Faerie Lord

by Herbie Brennan

  To his relief, Chalkhill seemed reassured, for he said, ‘All right, Silas, what do you want me to do?’

  The preparations took three quarters of an hour. When they were finished, the gloomy cavern was furnished with a temporary altar set with unlit spell cones at each corner, a circle of free-standing black-light candles and a series of tortuous glyphs painted freehand on the floor by Brimstone.

  ‘Is that it?’ Chalkhill asked. ‘Is that all you need to call up the Jormungand?’

  ‘Actually this calls up Bartzabel, the Jormungand’s keeper. But if you keep him sweet, he’ll lead in the Jormungand. The whole thing’s not as easy as it looks. It needs a lot of concentration.’ And blood, Brimstone thought, but pointless upsetting the sacrifice. ‘Now, I want you to stand over there in the north and don’t move unless I tell you. That’s very important. If you wander about it can disturb the energies with unforeseen consequences.’

  ‘Yes, all right,’ Chalkhill said and walked to the northern wall of the cavern. ‘Here okay?’

  ‘Perfect,’ Brimstone said. ‘Now stand still and shut up while I perform the orison.’

  Most of it was in a language Chalkhill didn’t understand, but at the climax of the orison, things got a little clearer. ‘Thou House of Idleness wherein I shall set up the Throne of Justice,’ Brimstone intoned. ‘Thou cold body that I shall fashion into a living flame. Thou dull ox that I shall turn into the Bull of Earth. Bartzabel! Bartzabel! Bartzabel!’

  As usual, it was the name that did it. There was a shimmering in the air before the altar as something small and compact began to manifest. Chalkhill leaned forward for a better view. He’d seen several of Brimstone’s demon evocations in the good old days, but this seemed to be something of a different order.

  ‘I unbind thee from thy chains,’ called Brimstone loudly. ‘Come forth and manifest! Come now, in fair and pleasing form, from thy palace of seraphic stars! Come, be my slave, thou spirit Bartzabel!’

  Chalkhill wasn’t sure what he was expecting – something creepy with horns, no doubt – but what he got was a chicken. He stared in utter astonishment as the bird materialised a few feet from the ground, dropped to the floor of the cavern, then strutted towards Brimstone.

  ‘Cluck!’ said the chicken fiercely.

  Forty-Nine

  In the old days, Brimstone would have wrung its neck, ‘In fair and pleasing form!’ he snapped, using the formula he learned in demonology school. ‘Preferably your proper shape.’

  The chicken transformed at once into a motleyed clown who cartwheeled the remaining distance and whispered, grinning, into Brimstone’s ear, ‘You sure you really want to do this, Silas?’

  Brimstone jerked back. ‘You’re not Bartzabel!’ he hissed.

  ‘Is that Bartzabel?’ asked Chalkhill from his station in the north.

  ‘I’m not Bartzabel!’ the clown roared delightedly and threw himself into a bewildering series of cartwheels that ended with him sitting on the makeshift altar. He spread his hands in the manner of an entertainer searching for applause and said, ‘Ta-rah!’

  ‘Don’t move!’ Brimstone called urgently to Chalkhill. He had a horrid suspicion he knew who this buffoon was, and if he was right, it was trouble.

  ‘No, don’t move,’ echoed the clown. He made a small gesture with his left hand and Chalkhill froze into immobility.

  ‘I can’t move!’ Chalkhill gasped. He seemed to have difficulty even breathing.

  The clown jumped down from the altar, ran like a ballet dancer towards Brimstone and stroked his face affectionately with both hands. ‘Sooo sweet of you to let me out.’ He grinned.

  Brimstone scowled. His suspicion was crystallising into certainty. ‘How did I do that?’ he asked.

  ‘I booby-trapped the Bartzabel ritual!’ the clown told him. ‘What a jape, eh? What a joke!’ He pushed his face forward so his nose was no more than an inch from Brimstone’s own. ‘On you!’

  ‘Who … is … this idiot?’ Chalkhill asked with considerable difficulty, and bravely, Brimstone thought, considering his captive circumstances.

  ‘This is Loki, the Trickster,’ Brimstone said sourly. He glared into the clown’s eyes, as if daring it to contradict him.

  But the creature drew back, smiling. ‘You know me! How flattering! I’ve always so much wanted to be famous.’

