The driver stared at the passing banners and military standards. ‘I thought the Widow Brigade was stationed at the Western Mountains?’
‘We were.’ The captain grinned. ‘But now we’re on a path to greater things. In alliance with the First Army we’re on our way to stamp the towers of Sylvaris into the ground. Our lord has offered to pay all his soldiers a blood price for every Treman nose delivered to his Throne Room.’ The captain pulled two sacks from his saddlebags. ‘If I can fill these with green noses I’ll be rich beyond my wildest dreams!’
With a throaty laugh of delight he turned his arachnid mount and galloped off, adding the dust of his passing to the great cloud already kicked up by the passing of thousands of booted feet.
The guard turned to look at the two prisoners with a speculative eye only to get a slap round the back of his head.
‘Stop that!’ insisted the driver. ‘Take their noses and we’ll not only lose our bonus, but we’ll lose this cushy job. And if you think that’s worth it, imagine where you’ll be drafted to next.’ The driver waved a thumb in the direction of the First Army. ‘Right in with that lot of grunts. Is that what you want? Marching for miles each day on an empty stomach, being ordered around by snotty-nosed colonels and gut-punching sergeants?’
‘No. Now that you mention it … no.’ The guard pushed his dagger back into its sheath and settled into his seat.
In the wagon, Jenson and Kelko, gagged as they were, needed no words to express their horror at what they had heard. Powerless to act, they had to wait three long hours before Bane’s mighty army had snaked its deadly way past them towards their beloved home of Sylvaris.
Bane’s bounty for Charlie Keeper was carried across the land. Heralds in elegant livery and town criers in rich robes shouted the announcement in hamlets, villages, towns and cities. Word began to travel far and wide and those motivated by the colour of gold and the twinkle of jewels pricked up their ears. Mercenaries, bounty hunters, cutpurses, bandits, soldiers of fortune, bootstraps and backstabbers gathered in throngs.
The Scarlet Poison Gang, the Scaramanga Triplets, the Forty Swords, the Band of Thirteen, the Liver Eaters and many, many more listened eagerly as Bane’s bounty was described.
‘… sapphires!’
‘… enough rubies to swim in!’
‘… a thousand fistfuls of gold!’
Grinning and slapping each other on the back as though they had already earned the reward, they began to disperse in trickles and then droves as they started their quest for Bane’s elusive fugitive.
In a dusty square in some nameless village the herald’s words caused a riot as three competing gangs clashed over foolish boasts of what they would do with the reward.
On the outskirts of the piazza, a tall stranger with an unusual wide-brimmed hat and a shabby cloak ignored the violence and walked straight across the square. Those who saw him coming leaped out of the way. The fighting stopped and silence spread as the hoodlums cleared a path for the stranger and shouted warnings to those still brawling.
‘Fe-fi …’ whispered a heavily muscled Stoman.
‘Fo Fum,’ gasped another.
‘Watch out, watch out,’ chanted all the gang members in unison, ‘the bad man comes.’
Planting his heavy staff against the side of a building that edged the square, the stranger pulled a compact wooden box from beneath his robe. Inside was an ornate compass, the beauty and craftsmanship of which was most unusual. Its great age was also apparent, suggesting it had been constructed not just in a different time, but perhaps in a different realm. The man pulled the compass to his lips.
‘Charlie Keeper,’ he whispered in a dry, croaky voice. ‘I want Charlie Keeper.’
The compass wheel spun one way, the needle the other. Round and round they went, then suddenly snapped to a standstill, the needle pointing unerringly towards the Slumbering Hills.
The stranger folded the lid over the compass before carefully stowing it away.
Taking hold of his staff and ignoring the shouts and curses of the amateurs who resumed fighting behind him, the man strode off.
He had a fugitive Keeper to find and a bounty to earn.
