by S McPherson
‘So if all this happened back then, why all these killings now?’ Nathaniel asks, his eyes searching every face in front of him, finally resting on Michaela’s. For so long, her silence had been enough; why were R.U.O.E. now asking for her life instead?
Fawn caresses the plume of grey on his chin. ‘Because, the night that that Exlathar came into Islon, it never left.’
‘It went on a rampage, killing for sport.’ Buzdreedle struts the length of the table as he talks. ‘Wisely, it remained in the woods, hidden from Corporeal eyes. The only ones to see it never lived to tell the tale. But R.U.O.E. recognised the signs. Knew the deaths were the work of an Exlathar.’
‘Hence the supposed wood security,’ Jude murmurs.
‘Hence it were,’ Pebble agrees. ‘Eventually, the Court was summoned, the only ones powerful enough to vanquish the demon.’ She sneers, ‘And you can bet R.U.O.E. didn’t like that one bit. Our kind was never supposed to cross that portal again and they thought they had us at bay. Well, they thought wrong.’
KILL SOME, KEEP SOME
My heart is in my mouth, thudding against my thirst-swollen tongue. I hear it pulse like drums of death, each thump counting down to my end. Goosebumps crawl along my skin like spiders. Icy shivers run down my spine.
I know the siren is still blasting but hear nothing except the tremor of my shallow breaths, loud as though my mouth were pressed to my ear.
I stare at slits of red glaring back at me, my mouth opening to scream when they lunge forward. Almost paralysed, I push myself to my feet, waiting for the crushing weight of the beast to smack me into the wall. But it doesn’t. Instead, I hear a horrendous growl and a vision of black descends between me and my attacker.
‘No!’ it hisses. The frostiness of its tone grips me. I feel surrounded by cold. ‘Alive!’ it demands, wings thrashing as it fends off the attacking Exlathar.
Shrieks and snarls erupt within the hole, and I duck to avoid being smothered by a flailing wing, feathers as thick as my arm. I scurry across the ground with no aim, every direction ending in stone—every direction but up.
My heart lurches: the grate is open. The beasts continue to brawl around me, filling the pit with a sour stench that stings the back of my throat. I watch in horror for a moment, glancing between them and the grate, a sliver of moonlight creeping in as the sky darkens.
I inhale; a long lingering breath and the rapid tremor of my pulse steadies; the familiar twinge of magic prickles from my toes, up through my skin.
‘Tixtremidral,’ I murmur, so softly even I struggle to hear it, doubting it will work. Almost instantly, though, the feel of earth beneath my feet fades and the opening quickly gets closer. Then I’m through, landing with an inaudible thump, rocking unsteadily as my feet teeter on the edge of the hole. I throw myself forward, falling on my knees, no time to feel relief. The noise of grappling beasts is still behind me as I scramble to my feet and race off, no idea where I’m going.
The muggy cave I race through is dim and has a musky scent that swells like mushrooms, and soon I’m clammy, licking parched lips and gasping as I clutch a stich in my side. But I keep running, well after I can no longer hear the sounds of the Exlathars, until I can no longer hear anything, nor see anything.
It is pitch black—even the starry blanket of the night sky absent—and the whirring of the siren has certainly silenced. I slow to a walk, panting, but not too loudly for fear one of them may be lurking in the dark. Jagged rock juts out of the rutted wall and gaping holes sink into it. Some feel big enough for something to hide inside and I promptly stop feeling around, keeping my arms locked at my side. The occasional puddle in the earth wets my bare feet, freezing the already frozen skin and sludgy grime clings to my toes.
Despite my eyes being wide open I see nothing, my ears perked up like a cats and straining for the faintest sound: the quiet scrape of a wing across the ground, the hushed thump of a pointed hoof sticking in the soil.
I bump into a wall, realising I have come to a passageway so narrow that when I press myself firmly against the rock on one side of it, I can easily reach out and touch the other. I’ve never been claustrophobic, but this is certainly pushing it.
Wincing, I duck as I scrape my forehead on what feels like a thick pencil of stone hanging from the ceiling.
