Amolda was screaming in rage and beating the ground with his fists at being left out of the chosen party. He kicked out at Geferd and Angerwulf when they attempted to say goodbye. ‘I hate you! I wish you all dead!’ he screamed, and vanished into their cave to sulk. His rejection stung Geferd and she began to cry in earnest, causing the stripes of Solumbi blood to run over her face and making her look even more savage. The giants had spent the previous night in a ritual filing of their teeth, and Fareirrod was impressed by how frightful she looked, although the effect was ruined somewhat by her sniffing for her child.
For the first time he allowed himself to believe they might have a real chance against the Faiaites. Six giants had been elected to invade Faia, and grouped together in full battle regalia they made an intimidating sight. They carried long sharpened sticks made from trees and sharpened bones for daggers. Over their shoulders in cloth bags hung large rocks for crushing of skulls.
There was much slapping of backs and tears as the remaining giants said goodbye to their friends. Even Fareirrod and Geferd embraced and wept at saying goodbye to each other. ‘Look after Amolda well for us,’ Geferd said. ‘If we do not return . . .’ She dissolved again into sobs and Fareirrod could only nod, too choked up to speak.
He stood waving to the war party until they vanished into the flat horizon of the desert. Tiny black dots, the giants became ants. Then he sat, arms entwined around the remaining giants, listening to the loud angry screams from Amolda’s cave and wondering if he would ever see his friends again.
Confusion swept through Bwani and his men when it was discovered Gwyndion and Samma were no longer at Shellhome. A server had broken the news, his buttons flashing and his recorded voice holding the suitable tone of detachment as he reported to Bwani.
‘Perhaps they have run off?’ Edwen suggested as Bwani dismissed the server. Even as he spoke the words he knew them to be false. Gwyndion would never leave Faia without farewelling his friends.
The nine wizards looked at each other with worried faces. They shared the same thought. Some harm must have come to them, although it seemed highly unlikely anyone would harm the Webx. Even the Lightcaster hadn’t been interested in destroying them.
Maya picked at the fruit and cream in her bowl. She found it unbearable to be around Claw and Bwani at the moment, convinced that her guilt was written over her face for all to read. Absorbed as she was in her love triangle, she found it difficult to concentrate on Gwyndion and Samma’s absence. She looked up to see Khartyn picking at her breakfast. The illogical thought came to her that the Crone knew where Samma and Gwyndion were. Khartyn glanced over at Maya briefly but it was time enough for Maya to see the anguish in her eyes.
After breakfast she sought out the Crone, whom she found engaged in the laundry room, programming a server to wash the household sheets, while another server sat at a table making perfumed candles. The scent of beeswax, lavender and vanilla filled the room.
‘Where have they gone, Old Mother?’ Maya asked. ‘I am no fool and won’t believe words that lie. Have you sent them back to Zeglanada by some powerful magic?’
Khartyn glanced at the servers warningly. Maya ignored her cautious nod. ‘You could have at least put Bwani’s mind at rest over the mystery of their disappearance,’ she said.
The Crone regarded her steadily. ‘You would do well to mark your own words, daughter of Emma,’ she said.
Maya flushed. ‘What business be it of yours?’ she said. ‘Crones who do not use sexual energy have no right to comment on the behaviour of others. Why do you always call me daughter of Emma? I have a name. Maya. Why won’t you let your tongue use it, hiss, claw?’
Khartyn nodded. Her cheeks also had two round spots, revealing her emotions. She glanced at the servers who were pretending not to eavesdrop as they listened shamelessly. The Crone shrugged her shoulders and hugged her black shawl closer to her body. She gathered some handkerchiefs into a pile and made as if to walk out. Then she thought better of it and came back to face Maya. ‘I loved Emma,’ she said. ‘She was Bluite raised, but was like a daughter to me. She trusted too easily, however, and the wrong people, but she knew the meaning of sacrifice, love, devotion. Great spiritual truths in simple everyday acts. She heard the song of stones and leaves.’
‘And I don’t?’ Maya’s voice had risen as a thousand rejections, big and small surfaced. ‘I am some disappointment to you, aren’t I? Raised in the Hollow Hills with the stinking Imomm, unlike perfect Emma! Well, what sort of paragon was she? She allowed me, as an unborn soul, to sacrifice my life to hers. It makes me sick the way you go on about Emma and Rosedark as if they are so wonderful!’
