The City of Stars (Chronicles of the Magi Book 3)

by Dave Morris

  The foot hovered uncertainly just a few feet overhead, then slowly moved aside to give them a glimpse of those two blazing eyes under a frowning brow like a shelf of black granite. ‘Oh? What did you say?’

  The jinni’s expression was one of surprise, gradually giving way to rage. Caelestis turned to his friend and spoke behind his hand. ‘You’ve got a plan?’

  Altor shook his head. He had no idea what he was doing. But, although he was aware of the absurdity of challenging a creature as huge as the jinni, he knew he had to try something.

  He held up his sword in a defiant gesture. ‘I have fought all manner of creatures, foul and fell, that the Devil has put upon this earth. Do you fear to face me in battle?’

  The jinni folded his arms across his massive chest and shook with laughter. ‘What do you suggest? What kind of contest could be fair?’ He grinned, displaying teeth like ancient crags. ‘As you see, I am unarmed!’

  Altor ignored the sarcasm. A plan was beginning to suggest itself. It was a long shot, certainly—but better than being crushed like a bug.

  ‘We’ll wrestle,’ he said. ‘The first of us to fall is the loser, and must submit to the victor’s will.’

  The jinni could not contain his merriment. Tears of laughter swept the dust from his cheeks. ‘You are mad. I’ll knock you off your feet with one clap—‘

  The jinni drew his hands up in front of him. The muscles of his forearms swelled like boulders. The palms alone were bigger than cathedral doors, each finger-joint the size of a church pew. Altor did not doubt that the shockwave when they came together would send both him and Caelestis flying.

  He stepped smartly forward and drove his sword-blade under the jinni’s toenail, right up to the hilt.

  It seemed to take the pain a second or two to reach the jinni’s brain. He froze with a startled look on his face, hands braced a few dozen metres apart. Then he let out a long screech that made the island shudder. Clutching his injured foot, he hopped backwards issuing a torrent of threats, curses and cries of pain.

  His other heel landed on a boulder, half buried in the wet sand, that the low tide had uncovered. The surface had been worn smooth by centuries of pounding by waves and was slimy with kelp.

  As the jinni’s good foot slipped out from under him, the look on his face changed. Rage and pain evaporated into simple dismay. Arms flailing comically, he swayed back, lost his balance, and fell over backwards.

  Caelestis and Altor hit the ground just in time. As the jinni landed in the shallows there was a splash like a tidal wave. Water cascaded down for what felt like an eternity, soaking the two heroes to the skin.

  They got to their feet to see the jinni lying stretched out from the shore. The look on his face was no longer so fierce. He just look puzzled and full of chagrin. Altor could almost feel sorry for him, but he had to follow up his advantage. He strode over to the jinni’s foot, reached up, and retrieved his sword.

  ‘Had enough?’

  As much through shame as honour, the jinni was forced to admit defeat. Hauling himself up, he knelt in the surf and wrung the salt water out of his beard.

  ‘Master,’ he said, ‘I am yours to command. Tell me the three wishes of your heart and I shall grant them.’

  Altor and Caelestis looked at each other. ‘How about that?’

  ‘A great improvement,’ admitted Caelestis. ‘For the first wish, tell him to take us to Hakbad.’

  Altor had not had time to think of the danger while he was acting, but now it was all over he discovered he was shaking. The cause was adrenaline shock rather than fear, but Altor was a proud young man and did not want to let on. Speaking loudly so that his voice didn’t betray it, he commanded the jinni to transport them to Hakbad.

  The jinni placed his hand in front of them on the sand, palm up. ‘Hakbad, the City of Stars,’ he said as they climbed up. ‘It was well known even before my imprisonment in that accursed bottle. I shall enjoy the chance to see it again—those majestic spires and patterned domes, the terraced palace gardens, the tree-lined avenues.’

  Lifting the two friends, he turned and began to wade through the sea.

  ‘Ouch, this is uncomfortable,’ said Caelestis as he tried to find a way to sit on the hard calluses of the jinni’s hand. ‘I wish I had a cushion.’

  ‘Here you are, young master,’ said the jinni, producing from nowhere a black silk cushion with golden tassels.

  Altor was furious. ‘That doesn’t count! He was just thinking out loud.’

