Cold sweat beaded on Mark’s face as he listened. He got his priorities straight. ‘Where’s the girl?’
‘I don’t know. It’ll take us a while to find her again.’
‘That is the priority,’ Mark said, worry writhing in his gut. ‘She has to be kept safe.’
‘What about the boy?’
‘I’ll take care of him,’ Mark said grimly. ‘I’ve dealt with similar problems before. I want all the information you have on him on my desk within the hour.’
Sergei nodded and stood up. ‘What was it?’ he asked.
‘Most likely? It was a fairy,’ Mark said. Sergei was still laughing when he left the house.
Mark returned to his office and sat down. He closed his eyes and memories descended. Once again, he was back in the fort at Mamucium. Annaea lay bruised in their rooms, and he was going in search of his friend, Octavius, with a sword in his hand.
Marcus stormed through the fort, blinded with rage. A red mist fell over his eyes and he could only think of one thing: a man he called his friend had attacked his wife and now, Marcus would kill him.
Octavius had attacked Annaea in the stables; Marcus sprinted, hoping to find that he was still there. Those he passed stumbled out of his way with looks of consternation and fear. He saw more than one hurry off in the direction of his father’s study.
It did not concern him – the only person who could order the soldiers to restrain him was his father, and this business would be dealt with long before he knew anything about it. Marcus did not think of the consequences; his anger was overwhelming.
He found Octavius in the stable with a couple of boys, teaching them how to saddle a horse. When Marcus came in, the two boys stopped paying attention and stared at him from around Octavius’s lanky frame. Octavius, aware from the boys’ reaction that somebody was behind him, turned around, and Marcus stepped within sword’s reach of him. He saw Marcus and smiled cheerfully at his friend. Then he saw the sword and his brow tightened in confusion.
‘Marcus,’ he said lightly. ‘Why do you have a sword?’
Marcus bellowed his wrath and plunged the blade through his friend’s stomach. There was a moment of resistance as the skin drew taut, but then it gave way. Octavius let out a low moan of broken disbelief. Blood gushed from the deep stomach wound and splashed to the hay that blanketed the floor. The two boys began to scream, and they ran past Marcus towards the door.
Octavius fell backwards, clutching his stomach. Marcus wrenched the blade out as he fell, and a fresh gout of dark blood spilled out. A stink came with it. Octavius looked up at Marcus from the floor, his eyes dull with pain. ‘Why?’ he gasped. ‘Marcus, why?’
Marcus lifted the sword, preparing to slash Octavius’s head from his body. A hand fell on his shoulder and tried to pull him backwards. Marcus did not know how the soldiers had got to him so quickly, and he didn’t care. He would not be denied.
Spinning, he whipped the sword around in a vicious neck-high slash. At the last moment he saw who had touched him, and his scream of rage went higher, changing in pitch to one of fear. He tried to pull the blow but it was too late, and the blade bit into the side of Annaea’s neck just below her chin.
For a second they stared at each other in disbelief. Then she choked, and blood welled up from between her perfect lips and flowed freely down her chest, quickly drenching her yellow dress. The light of life slipped from her eyes, and Marcus was left staring into her dead, accusing face.
‘No,’ he whispered in bewilderment. Then, ‘No!’ The word echoed around the stable and out into the fort, like a wolf’s howl at the full moon. Everybody within hearing stopped and looked towards the stables with superstitious dread.
He had killed her. For a minute it didn’t sink in, and all he could do was stare at his dead wife and listen to Octavius’s dying moans. ‘You’ve killed me, Marcus,’ he said weakly. ‘Why have you killed me?’ Finally, Octavius gasped a long, stagnant breath and made no more noise.
Marcus barely noticed. Mad with grief, he dropped the sword and ran back to his apartments. The soldier was still stood on the door where he had left him. The man’s eyes widened when he saw the blood spattered across Marcus’s face and chest.
‘You let her out!’ Marcus bawled at him. ‘Why did you let her out?’
‘Your pardon, Sir, but nobody’s gone in or out since you left here.’
‘Liar!’ Marcus accused as he barged past the soldier and into his room. It was empty. He went out again and slapped the man. ‘You lie – you must have let her out.’