  ‘What’s … he … doing … here?’ This from Chalkhill again, who seemed determined to interfere with everything that was none of his business.

  ‘He’s the Jormungand’s father,’ Brimstone told him shortly.

  The shock of the news must have eased the paralysis around Chalkhill’s chest, for he managed to say clearly, ‘He’s what?’

  ‘His mother was rather large,’ Loki said across one shoulder. ‘And odd.’ But his attention was clearly elsewhere. He began to walk round Brimstone in a tight, slow circle. The broad smile slowly faded as he leaned forward to murmur in Brimstone’s ear. ‘I ask you again, Silas: do you want to do this? Do you really want to call my son?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Brimstone stiffly.

  ‘Just a minute,’ Chalkhill put in. ‘He may have a point. Do we really, really, really want –?’

  ‘Shut up, Jasper,’ Brimstone said. ‘I’ve been threatened by scarier things than this.’

  ‘So you have!’ exclaimed Loki delightedly. ‘And so you will again! But what makes you think I’m threatening you? I simply want to make sure your mind is made up – ’ the smile vanished abruptly ’ – and that you know the price!’

  ‘I know the price,’ snarled Brimstone. With an effort he stopped himself glancing towards Chalkhill.

  ‘What’s the price?’ asked Chalkhill anxiously.

  Fortunately Loki ignored him. Even more fortunately he dropped his voice even further to whisper mischievously in Brimstone’s ear. ‘The blood price, Silas – now or later!’

  ‘I know the price,’ Brimstone repeated stolidly.

  Loki took a step back, his face benign. ‘I’ll go and get him, shall I? My dear, sweet Jormungand? He’s with Angrboda, I believe. She spoils him rotten, but then mothers do, don’t they?’ He began to walk backwards, grinning at Brimstone. ‘You’re absolutely, positively, sure …?’ he asked lightly.

  ‘Yes!’ Brimstone snapped.

  ‘Just checking,’ Loki said, and vanished.

  The cavern suddenly felt empty and very, very silent.

  ‘What was all that about?’ asked Chalkhill after a moment.

  ‘Nothing,’ Brimstone told him.

  ‘Silas…?’

  ‘What? What is it now?’

  ‘I still can’t move.’

  Good, Brimstone thought. That will make the sacrifice a whole lot easier. Good old Loki. Aloud he said, ‘It’ll wear off in a minute.’ He was wondering if there was anything else he needed to do. Call the Jormungand directly, for example. Or start making the wild promises one used to intrigue these creatures. Or-

  There was a straining in the dank atmosphere of the cavern.

  ‘What’s happening?’ Chalkhill asked at once.

  Brimstone caught sight of a curious shimmering above the altar and took a cautious step backwards. The Jormungand was big. And indiscriminating. No sense in being too close when it materialised.

  The shimmering began to take a solid shape. The air was abruptly filled with the scent of the sea, a pungent overlay of fish, salt and rotting weed. From the direction of the cage inside the inner cavern an unearthly wailing began. Closer to hand a curious crackling whispered above their heads.

  ‘I don’t like this,’ Chalkhill said.

  The Jormungand serpent was beginning to form. Brimstone could see it clearly now, coil upon glistening coil. The creature was far larger than anything he had ever called from Hael. It was the perfect guardian for his treasure. But best show it who was boss at the earliest opportunity. ‘Get a move on!’ Brimstone called.

  The serpent snapped into existence with an audible pop. It slammed down on the altar, sma
shing it completely. The huge head with its dragon teeth swung round, eyes glowing, in search of its sacrifice.

  ‘Over there!’ Brimstone shouted excitedly, pointing at Chalkhill.

  But Chalkhill was no longer in the north. Fear had snapped his paralysis and he was racing towards the exit tunnels as fast as his chubby legs would carry him. The serpent lunged after him, but missed, jaws closing with a vicious snap. Chalkhill plunged into the tunnel. The beast was far too big to follow. It swung round to glare at Brimstone.

  ‘Oh, no you don’t!’ said Brimstone firmly, ‘I’m the one who called you.’ He thought quickly. ‘Tell you what: you can have the next person who enters this cavern. Slow death, fast death, it’s entirely up to you. What do you say to that, then?’

  ‘Aaaaaarrr!’ roared the Midgard Serpent.

