor were any of the other scents Maigraith had forced her to make. Had she already blended the scent potion? Had Maigraith used it?

  Aviel did not think so, because Maigraith was watching Rulke and Lirriam as obsessively as ever. Was she hoping to catch them in bed together, to justify the use of this dire potion? Aviel had not been able to identify it; it was not in Radizer’s grimoire. Could it be from the unnamed, lizard-skin grimoire she had left in the spell vault? She had no way of going back to find out.

  The recovered memories had brought Aviel up to last night, and extraction of the final, disgusting reek, the gorge-heaving stench of a long-dead skeet.

  Tonight, Aviel felt sure, Maigraith would compel her to blend the potion. She stumbled through the rest of the day, so tired that she could not think anything through, gulped down a bowl of cold turnip soup, scrubbed her stinging hands again, sniffed them, grimaced and, though it was only 7 p.m., fell into bed.

  Maigraith woke her half an hour later. ‘What’s the matter with you?’

  ‘Exhausted,’ said Aviel. ‘Feel as though I haven’t slept for a week.’

  ‘Pathetic!’ said Maigraith. ‘When I was your age – never mind. I have a charm that will let you go without sleep –’

  ‘I prefer the real thing.’ Aviel closed her eyes, and Maigraith took the hint and went away.

  But Aviel could not sleep now; she was too exhausted and anxious. What was Maigraith going to do with the scent potion? Was it to attack Lirriam – or could it be to restore Rulke’s feelings to the moment he had sworn to her, forever?

  Aviel took a double dose of the memory-restoring potion, hoping it would allow her to remember what Maigraith compelled her to do later tonight, and fell into a troubled slumber.

  Before midnight Maigraith shook her awake, so vigorously that Aviel whacked her ear on the end of the bed. ‘Get up!’

  Her voice quivered with suppressed fury. Or was it excitement? She cast the compulsion on Aviel, then the charm of forgetting.

  But the memory-recovery potion had cleared Aviel’s head and she knew what was happening to her now. She perched on a stool, barefoot and quivering, while Maigraith took nineteen scent phials out of their individual loops in a leather pouch and lined them up along the bench. Each was named in her small, neat hand.

  She handed Aviel a length of papyrus torn from the bottom of the previous scroll. It was the method for blending the nineteen scents.

  ‘What’s the scent potion for?’ Aviel asked yet again.

  ‘Doesn’t matter.’

  ‘My potions always work better if I know what they’re for.’

  ‘Superstitious nonsense! Put the scents in order. Check and double-check the labels.’

  Aviel picked up the first phial and started to remove the cap.

  ‘No need to check what’s inside,’ said Maigraith. ‘I labelled them when you made them.’

  ‘Don’t tell me how to do my job,’ Aviel said coldly. She removed the cap, took a tiny sniff, her head jerked backwards and her eyes stung. ‘Burning brimstone,’ she said, and checked the label to confirm it.

  Maigraith said nothing. Perhaps she approved when the ‘little mouse’ stood up to her. Aviel checked every scent as if she were making the most important potion in the world, and with every foul and offensive odour her stomach muscles clenched tighter and her bad ankle throbbed all the more, because her sense of the potion grew ever more dire.

  She re-read the blending method. Dare she make a deliberate mistake, to ruin the potion? No, Maigraith missed nothing; she would notice instantly. Besides, an ill-made potion might have the opposite effect to that intended. Or be disastrous in some other way. Or Maigraith might decide to test it on Aviel first.

  In any case, it was not in it to her to ruin her work, any more than a sculptor could smash the nose off her finest sculpture. Whatever the purpose of the potion, good or ill, she would make it perfectly.

  Aviel blended the nineteen scents, carefully and precisely, capped the bottle and inverted it seven times, just to be sure, then removed the cap to take a careful sniff.

  ‘No!’ cried Maigraith. ‘Cap it tight and give it to me.’

  Aviel did what she was told. Maigraith closed her fingers around the bottle and, for the first time in many days, she smiled. It was not a pleasant smile.

  ‘Go back to bed,’ she said quietly. She pressed a forefinger to the centre of Aviel’s forehead. ‘Remember nothing. And if a stray memory does come back, give no hint of what you and I have done here, ever.’

  29

  Not Quickly Enough To Save Her

  The shimmer of the sus-magiz’s slowly forming gate brightened. Once it opened, the troops waiting on the other side would take them in seconds. The pain in Karan’s left hip was so bad that it was a struggle to stay upright; tears were running down her face. She pressed her forehead against the rough bark of a tree and closed her eyes. Hrux was the only thing that could get her through this.

  But only the Whelm’s best healers knew how to make hrux, and they had allied with the enemy. No hrux ever again. Be strong; you can do it.

  By herself? Nish was unconscious, Flydd and Flangers were prisoners, and the sky galleon had vanished. Karan called via the silver box but Maelys did not reply. The sky galleon had probably crashed on the other side of the mountain, since Chissmoul was overcome by suicidal despair.

