Tears of the Furies (A Novel of the Menagerie)

by Thomas E. Sniegoski Christopher Golden

  "Where is he?" Graves interrupted, gliding through them, ghostly guns still in hands. "I want to see the assassin up close. I’m going to make sure he doesn’t have any other tricks up his sleeve."

  "What’s the matter with you, Casper?" Squire chided as he turned around. "He’s right th . . . Oh shit."

  The figure in black was gone.

  "I remember the day when getting shot in the eye with a tranquilizer dart pretty much took you out of the picture," Squire said, walking over to check out where the body had lain. The dart lay upon the platform. "But I shouldn’t be surprised."

  "What are you talking about?" Clay asked, frustrated by this latest turn. Isn’t anything going to go right on this mission?

  "Our mystery boy with the kewpie doll face mask is named Tassarian. A real nasty prick, let me tell you. Used to work for Conan Doyle’s old pal Nigel Gull."

  The goblin nudged the tranquilizer dart with his shoe. "Or at least he did until about twenty years ago, when I killed him."

  Gull had left them to die.

  In the voice of Orpheus he had compelled them to lie upon the ground and await an inevitable death. Now the sound of beating wings grew louder and Conan Doyle winced at the horrid shrieks that filled the air in the distance, growing nearer by the moment.

  "I can’t move," Danny growled. The demon boy’s tone was a mix of rage and panic. "If those razor birds come back for us, we’re screwed."

  "It is not the Stymphalian Birds whose cries you hear," Conan Doyle said, forcing the words from his throat. Gull had not commanded them to silence, but even so any action that was not part of his instruction was difficult.

  "It’s not?" Danny asked with a spark of hope.

  "No. I’m afraid it is something far worse." Conan Doyle wracked his brain, desperately trying to think of a spell or incantation that could counter the power of Orpheus.

  "Excellent," Danny replied sardonically. "Those birds were so last week. I would have been really embarrassed to have them rip me to shreds and eat my entrails. Hopefully something much cooler will kill us.."

  Conan Doyle managed to roll onto his back, gazing up at the misty sky of the vast underground cavern. The ceiling was so high that the true height of it was impossible to discern. "Sarcasm will do nothing to help us, boy. If that’s all you can contribute, I’d appreciate it if you would hold your tongue."

  "Dude," Danny exclaimed. "There’s a good chance we’re about to die here. I think me being sarcastic is the least of our friggin’ problems."

  The shrieks were closer now.

  "Gentlemen," Ceridwen scolded in a whisper, her face pressed to the ground. "Perhaps our energies could be put to better use, hmmm?"

  Conan Doyle was glad to hear that she was conscious, but hardly thrilled that she would be awake to experience what would likely be a grisly fate. A succession of horribly shrill cries filled the air; eager wails of excitement from creatures that had at last found their prey.

  The Harpies had found them.

  Warm fetid air blasted the ground from the power of their wings, kicking up dirt and dust as they dropped from the sky. There were three of them. Their hideous, bird-like bodies reminded Conan Doyle of vultures, but with the heads of women. The Harpies roosted upon the rocks and perched there, gazing down on their prey. Conan Doyle could feel their hungry eyes on him, and smell the stench of death wafting from their feathered bodies.

  Danny Ferrick began to whimper. "Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit."

  "Control yourself, Daniel," Conan Doyle instructed, with all of the authority he could muster.

  Oh shit, indeed.

  The Harpies huddled together, strengthening the image of vultures. But vultures did not speak. "What have we here, Sister Twilight?" one of them asked in archaic Greek, its voice a terrible screech.

  "I’m not sure, Sister Dark," replied a second.

  "I think a tribute has been paid to us, sisters," said the last of the three. "Oh yes, I think the one whose beautiful song we heard has bestowed this honor of fresh meat."

  "Come now, Sister Dusk," said Twilight. "Why would one who sang so beautifully wish to pay us tribute?"

  "Are we not beautiful as well?" Dusk replied.

  As the other Harpies agreed, Conan Doyle frowned. He was skilled in linguistics, particularly ancient languages, but he should not have been able to understand them so well. Curious, he glanced sidelong at the demon boy. "Daniel," he whispered. "Can you understand these creatures’ speech?"

