A Fire in the Shell: Circle of Nine Trilogy 3

by Josephine Pennicott

  When our great Queen returned from one of her flights (how I wish I could fly still!), not that I have time for such pursuits as aimless as flights, but when our Queen returned she was filled with the most disturbing news. A plague has come across Eronth. She related strange tales of witch burnings, and Sea Hags walking on land and now the latest — there are white eggs laid by a glass Faery stretching across the countryside. In all my days I, Jig Boy, have never heard such a queer story. It struck like lightning in my heart and I began to fear for what darkness has begun to walk across the land. For as I sat trying to write a couple of moon-ups ago, I heard a sound that chilled my blood — the cry of the banshee. Who knows whose death the banshee was celebrating?

  Of course the pebble brains I live with upon hearing our exquisite Queen’s news immediately began composing a doggerel about how the Imomm would rule Eronth when all on the land was dead, but I confess I felt uneasy. There is more I wish to tell you. Dear Reader, but I fear I do not have the energy to write as much as I used to, and I am forced to take frequent naps throughout the day. I will go now and rest my eyes. When I return, I will tell you about Jig Boy’s strange dream. I remain yours in service.

  ACCOUNT WRITTEN BY JIG BOY, SON OF ELVEN FOOT

  (FORGOTTEN WHAT TURN OF THE WHEEL)

  The Heztarra angel walked quickly through the winding cobbled streets of New Baffin, wrinkling his nose at the odour of the Eronthites emanating from the air. Lust, sex; the entire city smelt of Aphrodite. Even the heavy rain couldn’t disguise that unmistakable sharp odour filled with need, yearning and life. No one witnessed his appearance on these lonely streets, for even the city’s main prostitutes were sheltering indoors in the temples. Even so, a passer-by would not have known he was Heztarra, so skilful was his use of glamour. He was disguised as a street sweeper, although the citizens might have wondered what a street sweeper was doing out in this weather. Or, they may have experienced a cold blast of energy from the angel as he walked past, but the angel had rightfully assumed the fierce weather would leave the streets deserted.

  His eyes scanned the pavements in the exact manner Phineas Prosper had done shortly before him, and he saw the same litter strewn across the street. His eyes narrowed at the destruction to the statues of Aphrodite throughout the city streets, but his pace never flagged. When he looked upwards to the dark sky and the triple moons, he saw seated on the rooftops of buildings thousands of vultures. His eyes narrowed again, but he continued his pace. Aah, he could see the slime trails left behind by the Lightcaster when he had last been in New Baffin, and recognised the faint rotten smell that accompanied that creature’s movements.

  ‘Oh, lost people of Eronth, what viper did you drape around your bosom?’ he spoke aloud to the streets. Only the wind replied. The angel continued to walk, but his gait was slow and occasionally he paused to observe the whispers that the streets themselves communicated to his feet, memories of ancient times. His vivid blue eyes now studied the great clumps of rotting seaweed that lined the streets.

  ‘So you return,’ he spoke aloud to the air. ‘You hide behind the wind and storms.’ No answer to the casual ear, but the faint buzzing of an invisible bee told him his words had been heard. Then he saw the body lying on the street, pelted by rain. Gently the angel turned the body over and looked upon the terrified face of Phineas Prosper. He saw his darned clothes, now waterlogged, his patched boots with holes through the soles, but he had no curiosity in these details. What interested the angel were the large white eggs clinging to the corpse. He inhaled sharply when he first saw them. From his pocket he took a specimen jar and gingerly scooped some of the glutinous egg out, taking care it didn’t touch his skin. Then he looked upon the face of the dead man, and closed his eyes.

  ‘Poor little BeeBell,’ the angel said. ‘You were loved, Prosper, which is the most important thing, and you will live on in your children and in their children. May the Dreamers hold you tightly, Phineas Prosper, who was richer than he knew, and may you now sleep in peace.’

  Leaving the salesman lying in a puddle of water, he unfurled his great wings. Then he lurched himself into the night sky and became a blazing ball of red and yellow light. The laboratories of the Heztarra Galaxy had much to learn from the glass Faery’s eggs. Shambzhla was rising, the angel could sense the breath of Hecate waiting in the alleyways of New Baffin. The Eom was preparing to release its contents. There was little time.

