Tom's Inheritance

by T J Green

  “A deal then. We start at first light.”

  Before they set off, the Prince and the Duchess magically built a tall fence of thick thorny wood to protect the camp. It was set back under the trees, the horses secured inside and the remaining guards positioned around the edge.

  The Duchess settled herself in front of the small bright fire. Rummaging in her bags, she brought out a variety of herbs which she cast into the fire, muttering quietly. With a sizzle, the flames changed colour to smoky blues and greens, and she sat for some time in a trance, gazing into their changing shapes. Eventually she roused herself. “We shall manage without a fire again tonight.”

  “But the wolves – we need to keep them away!” Fahey said.

  “We must rely on the boundary. There are worse things than wolves out there. We must become invisible, we must appear dead.”

  “What? What’s out there? And how can we appear dead?”

  “We will smell dead, which will attract the wolves but keep away other things. Trust me on this, Fahey. You heard the dryads. We do not want the Queen finding us.”

  She moved off to prepare her magic, and Tom wondered yet again what he’d got himself into.

  17 The Rotten Heart

  The stony shale slid under Tom’s feet and he cursed as he climbed. In places he needed to bend double against the steepness of the path. He was grumpily aware of Brenna ahead of him, stepping lightly and effortlessly.

  “Brenna, why aren’t you flying?” he called.

  She paused and looked back at him. “I can’t”.

  He stopped in surprise, catching his breath and stretching out his aching back. “Why not?”

  “Something’s stopping me.”

  “Like what?”

  “The magic Finnlugh mentioned. It’s making the air feel syrupy, so I can’t fly.”

  “It feels fine to me,” Tom replied, puzzled.

  “Trust me, it’s not.” She turned and kept on climbing.

  Tom gazed out over the forest. He’d passed clefts and hollows, and forced his way through thick vegetation. They were above the canopy now and Aeriken stretched to the horizon. His muscles burned with the effort and he was sweaty and tired. The rest of the party toiled above him, some out of view. He sighed as Brenna disappeared ahead of him, then with a great effort pushed on, muttering to himself about stupid quests.

  A scream interrupted his thoughts and he looked up, pushing his hair out of his eyes. Was that Beansprout? The scream was followed by shouts and yells. Damn! He ran, cursing his aching muscles. Rounding a corner, he stumbled into Brenna and the others.

  He found himself on the edge of a wide cleft reaching deep into the cliff face. At its furthest corner were the palace gates, hanging open, the entrance dark. Carved out of the rock was the Aerie. The cleft was filled with dead birds – hundreds of them. Their bodies lay thick upon the ground, bloodied, their feathers torn. The smell of decay was strong and Tom’s stomach turned.

  But that wasn’t what had caused the shouts and screams. Spread on the cliffs above them were scores more birds, and other creatures, half-human, half-bird, their huge wings spread behind them, shackled to the rock. They were all dead. Many had rotted, leaving skeletons to bleach in the sun.

  Tears poured down Brenna’s face, and the rest of them stood in shock.

  “Who could have done this?” said Arthur.

  Nobody answered.

  Arthur pulled Excalibur from its sheath. “Allow me.” He pushed ahead, and the rest of them followed, peering nervously upwards. Their footsteps echoed on the rock, bounding around them. Shale slipped and slithered down, landing at Tom’s feet. Woodsmoke halted briefly, his bow angled steeply upwards. Apart from wind-ruffled feathers, nothing moved. He lowered his bow and walked on.

  Beyond the shattered gates of the palace was a broad hall, illuminated by beams of light slanting in from above. The roof was high overhead – if it could be called a roof.

  Most of the walls were solid rock pitted with openings, out of which scrubby bushes and trees grew haphazardly, but closer to the top the walls became a lattice work of rock, open to the wind and sky. Bridges of stone arched above them, weaving backwards and forwards, higher and higher, like the spokes of a wheel.

  “It’s like an aviary,” the Prince murmured.

  “Well, we are birds. What did you expect?” Brenna answered abruptly. Her tears had dried and she looked pale and angry.