  "Yeah, but I wish I didn’t. If they’re gonna eat us I wish they’d just do it and get it over with, their voices are like fingernails on a damn blackboard."

  Fascinating, Doyle mused. It was as if the Underworld were somehow accepting them, bestowing upon them an understanding of the ancient language of myth. They were becoming part of this place. It made certain things easier, but somehow he found it very unsettling as well to wonder what else it might mean. This was something that he would need to look into later . . . if there was a later for them.

  "An offering perhaps," Sister Dark suggested. "For safe passage across the land. As Charon takes payment for passage across the Styx, this is our due for allowing them to cross the land unhindered."

  "An interesting theory," said Twilight, reaching up with a talon to scratch the side of her head. The Harpy’s hair was long and gray, matted with filth. "But I’m not sure that . . ."

  Conan Doyle cleared his throat. He could understand the Harpies. Could they understand him? "If you would like to know why we have been left here, good sisters, all you need do is ask."

  The creatures exchanged glances and then fluttered down from their perch on the rocks. They alighted upon the ground, another cloud of black dust roiling beneath them.

  "Look, sisters, the carrion speaks," Twilight said, bending forward to take a closer look. "Do you have answers for us, tender morsel? Do you know the reason why you have been abandoned here?"

  Conan Doyle could feel Gull’s spell weakening slightly, and was able to sit up. The Harpies recoiled, baring razor-sharp teeth and hissing in warning.

  "Just stretching, my dears. No cause for concern." He wanted them as calm and complacent as possible, in case an opportunity to escape should present itself. Danny was moving about more freely also, as was Ceridwen.

  "My belly rumbles for food," Dusk shrieked. "You will explain why you are here immediately — or go down our gullets with questions unanswered. Soon I will be too hungry to care."

  "Of course, of course," Doyle answered. "Let me see." He raised a hand to stroke his mustache. "Where to begin?"

  The Harpies leaned closer, eager to hear his tale. Their feathers were stained and matted with the dried blood of previous meals, the smell wafting off their bodies sickening.

  "We are here, my compatriots and I, because we were betrayed."

  Twilight cocked her head to one side, intrigued. "The one whose voice sang the most lovely of songs, was he the purveyor of this betrayal?"

  Conan Doyle nodded. "Sadly, yes," he explained. "He acquired, by magicks most foul, the voice of Orpheus, and has used its persuasive capability to steal away one of our group, and to order us to stay to meet our fate at your mercy."

  "Horrible," Twilight hissed.

  "Terrible," said Dark, with a disgusted shake of her head.

  "Appalling," Dusk interjected for the sake of unity with her sisters. "It is enough to weaken the already precarious trust we have in those that we so tentatively call friend."

  Dark and Twilight turned their attentions to their sister, obviously taken aback by her words.

  "Your trust in us is precarious, darling sister?" Twilight asked, ire in her tone.

  Dusk shook her head furiously. "No, no. Do not misconstrue. I speak of friends, not dearest family."

  Then Dark flapped her wings in agitation. "And what friends do you have in this misbegotten place but us? Can you tell me this?"

  Like the electricity in the air before a thundersto
rm, Conan Doyle sensed it growing around him, raising gooseflesh on his arms. He frowned deeply and glanced around, trying not to draw the Harpies’ attention. Someone was using magick. He glanced toward Ceridwen, her regal features in profile. She was conscious and sitting up, but he could tell that she was in no condition to attempt a spell of any kind, and Danny was not capable of such a feat.

  Then who?

  The Harpies were being manipulated, a spell had been cast to foment hostility among them. Their argument was reaching a fevered pitch and they had begun to scream at one another, their talons digging into the dry, rocky earth as they grew more agitated.

  "And what of you, Twilight?" Dark shrieked, spittle flying. "Do you mistrust me as well? Am I the last to know how you two really feel about me?"

  Twilight flapped her powerful wings, stirring up clouds of dirt. "I have had suspicions about the two of you for quite some time," she snarled. "When were you going to do it? As I slept? Helpless while in the embrace of dream? I should have known."