  Fifty

  The Arcond of Hass-Verbim, an old friend of Blue’s father, insisted on a banquet and sat beaming as course after exotic course was delivered to the table by a herd of liveried stumpies. Blue worked hard to curb her impatience. She desperately wanted to move on, to cross into Buthner, to find Henry and bring him back safely. But the diplomatic niceties had to be observed, and besides, even if they were in Buthner this very second, she had no idea where to look for Henry, let alone find him.

  Pyrgus was feeling impatient as well. He had that distant look he got sometimes, was taking very little part in the conversation and only picking at his food. Madame Cardui was doing rather better. She was seated on the Arcond’s left and, rather to Blue’s relief, was claiming most of his attention.

  ‘Dreadful place,’ the Arcond was saying in response to her question about Buthner. ‘I can’t imagine why you want to go there. Most of it, quite frankly, is wilderness. Desert, really. Hideously hot. There are a few shanty towns round the edges, no central government at all – just local warlords who control their own regions and fight among one another. And the people … oh, my dear, the people!’

  ‘Dreadful too?’ asked Madame Cardui with a half smile.

  The Arcond relaxed back in his chair. ‘Oh, I shouldn’t be too hard on them. They’re just trying to survive, after all. You’ll find porters at almost all of the border crossings. They’ll pilfer anything they can from your luggage, but most of them won’t try to kill you. You need to keep out of the shanty towns unless you have an armed guard, and a substantial one at that. I notice …’ He trailed off diplomatically.

  ‘No entourage,’ Madame Cardui confirmed. ‘No guards, no servants. We are travelling, shall we say, incognito.’

  ‘How intriguing,’ said the Arcond. He glanced at Blue, then back again. ‘Well, doubtless you have your reasons. But if you plan to visit the townships, I would strongly suggest you permit me to provide you with an escort.’

  ‘I’m not sure we will be,’ Madame Cardui told him. ‘What can you tell me about the desert?’

  Blue pricked up her ears at once. So far, both Pyrgus and Madame Cynthia had insisted they had no idea where to look for Henry. She could trust Pyrgus to tell her the truth – he was the worst liar in the world – but Madame Cardui’s life was devoted to secrets. She hid things almost by instinct. If she was interested in the Buthner desert, there was probably a reason.

  ‘Not a great deal,’ the Arcond was saying, ‘It takes up four-fifths of the country’s land surface. Several million square miles of … nothing really. Sand. A few water holes – one would hardly call them oases. The odd monastery. Scorpions. A scattering of undeads barrow wights, that sort of thing. The nomads call them vaettirs.’

  ‘Ah, so there are nomads?’ Madame Cardui asked.

  ‘Apparently,’ the Arcond said. ‘God alone knows how they manage to survive. Extremely primitive from what I hear. All sorts of stories about them. Cannibalism. Head hunting. Blood drinking. You wouldn’t really know what to believe. There’s something in their diet that turns them blue, skin and hair. All the information I have suggests the nomad tribes are even more dangerous than the townships, but they avoid normal people when they can, so the chances of you meeting them are slim, even if you go into the desert. You’re not planning to go into the desert, are you?’

  ‘Unlikely,’ said Madame Cardui blandly.

  ‘I’ll tell you something really interesting about Buthner,’ the Arcond said suddenly. ‘At one time – this is very many years ago: prehistory, I suppose you’d say – at one time, it housed what was probably the most advanced civilisation on the planet. We have an archaeological body here, the Verbim Institute –’ He smiled. ‘I’m Honorary Chairman and I contribute to the funding. The Institute has conducted several digs in the safer areas of Buthner and the evidence is quite extraordinary. It seems that Buthner – and parts of Hass-Verbim, of course; they weren’t separate countries in those days was the heart of an extensive empire.’ He half turned his head. ‘Much like your Empire is now, Blue.’

  ‘Really?’ Blue said politely.

  It was clearly one of the Arcond’s enthusiasms, for he leaned forward to say, ‘Oh, yes. Very technically advanced on the evidence we have. Magical technology. I know some scholars don’t accept this, but I really do believe they may well have been more advanced than we are today.’

  ‘I thought there was a ban on the use of magic in Buthner,’ Madam Cardui put in. ‘Or is that just some local warlord?’