16
Final Preparations
At the end of the tunnel was a chamber, crudely hewn from the bedrock. Thick candles crouched on lumps of rock and hung from stone outcroppings. Grey smoke and the putrid smell of burning fat oozing off the candles created a gloomy atmosphere and offered little in the way of illumination. The scent of rotting carcasses and stagnant water clogged Charlie’s nostrils and the only thing that stopped her from crying out in disgust was the sense of … something. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but beneath the terrible stench lay a feeling of suspense. As though something was lurking nearby, like a shark hidden in the murky depths waiting for someone foolish enough to dangle their toes in the water.
She wished that someone was there with her. Someone to talk to and help break the eerie atmosphere, but she was alone. At least she thought she was; she had the unpleasant sensation that something was watching her.
As her eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, Charlie examined the chamber. On the far wall a skin of some sort had been stretched taut over the craggy surface. Drawing closer Charlie realized the terrible smell was coming from the stretched piece of hide. She could see bits of fat, scales and hair clinging to it and, to her disgust, what looked like big pimples.
‘Eeurgh!’ she complained, unable to keep her mouth closed any longer. ‘That thing is gross! Gross! And look it’s even got zits on it, how naaaaaaaasty is that?’
She realized that she was talking to herself, but she didn’t care. Standing here, in this place, in total silence was more than she could bear.
‘This has got to be the Gate,’ she muttered. ‘There’s nothing else.’
She called forth her Will and smiled slightly as the gorgeous golden light pushed back the darkness. She reached towards the skin, her fingers not quite touching its horrendous surface. As she focused her mind and gritted her teeth, her Will shot out, covering the skin in golden light. It rippled and changed, becoming translucent. Through it she caught a brief glimpse of a cobbled stone pathway and a hanging rope bridge before a thick mist descended and obscured everything from view. All that remained were a few short metres of visibility that allowed her to see the path lying tauntingly in front of her.
She squeezed her eyes shut and thought of her parents, Azariah, Jensen and Kelko, and everything that had led her here. Grabbing the useless hilt of the Hell Sword and finding little comfort in its decrepit appearance, she gathered all the courage she could muster and leaped through the Gate.
The tunnel was narrow enough to prevent the Shades and Stoman soldiers using their weight of numbers to their advantage. That and the sheer brutish strength of Darkmount and his stonesinging caused Nibbler to grow cocky.
‘Well, come on then if you think you’re hard enough!’ he called out in a sing-song. A flight of arrows whistled towards him. He casually burned them to a crisp. ‘Ha! Even my grandma could have done better than that! Is that all you’ve got? Do you want to stop for tea and biscuits?’
‘Winged One,’ interrupted Darkmount.
‘Er, yeah?’
‘You’re a Hatchling. You don’t know your grandmother.’
‘Well no, no I don’t. But it’s just a saying. You know, just to get into the feel of things.’
Darkmount shook his head. Tearing a lump of rock from the wall, he flung it down the tunnel, knocking a Shade and two Stomen off their feet.
A flash of golden light from behind caused the two of them to pause.
‘Was that …’ began Nibbler.
‘Yes, that was the Gate. She’s gone through.’
‘Does that mean –’
A chorus of Stonesong washed down the tunnel. The Shades and Stomen parted to make way for a line of angry-looking Stonesingers.
‘Enough questions,’ said Darkmount, hurling ano
ther lump of rock at his adversaries. ‘More flame.’
17
Hell
The mist felt wrong.
It was cold and clammy yet smelt like a hot greenhouse. The scent of lilies, freshly ploughed soil and the tang of exotic plants tickled at Charlie’s nose, which she knew couldn’t be right as the few things she could see were barren and lifeless. Sounds seemed to behave oddly too; one minute her footsteps would sound muffled, the next too loud. But what bugged her the most was the wind. It howled around her constantly. But she couldn’t feel it on her skin and the mist didn’t move at all.
Nothing behaved as it should.
Looking back Charlie could see the Gate and through it the faint outline of the cave beyond. It was like trying to peer into a bathroom mirror made foggy from condensation. Squaring her shoulders, she ventured deeper into the mist.
