A thunder of monsters, p.11
A Thunder of Monsters, page 11
A moment later the deer turned to run, and a large catlike predator leaped from its hiding place. The deer was brought down, the hunter and kill both concealed in the long grass.
The deer was clearly not the magical resident here, after all.
“Deer for prey?” whispered Barver, an edge of complaint in his voice. “That seems unfair. My dad would have much preferred deer to the endless diet of rabbit and pigeon!”
“But what is it?” said Patch.
“Some kind of lion, perhaps,” suggested Barver. “Let’s keep going while it’s busy with its food.”
They’d barely taken three steps when the animal rose from the grass. It did look somewhat like a lion, but its head was bizarre – it resembled an old haggard man, with unruly tufts of white hair sprouting from the scalp and chin.
“Oh, no!” whispered Barver. “A manticore! Stay absolutely still!”
Patch did as Barver told him – he knew about manticores. In The Adventures of the Eight, the chapter called “The Terror of Imminus Rock” had gone into plenty of detail about the creatures. At the end of their tails were poisoned spines that they could shoot at great distance.
The oddly human-like heads weren’t even the strangest thing, though. That honour belonged to the sounds they made, which were also unnervingly human. Instead of roaring, for example, the creatures seemed to actually say the word “roar”.
Patch thought hard about the stories he’d read. The only harmless manticores were sleeping ones, so if they stayed unnoticed for long enough, the manticore would likely eat its prey and fall asleep. That was how the Eight had managed it, according to The Adventures.
“Roar!” said the manticore.
It was looking in their direction, but after a moment it sniffed the air before dropping low into the grass again. They could hear the sounds of flesh being torn from the deer carcass.
“I think it’s caught our scent, but doesn’t know where we are,” said Barver. “We should try and sneak away if we can.”
Very slowly, and keeping as low as possible, Barver and Patch backed away.
“Grrr!” said the creature. “Snarl!”
Barver gestured for Patch to stop, and they waited. The manticore was up again, and through the grass they could just make out its rather creepy face. It was scowling as it looked around.
“It’s too risky,” whispered Barver. “We’d best stay still for now.”
“Can you use your flame to scare it off?” said Patch.
“It’s beyond my range,” said Barver. “I’d just provoke it into firing its poisoned spines. What about your Battle Song? Get it anywhere near the animal, and it’d be knocked out for certain!”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” said Patch. “It takes me too long and I can’t do it quietly. It would hear. We should wait for it to sleep.”
Barver frowned. “But we might be here for hours, and the hill is so close now! Besides, there could be other manticores nearby…”
“All right,” whispered Patch. “I’ll build it up as quietly as I can. But it’ll get much louder near the end.”
“I’ll keep my eye on the manticore and warn you when it notices anything amiss,” said Barver.
Patch nodded and started to build the Song. It wasn’t easy to keep it quiet, but he tried his best.
“Oh, I think it’s already noticed,” whispered Barver.
Patch tried not to think about it, and focused on the task in hand.
“It’s heading this way,” said Barver, anxiously. “Any time now would be good.”
“Roar!” said the manticore.
“Any time now…” said Barver. “It’s halfway here, it might launch its spines at any moment!”
“Grrr,” said the manticore, which didn’t help.
Patch started on the final sequence, the Song growing louder with every second. However strong it ended up being, however accurate the shot, it would have to be enough.
He saw Barver’s eyes widen suddenly. “Too late!” cried the dracogriff.
Patch stood.
He had a fraction of a second to see the manticore staring right at him from thirty feet away, with its disturbingly human face. The creature’s tail rose, like a scorpion’s readying to sting.
Patch released the Song, and the ground near the creature exploded into the air. The manticore was outraged. “Ow, ow, ow!” it said, pawing at its face. “Grrr! Roar! Snarl!”
Patch and Barver were already running.
By the time the manticore had blinked the dirt out of its eyes, they were long gone.
They sprinted through the long grass, and reached the boundary without encountering anything else. Over the boundary they went, and kept running until they were well out of range of any manticore’s spines.
