CHAPTER SIX
On
Ti-Gray, isle of the Dead, Astor glanced conspiratorially at the elderly figure
at his side. Can we do this? Even as his penetrating gaze asked the question, the thin lips tightened. It felt
strange to be nursing even the slightest doubt.
His companion shrugged and did not speak. We can and we will. Gabriel Martin, wanted to say, but the words
stuck in his throat. Shedding the few remains of his Motherworld persona, he
proceeded to home in on the dream-self that he had sent to the aid of his only
child, Bethany. We must…was the grim afterthought which came unbidden
to Gabriel’s mind body, and spirit…or all
is surely lost.
CHAPTER SEVEN
As
the ledge bearing Mick and Fred crumbled away, the former barely had time to
grab the little Foss and pray the rope would take their weight before they were
swinging precariously in mid-air. At one point they crashed into the wall of
rock. Mick’s body took the brunt of the collision and a glancing blow to the
head from a protruding rock almost caused him to lose consciousness. As it was,
it took a superhuman effort to manipulate a swing towards the druid.
Fred screamed, and in spite of Mick’s frantic
reassurances did not stop screaming until Ygor and several of his robed
companions had hauled them to safety. The rescue did not take long, but to Mick
and an hysterical Fred it seemed an eternity.
“We meet again, Motherworlder.” Ygor greeted them with
a smug solemnity that would have sent Mick’s hackles soaring had he not been
only too aware that he and Fred owed the druid their lives.
“And timely so,” Mick panted, still dazed, and held
out his hand. “What can I say? We owe you our lives. Thank you.”
“Thanks are all that a good deed requires,” the druid
assured him. “We heard your companion crying out and hurriedly retraced our
steps to see if we could be of any assistance. But you are weak and in shock.
Drink this. It will refresh you and lend you strength.” He took what looked
like a hip flask from a pocket in his robe and offered it to Mick who accepted
and drank eagerly before turning to offer the flask to Fred. The dwarf shook
his head, but before he could say a word Ygor had snatched the flask back. “Never
presume to offer what is not yours to offer,” the Druid said sharply. Briefly,
his placid features assumed a harsh, forbidding look, but softened almost
immediately, his tone resuming an air of polite concern. “Now, lean on me for a
while as we progress.”
Mick was glad of Ygor’s support, but worried about
Fred in whom the druids showed not the slightest interest. Strange,
given that they supposedly came to help
him. He managed to turn his head in spite of Ygor’s arm gripping him tightly
around the waist. “Do you need to rest Fred?”
“Don’t worry about me,” responded the dwarf, still
shaking, but gamely placing one foot in front of the other as he followed on,
“we Foss are tougher than we look.” He raised a wry smile that quickly dissolved
into a worried frown, but not before Mick had looked away. Druids! Who would ever have thought it? Druids, back in the mountains
after all this time, and up to their old tricks no doubt. Huh, druids, worse
than Krills. Krills are naturally evil, it is just the way they are, but druids…
Druids have dark magic on their side. Only a fool trusts a druid.”
Fred took several deep breaths and felt marginally
calmer. The druids had been observing
him clinging to the ledge for some time before the young Motherworlder arrived.
He had sensed their presence and wondered desperately why no one came to help.
Now all became clear. They must have expected Michal called Mick to come to his
rescue. He, Fred, had been bait in a trap. I
must warn him. Even so, he would
need to choose his moment carefully. He plodded on, feeling physically stronger
with each step, but increasingly disturbed and close to renewed panic. Where were they going? Who knows with druids? He spat to one side and felt marginally the better
for it before realizing he had fallen behind and ran after the others. At the same time, he was careful to keep a
safe distance. You can’t trust druids, never know with druids.
After a while, the tunnel began to descend steeply,
and then flattened before widening out in what Mick was beginning to see as a
familiar pattern. They were in a huge
cavern, magnificent stalactites everywhere, the sulphurous glow emitting from
its walls giving them the appearance of monstrous fangs poised to strike
anything or anyone that came too close. Mick shivered while a plaintive sob,
echoing around the rock chamber like a piano chord, reassured him that Fred had
not fallen as far back as he’d feared.
It was then he realised, too, that he was sweating profusely. Able to
walk unaided by now, he paused to wipe his brow with the sleeve of his shirt.
“You are weary and still in shock,” Ygor told him and
offered the flask again.
Mick raised the flask to his lips, and was poised to
drink when some sixth sense warned him against doing so. Yet, how to explain a
refusal? Besides, he was thirsty.
He drank, only to keel over almost at once and sprawl
unconscious at the Druid leader’s feet.
“Get the Foss,” Ygor commanded the two druids closest
to him who glared past him into the gloom as if expecting to see the dwarf
ready and waiting for them to pounce.
Fred, though, was nowhere to be seen.
“What are you waiting for?” Ygor demanded. “Find the
dwarf,” adding as if nothing more than an afterthought, “and kill him. He can
be of no possible use to us.”