  Karan took the curved Merdrun sword, which was too long and heavy for her to use comfortably, and left Nish where he had fallen. He might live or he might die; there was nothing more she could do for him.

  She hobbled from tree to tree in the gloom, an itch between her shoulder blades. If any of the soldiers Chissmoul had knocked over the edge had survived, and came after her, it would all be over. Unless – could she free Flydd or Flangers? Better be quick; the shadowy figures on the other side of the gate were becoming more real by the minute. Why was it taking so long?

  And how could the sus-magiz make one here, where the field was so weak? Perhaps, with the power from drinking all those lives, a gate could be forced open.

  She crawled to where Flydd and Flangers lay and cut Flangers’ bonds. His eyes focused on her but he did not move. The sus-magiz must have paralysed him.

 
She freed Flydd, who did not stir either. She dragged both men into the woods. A bolt was tucked into Flangers’ belt; he must have put it there before he was captured. She took it and crept up to where Nish had dropped the crossbow.

  Karan loaded it and headed down towards the gate, which was crackling and sparking, lighting up its surroundings in luminous blue. It was almost open, though the sus-magiz was on his knees, throwing up. It had taken all he had.

  Shoot him and there’s no gate. Shoot him and it’s over!

  But it was not easy for her to shoot a man in the back, even an enemy.

  This is war, fool! Just do it.

  A nailed boot scraped on stone behind her. Another soldier. Only twenty feet away. Sword in hand. Karan started, her finger jerked and for a dreadful moment she thought her only bolt would end up embedded in a tree.

  A bright red spurge sap welt, the shape and size of a maple leaf, covered most of his left cheek. It was raised half an inch above the rest of his cheek and the skin, split in a number of places, oozed blood. He must be in agony, but he came at her, raising the blade. By the time she trained the crossbow on him he was only ten feet away.

  Twang. The bolt went into the base of his throat and she saw the shock in his eyes, but he was already leaping towards her, the weapon swinging with enough force to take her head off.

  No time to move and nowhere to go; all she could do was drop, and pray. The blade sang over her head. He landed a yard in front of her, stumbled, and his driving knees caught her in the middle, knocking the breath out of her and dumping her on her back. Momentum kept him going another few steps. His boots trampled her belly and chest and just missed her face, then he fell.

  Karan was too winded to move. The crossbow was gone, she knew not where. A thud behind her as he hit the ground; a gasp and a thick, liquid gurgle; a strong smell of blood. She rolled over slowly, her trampled guts throbbing. It felt like something had torn inside.

  He was kicking and clawing at the ground, trying to force himself up. He had also lost his weapon. It was on the ground a few feet from him but she dared not go for it.

  He came to his hands and knees and took up the sword. With awful, gurgling gasps, he forced himself upright. Blood trickled from his mouth and down his chin. He was going to die, but not quickly enough. He took a wobbly step towards her, and another, and she hurt too much to get up. There was nothing she could do, no way she could escape him.

  Fool! Use your knife!

  She hurled it, aiming for his heart, but he stumbled and the tip struck sparks off the bolt embedded in his throat, and snapped. He clutched at the wound but kept coming, swaying like a wind-blasted tree.

  Karan rolled aside, rolled again, and it hurt; it really hurt. But he was in a bad way too and a couple of seconds passed before he turned from his mechanical path. She rolled again, came up against the base of a tree and had nowhere to go.

  The soldier attempted to pull the bolt out of his throat, choked, and blood sprayed from his mouth; from the wound too. He staggered and thrust at Karan. She shrank down into the leaf mould and the sword embedded itself in the trunk a couple of inches above her head. He lost his grip and the sword vibrated up and down, thrum.

  He forced two fingers into the wound, heaved the bolt out and sucked at the air. A cluster of bubbles formed there, like red frog spawn. His eyes went blank, his knees gave, and he fell beside her.

  Karan crawled away and felt around for her broken knife but could not find it. Behind her the throat wound sucked and bubbled for a while, then stopped.

  She reached the edge of the steep track and saw that the sus-magiz was on his feet again. Blood had crusted in his hair and down both sides of his sap-burned face; vomit clung to the front of his robes. He was shrivelled and shrunken now. The prodigious power required to create and open a gate here had taken more from him than he could spare.

  But it looked like a real gate now, and the moment it opened, all would end.

  Karan fumbled out the silver box, pressed the swirls and hissed, ‘Maelys, where the blazes are you? They’re about to come through!’

  Karan did not expect an answer, but shortly she heard Maelys speaking urgently. Chissmoul let out a mad cry. Slap!

  ‘Is Nish –?’ Maelys whispered.

  ‘He’s alive,’ said Karan. ‘And Flangers and Flydd.’

  Chissmoul was moaning. ‘He’s alive, you stupid bitch!’ snarled Maelys, and slapped her again.