The long grass became shorter as they went up the slope of the hill. They felt rather exposed, but at least there was nowhere for anything to hide and jump out on them.
As they neared the top, Patch noticed how clearly they could see the land around them. There was none of the strange haze that had always been there when looking at the hill from a distance, which made sense – if the island could truly be sailed through the oceans, there would need to be a clear view from the wheelhouse.
They reached the summit. Patch had expected something grand and impressive, but instead there was just a small stone building. “The wheelhouse, I presume,” he said.
They drew closer. The building was circular, ten feet high and perhaps thirty feet wide. Windows ran all around it, but they couldn’t see anything through the dark glass. At the far side of the building was a door made of weathered wood.
“I’m not going to fit through that,” said Barver.
“It’s okay,” said Patch. He pushed at the door, and it opened.
Inside was a single room. It was gloomy, as very little light came in through the windows, and it took a moment for Patch’s eyes to get used to the dark. Then he gulped – in the centre of the room was a large ship’s wheel, and at the wheel was a figure, hands stretched out to either side and gripping the handles.
There was no movement.
“Lar-Sennen, do you think?” whispered Barver.
“Um, hello there?” called Patch. When no reply came he took a deep breath and stepped inside, approaching the wheel.
The figure was a corpse, wizened and long dead. It had a lengthy beard, and wore simple clothes – not the luxurious robes that Patch had imagined a great Sorcerer would have chosen. The corpse’s head was tipped forward, leaning on another of the wheel’s handles. Patch could see no obvious sign of injury.
“Well?” asked Barver, sticking his head as far as he could through the doorway.
“Dead,” said Patch. He walked back to Barver, glad to be away from the corpse.
“Is it him, though?” said Barver.
“Maybe,” said Patch. “Although it doesn’t look like it’s been here for a thousand years. A few decades, perhaps, but it’s not ancient. And it’s certainly not going to be answering any questions.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” said a dry and dusty voice from behind him.
Barver’s eyes widened in horror. He fell to the ground in a dead faint – blocking the doorway.
Very slowly, Patch turned around to see what had spoken.
Rundel Stone paused to take a breath, leaning on his cane. Around him, the forest was unnervingly silent, the morning sun bright through the overhead leaves.
Up ahead, he could see the old outpost ruins that Lord Pewter had described. There were a dozen or more of these old buildings, dotted around the vicinity of Tiviscan. Most were now like this one, lost and all but forgotten in deep forest – crumbling wrecks of what they once were.
It had taken him over an hour to get there, leaving before dawn. He’d brought a waterskin with him, and took a well-earned drink. As he replaced the stopper, Lord Pewter emerged from the forest ahead.
“This way, Rundel,” said Pewter, looking around anxiously as Rundel reached him. “You’re sure you weren’t followed?”
“I’m sure,” said Rundel.
“And what of your apprentice?” said Pewter, leading the way towards the ruins. “Did you tell him where you were going?”
“I gave him errands to run that will take up his morning,” said Rundel. “We’ll be selecting Custodians to help in our investigation later, so there’s much to arrange.”
“Ah, yes,” said Lord Pewter. “The investigation into the murder of Ural Casimir. Such strange timing…”
“Strange?” said Rundel.
“There was a Sorcerer that Casimir was a great fan of. You know the one I mean?”
“Lar-Sennen,” said Rundel. “Yes, he mentioned him.”
“Well, Lar-Sennen is involved in the plans of Lord Drevis,” said Pewter. “Before she died, the Custodian Valdemar told me that the Obsidiac Pipe Organ came from a book that Lar-Sennen wrote. A book that contained many uses for obsidiac…uses even more terrifying than the Pipe Organ!” Lord Pewter stopped in his tracks and watched Rundel’s face intently. “Do you know of such a book?”
“No,” said Rundel. Pewter watched him for a few seconds before seeming satisfied, continuing towards the ruins. “Why?” said Rundel. “Do you think Lord Drevis has it?”
“The Hamelyn Piper does, certainly,” said Lord Pewter.