The two druids did as they were told and carried out
an exhaustive search of the vicinity, literally leaving no stone unturned, but
the little Foss was nowhere to be found. “Find him! He cannot have gone far,”
cried Ygor, more puzzled than frustrated or angry. Only one explanation came immediately to
mind. There is magic in play here that is
no friend to druids, he pondered anxiously. At the same time, he summoned
every vestige of self-control and became instantly relaxed. I have Michal. Whatever forces oppose me,
they are flawed or they would surely have kept him safe upon whom the fate of all
Mamelon rests. He turned his gaze on the unconscious Mick and permitted
himself a self-congratulatory smile.
As soon as he saw Ygor offer Mick the flask, Fred
sensed danger. Briefly, he considered rushing forward and trying to prevent the
young Motherworlder from drinking. At the same time, he realized it was already
too late for that. Besides, the druids would not react kindly to his
suspicions, proven or unproven. Reluctantly, he came to the conclusion that his
best course of action was to flee while the going was good. I mean, I can’t help him if I’m dead, can I?
It makes sense to save myself, doesn’t it?
It did…
The little Foss turned
and ran back along the gloomy tunnel nor had he gone far before he could hear
unmistakeable sounds of pursuit. He paused, breathing heavily, panic-stricken
and even more scared than he had been clinging to the ledge. It was well known
among Foss that druids enjoyed torturing their victims, and death could take
days. Frantically, he looked around but could make out only solid rock. He braced
himself to run on, albeit with a sinking heart. Suddenly, just ahead, a strange
light appeared that gradually assumed the shape of a being that was neither
animal nor otherwise even as he watched.
Kikiri…!
The dwarf uttered a yelp of sheer terror. He had heard of these phenomena, but
never seen one until now. The word among Foss was that they were cursed spirits
of the dead, denied refuge even among their own kind in Nul-y-Gray, Place of
the Undead. It was said, too, that, kikiri were always on the look-out for
potential victims to share their fate, inflicting pain in ways surpassing even
the cruelty of druids. “No, go away, please!” the dwarf screamed as the kikiri
approached. “I mean no harm. I have never harmed anyone. Have mercy, please!”
The kikiri said nothing nor came any closer, but
hovered as if suspended by invisible wires. Fred became aware of a force within
him that he neither recognized nor quite trusted. The best that could be said
for it was it was neither exactly hostile nor exactly friendly. Whatever, it
was a powerful force against which his initial resistance quickly crumbled,
compelling him to follow the kikiri as it turned and glided a short distance
before apparently pinning itself flat against the rock wall like some ghastly,
luminous imprint. Fred soon found himself at the very same spot, nose pressed
against the wall, its tip flickering like a dying flame, the rest of his body vainly
attempting to save the last vestige of resistance.
The kikiri vanished.
Temporarily immobilised by fear and doubt, the grunts
and groans of pursuing druids almost upon him ringing in his ears, the little
Foss closed his eyes tightly, launched his whole body forward, and followed the
kikiri into a solid wall of rock.
Mind and spirit surrendering completely to a body on
autopilot, Fred let his legs take him where they would, and kept his eyes
closed. This is a dream. I am dreaming.
Soon I shall wake up and be…what, safe or lost, alive or dead? Suddenly, he
had a vision. He was standing by a lake. Nearby, at the lake’s edge a group of
robed figures were carrying something into a small boat. They all clambered in
and drifted away. No one appeared to be
either steering or rowing. Fred let out an audible gasp. It was as if he had
spread wings and was flying over the lake. He saw what lay in the boat. It was the inert body of the young Motherworlder,
Michal called Mick. He heard a shout. The druids had spotted him. He turned in
time to see one let fly an arrow from a bow that found its mark and pierced his
bird body. A terrible pain quickly passed as he hit the water with a splash and
plummeted into the lake’s murky depths. So
this is what it’s like to be dead…
Fred opened his eyes. A face was leaning over him, its
expression passing from surprise to concern and back again.
“Who are you?”
The voice belonged to a young man with striking blond
hair whose features were blurred yet vaguely familiar. Suddenly, the dwarf
realized why. “Michal!” he exclaimed.
“You know Michal?” the voice became excited.
“Have you seen my brother?” Another voice penetrated a
drumming sound threatening to burst poor Fred’s eardrums.
Fred followed the direction of the new voice and a
smaller blur gradually assumed the shape and person of a red haired boy. Another Motherworlder, whatever next? Strong but gentle hands helped him to sit up
and offered him a flask. Momentarily reminded of the druids, the dwarf shook
his head at first, but thirst quickly overcame any misgivings and he drank
eagerly. If the vinre came as something of a shock to his fragile system, as he
had been expecting water, it was a very pleasant one and Fred was soon feeling
more like his old self. His vision began to clear, and he seized the
opportunity to observe his companions.
The blond young man and red haired Motherworlder had
stepped back a little and were studying him with frank curiosity. They were
joined by a very pretty female. My
goodness, an elf… He had never personally encountered an elf, but they were
legendary among all mountain folk and in some tunnels there were engravings
attributed to elves that had been captured and like so many others in the Dark
Times, made to work the mines. .
