by Robin Jarvis
The Ismus’s smile grew even wider. “Speaking of happy homicides,” he said, getting down to business, “the last time we met, I proposed a certain bargain and you were imprudent enough to refuse it. I hope that was mere reckless bravado and you’ve changed your mind. Your stay here will be extremely brief if not.”
Lee closed his eyes. It was no use dwelling on the dead guards. Their comrades back in the mountain base were probably responsible for the deaths of his friends. He told himself these were not people he should mourn. He was right not to have learned or even asked their real names. His jaw tightened and he mentally closed the door to any feelings of sympathy and sadness. He couldn’t afford to be weak here. He had to stay focused, remember what he wanted most of all, the person he would sacrifice everything for.
His eyes opened.
“Take me to her,” he demanded.
“Now, now,” the Ismus chided. “You have to perform that certain task for me first. You have to kill the Bad Shepherd.”
“I know what you want me to do,” the boy answered. “But I ain’t doin’ nuthin’ till I know you ain’t lying. I want to see her ’fore I do another damn thing.”
“Do you doubt I am able to uphold my side of the contract? I find that vaguely offensive.”
“Just do it!”
The boy struggled to his feet and almost fell down again. He had lost a lot of blood from the bites in his leg.
“We should get you to the Court Physician,” the Ismus told him. “Those wounds need attention and the blacksmith can remove the cuffs from your wrists. Just don’t mention anything about Dora. I don’t think he’d be able to concentrate on the job if he knew what had happened to his daughter.”
“No!” the boy shouted. “I gotta see her, or there is no deal and you might as well empty the rest of them bullets in me. Take me to her now – take me to Charm.”
The Holy Enchanter frowned with annoyance, but there was no way around it. Even so, the boy couldn’t walk anywhere with that leg. He gazed over the rubble and saw the perfect thing.
Returning to the sewing chair, he brushed the dust and dirt off the seat and invited Lee to get on.
“I don’t need no rest!” the boy told him angrily. “I said take me to her.”
“That is what I am attempting to do. I am not, however, going to carry you all the way. Battle Wood is many leagues from here.”
“Don’t you got no horse you can whistle up?”
“That would be useful certainly, but it wouldn’t address the problem we’d encounter upon our arrival. The fortress in which she sleeps has no entrance. This really is the only way; now do please sit down.”
Lee still refused. The Ismus shook his head wearily and took a small jar from a pocket of his velvet tunic. It contained the yellowish-grey minchet ointment and he spread a little over the chair arms and around the spinning wheel at the back. Then he gave the spokes a push and set the wheel in motion.
The wheel revolved with a clackety-click and the treadle beneath the seat see-sawed. Almost at once, the whole chair began to shudder and it jerked and tilted along the ground before giving small hops, as if it had the hiccoughs. Then it rose into the air and the Ismus had to catch hold to stop it drifting out of reach.
“Get on,” he repeated.
Lee almost laughed.
“Shut up!” he said in disbelief. “You ’spect me to get on that fool granny ride and look a dick? No way!”
“Then you will never see Charm,” came the flat response.
Lee swore but he had to submit. He limped across to where Nimbelsewskin’s chair was bobbing above the ground and planted himself on the seat. The chair bumped back to the floor, then rallied and floated up again.
“Hold tight,” the Ismus advised.
With his own silver wand in one hand and the goblin’s in the other, he spread his arms wide and glided effortlessly upwards.
Lee gripped the arms of the chair and it rose swiftly. The wreck of the cottage, the blasted garden, the wind-torn flower borders and the bodies of the North Korean guards were left far below.
The spinning wheel on the chair’s back clacked and whirred and the strange conveyance flew up in front of the burning oak tree. The heat was blistering and, for one suspicious moment, Lee wondered if the Ismus had tricked him and was going to pitch him into the flames. But the chair continued to soar. It passed through the pall of black smoke and glimmering ashes and the tree was soon a beacon in the distance behind them.