“So you think Drevis was like Casimir, obsessed with Lar-Sennen?”
Lord Pewter scowled. “Lar-Sennen was a romantic,” he said. “A starry-eyed idealist! Casimir was the same. No, the driving force behind the actions of the Hamelyn Piper is much darker, believe me. Did Casimir ever tell you much about Lar-Sennen?”
“Of course,” said Rundel. “The Eight travelled together for many months. Ural would talk of Lar-Sennen endlessly, until one of us told him to stop.” He smiled. “Usually Tobias.”
“Then you know of Lar-Sennen’s greatest enemy, the Sorcerer Quarastus?”
“Yes,” said Rundel. “Like Lar-Sennen, Quarastus died a thousand years ago. Thankfully, given the things Ural told us about him.”
“Well,” said Pewter. “Just as Lar-Sennen still has fans like Casimir, Quarastus still has his. Many dark Sorcerers hold him as their idol.”
“You’re suggesting Lord Drevis idolizes an evil Sorcerer?” Rundel shook his head. “This is too much to take in. I’ve known Lord Drevis for decades. He’s one of the most honourable people I’ve ever met. You tell me he’s some kind of evil mastermind, following the path of a long-dead dark Sorcerer. I don’t see that it’s possible.”
“That’s why you’re here,” said Pewter. They had reached the outermost wall, or what was left of it. Steps led down into a dark passage below ground. “This way.”
Rundel followed. The passage was dim, occasional holes in its roof letting in enough light to see by. Rundel eyed those holes warily, wondering just how safe it was to be inside such a decrepit structure. “Why here?” he said.
“You’ll see soon enough,” said Lord Pewter. “I’ve often come here to be alone, and think. Council business can be wearing.”
“You still think my support would be enough for them to make you leader?” said Rundel.
“Your opinion would swing things, one way or another. You may be unaware of this, Rundel, but the other Council members hold you in as much awe as they hold Lord Drevis himself. The moment you arrived yesterday, I knew it – with you here, I can’t become leader if you don’t support me.” They arrived at a large wooden door that seemed surprisingly solid. “This is the base of the old observation tower,” said Pewter. “In a moment, all your questions shall be answered.” Lying against the wall was a short gnarly stick, which Pewter lifted. “Would you hold this for a moment, as I unlock the door?” he said, offering it to Rundel.
Rundel took it with his right hand, and an odd smile crossed the Council member’s face.
Pewter turned to the door and unlocked it, pushing it inwards. The door seemed almost new, certainly not the half-rotted remnant Rundel would have expected in such a place.
Within was a large circular room. The stone walls were damp, thick tree roots breaking through the slabs in places. He could see one larger opening in the ceiling, a square three feet across. It had presumably once allowed access to the floor above, but not any more – the hole was sealed with haphazard pieces of stone, suggesting the upper floor was little more than rubble.
Stepping through the doorway, Lord Pewter turned. “Aren’t you coming?”
As Rundel readied to follow, he realized that something was wrong. Dreadfully wrong.
He couldn’t move. Not his legs, not his arms, not even his head. Only his eyes responded to his body’s command, and he looked down now to see the curious gnarled stick that Pewter had passed to him. As he watched, the stick lengthened and sprouted new growth, fresh twigs spreading and thickening, engulfing his right hand before seeking out his left and engulfing that too, knocking his cane from his grasp.
Lord Pewter adopted an expression of mock-sorrow. “I’m almost disappointed in you,” he said. “Luring you here was so much easier than I expected.” He paused, taking a long deep breath. “In,” he commanded, stepping back from the door.
Rundel wondered if Lord Pewter didn’t realize he couldn’t move his legs, but then he felt the wood around his hands shift, and he knew that the command hadn’t been directed at him. Shoots sprouted from it, growing at an astonishing rate towards the doorway, seizing the frame and flexing, pulling him across the threshold and into the room, his legs dragging uselessly behind him. Hardly even knowing which way was up, he felt his robes tear against stone and branch, as the wrenching wood ignored the pains it caused him, his joints twisting almost to breaking point, his face hitting the wall hard, tooth mashing against lip, hot blood flowing into his mouth.