  The floor was thick with feathers and droppings, with the odd paw print visible. “Wolves,” said Woodsmoke.

  Arthur scanned around. “Where to now?”

  “I have no idea. I thought I’d see signs of my brother, but …” Finnlugh trailed off.

  “We should go to the throne room.” Brenna said. “That’s where the Queen’s power is concentrated. We should see what’s there.”

  An eerie cry punctuated the air and arrows thudded into the ground around them. Some of Finnlugh’s guard’s were hit and fell awkwardly to the floor, arrows jutting from their bodies.

  Everyone ran for shelter. Woodsmoke fired arrows above them, but their enemies were out of sight.

  Brenna shouted, “This way!” and ran, zigzagging towards a dark recess in the far wall.

  A body almost fell on Tom, and he stumbled as he ran round it. Next to him, Beansprout sprinted, her hair streaming behind her. The guards who had already reached the recess fired arrows back into the hall. Tom threw himself through the arch as Finnlugh shouted, “Keep behind me!” The Prince muttered something unintelligible and thrust out his hand, from which a ball of white light flew into the hall. A boom echoed off the walls, hurting their ears. Several wood sprites thudded to the floor, dead, their limbs splayed.

  “My brother! He’s here!” Finnlugh said. He turned with a wolfish grin. “Lead on, Madame!”

  “The throne room’s up there,” Brenna said, pointing upwards.

  “Up there?” Tom repeated, feeling his legs protesting already.

  “There are steps cut into the rock on either side of the bridges,” explained Brenna, “and rooms leading back into the hillside. But we have to cross the bridges to make our way up.”

  “I’m sure there will be more sprites up there too,” Finnlugh added.

  Tripping on each other’s heels, they followed Brenna up the stone staircase until they reached the first bridge. Finnlugh’s guards made their way quickly across, and the rest jogged after them, weapons drawn. Thankfully the way was clear, and they were able to move upwards across the first few tiered bridges, zigzagging their way across the palace.

  Tom took deep breaths and tried not look down as he ran across the bridges, which were far too high and narrow for his liking. As they reached the end of each one, they paused to search for signs of life on the bridges above them and in the rooms on each level.

  “Who lived here?” Beansprout asked.

  “Members of the court – anyone who slept in human form rather than in bird form. It varies; depends on your mood or your duties.”

  “What do you mean, duties?” Arthur asked.

  “The Queen demanded that most retained their human form, and we each had to serve her if we lived here. I decided to leave. It wasn’t forbidden, but …” she paused. “I made myself an outcast, and I wasn’t the only one. She could be very demanding. And I had other things to fear too.”

  The rooms were abandoned and dirty, but there were no more bodies. “It’s as if they fled and were caught outside,” Brenna said.

  As they stepped out onto the next bridge, another volley of arrows and spears rained down from above and they retreated quickly – except for Arthur and Tom, who were too far ahead. They ducked and dodged, managing to reach the other side unscathed. Tom had just drawn his sword when a small group of sprites thundered down the steps towards them. While Arthur leapt into action, Tom could barely think how to swing his sword and he stabbed wildly, feeling his sword sink into flesh and bone. A sprite swung at his head and, as Tom ducked, the sprite fell
dead at his feet. Arthur stood behind having barely raised a sweat.

  “Are you all right, Tom?”

  “I’ll let you know later.”

  Arthur and Tom ran to the top of the stairs and saw several more sprites halfway across the bridge, unaware of Tom and Arthur as they fired on the bridge below. Tom had forgotten how big they were, their bodies solid muscle, their flesh a dull greenish brown, their faces sharp and angular. Some had horns spiralling out of their skulls, around which their matted hair was wrapped.

  Arthur ran silently, his sword held before him. Tom followed hesitantly, his sword also drawn. If he was honest, he didn’t feel he was needed. Arthur fought with an effortless grace and strength, and his sword looked as if it was an extension of him. He was surefooted and well balanced, and Tom realised clearly, as he hadn’t done before, that he was watching Arthur, King of the Britons. He felt a jolt, a sense of unreality that was stronger than anything he’d felt before on this strange journey. The feeling jolted him into the present. He saw everything with an icy clarity: the vast spanning bridges, the high-walled palace of pitted rock, and the cries and shrieks of sprites in the sharp icy air.

