by Greg Curtis
“Yes. But could they have got through and then somehow set this fire behind them? To stop others from following them? We already know the technologist carries a gun that fires bombs and another that shoots lightning. Could he have something more?”
Plus, they already suspected he had a steam wagon. There had been no sign of one but when Callum’s visage had last appeared before Master Zo’or and Abel, he had let slip that he was keeping them hidden as the technologist carried them on to their destination. Surely that meant a steam wagon. And as well as a decrepit technologist and a withered wildred, they had three mad royals and a broken morph to control as they travelled. A steam wagon would be the obvious form of transport. At least until they had reached the Forbidden Forest and run out of trails. Assuming of course that this was their destination.
“I'm not aware of any technology so powerful and none that can create an illusion like this.”
That wasn't a “no” Abel realised. And it did not completely reassure him. But it was probably the truth.
Still as he watched the Princess head out past the tree line into the endless fields of ash, and saw the way it immediately started blackening her light coloured leggings, he realised that they had no choice but to follow her. They could not come all this way and then give up right at the end. They had to see this through to wherever it led.
Maybe they would be in time? They would beat the technologist to the altar. Maybe they could set a trap for the technologist and his companion on the terrace? Abel started after the Princess, saying a prayer to Lord Sylvennia that it could be so. If only the knot of fear burning in his stomach didn’t suggest otherwise.
Chapter Forty Seven
The fire rain stopped just as Briagh reached the top of the cliff. And why wouldn't it he thought? Presumably its work was done. It had been sent to make sure he arrived. So now that he had, it served no further purpose. Of course that could just be his natural paranoia speaking. But it felt right. He could test it he supposed. Go back down the rocky path and see if the fire rain returned. But what would be the point? Especially when he was so tired. He'd spent all day climbing this rocky mountain trail, and that when he wasn't in the best of shape to begin with. And the light had been growing steadily worse as he'd climbed. The sky was now completely orange for as far as the eye could see, and it looked for all the world as if it was one giant blanket of fire. At the foot of the mountain he could see the fires still burning. Where there was rock which couldn't catch fire, it appeared almost black.
It was an eerie sight. Standing on a black mountain, high above a huge plain of fire which completely surrounded him, and beneath a burnt orange sky. The world had somehow become an underworld while he'd climbed. All it needed were the demons to make the transformation complete.
For the moment though he was here. It was time to see what awaited him at journey’s end.
He was cautious though, even in his exhaustion. He didn't simply walk the last few steps out on to the platform and show himself to whoever or whatever awaited him. Instead he kept his head down, crept up the last part of the path where it joined with the terrace, and then peered over the lip of the cliff and across to the altar. He was glad he did.
Barachalla was there. The instant he saw him, Briagh knew that all his questions about the technologist had been answered. For a start, there was no longer any sign of “Marclan,” the grandson he had pretended to be. Instead he was staring at a man who had to be the best part of a century old. And one who had not aged well.
He was tall, thin and bent. His skin looked like dried parchment stretched over bones which would tear at the slightest touch His face was a forest of wrinkles. He was also trembling. Shaking with the effort of holding a globe in front of him as he recited some sort of spell. Or maybe it was a prayer since technologists didn't use spells? Briagh couldn't make out what he was saying; there was a wind sweeping across the terrace, and it stole much of the sound. But he could see the madness in the old man's eyes.
The altar looked exactly as he'd seen it in his dreams, save that it was perhaps larger. It consisted of a huge flat piece of rock that had been shaped into a table and lowered on to the two stone plinths which acted as its legs. It was actually the simplest design possible for a table. But that simplicity concealed the obvious determination that must have gone into building such a piece – unless of course it had been built by a giant who'd simply found two stones, put them in position and placed a slab of stone on top of them. Otherwise it would have taken fifty men to lever it into place.
More thought had gone into what lay on the altar – but only a little. The heavy iron chains that had been hammered into the stone to secure the prisoners – or sacrifices as he was suddenly sure they were. The altar was easily large enough to hold four such sacrifices.
The royal family were there of course. The two princes and the wolf mother. All of them were chained to the altar, and still as mad as he remembered. The princes were pulling at their chains, trying desperately to get free, and barking and growling in their efforts. Foam was slipping from their mouths as fear ruled them. Their mother was doing the same, save that she was howling at the orange sky, much like a wolf at the moon. Her face, Briagh noticed, was bloody, and judging from the wounds he could see on the princes, he guessed she'd bitten her sons. That was probably why she'd been secured some distance apart from them.
And then there was Endorian, chained like the others to the huge stone altar, but on the other end of it. He at least wasn't howling or barking. Instead he was slumped over the altar looking sick. Even so, he seemed quietly resigned to his fate. No doubt he was hoping that he would die this time. At least it would put an end his suffering. Seeing him Briagh did wonder if Endorian would thank him for saving his life – assuming he could.