  Possibly the jinni smiled in the grey depths of his beard. ‘Pardon me, master, but it must always be exactly three wishes. That is the way of these things, and it’s not for you or me to say otherwise. If you do not wish to waste the wish that still remains, you must refrain from thinking out loud.’

  Altor fumed to hear this, but Caelestis took it in his stride. Settling himself on the cushion, he said, ‘Never mind. We can use the last wish to find the Sword of Life. We won’t need the jinni after that.’

  The shallow waters at the head of the Gulf of Marazid were no higher to the jinni than a stream to a mortal man. He strode on through water that came to his waist, and as he went storm clouds gathered. They churned around him and swept out behind from his shoulders like a cloak until the sun was blotted out and the sky turned a violent grey-black. Talons of lightning shuddered across the heavens. Without being asked, the jinni cupped his hands to shelter them from the rain.

  ‘He’s not totally intractable, you see?’ said Caelestis, peering out at the storm between the cracks in the jinni’s fingers.

  Altor was still smarting over the wasted wish. ‘I hope that cushion’s comfortable,’ was all he would say.

  The day wore on and all they could hear were the gusting wind and the heavy sloshing sound as the jinni made his ponderous way eastwards into the Sea of Lament.

  Suddenly Caelestis stared intently out into the rain. ‘There’s a light—‘ he said. ‘Jinni, wait.’

  ‘Be careful what you say,’ cried Altor in alarm. ‘Don’t use the word “wish”, whatever you do.’

  The jinni opened his cupped hands, exposing the two of them to the rain. ‘Did you call, masters?’ he asked.

  Caelestis pointed to the light. It winked atop a narrow spire of rock that jutted vertically up from the sea. The peak was roughly on a level with the jinni’s head. ‘What’s that place?’

  ‘It is the tower of Saknathur the wizard, little master. Best we don’t go too close. Saknathur does not care for visitors.’

  Caelestis shook his head. ‘Look again.’

  The jinni squinted through the heavy curtain of rain. The tower was a pile of rubble and the buildings at its base mere weathered shells, clinging to the peak like barnacles.

  ‘Hunguk the Pirate King slew Saknathur forty decades ago,’ said Altor.

  ‘Ah.’ The jinni looked wistful. ‘Even Saknathur is gone, eh? I was imprisoned so long.’

  Caelestis turned to his friend. ‘Saknathur’s fortress is legendary. In the ruins we’d be bound to find a dozen magic trinkets.’

  ‘I don’t think this is the time to think of money.’

  ‘I don’t mean we’d sell them.’ Caelestis held up his ring. ‘We can use them to pay the Faltyn. It likes magic stuff. Maybe it’ll even help us find the Sword of Life, so we could cut out Sussurien and save our last wish from the jinni.’

  ‘Well, maybe. I wouldn’t mind a chance to stretch my legs, anyway. Jinni!’

  ‘Yes, tiny master?’

  ‘How would you like to stop here for a breather?’

  The jinni squinted at them. ‘This is not a wish, then?’

  ‘It’s not a wish, but we would quite like to spend a little time here before continuing on to Hakbad.’ This time Altor was obstinate, and when the jinni didn’t reply at once he gave a casual wave. ‘Oh well, it’s of no great importance. Wade on, then, if you must.’

  ‘Be not so hasty,’ said the jinni. ‘I merely wanted to clarify how things stood. Fo
r a fact, an hour’s rest would be much appreciated. Seven centuries in that bottle has left my knees quite stiff.’

  He waded over to the ruined fortress and lifted his hand up to a marble balustrade. Caelestis and Altor stepped across onto a parapet that ran right around the remains of the central tower.

  The light they had seen came from the colonnade at the back of the parapet. Caelestis led the way, then paused and looked back at the jinni, who was leaning with his elbow on a lichen-spotted crag. ‘You’ll wait here for us, then.’

  The jinni shrugged. ‘I’m too big to come inside with you. I’ll wait till... midnight, let’s say.’

  All three looked up at the sky, which boiled black with storm clouds. At a guess it was now late afternoon, but in fact it could have been any hour of the day or night. ‘Let’s say three hours from now,’ decided Altor.

  The jinni nodded. ‘Agreed.’

  Altor and Caelestis hurried out of the rain, stepping through an archway off the colonnade that led into a large hall.