‘Sir, on my honour, nobody passed.’ Marcus remembered Octavius’ confused look and Annaea’s yellow dress … she had been wearing a white dress with a broken strap. She must have changed, but she would have had to change so quickly … and her bruises … where were her bruises? Pushing the thoughts from his mind, Marcus left the cowering soldier and returned to the stable. He grabbed a coil of rope, which he slung over one shoulder, and then he picked up Annaea’s corpse and carried her out.
Nobody tried to stop him as he made his way over to the oak tree where they had used to picnic together, sitting and laughing. He placed Annaea’s dead body against the trunk so it appeared that she was sitting up, and then he cast the rope over a thick branch and carefully wove a noose. He climbed the tree and placed the noose over his head. Then he jumped off.
Wind rushed by his ears and his stomach lurched in the brief moment before his neck snapped.
Back in his study, Mark jerked awake. Sweat trickled down his back. Standing, he made his way to the dark kitchen and drank a glass of cold water. Slowly the images evaporated, and with them the pain faded. His hatred for the fairy folk surged again, and he thought about what Sergei had said.
The boy had to be one of them. Rapid healing and a penchant for human flesh? Possibly a Svartálfar; it sounded a bit like one, though he thought they’d died out. Mark grinned coldly. He had three in his sights now. The boy would go first though. A Svartálfar; it would be far too dangerous to let him survive until Monday. First though, he had to find the girl.
Walking through the forests of The Tower at Dawn was pleasant, though if anybody had asked Cam, he would have denied it. The verdant foliage hid chattering squirrels and chirruping birds, and the smells of the forest were deep and rich and full of life.
The entire experience was relaxing and invigorating at the same time – the forest welcomed him, just as Grímnir had said. Cam had not walked this path for over a decade, and he had quite forgotten how peaceful it was. He fought the feeling. He would not return.
Ahead, Dow walked with a fluid grace that Cam could only envy. Catching vines and long grass didn’t seem to bother the Elf. Grímnir strode through the undergrowth with a complete disregard for any tangle of plants that got in his way: he simply stepped through them, and they invariably parted before him. The bag holding the chainsaw was slung casually over his left shoulder.
Cam did his best to follow the narrow game track they were on, but every so often a mischievous thorn bush reached out to snag at his jeans or coat, and he was forced into a twirling dance to avoid ripping the fabric. When this happened, the noise of the squirrels and the birds rose in a crescendo that sounded suspiciously like laughter. Cam would grumble and pick the offending thorn gently away, unwilling to damage it, though he didn’t know why, and then dutifully traipse after his companions.
The canopy of the forest was thick, but occasionally the track widened and he could see up through the treetops. Cam stepped out into one of these clearings and found that the waist-high mat of ferns and flowers gave way to a rolling area of loam and springy grass that smelled sweet and fresh.
The magnificent sky of The Tower at Dawn shone above the clearing. Feathers of rosy cloud were scattered across a backdrop of yellow so pale, it was almost white. A mass of them bunched and tumbled off to the east. Farther away on the horizon, the clouds were lit from behind in vivid reds by the rising sun. They glowed like a Turner oil p
ainting, but deeper, richer … more alive. A true Tequila sunrise; Cam realised he was thirsty.
The dawn here was eternal, and the golden light that flooded the forest remained constant and without change. The sun remained lost just out of sight, an anonymous débutante at its own cotillion ball, its eternal beau a pleasant chill that nipped from the crisp air. There was no midday or afternoon, no evening or night at The Tower at Dawn – the sun never crept shyly higher, nor did it sink coquettishly lower. The home of the creatures of Earth and Water was a place out of time, suspended in the perfect moment of a perfect sunrise.
The small party moved on beneath the bewitching sky. After about half an hour, they came to the tree line. Behind them, the forest meandered away in a convex haze.