At first she was troubled by the idea that she might become lost, but the pathway was easy to follow. The same screaming statues that had lined the corridors were here too, their outstretched arms pointing the way, and it wasn’t long until Charlie found herself at the bridge.
It was a rope bridge, the kind that she had seen in travel magazines and documentaries. Rough wooden slats formed the walkway and the handrails were made from thick ropes. Unlit lanterns had been tied not only to the side of the bridge, but also to a guide line that hung overhead. As she planted her foot on the first slat, the closest lantern flickered alight, its oddly cheerful flame warming the mist with its glow.
Charlie gaped up at it foolishly. She peered along the bridge, then looked over her shoulder to check that someone wasn’t watching. But she was alone.
‘Huh,’ she muttered.
Shrugging, she took a couple of hesitant steps. More of the lanterns came alive, illuminating the bridge as though eager to show her the way.
Charlie raised an eyebrow, but, growing more confident, continued to make her way across. Something skittered past; she felt the weight of its passing on the handrail. The thick rope thrummed and vibrated beneath her palm. She spun round, trying to locate the source of movement. But there was nothing to see: only the fog, the lanterns and the eerie feeling that something was out there.
Then she felt it again. The vibrations in the handrail, the flash of shadow in the mist and the very definite sense that she was not alone. She took a firmer grip on the Hell Sword and crouched low. Waiting. Listening.
The bridge heaved upward. It felt as though some giant hand had grabbed the end and was whipping it up and down. Charlie squawked as she was flung through the air. She landed face-first on the wooden slats, one of them actually giving way so that her arm plunged through. Staring down into the mist, she resisted the urge to scream. Instead she wrapped her free arm round the handrail, heaved herself up and rode the shaking bridge. Charlie was certain she could see movement, but each time she whipped her head round to catch whatever was out there she was too late. All she saw was a ripple in the mist and a hint of passing shadow.
Something touched the back of her neck. The horrible and totally unexpected contact spurred her into motion. She jumped forward and ran, moving faster than she had thought possible.
Sprinting along the bucking bridge, she kept one hand firmly on her sword and the other round the rope. Leaping over missing slats and ducking beneath the bobbing lanterns she darted forward.
She stumbled to a sudden halt as the mist abruptly ended, launching her into sullen sunlight. The bridge was calm and as she looked back into the solid wall of fog she could no longer detect any movement.
She breathed deeply, shut her eyes and counted to five. Regaining her composure, she stared around.
The bridge continued for another forty or fifty metres then ended against a gigantic cliff that reared up into the dull skies. Charlie rubbed at her eyes and looked again. It wasn’t a cliff; it was a temple. The sheer size and scale made it seem unreal, as though someone had torn a mountain free and dumped it here in the middle of nowhere, then carved it into the shape and suggestion of a building.
She rubbed at her eyes again.
There were many, many floors, each one separated from the one above by its own graceful rooftop. The bricks were orange in colour, the slates on the roofs green, and dotted here and there on narrow balconies were gardens. But everything appeared dull and dead. The bricks were faded, the paint on the slates peeling and the gardens full of grey brittle leaves.
Unable to help herself, Charlie traced the building downward and before she could stop herself, and against Darkmount’s explicit words of warning, she found herself staring underneath the bridge.
There was nothing beneath her. Nothing. She could trace the line of castle all the way down until it blurred into the distance. She could see the cliff wall on the other side too. The view was good, and her sight wasn’t obscured by haze so she could see for miles.
It was bottomless. Absolutely bottomless.
Her stomach lurched, her knees gave way and the only thing holding her upright was her hand. She grasped the rail so hard that she could feel the rope cutting into her palm.
Desperate for an anchor, she draggd her gaze back to the castle like a drowning man striving for land. Following the line of the building to the very top, she noted that the pinnacle had a spire that soared into the gloomy clouds.
Then everything slammed into focus. Those weren’t clouds. They were cobwebs.
The sky was made from spun silk.