The deeper I go, the looser the ground becomes, turning to a littering of pebbles that make me flinch as they dully clunk against each other under my feet. And every flinch, shatters a nerve, every step crushing my resolve.
Gasping and gulping in air, I will myself onwards but collapse against the wall. There has to be a way out of here. This place cannot wind on forever, right? Trembling, my lips clamp together to hold in a scream. Not forever.
I peel myself away from the wall, something sticky clinging to my shirt. It feels heavy, banging against my shoulder with every step, as though something is tapping me on the back as it follows at my heels.
The heat becomes near stifling, coating my skin in a slick of sweat as I push on, not caring when the sharp rock walls cut me, maybe leaving a trail of blood behind. I have all but given up when a dim light flickers ahead, like the light of a flame. Hope quickens my pace but I stumble more, stubbing my feet, keeping my lips tight for fear of crying out.
I’m almost at the end when a harsh, rasping whisper, so bitter it stings, freezes me to the spot as the chill of terror races up my spine. I stagger back into the shadows, away from what I now see as the flickering light of a torch, and I listen.
‘Breeders breed,’ hisses the voice.
There are thin grunts and whispers in response, then another sound, a tearing, wet sound. I move my head to see beyond the end of the tunnel’s wall and into a cave, crouching low and keeping deathly quiet. A group of about five Exlathars—hunched and breathing heavily, giving them an air of age—stand around another.
I watch, raptured by fear and awe, as the one they’re crowding around—a female I guess—appears to shed layers of skin. A squelching, ripping noise echoes around the cave walls as the flesh falls away and the woman writhes, screeching out, her once green eyes now a radiant blue. A putrid stench like rotting meat swells and I clamp my mouth shut and pinch my nostrils. More shrieks and tearing flesh follow until at last the female becomes peaceful and the mass of skin on the ground starts to move.
I grip the wall beside me and watch the discarded flesh wriggle and squirm until an infant Exlathar stands upright, about three feet in height with wings that trail behind it. The one that spoke first, the raspiest of all voices, circles, his pointed head nudging the infant, inhaling the smell of decay.
Finally, he steps back. ‘Save.’ he hisses.
The mother curls her wings around her smaller self and together they leave through an arch in the wall at the far side of the cave.
What do I do now? I look behind me into the blackness and shudder. But I can’t risk being caught standing here. Inwardly, I whimper. Going back seems almost as terrifying as being found. I barely made it this far as it is, and no doubt the beasts in my prison will have realised I’ve escaped by now. Going back would be signing my own death warrant.
I’m distracted when what I take to be another mother glides into the cave. I watch in the same petrified amazement as she too thrashes, wails and discards her coat into a squirming pile on the ground. The heap of skin is much smaller than before and makes an odd clicking sound as it rises on puny, newly formed legs, this one no higher than my knee, its wings barely reaching the ground.
The speaker doesn’t even investigate this one, just lets out a high-pitched ear-splitting cry and unleashes a spray of yellow mist over the infant. It collapses, erratically convulsing on the ground.
My hands fly to my mouth, my eyes clenched shut. I try to block out the agonising howls of the mother and child. Staggering away from the horror, grasping the wall to keep from falling, my hand slips into one of its many crevices, damp mucus of some kind hanging around its edges; but it is empty and quiet,
and large enough for me to climb inside.
Ignoring the sticky goo, I protectively curl myself into a ball, my knees pressed to my chin, my shoulders nudging my ears. If I had the space, I would rock myself like a mother cradling her weeping child. These monsters kill their own; what little chance do I have?
The underground dwellings have been quiet for some time; Milo opens one eye. He can vaguely make out the silhouettes of the sleeping figures on the ground beside him. One flickering torch in a wall bracket, dimly lights the exit from the sleeping quarters.
Stealthily, Milo slides from under his rough blanket. There is hardly any room between him and the others, his arm brushing the soft hairs on the head of a gently snoring woman behind him. He waits; his breathing staggered. The woman sleeps on. Relieved, he carefully gets to his feet.