  Conan Doyle caught Danny’s eye as the sisters continued their tirade against one another. The demon boy slid closer to him.

  "What the hell’s going on?"

  The mage managed to stand. The effect of Orpheus’s voice was indeed wearing off, and he helped Ceridwen to her feet as well. "I’ll explain later." He reached down to haul Danny up. "But now might be a good time to get as far away from here as possible."

  The Harpies did not even notice them getting to their feet and moving away. The sisters were totally engrossed in one another, blind to anything other than their heated squabble about betrayal and mistrust.

  "I’ll see you both dead!" Twilight raged, and the ugly beast spread her wings, lifted off the ground several feet and then descended upon her sisters, curved black talons tearing at them savagely.

  Dusk and Dark responded with equal fury, their screeches of outrage filling the air as they attacked each other with wanton abandon.

  Potent magick, Conan Doyle thought as he watched the horrible creatures engage in their insane melee. As he and his companions made their escape, he scanned the cliffs surrounding them, but still could not find the source of the spell.

  They were moving far slower than he would have liked, the residual effects of Gull’s song still working on them, but they made progress nonetheless. The screams of the Harpies receded into the distance as they scrambled down an embankment into a gully.

  In places the cavern ceilings were so high that moisture gathered in the eaves and swirled into clouds. As they traveled, hour after hour, they heard the sounds of distant oceans and the thunder of lumbering beasts as they made their way through tunnels and across barren plains of rock and cold, slippery moss.

  In time they found themselves on rough terrain with uneven hills of craggy stone and outcroppings of rock that jutted up from the ground as though rammed through the earth from below. Some were small, little more than a scattering of blocks, and others were towers. It reminded Conan Doyle of the American Southwest, of the red rocks that were spread across sections of Arizona, among other places.

  They weaved their way around the largest of these, following paths cut into the ground by the wind that scoured the stone. It was rough going, but at least they had left the Harpies far behind.

  "So what happened with the sisters back there?" Danny asked. "Why’d they go all Jerry Springer on each other?"

  "Magick happened to them," Conan Doyle explained. "A spell was cast that caused their already rabid emotions to run amok."

  Ceridwen stopped and turned to look at him, her face cast in eerie shadows from the strange gloom of this place. "And did you cast this spell, Arthur?"

  Before he could answer the wind brought a new scent to them. It was the smell of a campfire, and of cooking meat.

  Conan Doyle didn’t know how the others were responding to the drifting aroma, but his stomach was close to cramping, it was so empty. And like the cobra charmed by a tune, he found himself drawn toward the smell. They fell silent and walked quietly in between two tall stone outcroppings, which seemed part of a ridge of towers that seemed to loom up on all sides of them now.

  "Hey!" Danny said. "Is this a good idea?"

  "Perhaps we should find out," Conan Doyle answered. At this point he had gone beyond caution, his sudden realization of hunger perhaps making him a tad careless. Beyond that was the simple fact that this was the direction Gull had taken Eve, and he was determined to retrieve her.

  They saw the flicker of the campfire reflected on the stone thrusting up from the earth ahead. The smell of roasting meat was nearly overwhelming, and Conan Doyle could have sworn he heard the hissing sound of grease as it dripped into the fire.

  It compelled him to move closer.

  Their path among the stones twisted slightly and around that bend was the prize that had drawn them like a moth to flame. Conan Doyle slowly, cautiously peered around the corner into an open area, a clearing in this forest of stone.

  A giant sat upon a rock before a roaring fire, some sort of beast roasting over the hissing flames on a spit. The giant’s back was to him, but Conan Doyle could see that he was powerfully proportioned. The hair cascading down his back was very long and curly and he wore only a loincloth made from the fur of some animal.

  Conan Doyle was unsure of how to proceed. He thought about clearing his throat to introduce himself and the others, but considering how friendly the other denizens of the Underworld had been, wasn’t sure if this was the best course. His questions were answered for him when the huge man, sitting hunched before the fire, addressed him in a low, melodious voice.

  "Welcome, strangers." The giant turned to face them from his rocky seat. "Step into my humble abode."