  At just the moment they did, the storm outside abated and the clouds parted so that a shaft of blood-coloured light from the setting sun shot through a high window at the far end of the room. It mingled with the light of a fire, and in that lurid glow they beheld a strange sight.

  A giant woman, as tall as a palm tree and with coal-black skin, sat beside the fire. She had a large iron pot between her knees and with her bare hands she was scooping gobbets of greasy stew out of it.

  Altor and Caelestis instinctively ducked out sight behind a pile of rubble. They were just in time. A moment later the giantess turned to look in their direction, and from their hiding place they saw that she had only a single eye—a yellow-green orb that rolled in its socket in the centre of her brow.

  ‘A cyclops!’ whispered Altor.

  They scanned the rest of the room. Just behind the cyclops was an iron cage they had not noticed at first. Its lone occupant came forward into the firelight: an old man with a long beard. He was dressed in tunic and leggings of grey cotton and had an over-robe of scuffed blue velvet. He looked as if he had seen better days. Gripping the bars of the cage, he watched the cyclops as she consumed her meal.

  ‘Did he see us?’ said Caelestis under his breath.

  It seemed as if the old man looked a long time in their direction, then he turned to the cyclops and gave a hiss of disgust.

  She turned her head, putting up a shovel-sized hand to shield her eye from the sunset. ‘What is it?’ they heard her say scornfully. ‘Would you like to share my supper?’

  The old man wrung his hands. ‘Ah, you fiend. I pray it clogs in your entrails and causes you unendurable pain.’

  The cyclops scowled to hear this, then gave an unpleasant bark of laughter. ‘On the contrary, all of your companions have provided me with very appetising meals.’ She tossed the empty pot aside and it clanged against the wall. ‘Now I think I’ll take a little nap. When I wake it’ll be your turn.’

  She rose an went to sling a few pieces of wood onto the fire. To Altor and Caelestis they looked like the broken timbers of a ship. For a poker she used a rusted old anchor, prodding the embers until the wood caught alight.

  ‘Hmm,’ said Caelestis, ‘let me try something.’

  He stepped out of hiding while the cyclops’ back was turned and lobbed the cushion that the jinni had given him. It landed just behind her. As she looked round, Caelestis drew back out of sight.

  ‘Did you hear anything?’ the cyclops asked the old man in the cage.

  ‘Nothing. Perhaps what you heard was the heavy tread of your own guilt, you thing of perfect evil.’

  ‘Bah,’ she said, forgetting the noise. ‘How can a creature of perfect evil know the emotion of guilt?’ As she stepped back from the fire, her heel brushed the cushion. ‘Why, what’s this? A pillow... how utterly delightful. And it matches my complexion! Strange I never noticed it before—but no matter, at last I have a pillow on which to rest my dainty head.’

  A fallen masonry slab served her as a couch. As she was about to lie down, the old man called to her. ‘Wait. If I’m to be eaten when you wake, at least grant me a final wish.’

  ‘No!’ The cyclops rocked with mirth.

  ‘Listen, I beg you. Grant me this wish or my bitterness will spoil your meal.’

  The cyclops considered this. ‘Very well,’ she said at last. ‘What is the wish?’

  He pointed to a pile of rucksacks beside the fire. ‘Among my companions’ belongings there is a lyre. Let me play a last tune to mourn their passing.’

  ‘And spoil my nap? Fie!’

  ‘Why is your anger so impatient? The elegy is beautiful and haunting; its soft notes will lull you to sleep. You’ll awaken with improved appetite.’

  ‘Agh! Words, words, words. You and your fellows scatter words like—I know not what. Every time you open your mouth it is as though a swarm of bees pours out to vex me. If you weren’t the last, and your tongue the next succulent morsel I shall taste, I would ask God to give me one ear to match my one eye.’

  ‘You use ten words to my one,’ said the old man quietly. ‘Now, am I to get my lyre or not?’

  ‘Yes, all right. Just let me sleep, curse you.’ She ripped open the bags and, finding the lyre, handed it to him peevishly.

  As the cyclops stretched out, carefully positioning the cushion under her huge head, the old man began to play a wistful song. The notes were quiet, the melody seductive. Immersed for a short time in the serene beauty of the song, Altor and Caelestis were quite surprised when they heard the cyclops’ snores rasping like a saw cutting down a tree.