Drenched in cold sweat, Lee glanced at the Ismus. The Holy Enchanter was some distance ahead, flying fast and steady, his hair and the tails of his tunic streaming in the high night air. The breeze made the boy’s wounds ache and throb and his fingers tightened about the chair arms. It was worse than he had claimed and the likelihood of him passing out was a real possibility. He knew if that happened he would fall and that would be it. Taking deep breaths, he stared about him and tried to stop thinking about the pain. He had to remain conscious.
The stars were scintillating points of white, blue and silver, larger and clearer than any in the real world. Away to the right, over the far, eastern hills, a full milky moon was rising. Its light was strong enough to cast long shadows over the land. Beyond the forest, Lee could see the fields and pastures of the small, isolated farms that skirted the realm of Mooncaster. In the far distance, the majestic walls and turrets of the White Castle reared above the landscape. The effulgent moon made its stones shine like snow and turned the moat to tinsel. It was a ravishing spectacle, the most beautiful castle ever imagined. The sight of it inspired loyalty and belonging and a desire to be ruled by an absolute, but benevolent, monarch.
Lee hated every part of it and liked to imagine what a nuclear warhead from North Korea really would do: a vast smoking crater, scorched fields and charred forests, heaps of cinders where the Punchinellos had stood… This apocalyptic musing put a smile on his lips.
But nothing marred the serenity of the scene laid out before him. Silken banners flew above the towers of the four Royal Houses and the windows of the Great Hall were aglow with hundreds of candles blazing on the chandeliers and mirrored sconces. In one of the smaller towers coloured lights were flickering and fizzing and Lee guessed that was where the Court Magician, Old Ramptana, was tinkering with his experiments.
Eclipsed by those mighty walls, the village of Mooncot was engulfed in the cosy dark. Only a few points of light pricked that gloom, but threads of smoke climbed from every chimney. The Ismus’s subjects were content and snug in their humble, ordered existence.
Lee couldn’t begin to guess what Fighting Pax would mean for them, or the Jaxers in the real world.
The wooded slopes rolled beneath. Peering over the side of the chair, he saw bald areas where the gnomes of the mine had felled trees for their smelting furnace. That hill, called Rustridge because it was rich in iron ore, was a honeycombed warren and their excavations ran deep. It was rumoured that their tunnels extended far beyond their boundaries. In the remote farms, when the children were awoken by strange noises in the night, their mothers told them it was the “lowly men”, deep under the ground, tapping on rocks with their little picks. Digging outside their border was forbidden and the Gnome King denied such slanderous accusations at the annual tribute-bringing. But the number of gnomes among Nimbelsewskin’s gruesome servants suggested that the exit to at least one such illicit tunnel was located somewhere in Hunter’s Chase.
Rustridge was quickly left behind and Lee turned his gaze to the next of the great thirteen hills that encircled Mooncaster.
He saw a dark, brooding presence on the horizon. This was Judgement Hill, where, according to the book, the Dawn Prince himself had once vanquished the army of ravaging beasts from the barren wastes of Missio. In that bloody battle, he slew all but one, Mauger, their great chieftain. Then the two fought a bitter, violent contest that endured for three days and nights. But finally, upon the lofty crag known ever after as Abjure Rock, the Dawn Prince was v
ictorious. Mauger was defeated and the Dawn Prince dragged it back to the White Castle, subduing it and bringing it to heel like a wild dog broken.
In the years that passed, trees grew densely over the carcasses of the slain army. Thickets of thorn and tortured pines thrived up there on the high, wind-scoured slopes. Ivy strangled every bough and was strung between the trees like a choking web. No animal would live up there and birds would not nest. Only large bats flew over Battle Wood, but they didn’t make their home in it. They roosted in the crumbling walls around the base of the Black Keep, this ancient fortress built into the highest peak.
When Lee beheld it, he forgot the pain of his wounds. The fortress was a solitary, octagonal tower, spiking up into the starry heavens. Its sides were sheer and smooth, tapering towards the summit. It was taller than the Keep of the White Castle and far, far older. The Dawn Prince’s battle against Mauger’s army had been waged around it. Blood had been spilled against its stones, and claws and steel had left their marks, but it endured.
There were no windows and no entrance, but at the very top there was a dome, built upon eight pillars and open to the elements. Suspended within was a great lantern wrought from crystal. Its light did not spill over the surrounding countryside. It was directed down on to the flat roof and nowhere else. Not one night had ever passed without the flame burning steadily.