  Tom ran to Arthur’s side and helped distract the sprites, attacking one from behind, unbalancing him so that he fell from the bridge. Tom’s heart was pumping, but he didn’t have time to feel afraid. When the last sprite was killed, they rolled the bodies off the bridge.

  The others joined them and they scanned the upper levels again, but the bridges once more appeared empty, the dark entrances in the rock devoid of life, the spindly trees motionless. After hushed reassurances they pressed on, higher and higher.

  There were now eight of them: Arthur, Brenna, Woodsmoke, Finnlugh, Beansprout, and two of the Royal Guard – not many at all, considering what they may find at the top, particularly as Tom and Beansprout had next to no fighting skills. Tom held the sword he had been given, thinking how awkward it felt. He gripped it tighter, wishing his hands didn’t feel so sweaty.

  Just before they reached the top, Arthur suggested they shared some food to keep them going. He had assumed charge of their small group, and no one thought to question his natural command, not even Finnlugh.

  When they had rested, they pressed on to the final bridge and then stopped to assess their position.

  They were dizzyingly high. Above them was open sky. The solid walls had gone, and perches lined the latticed walls, beyond which they could see patches of mist that drifted through and hung in the air around them. The wind moaned ceaselessly, carrying the smell of ice and snow. It was freezing, and night was falling. Faint stars began to spark, and a full moon edged above the forest canopy. Below them the bridges criss-crossed back and forth, the floor disappearing into the inky blackness like the bottom of a well. The bridge ahead glowed in the dusk like a ghost road.

  Several armed wood sprites stood looking out over the bridge from the opposite side, their dark silhouettes misshapen and deformed.

  “They’re guarding the throne room,” said Brenna.

  From the shelter of the doorway, Woodsmoke and the guards exchanged a volley of arrows with the attacking sprites. Eventually the return fire stopped and Arthur led the way across the bridge. The anteroom was empty except for their lifeless bodies.

  “Useless brutes,” Finnlugh said, kicking one as he strode past.

  Arthur paid them greater attention, checking to ensure they were all dead.

  Beansprout gingerly stepped over them. “It’s so eerie here.”

  Woodsmoke nodded. “I have heard much about this place, but still, this is not what I was expecting.”

  “Are they all dead? The court, I mean.”

  “I don’t know.” He shrugged, looking a little lost.

  Finnlugh coughed impatiently. “Finished?”

  Woodsmoke bristled with annoyance, but Tom answered, “What now?”

  “Now we find my brother and regain the jewel that is rightfully mine.”

  “Are you prepared for what we’ll find in there, Finnlugh?” Arthur asked.

  “No. Are you?” Finnlugh asked pointedly.

  Arthur ignored him and turned to Brenna. “Do you think the Queen is in there?”

  “No. She would have made her presence felt,” she said grimly.

  “Well then, Finnlugh, the show is yours. Just ensure you do not put anyone here in danger. Or you’ll answer to me.”

  The throne room was guarded by huge double doors of burnished rock and wood. They stood listening for a few seconds, but it was deathly quiet. Arthur turned the handle and pushed open the door.

  The throne room was a large square wilderness of cold stone. It was surrounded on three sides by high sheer rocks, and above, it was open to the sky. The fourth side, directly opposite the doors, was edged with a low balustrade, beyond which the sky stretched pitilessly. The floor was of smooth stone, and tall square pillars ran like sentries down either side, creating a ceremonial path to the throne at the far side of the room.

  The throne was carved from black granite, and it seemed to suck what little light was left into itself. Crouched in the seat, looking small and insignificant, was the Duke of Craven.

  He was focused entirely on a small glowing object in his hands. It gave off a cold blue light, flashing occasionally as he turned it. Before the others could even think, Finnlugh swept his hand to the right and the jewel flew from the Duke’s grasp, clattering into the wall and then to the floor.

  “Tom, get the jewel!” ordered Finnlugh.