  In the holding cells of Faia, Gwyndion opened his eyes. He had been dreaming of his Hostlings, Tanzen and Rozen. The three of them were standing in an ocean of silvery, warm fluid. Both Tanzen and Rozen had been in the full flower of health. Their branches raised upright, their spindly arms paying homage to the triple moons. From the shores of a nearby island Gwyndion could sense unseen eyes watching them, and imagined he could hear sly chuckles from the overhanging vinery and creepers of the island’s exotic foliage. He had been dancing with Tanzen and Rozen, he knew that what he was witnessing now were other incarnations of his being where he was linked to his Hostlings. What a glorious feeling to witness his Hostlings in such perfect health! It seemed to Gwyndion he had danced forever with them in the warm healing waters.

  ‘Time to return,’ a voice said. Gwyndion resisted the instruction. He wanted to stay, asleep, safe under the influence of Morpheus. I belong here, he thought, with the fragrant water, colourful darting fish, the moons that he felt he could drink through the ocean. The sand was a perfect pearl colour, the ferns lush and tropical, and most of all his dance with Rozen and Tanzen was joyful and glorious. Never before had he known such exhilaration, such pure ecstasy. No, he did not wish to awaken to return to his grim holding cell with the pots of dirty soil he had been given grudgingly, and the terrible news he knew awaited him there. His Hostlings danced faster.

  ‘You will return,’ they promised, branches rustling with encouragement. ‘You will return to dance and drink the moon and stars.’

  He longed to scream, to cry out, to hold onto them, but all he was holding was air as he was awakened. The cell was unbearable, filled with the misery of times long past in Faia, when these four stone walls hail enclosed prisoners who had spent entire lifetimes within them. A slop bucket stood unused in the centre of the room. Huddled in the corner, watching him, was Samma. His leaves shrivelled when he saw her look of despair. She had been weeping. He longed to kill the ones responsible for causing grief to his beloved. She had already been through so much in her life. Only very recently had she managed to break the Sea Hag’s spell and regain her true form from the body of the Meerwog she had been trapped inside. Large bugs and rats scuttled along the damp walls of the cell, but Samma was oblivious of them. Her normally dark shining eyes were dull and glazed and her glossy red leaf hair was grey with dirt and dust. The two Webx stared at each other for a long moment.

  ‘They burnt them,’ Samma said finally. ‘While you slept I could see it taking place in my mind. The Lightcaster was too strong. They piled the faggots high and they tortured the High Priestess, Ano and Rosedark. They are now ashes.’

  Gwyndion began to sob. This was the dark news he had wanted to avoid, dancing in the silvery dreamscape. He had believed his heart would never feel sadness after what had happened with his Hostlings, but the deep misery that flowed through his sap shocked him. He had survived the terrible Day of Ashes in his homeland of Zeglanada, and the misery of being held by the Imomm tribe in the Hollow Hills. He had survived the gut-wrenching pain of knowing Tanzen and Rozen were in the deadly spinnerets of the Azephim. Now, with this latest terrible news, he wondered if he would be able to prevail. Or would he go mad with grief?

  Samma witnessed his pain in silence. Viewing the burnings had left her drawn and exhausted. ‘He will be forced to reap the harvest he has sown,’ she said finally.

  ‘Will he?’ Gwyndion replied. A fog of depression had settled upon him. ‘He never has before. He has been inciting people to kill since time began. If he believes he is ridding Eronth of evil, then
are his actions therefore evil? A Lightcaster believes that wherever he treads, the shadow of evil vanishes before his light. Is he not therefore a being of light?’

  ‘He feeds on pain and suffering,’ Samma replied. ‘He reeks of darkness. He can call himself by whichever name he chooses, but he cannot run from his own evil. There will come a time he will be forced to eat the rotten fruit he has sown.’

  ‘Is that what happened to Mary and Ano? And sweet innocent Rosedark?’ Gwyndion asked. ‘Did they become ashes because of some dark harvest in their past? Or is the evil in the world such that it easily overcomes what is good and light-filled? The Lightcaster can only operate because so many are eager to carry out his evil quest.’