Lee’s curiosity mounted. As the chair flew him closer, he could see that under the dome was a circular table made from the same stone as the tower itself and four figures clad in black hooded robes were seated round it.
The Ismus reached the tower before him. Lee saw the Holy Enchanter sail down and land behind the parapet. Then the boy was fascinated to watch him bow respectfully to the seated figures, who took no notice.
The sewing chair followed and was soon floating down beside the Ismus. The spinning wheel clicked to a stop and the treadle was stilled.
“This way,” the Ismus muttered to Lee in an urgent voice as he circumnavigated the dome’s pillars, and lifted a trapdoor set into the flagstones.
The boy hung back. He stared into the pool of lantern light, at the motionless, robed figures. They were playing cards, but the hands that held them were just yellowed and ancient bones.
The Ismus came hurrying back. “Do you want to see her or not?” he hissed impatiently.
“Who’s the four dead dudes?” Lee asked.
“They are none of your concern – and they are not dead.”
His words were proven when one of the figures placed a card on the table and another leaned forward to examine it.
“Poker night with the supermodels then, huh?” Lee commented.
“Miss Benedict is waiting,” the Ismus reminded him irascibly.
The boy rose from the chair, cringing at the pain in his leg. To his annoyance and humiliation, he had to hold on to the Ismus’s arm to keep from falling over.
Then something remarkable occurred. One of the card players diverted its attention away from the game and the shadow-filled hood turned towards them, watching their progress towards the trapdoor.
The Holy Enchanter’s reaction was startling. He shielded his pale face with his hand and muttered words of protection under his breath.
Lee couldn’t believe it. Here was the Ismus, the mighty Austerly Fellows, scared by something out of a heavy-metal video.
“Hey, how’s it goin’, bro’?” Lee called over to the table, just to wind him up further. “Be lucky, yeah – and stay sharp. Make sure them other guys cough up if you win. No welchin’ on him, is you hearin’ me?”
The hooded figure gazed at him a moment longer then returned to the game.
“Get down there!” the Ismus ordered when they reached the opening. “You chattering imbecile.”
Lee looked down. A long flight of worn stone steps wound deep into the tower. This wasn’t going to be easy, but poking fun at the Ismus would make it a whole lot better.
“Always tagged you for a gambler,” he said, taking the first step. “What with the hearts and clubs crap in your book.”
The Holy Enchanter waited until they were both out of sight of the card players before answering.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.
“Maybe you should’ve written Dancing Bingo instead?”
“That wasn’t any game of chance you would understand,” the man uttered gravely. “And it has been played for longer than you can begin to imagine. If you knew exactly what had taken an interest in you just now, the knowledge would sear your soul and unravel your mind.”
Lee let out a derisive laugh. “I get it,” he said. “That up there is one of the oh so many things you didn’t put in your book. Them scraped-off skinnies were here already – way before you bust into this other dimension, or whatever the hell it is, and redecorated. You’re not just a squatter, you’re an illegal, ain’t ya?”
The Ismus ignored him. Lee grinned despite the pain.
Their progress was slow, but the spiralling way down was lit by small silver lamps. Eventually they reached the next level. A tall archway stood beside the steps, and beyond was a huge chamber.
Lee took a moment to catch his breath. He let go of the Ismus’s arm and leaned against the stonework. His head was aching and he felt weak. When he gazed into that great room, he thought the Ismus had tricked and betrayed him after all. Was he going to fly off and leave him stranded in this tower? Was this place really a prison? Had it been one huge con to shut him out of the way? He could feel his temper rising and that renewed his strength.
“What is this?” he snarled.
The room was stuffed to overflowing with playing cards. They were larger than the usual sort and had an antique look about them, with ragged edges and rumpled corners. The images on them were different to the designs he knew; there were no suits, no numbers, just pictograms of things like Famine, War, Death of a Ruler, Greed, Plague, The False Prophet, Madness, Flood, Birth of a King, Fire, Riches, Downfall of Empires, Rise of a Tyrant, Division, Blossoming Faith, Terror, Destroying Lust, Bountiful Harvest, Storm, Folly, Crossed Swords, Death of Innocents, Jealousy, The Unfettered Beast… The variety seemed endless. There were so many, they formed mountains that touched the ceiling. A channel had been created through them, leading from the archway, like a canyon through a rocky domain. Where one of the peaks had come slithering down, the pass was almost obliterated.