Ahead of them, a squat seven-storey turret stood in the middle of a meadow of grass, daisies, and bluebells. It was a wide, round building that reminded Cam of Manchester’s Central Library. Between the ivy that almost covered it, Cam could see it was made of white stone. Fifty or sixty large glassless windows were set into the walls. At its base, facing Cam and his companions across the meadow, was a large, wooden double door. The doors were open and judging by the red and white roses that had grown between them, they had not been closed in a long time. A domed white roof reflected the sunrise in a dazzling kaleidoscope of burnished gold.
The meadow that spread out in front of the turret embraced a wide ring of standing stones. Within them was nothing but grass, but around them, all sorts of benches and chairs had been set up beside tables and the occasional throw rug. They were neglected and dirty. There was a sadness about the place – a desolation and abandonment – that clutched at Cam’s unwilling heart.
Beyond the turret, there was nothing but the edge – a drop into the shimmering void. From where he stood, Cam looked out past the turret and the edge of The Tower at the columns of vermilion cloud that masked the rising sun. It glowed through a particularly thick bank of cumulus. It was a much deeper red, and Cam felt as if a great cataract-blinded eye was staring at him, like the confused gaze of a melancholy god. Cam shuddered and turned his attention back to the turret.
The Tower was a mystery, and Cam couldn’t help but stare. Every time he made this journey, he had to look around and convince himself this place was real, not because of its beauty, but because the whole vast forest was set atop the flat roof of The Tower.
Many first-time visitors mistakenly believed the ivy-clad turret was The Tower. They were wrong; the forest at his back, the meandering streams, and the great, lush, verdant plains that stretched off back the way they had come had grown with wild abandon on a circular roof, twenty-five miles in diameter. The turret rose out of The Tower proper, a final few storeys built up on top of the possibly infinite structure below. There were more of these turrets scattered around the circumference of the edge, but only this one was inhabited now.
In a fundamental divergence from human logic, the fairy folk counted the roof as the first floor and then counted one higher as they went down each level. The reason behind this was simple – nobody had ever found The Tower’s bottom. Therefore, it was impossible to know how many floors it had. Beneath their feet, endless winding corridors, dark and cut off from the sunlight, descended into the unknown.
Philosophers had spent millennia theorising about how big The Tower really was. Many speculated that it was infinite and floated unsupported in empty space. Cam could believe it. As a child, he had occasionally gone to the edge of the roof forest and looked down. The grey stone stretched away for an unimaginable distance before it disappeared into the haze of cloud that lapped at it. If you looked out from The Tower, all you would ever see was cloud. There were no other Towers. It hung alone, suspended in a perfect morning. Maybe the Firstcomers knew what it really was, but they were all gone now.
The Tower was so large that it had once held tens of millions of the fairy folk. Now, as tragedy after tragedy had whittled away their numbers, the remnants of the Elves and Jötnar lived in the turret ahead. Dow and Grímnir were already moving towards the entrance, and Cam had to hurry to catch up. As was proper, they skirted the stone circle as they walked to the door.
Passing beneath the rose-framed lintel led them into a huge marble greeting hall.
The eternal dawn burned through a bank of windows. Cam could see the dilapidated glory of the place by the rose-coloured light. A huge stone fountain sat dry and silent in the middle of the room. It was designed as a series of steps descending into a shallow pool, around which statues of playful-looking pixies lounged and splashed, each holding out a golden urn.
At the centre of the pool there was a plinth. On it, a male and female Elf, both stone, both naked, held a tree branch upright between them. The branch was funnelled, and Cam guessed that it was open at the top. He had no idea where the water was supposed to come from, because he had never seen it working.
To their right, a wide marble staircase began a long spiral up to each mezzanine level. It had a thick balustrade decorated with happy animals, dancing pixies, and cavorting fairies. In the ceiling three storeys above the fountain, a massive crystal chandelier hung and glittered in the morning light. Several birds’ nests were scattered amongst the candelabra. There was no other furniture or decoration in the beautiful room.
‘I remember when the fountain worked. Its waters brushed the chandelier,’ Dow said whimsically.
‘I remember when this place was full of life and colour, when the two races met outside for dancing and games of speed and strength, when serious discussion could give way to sparring in seconds,’ Grímnir said. ‘I remember when magic flashed around this hall like fireworks, and the laughter of children brought the walls alive. I remember when this was the hub of our society.’ He said it with such sadness that Cam felt his heartstrings tugged again.