  ‘Oh no,’ said the Arcond. ‘You’re quite right, Cynthia. There is a huge distrust of magic in Buthner much more even than there is in my own country. In some areas you risk immediate execution if you’re found in possession of so much as a spell cone.’ He hesitated. ‘You’re not planning to take anything magical across the border, are you?’

  ‘No,’ said Madame Cardui without a moment’s hesitation.

  The Arcond looked relieved. ‘Ah good.’ He smiled. ‘We wouldn’t want a diplomatic incident.’

  ‘Or an execution,’ Blue murmured quietly.

  The Arcond obviously didn’t hear her, for he relaunched his monologue at once, ‘I have a theory – a personal theory, although it is borne out by the archaeological evidence – I have a theory that it was magic that caused the downfall of the old Buthner Empire and the dislike of magic today is a race memory dating back all the way to that event.’

  ‘Really?’ said Madame Cardui, injecting far more of a note of interest than Blue had managed earlier.

  Blue said quietly, ‘Are you all right, Pyrgus?’

  ‘Oh, indeed,’ said the Arcond. ‘You see, there’s no reason for the desert. No geological reason. The desert is where the ruins are, where the main cities used to be, so clearly it wasn’t a desert then. And there wasn’t a general change in climate, otherwise Hass-Verbim would be a desert now as well. So how did a thriving, prosperous, urbanised community suddenly turn into a desert. It was sudden, you know. Our digs show that conclusively. What I –’

  ‘Pyrgus!’ Blue exclaimed in sudden alarm.

  ‘– believe is that some powerful magical operation, perhaps unimaginably more powerful than anything we might manage today, got out of hand. It may have been military, or something in the nature –’

  ‘What’s wrong, Blue deeah?’ Madame Cardui asked.

  Blue was staring in horror at Pyrgus, seated almost opposite her across the table. His head was twisted to a peculiar angle that threw the sinews of his neck into sharp relief. His eyes were rolled back so that only the whites were showing and his whole body trembled like a leaf in a gale.

  Madame Cardui stood up so quickly that her chair toppled backwards. ‘He’s in another bout of fever!’ she exclaimed.

  Fifty-One

  ‘Quarantine!’ Blue fumed. ‘He has no right!’

  ‘He has every right,’ Madame Cardui told her. ‘You’d do exactly the same thing in his position. We’re lucky he didn’t include us in the order.’

  ‘He wouldn’t dare!’

  ‘I would,’ Madame Cardui said casually, ‘in his position. The temporal plague isn’t something to take lightly.’

 
; ‘But it doesn’t seem to be contagious! The quarantine is nonsense.’

  Madame Cardui shrugged. ‘He doesn’t know that. Neither do we, for sure.’

  They were sitting together in an antechamber of the hospital wing in the Arcond’s Palace. Through the window they could see Pyrgus, his bed encased in an isolation pod, locked in his feverish coma.

  ‘But how do we go on?’ Blue demanded. ‘How do we follow our plan?’ She was less focused than she sounded. Part of her desperately wanted to press ahead and try to rescue Henry, but another part of her, equally strong, wanted to look after Pyrgus. Staring at him now through the transparent coating of his pod, she was aware of an irrational dread that he would die like Mr Fogarty. As it was, he seemed to be growing older in the bed, although she knew that had to be an effect of her worried imagination.

  ‘I’m afraid our plan is already in ruins, my deeah,’ Madame Cardui said kindly. ‘From the moment Pyrgus fell ill again. With or without the quarantine, he can’t possibly travel. The future we are living now has deviated so much from what Alan foresaw that we must consider our original plans obsolete.’

  Blue stared at her. ‘Are you saying we can no longer rescue Henry? Or stop the plague?’ she added as an afterthought.

  ‘I’m not saying that for a moment. But the situation has become much more difficult and we need to revise our approach.’

  ‘In what way?’

  Madame Cardui sighed, ‘I wish I knew, deeah. The thing is, Alan foresaw a future in which Pyrgus and I travelled to Buthner and effected Henry’s rescue. That plan was modified when you joined us, deeah, but it still seemed largely viable. But clearly Pyrgus can no longer travel to Buthner. In fact, it seems to me that he needs to be translated to the Analogue World again as quickly as possible, otherwise we could have a real emergency on our hands. They don’t have the technology for that in Hass-Verbim. You know how suspicious of spells they are here – we’re lucky they have medical magic like isolation pods. So we need to get him back to the Realm with the minimum delay.’