“I am called Irina,” the elf introduced herself in the
sweetest voice the little Foss had ever heard. He warmed to her instantly.
Instinct reassuring him he was among friends, he began to relax, even returned
her dazzling smile with a tremulous one of his own as Irina introduced the
others.
“Have you seen Mick? Have you seen my brother? And
Beth, have you see Beth?” The red haired boy wanted to know.
“Don’t rush
him, Peter,” said Heron gruffly. “The poor Foss is exhausted. I think perhaps
he has suffered much, and recently.”
Fred flung him a look of gratitude, but urgency
prompted him to tell them all he knew of young Michal and the druids. He was pleased to see they plainly shared his
distaste for the Robed Ones, but omitted to tell them he believed his Motherworld
friend had been poisoned and was almost certainly dead. After all, he
acknowledged privately, Michal might only have been drugged although for what
purpose he could not imagine. Besides, to reveal his suspicions would only
upset the ref haired boy of whom the others were clearly very fond.
“So how did you escape?” It was Irina who asked the
question on all their lips.
The dwarf struggled to describe how
the kikiri had led him through walls of solid rock to where he now sat.
“There is strong magic about,”
murmured Heron.
“Strong indeed,” Irina agreed.
“She helped me, too. The kikiri, she helped me too,”
Pete Wright confessed excitedly. “Only, I didn’t like to say so because it was
all so weird. I didn’t think you would believe me,” he added lamely, seeing by
their expressions that Heron and Irina were hurt he had not told them sooner.
“Friends must trust each other,” said Heron sternly,
“or the friendship is nothing more than an illusion. “Even the impossible is
possible where magic is concerned. Have you learned nothing since we first
met?”
“Sorry,” Pete muttered shamefaced.
“Don’t be so hard on the boy,” Irina protested. “Never forget he is a Motherworlder. Besides,
admit it. You are as mystified by events as any of us. Or perhaps you can
explain what a kikiri is doing here and apparently on our side? It is more than
weird. It is unthinkable, unheard of.
“I had the strangest dream,” Fred felt prompted to
confide, and proceeded to relate what he could recall of it.
“Dom-y-Baba…!” Heron exclaimed and made everyone
start. “If we are meant to make any sense of Fred’s dream, the druids are
heading for Dom-y-Baba, Lake of Doom. We must try and get there first and…”
“…rescue Mick, yes!” Pete cried excitedly, and
performed a little jig.
“But why take Michal captive?” Irina asked of no one
in particular.
“They won’t drown him, will they? They’re can’t be
planning to sacrifice him or something …can they?” Pete’s enthusiasm dissolved on the spot and
he uttered an anguished yelp. Heron instinctively put an arm around the boy’s
shoulders and gave him a hug.
Irina looked from Heron to the little Foss, and then
back again, recognizing a look in both pairs of eyes for what it was, a
warning. Her gaze fell on young Peter. No, this was not the time to speak of
the Kurzl, a scaly sea monster said to have migrated from the Great Sea in ages
past and made its lair in the lake’s darkest depths. It was customary to offer
a human sacrifice. Failure to do so would invariably result in the monster
choosing its moment to strike before indulging its penchant for fresh meat,
piece by piece, often when its victims were within easy reach of the other side
and thought they were home and dry. It was said that many such unfortunates
took a long time to die. Finally, when only the victim’s head remained, the
monster would proceed to chew upon it with such lingering relish that crunching
sounds would reverberate throughout the Purple Mountains and beyond. Lake of
Doom, indeed…
“Look!” Pete was pointing excitedly towards the next
bend in the tunnel.
Irina and Heron shook their heads bemusedly, but the
little Foss leapt to his feet and became even more animated than Pete. “It’s
the kikiri!” he shouted. “We should follow it.” He was already heading towards
the quivering shape ahead. Pete started
to follow after him, pausing only to look back over his shoulder to make sure
Heron and Irina were close behind.
Heron shrugged, and took the elf girl by the hand. “It
seems we have no choice.”
“It would seem so,” Irina agreed.
“But I don’t understand why they can see her and we
can’t.” Heron scratched an ear with his free hand.
“What makes you think it is a female?”
“I don’t know. I just…feel…something. Come on, let’s
go. What have we got to lose, after all?”
Irina held his hand tightly as they ran after the Foss
and Pete. How much do they see, she
wondered? Not for the first time since she had first set eyes on the kikiri did
she wonder whether she should tell Heron it was the much deformed and degraded
spirit of his sister. Who has done this
to you, Arissa, and why, why, why…? She could not even guess, of course, nor
could the kikiri tell her. All the elf girl knew for sure was that incredibly
powerful forces of light and dark were in play as if competing with each other
for Arissa’s very soul. And who else’s…? In desperation, Irina
summoned the image of a door and tried to slam it shut on the question for such
a prospect was too hideous to contemplate.
Try as she might, though, the door remained
obstinately ajar.