Milo tiptoes his way through the narrow gaps between the people, trying to discern sleeping bodies from their shadows cast by the torch. He wobbles, teetering on one foot as a rotund man rolls over, blocking the bit of ground he was about to step onto.
With no other option, Milo leaps over the lump of a man, his trailing foot clipping his protruding belly. The man stirs, grumbling and fidgeting before scratching at his flabby stomach.
‘It’s all the food you’ve eaten,’ Milo whispers in a singsong kind of way, ‘trying to get out.’
The man settles and snores on in his returned sleep. Milo smirks to himself, his smile growing wider as the light gets brighter nearer the exit, his way progressively easier.
Once out, Milo leans against the passage wall—damp and moulded out of earth—catching his breath and listening out for the guards who patrol at regular intervals. He’s been following their routine enough to know just when the next one will be. The next time the guards will briefly lower the shield around the underground base so they can survey the outer grounds—and when Milo intends to slip out.
At the end of the passageway he stops and listens once again; all is quiet but the guards should be along any minute.
‘Stop!’ A voice hisses.
Slowly, Milo turns, surprise stretching his face when he meets Yvane’s stern glare. Behind her stands Howard, his bulging muscles framing Yvane’s folded arms.
‘What are you doing here?’ Milo growls, keeping his voice low.
‘Stopping you,’ Howard states.
‘Don’t waste your time,’ Milo says dismissively, turning to leave.
‘I’ve seen you try this, Milo,’ Yvane hisses and her tone makes him turn and take note. ‘Do what you’re thinking of doing and you’ll end up teleporting right into the force field. You’ll be knocked out for days, days that Dezaray might not have.’
‘Have you seen her?’
Yvane shakes her head. ‘Just flashes: darkness mixed with glowing eyes and the Exlathar’s awful cry. All I know is that your attempt to escape this way isn’t going to work.’
Milo sags against the wall. ‘I’m not leaving her out there.’
‘You don’t have to,’ Howard says. ‘As a member of the Courts Guard, I was shown secret underground routes, to get in and out of the building if we were ever in trouble.’
Milo tilts his head. ‘Go on.’
‘I had to memorise the way from every base to the Court,’ Howard announces proudly, ‘including this one.’
‘And this plan will work?’ Milo asks Yvane, who shrugs.
‘I don’t know about that. I just know your current plan won’t.’
Milo nods then presses his finger to his lips, having heard the approaching patrol. Their murmured whispers come muffled through the wall and he listens, tapping against his thigh in time to their footsteps, silently counting.
‘Now!’ he breathes and ducks into a passage, away from the sound of the approaching guards and towards where a far light dimly glows at its end. Yvane and Howard stay close behind, trusting to Milo’s surefootedness.
‘Now where?’ Milo asks once they reach the end of the passage and reach another leading in two directions.
Howard glances around, looking for what he has clearly been trained to see. ‘This way,’ he says and leads them down passage after passage before eventually coming to a halt.
‘The trail is rigged,’ he warns, ‘in case the enemy ever find it.’ He holds his arms out to the side and carefully shuffles his way beneath a stone arch and into another tunnel. Milo and Yvane follow suit and come onto ground that’s thick with a tawny sludge, their feet soon slipping and sliding.
Their progress would have been comical under other circumstances and Milo cannot help but chuckle, watching Yvane’s knees tremble like jelly and her hips flail back and forth, desperately trying to keep her balance.
‘Looking good, mate,’ he jokes.
‘Oh, be quiet.’
‘Whatever you do, don’t fall,’ Howard cautions. ‘This stuff sticks to bare flesh like a rash; you’ll be well and truly trapped.’
Yvane whimpers and Milo presses even more firmly against the wall. At last they reach the end of the tunnel, only to be confronted by three more, each leading off in a different direction.
Once again Howard stops, peering at his surroundings.
‘Well?’ Milo urges.
‘I can’t remember. My gut tells me that one,’ and he steps towards the central tunnel.