Khartyn flinched at the mention of Rosedark, but she held Maya’s stare. ‘You tell a fine story, but it is false,’ she said. ‘I was present when you volunteered your own early death to Hecate. Yes, you were still in the womb, but you were determined even then to have your say, to influence events. Emma tried to persuade Hecate to take her in your place, but the Mother of Monsters laughed and said she would take her anyway. By the sand of the Dreamers, I knew then that Emma was not long for the world of Earth. Hecate is a wily Keeper of the Keys and knew she would be taking Emma to the Underworld soon and therefore it was not worth bargaining for her life. No, Emma did her best to protect you! Unlike you, she was not brought up in the Hollow Hills. Her mind and spirit never recovered from her time on Eronth. She was pitiful to behold in her final weeks, a wreck of her former self. But always courageous, thinking of you to the end. Never realising the Imomm had planted a changeling upon her. When the Azephim stole the changeling, mistaking it for you, it broke her. Mercifully, Hecate was swift in coming to claim her. I wonder what she would think of your bargain with the Norns?’
‘The Norns told me a different story,’ Maya said. She felt sick to her stomach.
‘Only a fool believes the mischief the Norns can utter,’ Khartyn said, although her voice was softer. ‘They love nothing more than to mix and confuse their threads, altering destinies as they spin. Those three have too much time on their hands. Eternity. They mean no real malice, but boredom hatches mischievous spiders.’
Maya sat down at the wooden table. A server engaged in the candle-making paused as if waiting for instructions. Receiving none, it continued its task. ‘What have I done?’ Maya whispered.
In the depths of Quimonmen’s mind, a plan had formed. Since leaving the Hollow Hills his little wings had been quivering with excitement. Never before had the Faery King felt such a sense of purpose, of rightness about his actions. Even his usual fear of anything that moved in Eronth, failed to deter him from his mission. He had flown to an outpost of the Outerezt, unknown to most, but the Wezom made it their business to know all the hidden pockets of Eronth. As he flew, he kept a wary eye out for the glass Faery, or for any scavenging packs of Solumbi. He marvelled and sang songs to himself about his bravery. Love has given me courage, he thought, beating his chest. Diomonna lay cold and still, but he could now admit his feelings for her ran deeper than he had previously supposed. Yes! he sang. Love has made me foolish, but it has given me strength! Like a lion! Like a giant! His new-found valour threatened to desert him when he spotted smoke from the fire of the goddess he had come to bargain with.
Medea sensed his arrival. She turned to face him, emerging from behind the bubbling cauldron she used for her magical arts. Quimonmen knew she spent most of her time flying in her serpent-drawn chariot to distant regions, gathering potent magical plants to brew her many charms and potions. Now she stood barefooted, her long dark hair blowing in the wind. In one hand she held a spray of herbs, in the cauldron floated what looked to be a lamb. Quimonmen wondered at his wisdom in approaching this wild goddess without the protection of his army.
‘Frightened of my pot?’ she enquired. ‘Yes, you should be, little Wezom. Why do Faery people seek me out? What love spell has gone wrong? What enemy needs to be vanquished? Who among you is foolish enough to fall in love with the dead and wi
shes to raise them?’ She stirred the cauldron, nodding to herself while Quimonmen attempted to get his throat muscles to work. ‘Speak, ugly little fat tattooed Faery,’ she said. ‘Lest I get bored and place you in my stew.’
Where was his voice? Quimonmen tried again, furious at himself for letting this goddess intimidate him. Everybody knew she was feral, half mad some even whispered. She had shown no mercy when she killed her own children. She was a goddess, so what? He was King Quimonmnen, on a mission of love.
‘Courage of a lion! Strength of a tiger!’ he whispered to himself, his throat muscles contracting horribly.
‘Voice of a kitten,’ Medea finished and laughed out loud as she surveyed the black bubbling mess in her cauldron. ‘Fat little orange-hair kitten. I already know why you approach Medea. You wish for a potion to resurrect Queen Diomonna of the Imomm tribe, is that not so?’ She glanced at him.
Horrified, he could only nod.