  Samma said nothing. She leant back against the wall and began to cry.

  As night was falling on Eronth, a curious crowd made their way along the streets of New Baffin. The exotic parade was a mixture of the Wezom Faery tribe led by their ruler King Quimonmen and Sea Hags. Flanking the Wezom were several large Sea Hags, all trying to subdue their giggles as they ushered the Wezom through the streets.

  The Sea Hags were a grotesque sight out of their natural element of water. Poisonous spines bristled along their backs and arms, and their heads were oversized with the right side of their brain under their chins and the left on the top of their heads. Huge lobster claws and shark’s teeth festooned their bellies. Their green and black seaweed hair fluttered in the night air as they walked along the streets, stumbling as they adjusted to walking on land.

  Not for the first time. King Quimonmen thought of how ugly the Sea Hags were. Their awful sea stink had made him feel nauseous for days in the Hollow Hills. Still, joining forces with Hags would he worthwhile it they helped him to achieve more power. Then, with that saucy little Diomonna under his spell, she would he forced to submit to him as her master and he would rule her Faery tribe as well as his own. He enjoyed this fantasy for a few moments as the Faeries were led along the hard cobblestones of New Baffin.

  It had been a long time since Quimonmen had visited here. He disliked the populated areas of the city. Over the seasons, it had become increasingly difficult to snatch changelings from the houses and streets as the Eronthites had learnt to protect themselves by using counter charms against the Wezom. Quimonmen was quickly out of breath as his short stocky legs struggled to keep up with the Hags. He was not used to exercise, normally preferring to have his court wait on him hand and foot. But the Sea Hags had persuaded him to accompany them to the ocean in New Baffin, where he would be assured of viewing a historical event.

  The Wezom King suspected the great warrior Sea Hag Shambzhla, the subject of many songs and legends in the Hollow Hills, was going to rise from the ocean. To this end he had taken special care with his grooming, his bright orange hair had been greased with maja spider grease and teased around an entire vulture’s skeleton. He had replaced the finger bone he normally wore through his nose with a large golden ring stolen from one of the Outerezt giants. That had been a daring raid indeed. Quimonmen was convinced if Shambzhla did rise, she would be very impressed by his giant’s ring and would recognise the Wezom King as a hero to be reckoned with. Small matter the ring was incredibly heavy and stretched his nose dreadfully. He could hardly walk with the weight of it.

  It was still pouring with rain when they walked to the ocean, but even that discomfort could not detract from the mysterious quality of the night. Several of his soldiers ceased their idle gossip, falling silent as an eerie breath seemed to caress the group as they walked along the dark shore. An odd, repellent smell hung in the air.

  Quimonmen stopped. Water was not an element he favoured and he mistrusted the Sea Hags, they could be leading them all to their deaths in the ocean that stretched like a silken infinity before them.

  ‘So, what is this secret that fires you so much? Hiss, claw,’ he said. His voice sounded like an explosion in the night sky. The Wezom King was growing impatient; the Sea Hags were giggling too much for his liking, and he wondered if it was at his expense. His soldiers, used to being out in all weathers, were not bothered by the rain, but Quimonmen was dismayed at the damage done to his recently teased hair. Even worse, he felt as if his nose was going to drop off under the weight of the giant’s ring, and the blisters covering his feet all added up to his conclusion he had been foolhardy to come out with the stinking Hags of the Ocean.

  They shushed him when he spoke, which didn’t improve his temper. He was King of the Wezom tribe! Not just some Eronth peasant to be shushed without any respect! Now he was grateful he had forbidden the Winskis to join the expedition, they would have been singing all night about how old Quimonmen had been told to shut up by the Hags. He opened his mouth to voice his protest at them daring to show such disrespect to the King, but fell silent at the sight of the Sea Hags standing in a line facing the ocean, their hands fluttering in excitement. He frowned, squinting into the inky blackness in an attempt to see what was holding their attention. Then he gasped as his eyes focused on what he had missed.

  What he had taken to be large rocks lying on the sand were in fact moving. They were Sea Hags recently emerged from the ocean, thrashing their arms, legs and fins trying to adjust to the new environment. He realised with horror there were thousands of them lying along the shore and that the Sea Hags who had brought him to this obscene place were encouraging them in this bizarre birthing process, with little chirruping and clicking noises.