  ‘But if you can’t stop the gate in the next two minutes, we’ll all be dead,’ said Karan.

  Chissmoul howled, then Karan made out the whine of the sky galleon, growing ever louder. The sus-magiz looked up sharply, raised his shrivelled arms and cried out in a great voice.

  Karan crept out of the forest and onto the track, the better to see. The sky galleon flashed into view, diving towards the fires.

  Through the silver box Karan heard Maelys shriek, ‘Chissmoul, no!’

  Karan caught a fleeting glimpse of her, wrestling with Chissmoul at the controls. The sky galleon rolled on its side, just missing the gate, and soared up again, a cavity in its keel glowing like a furnace.

  The sus-magiz drew more power from himself, pointed at the gate and it snapped open with a reverberating clap, like nearby thunder. Fog billowed out in all directions, and through it appeared a Merdrun officer, looking around warily.

  ‘Gate’s open!’ hissed Karan. ‘They’re coming through.’

  The officer ran to the blood-covered sus-magiz, who was doubled up on the track, heaving. The officer yelled into the fogged-out gate. A pair of red-armoured soldiers came through and many more pairs were behind them. They stopped in formation, awaiting orders from the sus-magiz, who seemed unable to speak.

  Crash-crack!

  It came from the top of the ridge, a quarter of a mile up the slope. Chissmoul must have driven the armoured bow of the sky galleon into the overhanging rocks there. The sky galleon whined, there was another almighty crash and crack. Karan heard boulders fall, then a great roaring. They had dislodged the mass of broken rock on the upper slope and it was forming a landslide.

  Karan heaved Flangers and Flydd behind the biggest tree and crouched between them with her arms over her head, praying the trunk was solid enough.

  High above, broken rock thundered down the slope, following the path cleared by one of the previous landslides, and carrying earth and stone and shattered wood with it.

  Nish! He lay unconscious in the forest, but it was too late to go after him.

  The officer looked up, clearly wondering what the racket was. It was too dark to see anything up there now.

  But he was quick! ‘Landslide!’ he bellowed. ‘Out of the way!’

  Some of the soldiers went left, others right. The troops behind them turned to run back through the fog-belching gate but collided with the ranks marching through, and they had nowhere to go.

  A churning river of rock, earth and wood hurtled down the path through the forest, exploded across the track ten feet deep and carried the fires, and most of the soldiers, into the river.

  The officer was hammered through the gate by a boulder the size of a covered wagon. The centre of the landslide poured in after, obliterating the Merdrun who were coming through, and jamming in the gate.

  It shuddered, cracked and boomed. Lighting flashed out in all directions. Then, with a cataclysmic roar and a shockwave that almost embedded Karan in the tree trunk, the gate vanished, leaving a crater a yard deep and about five yards across, glowing an eerie blue at the bottom. The fires were gone apart from a few scatters of red embers.

  Her knees gave out and she settled onto her rump, unable to get up. If a single Merdrun had survived it was all over.

  The sky galleon reappeared, moving slowly and erratically. Was Chissmoul injured? It wobbled along the line of the track, twenty feet up. Maelys was holding Chissmoul up at the controls, one arm around her. The sky galleon dropped sharply, skidded along the rock-littered track towards the brink and st
opped with several yards of the bow hanging over.

  Maelys let Chissmoul fall and scrambled over the side. ‘Karan?’

  ‘Up – here!’

  Maelys ran up to her, her face a ghastly blue in the light from the crater. ‘Are the enemy all dead?’

  ‘Wouldn’t bet on it.’

  ‘You all right?’

  The pain in Karan’s belly was part of a symphony now, played by every part of her. ‘No.’

  Maelys looked down at Flydd, who was moving his right arm as if testing it. Flangers was still under the paralysis spell. ‘Where’s Nish?’

  Karan pointed up into the forest. ‘Wasn’t time to get to him.’

  Maelys ran that way. Nish had not been in the direct path of the landslide, but rock and shattered wood had been hurled into the forest to either side. If he’d been unlucky …

  Flydd was on his knees now and had his hands on either side of Flangers’ head, whispering. A healing spell, perhaps.

  Flangers shivered and opened his eyes, blankly. Flydd rapped him on the forehead. Flangers took a shuddering breath and sat up.

  ‘You all right?’ said Flydd.

  ‘Apart from the metal spike though my head.’

  Flydd looked at Karan, then down at the track and the tilted sky galleon, lit by that eerie blue glow. ‘You did all that?’

  ‘Nish helped, and Chissmoul and Maelys.’

  ‘But without you saving the day in every possible way –’

  ‘It’ll keep. Check on the enemy,’ said Karan.

  Maelys appeared, supporting Nish. Karan staggered after them, fighting pain so bad that she thought her guts must be full of blood. The side of the sky galleon might as well have been a mountain on the moon, for she had no hope of climbing it.

  She slumped on the track. ‘Just have a little lie down.’

  ‘Not here!’ Flydd said brusquely.