Angrily, Cam turned on the two of them. ‘Well, this is all I will ever remember. A dead place for a dead people. Now let’s do whatever it is we’re supposed to do and get the hell out of here. This place makes me want to puke.’ He uncapped his canteen and took a fortifying swig of vodka.
‘Such anger in one so young. But then, anger is the bastion of the young, for they have not had the time to learn how transient and weak it is.’
Unnoticed, a tall Elf had moved into sight at the top of the first flight of stairs. He was dressed in a white robe that looked a bit grubby to Cam. His hair was long and black, but his features held the same unearthly beauty of Cam and Dow. His face looked to be no more than Cam’s thirty, but his words and bearing made him seem much older.
‘Dow Sė Mochaomhog, I see you have returned to us with the old one. Who is this other? I feel I should recognise him.’
‘This is Camhlaidh Ó Gríobhtha, the son of Manannán Ó Gríobhtha.’
‘Ah yes, I knew you as a child, boy. Though to me a child you remain, despite your man’s body.’ The Elf walked down the stairs towards them as he spoke.
‘Hello Master Creachmhaoil,’ Cam said awkwardly.
‘Do you remember anything I taught you, boy?’ He didn’t give Cam a chance to answer. ‘By the looks of you, no. Your poor father is distraught at the path you have taken, young Camhlaidh.’ Cam felt anger at the words and wanted to shout at the Elf that he didn’t give a shit about his father’s opinion, or anybody else’s for that matter. Instead, he looked down at his shuffling feet and kept his peace. Master Creachmhaoil had been his teacher when he still visited The Tower, and old habits died hard.
Creachmhaoil turned to Grímnir and smiled. ‘So finally, you have returned to us. Your arrival is a great boon – the magics used to give you strength …’ The Elf idly reached out and ran a smooth hand across the tattoos visible around Grímnir’s neck in a slightly possessive, almost sexual manner. ‘… gives us much hope.’
Grímnir dropped the bag containing the chainsaw to the floor. Then he reached out and took the Elf’s hand, gently pulling it away from his flesh.
Creachmhaoil looked slightly s
urprised to find that he had been touching Grímnir at all. ‘The magics I possess are for the slaying of Cú Roí. They have no other purpose. I must speak with the Maiden of Earth and Water.’
‘Just a second,’ Cam said. ‘What do you mean “gives us much hope”?’
The others ignored him and he bristled. ‘We can help you find the Maiden of Earth and Water,’ said Creachmhaoil, ‘but please, Grímnir Vafthrúdnir, think about what the power could mean to us. You have seen how it is; our race is dying. Your sacrifice could buy us valuable time.’
‘What are you all talking about?’ Cam shouted.
Creachmhaoil gave him a withering look, and Cam felt a wash of embarrassment. It was quickly replaced by a sulky anger – he wasn’t a child, and he shouldn’t be treated like one. He stopped shouting though.
‘My duty is clear. I cannot be released from it. Now, take me to the Maiden of Earth and Water.’
Creachmhaoil sighed. ‘She has retreated … below. She went seven years ago, seeking answers to The Transmogrification, and never returned. We don’t know where she is. We fear the worst.’
‘Then I will go after her,’ Grímnir responded.
‘You do not understand the dangers,’ Creachmhaoil said. ‘This is not The Tower you remember. The magic is fading, and the lower levels are perilous. Warped things lurk there now, monsters that thrive on death and pain. Stay here, let us use your magic. Maybe then we can bring some order back …’
‘No,’ Grímnir said flatly. ‘I must go.’
Creachmhaoil nodded his head sadly. ‘There is nothing we can do to stop you. All I ask is that you think on what I have said. Dow Sė Mochaomhog will travel with you as guide and comrade. Of all of us, he has travelled most extensively in the lower levels. You will find suitable weapons and clothing upstairs. Will you show him please?’ he asked Dow. Dow nodded and moved off. Grímnir picked up his bag and followed.
Immortals' Requiem Page 15