As her numbed brain began to function after the terrible sights both beneath her and above her, she reached an abrupt decision and ran for all she was worth. Towards the castle and away from whatever lurked in the mist. She really, really didn’t want to meet whatever had made those webs and she had a suspicion that she had had a close encounter with the spinner already.
Then she stumbled to a halt.
What if the spinner wasn’t in the mist? What if she was running from phantoms and the real source of the cobwebs was waiting for her in the castle?
Sweat prickled her forehead and goosebumps crested up and down her arms. But there was no choice. In order to retrieve Darkmount’s god she had to follow the path and deal with whatever she encountered. The bridge lurched again, almost knocking Charlie from her feet. Instinct told her that forward was safer than back, so she pushed her fears aside and sprinted into the temple.
18
The Hard Sell
The wagon drove through the mine’s main entrance, past the bored eyes of the watchmen and rumbled down a dim and stinking tunnel. It crunched to a stop in front of a barbed gate.
There was a clanking of bolts and the sound of heavy locks being turned before the gate swung open to reveal a chamber with further tunnels leading deeper into the mine.
A pair of brooding Stomen came lurching up to the wagon and silently manhandled Jensen and Kelko off the cart.
‘Have they been searched?’ one of the guards enquired gruffly.
‘Yeah,’ drawled the driver. ‘Back in Alavis. All their wood was burned. You won’t be having any trouble from these two even if they are Tree Singers.’
‘Good.’
‘A friendly word of advice,’ warned the driver. ‘Send up a team of eight to take the dog. The two of you won’t be enough.’
The two Stomen took a look at Sic Boy, weighing up his streamlined muscles and huge incisors. They nodded.
‘We’ll take these two down first. Then we’ll come back with some help.’
‘Just be sure to bring our bonus back up with you,’ leered the wagon guard. He leaned over so he could stare at Kelko and Jensen. ‘Goodbye, little monkeys. I hope you have fun in the mines.’
The two Tremen were dragged away to the sound of the barking laughter of the wagon guard and driver. They were carried, prodded and pushed down tunnel after tunnel. They heard screams, moans and the lash of whips. They passed chain gangs of huddled slaves, cruel-looking guards and endless passageways that snaked off into the stinking darkness.
After what seemed like an endless period of time, the two were forced into a smoky, fire-lit cavern and thrown to their knees in front of the largest Stoman that either of them had ever seen – even bigger than Lady Narcissa’s adopted son Stones. He was clad in trousers and boots, but wore nothing over his top, leaving the taut muscles on his torso exposed. A puckered scar ran from forehead to chin, passing over the ruined pit of an eye that was covered by a patch before continuing down to end near his navel. An axe hung from his belt and in his hand dangled a long whip.
‘New fish,’ he drawled with a lazy predatory smile. ‘My name is Jook the Attentive. And seeing that I’m the boss of this mining venture it is only fitting that I be first to welcome you to the Soul Mines of Zhartoum. It is here, in my mines, that you will begin your new life. The ceiling above will become your sky, the rocky walls your horizon and the scream of your companions shall be the only music to grace your ears. Be sure to please me or –’
Jensen, in what seemed like a moment of madness, decided that now would be a good time to make himself heard. He interrupted the overseer’s speech by doing his best to speak through his gag.
‘Huw-whuddya-ike-tabe-ich!’
The guard nearest to him spun round and raised a hand, but Jook stopped him. ‘Wait, let’s hear what the little fish has to say.’
The guard removed the gag and for the second time in several days Jensen worked his jaw until he felt able to speak.
‘Hold on a minute,’ said Jook with a warning wave of his sausage-like finger. ‘Before you open that pipe hole of yours let me warn you that if I’m not pleased with the words that drop from your mouth I’ll cut the tongue from your head and feed it to your fat friend.’
Jensen returned the overseer’s smile with a cocky one of his own. ‘How would ya, me big brooding friend, like ta become very, very rich?’
Keeper of the Realms: The Dark Army (Book 2) Page 9