  The Duke jerked upright, but before he could react, Finnlugh made a pulling gesture. There was an enormous crack, which echoed off the sheer walls, and the throne began to grate across the floor towards them, the grinding of rock against rock sounding like a wounded animal.

  The Duke looked up and smirked, extending his own hands as he did so. The floor rocked with what felt like a wave, knocking the others onto their knees. Only Finnlugh remained standing, his gaze fixed intently on his brother, muttering under his breath, his arm outstretched and his hand palm up.

  The noise of the grating stone was almost unbearable. Tom pressed his hands to his ears, but unlike the others, who were edging back beyond the entrance, Tom ran towards the jewel, glowing faintly in the distance.

  Finnlugh and the Duke were locked together with fierce intensity. Shards of rock began to fly off the throne, shattering against the surrounding walls and cutting and scratching the others as they retreated. Tom tried to protect his head and eyes and focused only on the jewel. The floor continued to jolt, and Tom ran and fell, and ran and fell.

  The others ran back through the open doorway, diving for cover either side of the entrance.

  Just as Tom was closing on the jewel, the floor’s motion changed. For a moment he thought the floor was dissolving, then he realised it was a shallow pool of water – the violent jolting had caused the water in the pool to slosh across the stone floor. He skidded in the wetness until he finally fell in front of the glowing jewel, and clasped it within his hands.

  Tom looked back towards the Prince, but saw only monstrous shadows within a whirling cloud of rocky flints. Moonlight fell on the hall, casting slanting shadows from the pillars, turning the hall into a prison of barred light. The floor continued to buck, and shale started to slip and slither down the walls, forming rivers of rock.

  Tom staggered back towards the Prince, wondering how he was going to get the jewel to him as his attention was so fully focused on the Duke. Tom’s feet snagged on rock and he stumbled; shale stung his face and he felt blood trickle down his cheeks. Finnlugh saw him and extended his right hand. The wind that now whirled around them meant that Tom could get no closer, so he threw the jewel towards Finnlugh’s outstretched hand, hoping it would find a way through the tornado of rock. Finnlugh’s break in concentration caused the Duke to push back and Finnlugh staggered, giving the Duke time to turn to Tom, sending a jolt of energy so strong that it threw him back against the wall in the centre of the hall. T
om dropped like a rag doll into the shale at its base. But it was as if the jewel had been summoned to Finnlugh, and it snapped into his hand with a sound like a thunderclap.

  The Duke howled, “No!”

  “I told you I would find you and take back my jewel!” Finnlugh shouted. “Surrender while you can.”

  “Never – you waste your power. It is pointless you having it!”

  As the jewel connected to the Prince, it started to swell with light until it encompassed Finnlugh and blinded his brother. An enormous pulse of energy hit the Duke and he rose high into the air before slamming to the floor, motionless.

  Finnlugh seemed to shrink, and the jewel pulsed in his hand like a purring cat. He stumbled over to where the Duke lay and stood looking at him in silence, before sinking on to the floor next to his brother’s broken but still moving body.

  Tom sat rubbing the back of his head. There was a large lump on it, and bits of flint were lodged in his hair. And he ached all over. The wind had dropped, and now all that disturbed the silence was the trickle of shale.

  Arthur stepped through the doorway, followed by the others. He stood next to Finnlugh and said, “You couldn’t kill him, then?”

  But Finnlugh didn’t answer, and Arthur continued to watch the twitching form of the Duke.

  18 The Old Enemy

  Tom sat gazing numbly into the shallow pool of water in front of him. He was too tired to lift his head and instead gazed at the moon’s reflection, glittering in the water. The stars were brilliant with diamond light and the sky was thick with them, bathing the hall in a cold white glow.

  As Tom sat, half-aware of Arthur’s muted footfalls pacing the hall, he saw a gathering patch of darkness in the night sky. The stars started to wink out in ever-increasing numbers, until it seemed something was swallowing them. An arch of shadow cut into the moon, growing bigger. What the hell? It looked like wings, but …

  A screech pierced his ears and he looked up to see a vast winged figure fly over the hall. He heard the panic in Brenna’s voice as she cried out, “The Queen!”