“There are nine levels in this fortress,” the Ismus informed him. “And each is a chamber just like this. What you see here are spent cards, those that have already been played in the age-long game above. This is what happens to them when they are shed. Once they have been placed on the table, they cannot be used again. Nine levels, nine chambers; eight are repositories of spent cards, the other is stacked high with the as yet unplayed packs.”
“Not so high as it was, Master Fellows,” a new voice interrupted from below. “Not nearly so high as it was.”
Lee turned and saw the broad head of a small, narrow-shouldered creature ascend the lower steps and enter the circle of lamplight.
It was the gloomiest face he had ever seen, with a frowning mouth that drooped at the corners, accentuated by the tufts of grizzled whiskers that sprouted there. The eyes were a dull, slate grey and heavy-lidded, and the long nose between sagged at the tip. Deep furrows ploughed across the forehead, and a flapped, cotton skullcap was tied beneath the receding chin.
The creature wasn’t quite as high as Lee’s knee. He wore a simple woollen tunic, belted with leather, and over that an apron. In his hands he carried a silver tray upon which was a fresh deck of cards, tied with a thin red ribbon and sealed with black wax.
“Never use the long ladder now,” he said with a morose shrug. “I can reach the topmost decks with just the middler, and if that isn’t tenebrous news I don’t know what is.”
“The game is far from over yet,” the Ismus remarked.
“Much nearer the end than the beginning,” the newcomer
answered. “On the brink I’d say; it’s getting mighty close to the brink and ready to totter.”
He sucked in one cheek and chewed on it thoughtfully. Then his mirthless eyes flicked askance at Lee.
“I know you have your permissions and warrants and testaments, Master Fellows, but you shouldn’t go fetching your squire to this place. It’s nowhere to come gawping and goggling.”
“Call me Ismus; that is my name here, you know that full well. I am the Holy Enchanter of Mooncaster.”
“Yes, and my name may also be Dogsbody, or Stairtrotter, or Drudgegoat, or Fetchclod, or Workworm and any other menial honours Them Upstairs might bestow my way if ever they deigned to utter one word or several.”
“Be grateful they do not. And this is not my squire. It is the Castle Creeper.”
The grey eyes studied the boy inquisitively.
“Creeping, is it? Don’t sound a solid reason for his face to be so dark. What’s he got to be so desponding about? Let him trot up and down these stairs for half as long as I have, then he’d have cause.”
“Cut the racism,” Lee warned. “Or I’ll dropkick your whiny Oompa Loompa ass right down them.”
“And he’s bleeding on my nice clean floor! I fail to see why you bring your Castle Creeper cove to this fortress to have him leak his messy blood on my scrubbed stones.”
Holding the tray to one side, he scrutinised the floor and tutted loudly at the trail of scarlet spots leading from the trapdoor. It was only then Lee noticed that the legs that showed beneath the apron were hoofed like a goat.
“What is you?” the boy asked.
“A body with too much to do, day and night – and now you’ve brought me even more toil to keep me from my cot!”
“This, my dear Creeper,” the Ismus declared, “is Grumbles, the Conservius of this tower. It is he who keeps the endless game above supplied with fresh cards and takes away the old ones.”
“Would that were my only labour!” bemoaned the creature. “Who else is there to keep the lamps and the great lantern burning? Who else sweeps these three hundred stairs daily? Who else has to catch his own dinner with only an old hat on a stick and has tasted naught but bat and spider, glugged down only by rainwater, since the beginning? Who else has to brush snow off the dome and stop leaves landing on the table? Who else hasn’t had a proper curl-up in his cot since before the ninth chamber was started on? Who else spent three months clearing a way through the old cards in there to make room for a bed and got buried more times than a goose has feathers? Not that I’d know what a goose looks like after all this time, for none fly over this benighted spot. Grumbles the put-upon, that’s who!”