  Ceridwen and Danny froze beside Conan Doyle as the giant fixed them in the stare of the single eye at the center of his broad, bearded face.

  "You’re just in time for dinner," said the Cyclopes, and his lips spread wide in a ghastly smile.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The Underworld was vast. And yet for all its size it seemed stifling and small, claustrophobic, and crowded.

  Yeah, Danny Ferrick thought as he stared up at the one-eyed giant, the Cyclopes, that leered hungrily down at him and his companions. Crowded’s exactly the fucking word.

  They had climbed over the ruins of ancient temples and trekked beneath the gaze of sentinel statuary. Fires burned in the walls. Every new tunnel, every change in the landscape, seemed to push them into the midst of another threat, into the lair of another monster. Then Gull shows up and it’s like this was what the ugly bastard had intended all along, that he wanted them to follow, that he needed Eve and had planned to take her. And he’d just done it, right under their goddamned noses, and there wasn’t a thing they could do about it.

  Danny was sick of it. The whole time down here he’d been wishing for a minute to breathe, for their trail to lead them somewhere there weren’t ancient horrors lying in wait. Now he’d changed his mind. The Cyclopes started to laugh, glaring at him and Ceridwen and Mr. Doyle with that big, damp, bloodshot eye, and Danny was never happier to meet up with something that wanted to kill him.

  "Come, my friends —" the Cyclopes began again, its voice like an earth tremor. The single horn that jutted up from its head gleamed in the blue light that misted off of Conan Doyle’s hands.

  "We’re not your friends," Danny snarled.

  With a grunt the demon boy leaped onto Conan Doyle’s shoulders, then sprang to the top of a stone ridge that had earlier hid the monster from view. He heard the mage shout in protest, but Danny wasn’t worried about hurting Conan Doyle. He wasn’t any ordinary man and could take a bit of shoving around.

  His claws dug into the stone and he twisted his upper body, tensed to spring. The Cyclopes blinked its one eye slowly and the expression on its huge, leathery face was one of confusion and then amusement.

  "What are you, young one? You have a satyr’s face, but I have never —"

  Da
nny bared his razor teeth in a shout of frustration and rage and he sprang from the stone, powerful legs rocketing him at the giant monster’s face. The beast’s single eye went wide and it tried to turn away. The demon boy shifted his body in mid-air. He had been lunging at the monster’s face but managed now to land on the Cyclopes’ shoulder. Danny tore into the monster’s back with the claws of his left hand, just to anchor himself, and with the right he gripped its throat, beginning to tear the thick hide there.

  Ceridwen and Mr. Doyle were shouting but Danny could not hear them. There was a red haze in his mind, a fury he had bottled up. If they were going to survive the Underworld this was the way they were all going to have to fight. Brutally and without hesitation, without reserve.

  The Cyclopes roared and reached for him, one massive hand closing on Danny’s head. He felt pressure on his own small horns and then his skull, as the monster began to crush it. Danny shot out his tongue and its sharp tip punctured the skin of the Cyclopes’ palm. It flinched, withdrawing its hand long enough for him to reach out and grab thick handfuls of the thing’s filthy, matted hair. He hauled himself quickly upward and wrapped his arms around the Cyclopes’ horn, his legs around its neck. He felt himself keenly aware of the glistening softness of the monster’s single eye. Silent in his determination, he raised his right hand, flexed his clawed fingers, and swept them down toward the Cyclopes’ eye.

  His hand froze.

  Danny had just enough time to look at his fingers and see the white fire that blazed across his skin all the way up his arm before he was plucked from the Cyclopes’ back. His entire body went rigid. Danny hissed but could not even open his mouth; he tried to struggle but to no avail. Liquid white fire — cold enough to gnaw his bones — swept over him and he hung there in the air like bait as the Cyclopes turned toward him.

  "Please accept our apologies," Conan Doyle said.

  The Cyclopes touched its shoulder and throat, holding up its fingers to examine the black blood Danny’s attack had drawn. He glared at the demon boy and Danny had never felt so vulnerable. What are you doing, Conan Doyle? I’m a crunchy granola bar up here, as far as this thing’s concerned.