  Quimonmen looked uneasily at his men. There were far more of the disgusting slimy bitches than he had been led to believe. Would his soldiers be able to control them if things got out of hand? One glimpse at the pale faces of his normally fearless army was the answer he needed. From the darkness of the ocean, he saw with a thrill of terror, ghosts of the drowned. Shaking their watery hair back from their blue-cold faces, they laughed with delight at being able to walk on land once again, released from the underground palaces of the sea people. The ghosts floated among the stinking, crouched bodies of the rotten Sea Hags on the shore.

  Quimonmen and his men huddled together as they witnessed the dark mysteries of the ocean suddenly exposed to life on the land. It seemed unthinkable that so much life could have come from the ocean, but there it was before their startled gazes. The Sea Hags who had brought them to this horror laughed, their stomach mouths flashing with razor-sharp teeth. The Hags seemed so much more intimidating when viewed closer to their natural habitat. All overtures of friendship had evaporated; the sea creatures were now openly contemptuous.

  ‘Do not fear, fat little Quimonmen!’ they chortled. ‘We do not have to feed you to the sharks and sea serpents yet. We will stick to the pact we made with you when we exchanged body fluids: you will rule Eronth behind us. Of course, there will be no one left to rule! The earth belongs to the Sea People by a lore older than time and laid before the Dreamers slept! We reclaim what is rightfully ours!’

  There was a roar from the congregation assembled on the shore and then the ocean seemed to explode in front of the petrified Wezom. A huge wave rose in the air in front of them, and in the middle of the wave they could glimpse the horrible ancient figure of the Sea Warrior Queen Shambzhla. In a shocking moment Quimonmen had time to register her halt-rotting face, her shark’s teeth mouth open in a cry of triumph, eleven drooping withered breasts that suckled fish. Her eye, black and cold, looked half melted. The Faery King screamed at the sight of her lower torso, which bore the brilliant black and gold diamond coils of a sea serpent, and then he fainted.

  When he regained consciousness, he saw his army surrounding him, their spears poised and ready. ‘He’s opening eyes! Hiss! Claw!’

  Quimonmen squinted around, remembering the sight that had caused him to black out and he cried aloud, but the beach was now deserted except for his men and rotting clumps of seaweed. ‘My nose ring,’ he explained to his soldiers, attempting to regain his composure. ‘It must have pinched nerves that run to my brain and cut off the oxygen.’

  The
soldiers nodded gravely. ‘Of course, Great King.’

  Where have the stinking sea creatures gone?’ He made his tone as casual as possible. The soldiers pointed with their spears in the direction of the city.

  Quimonmen groaned. ‘Rat’s balls! I’ll have that rotting Shambzhla’s head on my wall soon!’ He pushed one fist into the other to show he meant it.

  The soldiers nodded again. ‘Of course, Great King!’

  ‘No need to repeat like a sour beet!’ Quimonmen snapped. ‘Now, what do the Wezom do?’ he snapped at the leader of the army. ‘The Sea flags have broken their promise to Quimonmen. I was meant to rule Eronth, and now they are going to kill everyone!’

  ‘King Quimonmen could follow with sharp spear and kill them,’ suggested a wit in the crowd. Quimonmen ignored him. ‘If they kill everyone, then there is no one to rule,’ he sulked to himself.

  ‘Why not the Wezom join with Imomm and fight the monsters of the sea?’ Quimonmen’s general suggested. He was impatient for battle, jabbing his spear into the air. The Winskis had composed many songs in his honour, celebrating the vast number of heads he had collected on the walls of the Wezom cavern.

  King Quimonmen shuddered. ‘Why not Wezom and Imomm hide in the Hollow Hills together and wait until the sea creatures have done their work and return to the sea?’ he said. Suddenly the idea of spending a prolonged period of time underground with Diomonna was appealing.

  The soldiers glanced at each other. ‘Wezom do not hide underground like worms!’ the general said. ‘They fight and take heads!’ Now he waxed his spear threateningly at Quimonmen, who, sensing rebellion, was forced to change tacks.