Laughter echoed around the darkness.
And then all was still again. He was vertical, his back pressing against stone. His legs felt encased, as did his arms, locked to his sides. The floor was littered with debris: chunks of stone, dead leaves and mossy growths.
In front of him stood Lord Pewter, grinning. “I’ve always wanted to see you like this, Rundel,” he said. “Powerless. You have an irritating self-righteousness that provokes such loathing in me. Watching you suffer is a joy!”
Rundel realized he could move again, those few parts of him that weren’t restricted. He spat the blood from his mouth. “Why are you doing this?” he said. He could feel pains all over his body, and his right eye was starting to swell and close over.
Lord Pewter smiled. “A lie is told best when much of it is true,” he said. “For example, Custodian Valdemar was a victim of magical mind control, although it was mine, not the Hamelyn Piper’s. She was almost managing to break free of it, and confronted me. So I pushed her off a cliff.” He shrugged. “What else was I supposed to do?”
“And Lord Drevis?” said Rundel.
Pewter grinned once more. With a flourish, he moved to one side and held his arms towards the far wall. There, barely discernible in the gloom, another figure was held captive by the same kind of unnatural twisting wood that held Rundel. Pewter walked over and clicked his fingers. A small ball of light appeared and floated slowly upwards.
Rundel gasped. The figure was wearing the lush robes of a Council member, the head lolled forward so the face wasn’t visible, but Rundel knew at once who it was – Lord Drevis! Rundel looked for signs of life, but the figure didn’t even seem to be breathing. “Is he dead?” he asked.
“Dead?” said Pewter. “No! Where would be the fun in that? Torturing him is one of my guilty pleasures. That’s what I was doing before you arrived. He’ll regain consciousness in a day or so.” He strode back to Rundel. “You really didn’t tell your apprentice where you were going? How trusting of you!”
“Leave Erner alone,” said Rundel.
Pewter’s grin widened. “Leave him alone? So quaint! I have my people in the Castle, Rundel. Those under my power will do whatever I need them to do. Or perhaps I’ll take his mind too!” He looked at Rundel, clearly relishing the anguish he was causing. “Although taking a mind is harder than you think. With the Pipe Organ only a simple form of it was possible, a kind of puppetry. Easy for anyone to spot, really – just an empty husk carrying out orders. To truly take a mind is time-consuming. Things would be so much easier if I had the Council in my sway already. When I brought Drevis here, I thought I could break him eventually, but I soon grew bored of the idea.”
“Why are you doing this?” said Rundel.
“The Hamelyn Piper has something that belongs to me,” said Pewter. “I can afford no more complications. No risks.”
“So you were the Hamelyn Piper’s master…” said Rundel.
“Exactly,” said Pewter. “I discovered him when he was a boy – such potential as a Piper! I excel at magical disguise. I appeared to him in a different form, and earned his trust. He never knew my true identity, yet I became like a father to him. I taught him what he needed to learn! But most important of all, he was ruthless even then. There are those who think a child is a blank sheet of paper, onto which any future can be written. They’re wrong. Take the Brightwater boy you condemned to a lifetime in the dungeons of Tiviscan – he has the same spark of ability that I saw in the Hamelyn Piper, but tainted with a sense of justice that would make him useless to me. The Hamelyn Piper had no such problem.” Pewter shook his head and laughed. “I saw the darkness in his heart, and it made him perfect for my purpose.”
“But he was smarter than you realized,” said Rundel, satisfied to see Pewter wince at the thought. “He turned against you.”
“He did,” said Pewter. “He decided to take the obsidiac for himself. Perhaps he thought I would kill him once his task was complete. That was my intent, yes, although before I had the chance the Eight caught him and brought him back to Tiviscan. I was happy enough, though. His battles with the Eight had left him insensible, and unable to reveal the truth. They threw him in the dungeons to rot. Or so I thought.”