‘No!’ Yvane cries as his foot touches the ground beneath its entrance arch, and Howard ducks the instant before something shoots towards his head, missing it by a hairsbreadth and clattering off the wall.
Milo whistles. ‘Nice save.’
Yvane just stands there, blinking, until she slowly turns her startled face to Milo. ‘I saw it,’ she says. ‘I don’t know how…’ Milo wonders if she just used concise vision, a skill coveted by many Premoniters?
Howard looks pale, propping himself against the wall. ‘Did you happen to see where we did go?’
‘I didn’t.’ She grimaces. ‘Or at least I don’t think I did. Maybe there’s something I missed,’ and she closes her eyes, running back through premonitions her gifts have given her. A lengthy silence follows as her eyelids stutter, then at last, they open.
‘That one,’ she finally announces, pointing to another of the tunnels which entrance resembles the gaping mouth of a piranha, needle like stone jutting from every angle.
‘That one?’ and both men eye her dubiously, but Yvane simply smirks and heads towards it.
‘Be careful,’ she cautions. ‘We could quite possibly get sliced.’
‘You think?’ Milo murmurs as he follows after Yvane.
They have to dip, bend and twist between this tunnel’s sharply jagged rock walls, and after a while the inevitable happens and Milo yelps ‘Ow!’ as he scrapes his forearm. He growls under his breath as blood seeps from the gash.
‘I told you to be careful,’ Yvane scolds.
‘I told you to be careful.’ Milo mimics before continuing to contort his body to fit through the narrow gaps.
It feels like a lifetime, but at last they come to the end of the winding tunnel and the soiled ground slowly shifts to wooden planks; dank and slightly rotten. It is almost pitch dark and the only sound is silence.
‘Where are we?’ Yvane asks, looking ahead to where she assumes Howard is.
‘Almost there,’ his voice grins. ‘There’s a drop off both sides,’ he announces as they can hear him teetering along the wooden boards. ‘Stay close.’
Yvane feels around in the darkness, finding Howard’s hand and gripping it in her own. She extends her other behind her, relieved when Milo finds it and the three creep forward with blind determination.
Howard grunts, telling them his toes have come up against something hard. ‘The stairway,’ and they hear him nimbly step up.
‘We’re okay now,’ he says, and his friends step up beside him. ‘Count seven steps then push the ground above you,’ which they each do, Yvane having to stand on tiptoes to reach. The concrete slab she feels is heavy, barely moving as they all push against it, crumbs of
mud showering down around them. Their grunts and the harsh grating of the concrete shatter the silence, seeming too loud in such a confined place.
At last, they drop their arms, out of breath and afraid someone may have heard them.
‘Take two steps back,’ Howard instructs.
Their eyes are no more use to the dark than before and so Milo and Yvane gingerly step back. They hear the familiar rustle of Howard adopting his inner Fuerté, doubling in size and strength. Yvane can sense his greater bulk and weight above them, the disturbed air as he moves.
Then light, a faint slice of it, has Yvane squinting up at Howard as he holds the heavy slab of concrete above his head, sliding it to one side to widen the gap.
‘After you,’ he offers, his arms trembling, their veins clearly defined, bulge against his skin.
Milo steps ahead, climbing out of the hole and extends a hand to Yvane, helping her up to stand on the cold stone floor of the Court. Howard is next, losing his Fuerté form long enough to clamber through the small opening, then briefly reverts back to it so he can push the slab back in place.
‘Iginassa,’ Milo intones and a flame rises from the centre of what looks like a stone basin.
This part of the Court is a large empty hall constructed from grey, almost black stone. The ceiling is too high to be seen and narrow windows, laden with dust and grime fill the furthest wall. A line of crumbling pillars stretches across the centre of the hall; chunks of rock littering the floor around their bases. Behind them stands the ruins of eight forgotten thrones.
‘What is this place?’ Yvane asks, brushing herself off.
‘It’s the old initiation hall for Court members,’ Milo tells them, ‘when they were anointing new associates after so many were lost in the Taratesia battles.’