But of course the other thing on the table was the stand for the globe. A small cradle of iron, shaped a little like a cone and placed in the centre of the altar. It too was crude and poorly fashioned, but someone had then gone to the trouble of etching into it the spells or prayers that made it work. Briagh was too far away to read what was written, especially in the poor orange light which left everything a mass of shadows and sharp lines, but just staring at that globe he felt a shiver of fear run down his spine.
The last member of the group was of course the wildred. Briagh thought he was probably the most dangerous one there. Barachalla might have his weapons, but Briagh doubted he would be very capable with them. Not when he had a continual tremor as he worked. But the wildred had powerful magic at his disposal and he didn't need to aim a weapon at someone to use it. Just a word or a gesture would be enough. The wildred would have to be his first target Briagh decided. Once he was down the technologist would follow.
Oddly though, just then he didn't seem like much of an adversary. Because the wildred was standing to one side of the altar, staring at the technologist. Judging by his posture, Briagh thought he was uncertain of what was happening. He even seemed nervous. Perhaps he was at odds with Barachalla? Every so often it seemed that the wildred disagreed with the technologist, and he would raise his arms in emphasise of some point he was making. When he did the sleeves of his robe fell away, revealing a shocking transformation. The wildred had one hand and lower arm made of living wood, while the other was withered flesh. It made him start to wonder – just what exactly was a wildred? Somehow he didn't look like a dark, inhuman wizard. He looked more like a victim of wizardry gone wrong. Horribly wrong.
The one person who wasn't there was the one who had called him here in his dreams, the woman. After all the hardships he'd endured to reach her, she just wasn't there. That seemed wrong. Yet even if he couldn't see her, he felt her presence. He felt it in the anger in the sky. In the way the gold and orange seemed to writhe furiously. Maybe the woman he had seem truly was the Goddess Morphia? Was she even now looking down from the heavens, and expressing her distress at what was happening through thunder and fiery rain?
But just what was h
e supposed to do? The terrace was large and where the path emerged on to it was a good sixty or seventy yards away. There was no cover for him to hide behind if he were to creep up on the technologist and the wildred. And while the light was poor, it wasn't poor enough for him to be to creep up unseen. His dappled panther hide would appear darker in the orange light, almost black in places, but it would still stand out against the lighter grey of the granite. And his fur coat as a wolfhound would almost glow orange.
Speed was going to be his only ally in this fight, he decided. But how fast was he? Normally he could cover that sort of distance in only a few seconds. All he would need was for them to be looking the wrong way. But normally he hadn't been without sleep for over a week. He wasn't hungry and thirsty. And he wasn’t bone tired from the climb.
Briagh however, didn't have a lot of time to make plans. The prisoners looked to be in a bad place. Endorian was slumped over on the altar, barely able to remain upright, and Briagh guessed that that was due to blood loss. He had been bled once more, and the globe now contained his body's life giving fluid. The wolf mother had clearly been beaten; hard. Her face was bloodied, and not just with the blood around her mouth from those she'd bitten. There was more blood around her neck and shoulders. And despite the savagery in her eyes and her howling, he could see she was tiring. The princes were plainly terrified. They had no thought as to what was going on. They just wanted to be gone. It looked like they also had been bled.
Worst of all though, Barachalla was looking as though he was finishing his chant or prayer. As soon as he had finished he would place the globe onto its stand in the centre of the altar. And Briagh remembered from what Endorian had told him that the last time he had done that, the flash of light and the chaos had come almost immediately after. Briagh couldn't allow him to put the globe down.
This was the moment. The few split seconds where he had to finally be the hero. And while he was nervous, his mouth dry and his heart pounding, Briagh remembered all those battles he had fought in the previous months, and hoped this could be the same. It was simply a matter of courage. Briagh crouched lower, steeled himself for what he had to do, whispered a quick prayer to every god he knew, and then as the wildred turned his head away, pounced.
For a second he was fast. As fast as he had ever been in his entire life. His blood raced through his veins, his heart pounding, vision so sharp even in the orange light that he could see every individual wrinkle on Barachalla's face, and he felt alive as he had never done before. He knew the full glorious power of his body.
But he was seen. Barachalla turned and yelled something at him, then fired his weapon at Briagh. It missed, though it caused a huge explosion somewhere behind him. The wildred swept his arm toward him, but Briagh leapt and whatever spell he'd cast at him also missed. And for a few precious heartbeats Briagh thought he was going to win.
Then he leapt for the wildred's throat, claws outstretched, and was suddenly sent flying through the air in the wrong direction, lightning dancing off his skin.
It hurt. It was agony as the lightning danced through him. He felt it burning; inside and out. And though he was quick to shift forms even before he came crashing down on the cold hard rock, it wasn't enough. He could stop the pain and limit the damage but the strength had been sucked right out of him. Then came the pain of the impact as he smashed down on the rock.
Briagh desperately shifted back into the panther to try and heal the injuries. But he wasn't fast enough. Not when the very ground underneath him suddenly exploded, sending him flying through the air, trailing fire.