‘Resurrection potion,’ Medea whistled. ‘Potent stuff. Not to be placed in the wrong hands, in particular grubby, grasping Faery hands.’ Quimonmen nervously played with the rings on his fingers.
Medea stirred the cauldron, not looking at him as she concentrated on the black surface where bubbles were beginning to form. ‘Times are changing in Eronth and all the known worlds,’ she said. ‘The balance of powers is beginning to rapidly shift. It breaks my heart to see what is happening to the Eronthites, to the goddesses.’
Quimonmen blinked, trying to follow her rapid words and appear concerned. In truth, he wasn’t at all interested in the direction this conversation had taken. All he wanted was the potion Medea could offer to resurrect his Faery queen.
‘She will not be the same,’ Medea said softly, her eyes black as night when she looked at him. ‘They are never the same when they are brought back from the Underworld, and Hecate will be furious at being cheated of her prize.’
‘I thought you were close to the Mother of Monsters,’ Quimonmen said, his heart sinking at her refusal. He saw himself through her eyes, short, grotesque, puffed up with his own self-importance.
‘No, she will never be the same,’ Medea said, ignoring his comment, and laughed. It was a short, cruel, terrible laugh. ‘But that may be a good thing, fat kitten. She may be easier for you to control when she is brought back from the dead. Her mind will be half asleep, her fire gone.’
Quimonmen waited patiently, hope in his breast. Perhaps there was still a chance Medea might agree to assist him.
‘Times are changing,’ Medea repeated. Her hips gyrated slightly as she stirred the cauldron. ‘There will be a time when even the Faery kingdom may prove of use to the goddesses. When my portly kitten will remember the favour granted to him by Medea.’
Quimonmen nodded, sensing victory. ‘Wezom will always hold the goddesses in high regard,’ he promised, sticking his chest out proudly.
Medea nodded. ‘Then I will help you,’ she said. ‘But the day will come when I will demand a payment in return for the gift of life. Then you will honour Medea.’
Quimonmen couldn’t restrain himself. He beat his chest frantically in joy that the severe-faced goddess had recognised his authority. Mentally, he was already composing a song about his bravery and cleverness in forcing the goddess to change her mind.
Medea smiled, watching him closely. Quimonmen sniffed the air. He didn’t like the smile and he became wary she would change her mind.
‘No.’ She stepped away from the cauldron. ‘I will help you, but I do not have a potion ready-bottled! We have to travel to the land of the vultures to the phoenix whose ashes will resurrect Diomonna.’
Quimonmen let out a wild whoop. Never in his wildest dreams had he imagined he would travel to the land of vultures with the goddess. He could not even begin to think of enough superlatives to describe this adventure.
Medea held her arms out to the sky and uttered a strange cry. Her hair blew backwards in a gust of wind that swept over the two of them.
From the heavens descended an immense silver and red chariot, drawn by six hissing serpents. Quimonmen could only stare awed, as he watched the snake team land the chariot. Medea indicated he should climb aboard and he did so, gingerly trying to avoid the serpents’ heads as they swished and undulated back and forward. She settled herself into the chariot next to him, covered their legs with a white fur, and yelled instructions to the serpents in a harsh tone. ‘Elsmere! Promto!’ The carriage rose into the air and Quimonmen squealed.
‘Be brave, Wezom kitten,’ Medea said. ‘Think of your lost love, still and cold in the Hollow Hills. Soon you can lie your chubby little body over hers and warm her up. Kiss her awake.’
This was exactly what Quimonmen needed to hear. He grinned at Medea, thinking she really wasn’t such a bad sort after all. Not his taste in looks, however. Apart from being too tall, her eyes were wild, with a strange intensity like a mad bull and there was an odour from her body; musky, but unpleasant. No, he decided, she was not much to look upon, but once you made her acquaintance, she really wasn’t such a bad fellow, for a goddess.
Medea cracked a whip over the serpents backs and they hissed in a collective protest. She stood upright, her hair streaming behind her as they sailed through the icy air. ‘Ellsmere! Promto!’