  They peeked out from their hiding place. ‘It’s all right, she is asleep,’ hissed the old man.

  They strode softly down the hall and opened the cage. Altor kept a wary eye on the sleeping cyclops. ‘I never thought such creatures really existed,’ he said.

  The old man was almost weeping with relief at his rescue. ‘They do—the worst luck for me and my twenty-three companions. She ate every one, and later tonight she planned to eat me.’

  ‘We should keep our voices down,’ said Altor.

  The old man shook his head. ‘No, no, she won’t wake in a hurry. That song I sang was a powerful enchantment I learned from a bard in Cornumbria.’

  The cyclops did indeed appear to be sound asleep. ‘Really?’ said Caelestis, privately thinking it was the jinni’s pillow that had done the trick.

  As they walked back along the hall away from where the cyclops lay, Altor asked the old man how he had come to be imprisoned.

  ‘The story is long, but I will be brief,’ said the old man. ‘Set among the Drakken foothils in the north of Kurland lies the Monastery of the Reawakening. My companions, who were all eaten by that pitiless creature, were the senior monks. I was their abbot. Our mission was one of great important to all mankind, and we had spent years preparing ourselves for it. As you may be aware, the dawn of the new millennium is only a few years away. It will be the time for Our Lord to set aside His work—this earth—and begin anew. Evil will be pulled from the world like a weed. The Devil and his followers will be forever expunged. Our descendents will find the coming millennium to be the era of God’s kingdom on earth.’

  Altor and Caelestis nodded gravely, saying nothing. They had heard another myth that the year 1000 would be Doomsday—a time of storms and plagues and bloody wars. It was then the gates of Spyte would open and the Five Magi would return from the night skies to rule the world. Unless they could stop them.

  ‘This heaven-on-earth will not come about without a struggle,’ added the abbot as if reading their thoughts. ‘Many imagine heaven to be their birthright, but in fact God will judge Man’s worthiness by the vigour with which we are prepared to fight for it. He can provide guidance, but it falls to mortal men to destroy the evil that has plagued us since the world began. If we cannot do that for ourselves, we forfeit Paradise.’

  He seemed to be ranting, perhaps near to hysteria after his long
ordeal, and Altor put a hand on his shoulder to calm him. ‘Peace, my lord abbot.’

  ‘No, listen to me,’ insisted the abbot with vehemence. ‘There is something you must do. You see, we travelled so far from our monastery in order to recover something that will be needed on the final day: a sapling ash, nurtured through many generations by the monks of our order. It was grown from a key taken from Yggdrasil, the Tree of Life, which was the first tree in the Garden of Eden.’

  Altor frowned, not liking to hear what was coming. ‘And how can we help?’

  ‘The sapling was stolen from us by a sect of Opalarian fire worshippers serving the god Tammuz. They used witchery to penetrate our wards, then flew off with the sapling on a bridge of flame. Now all my colleagues are dead, so there is no one but you I can turn to. The sapling must be recovered, I implore you, as it is to stand for the new era just as Yggdrasil stood for the one that is past.’

  ‘So what do you want us to do?’ said Caelestis.

  The abbot fixed him with a look of passionate conviction. ‘Isn’t that obvious? I want you to go to Opalar and steal it back.’

  Eleven:

  The Fire Worshippers

  ‘What do you think?’

  Caelestis glanced back along the hall to where the abbot was rummaging among his belongings. ‘I can’t see how we can help him.’

  Altor sighed. ‘But his quest is a good one, he has sore need of our aid, and so how can we refuse?’

  ‘Simple, we’ll explain that we’re already on a quest of our own. If we don’t get the Sword of Life and stop the Magi, there may never be a Doomsday.’ He paused. ‘Well, you know what I mean.’

  The abbot came back clutching a haversack stuffed with books. ‘I’m ready to set out. Um, how did you arrive here anyway?’

  ‘It’ll be easier if we just show you,’ said Caelestis. He led the abbot through to the parapet where the jinni was lounging against the cliff.

  The abbot gave a gasp. ‘A Ta’ashim demon! Get back before it sees us!’

  ‘Ah, there you are,’ said the jinni, completely ignoring him. ‘And who’s this old chap? He appears to be rather excitable, if you don’t mind me saying.’