In mid-air he became human, the only form he had that didn't have fur that could catch fire, hoping to snuff out the flames, but he couldn't shift back fast enough and smashed into the rock like that. This time bones snapped under the brutal impact and the air was driven from his lungs. He shifted again but the change could only heal so much damage.
Even as he shifted he found himself picked up and hurled further away from the altar. He travelled as fast as a bullet and smashed into the cliff wall behind him with a bone crushing impact. Moments later vines had come from out of nowhere to tangle him up and bind him to the wall itself. And though he tried shifting, these ones would not let go, no matter what form he took. They just adjusted to hold him. And they didn't yield to his claws either. Whatever they were made of was tougher than claws or teeth.
He was trapped.
Briagh kept shifting, swapping form after form as he tried to break free, and though it eased the pain of his injuries, nothing he could do would free him from his prison. Even as he struggled the two madmen approached.
“Who are you?” Barachalla screeched at him, his words barely recognisable as speech. Age had denied him even that ability.
“Briagh.”
“I know you! You're the beast that attacked me at the prison!” The technologist suddenly grabbed for his shoulder. And then he changed his mind and raised his gun.
“No!” The wildred yelled at him, and in an instant Barachalla's weaponised arm moved upward to point at the heavens.
“What?” Barachalla yelled at him in anger.
“No more killing!” It was the wildred's turn to yell, and unlike the technologist he had a properly working throat.
Unfortunately, his hood fell back as he yelled and Briagh was able to see much more of him. It confirmed everything he'd thought. Half the wildred was made of wood. A living tree, that moved as did he. The tree took over one side of his entire body. And the tree was diseased. If he'd been a normal man Briagh would have said he was covered in canker sores. But instead he could only describe what he saw as some sort of tree rot.
“He attacked me!”
“He's secure. He can't attack you again. There's no need to kill him.” The wildred told him as much in a tone that brooked no opposition.
“You have to stop this madness.” The attack having failed, all Briagh had left were his words. They had to be good ones. “You've unleashed a plague on the world. And it's spreading. Everywhere people are dying, turning into wolves and going on a killing spree. If you don't stop it soon there won't be any people left. No humans. No fae. No wildred.”
The wildred stared at him, his face an unreadable mask of pain. “If there were no wildred that would be a blessing to us all.” Then he turned back to his companion.
“Now, let's get back to the altar and finish this.”
With that he turned his back on Briagh and headed slowly back to the altar. In time Barachalla followed him. He clearly wasn't happy about it. But he had no choice, stuck as he was with his arm in the air.
And that left Briagh hanging there, strapped to the cliff wall by living vines that would not yield to his claws or teeth. How, he wondered as he struggled fruitlessly against his restraints, had things gone so wrong? This wasn't supposed to happen. He was supposed to win against the bad guys! To save everyone. Not simply end up as a prisoner forced to watch as the villains did whatever they wanted to do to their victims. As they destroyed the world.
It just wasn't right! And yet there was absolutely nothing he could do about it. He struggled and he strained against the vines binding him, but they would not come loose. He still had nothing to oppose them with save his words.
“Watch yourself wildred! The last time the muckspout tried this all the witnesses ended up blinded or dead, and then slowly began turning into wolves.” Briagh yelled it at him, hoping at least to make the wildred hesitate. But his plan didn't work as instead another vine wrapped itself across his mouth, preventing him from speaking. It seemed that the wildred wasn't in the mood to listen.
Which left him literally hanging there, trapped and helpless, and with only one thing left to try. Though it went against everything he believed in, Briagh started praying. But he knew even as he tried to force the words out, that the gods never got involved in the affairs of men. And the Goddess was not even his Goddess. Maybe she was his ancestor though – he had always wondered about that. But he did n
ot worship her. So why would she come to his aid?
And she didn't then. Which was when he realised the bitter truth. There was no hope.
Chapter Forty Eight
Abel was nervous as he risked peeking up and over the edge of the path on to the terrace. Frightened that some weapon or spell would simply take his head right off the moment it rose above the flat plain of rock. After all, they had all heard the battle with Briagh, and they knew he had lost. Lost badly by the sounds of things. The technologist and the wildred had obviously come prepared.
Nothing came his way however, and when he finally risked staring across the terrace it was to see the technologist muttering to himself as he set about adjusting something on the stand in front of him, while the wildred – Callum – stood there on the other side of the altar. He seemed bored. Occasionally he looked up at the fire orange sky. But even that didn't seem to interest him for long. It terrified Abel, but not the wildred. To him it seemed to be just something else to stare at as he waited.
Meanwhile the prisoners – the three members of the royal family and the morph Endorian – were all chained to the giant stone altar. They royals were struggling against their chains. Long didn’t attempt to move. He didn't even seem to notice that there was a heavy iron collar around his neck with a chain connecting him to the altar. Maybe he just didn't care? In some ways he reminded Abel of Master Zo'or. A man simply resigned to his fate. Maybe that was a good thing. Because of them all he was the one with the least blood around his neck. He had struggled least and so suffered least.