The chariot sailed through a silent world of clouds. They were so high in the sky Quimonmen could not get his bearings. He was not even sure if they were still in Eronth, let alone the Wastelands. Then with a popping sensation in his ears and a throbbing in his head, he felt the chariot descend. Down through the freezing clouds they came. Quimonmen clutched his stomach as it seemed to go upside down. Down faster and faster, with Medea laughing and cracking her whip. Then with a large bump that felt as if it knocked all of Quimonmen’s teeth out, they landed on the ground.
The Wezom King was shocked when he saw where they had landed. They were in a misty landscape. Every direction he looked was white, ghostly, eerie. Even the few trees were white and silver. Covering the ground around them were thousands of vultures. A growling and croaking filled the air as the mass of birds communicated, their heads swinging in constant movement Quimonmen watched in awe as the news of the arrival of these aliens travelled through the vast flock. He studied the birds, his heart beating taster. Never before had he seen so many vultures in one place, nor birds of such an immense size. It hardly seemed possible. Each vulture was about five metres high, double the size of specimens the Wezom King was used to seeing. He watched their long necks moving, bare of feathers, and the sweep of their broad, coarse brown wings.
‘Magnificent, aren’t they?’ Medea said. ‘In their lifetimes they could eat a goat in the time it would take you to put on your jewellery. Or an ilkama in the time it would take you to empty your bowel and select a leaf to clean yourself. They were a joy to watch as they attacked the skull, the large joints, crevices of bones, all vulture tribes working together to devour the body that their beaks were made for. Perfect teamwork. I have watched as the birds have swooped down, seized the largest bones in their great claws, soared high with them into the air, then dropped them onto the rocks below. Then they swoop down and pick out the juicy marrow. It is a marvel to witness. They leave little for the ants and carrion beetles.’
Quimonmen, who thought the conversation was taking a peculiar turn, picked at his teeth, looking at the huge vultures with distaste.
‘You don’t see them for the magnificent beings they are, do you?’ Medea hissed. For a moment her face looked diabolical.
The Wezom King took a step backwards and glanced around. Privately he thought he had never seen an uglier-looking bird. The vulture was a freak of nature with its long, naked neck, its glinting eye. He would have liked to have seen a row of their heads on his wall in his trophy collection. He squashed the thought when he saw the unpleasant manner Medea was regarding him. As if he was a poisonous spider, he thought in sudden indignation, not the great King of the Wezom tribe that he was! He felt like banging his chest and letting he
r know who she was dealing with! Instead, he glanced meekly around at the birds who had begun to circle them. ‘They look very nice,’ he said. He had begun to wonder if the rumours were true and Medea had lost her senses. Imagine a goddess oohing and aahing over a pack of dirty vultures!
Then he squeaked and tried to hide behind Medea when one of the big birds approached him. Medea voiced a series of clicking noises to the bird, holding her arms out and flapping them. The bird imitated her. They were talking. Quimonmen realised, daring to peck through his fingers. The pair were actually communicating with each other! He prayed she was not advising the vulture to pick King Quimonmen up in its vicious-looking beak and throw him onto the rocks below to break his bones to get the juicy marrow. He scolded himself for his folly in trusting a goddess who had killed her own children. A being that could destroy her own flesh would think nothing of killing King Quimonmen. Diomonna is not worth this, he thought, his knees knocking together.
After a series of particularly animated clicks and grunts, Medea looked over at him. ‘Joshua has agreed to fly with us to the Towers of Silence, where the phoenix resides with its magical ash.’
Joshua. The dirty big bird is called Joshua. Quimonmen, relieved he was not about to be pecked to death, could only nod weakly.
The three of them boarded the chariot and Medea shouted her orders to the serpents. Once again they rose into the air. This time the journey was shorter and they flew into a golden light that scorched the air around them. Medea cracked her whip, screaming at the serpents as they balked at the fiery ball of light before them. She didn’t seem to have any fear, Quimonmen thought, clinging to his seat, terrified he would be upturned as the chariot shot through the light. It struck him what an odd picture they must make. A noble Wezom King, a goddess and a vulture in a chariot drawn by serpent snakes. His army would never believe it if they saw him! He became so excited with his own bravery he didn’t even mind the fact Joshua had his sharp beak dangerously close to his scalp as the bird, perched behind him, still clicked and grunted to Medea.
A Fire in the Shell: Circle of Nine Trilogy 3 Page 33
