A thunder of monsters, p.23
A Thunder of Monsters, page 23
The Hamelyn Piper managed to seize the hilt of the knife, and pulled it from his back with a cry of pain. “You’ll wish you’d kept hold of this,” he said. “It would have given you a chance to take those off.” He grinned, but was clearly weak from his wound. “Can you feel your magic ebb?” he said. “It’s all that keeps you alive, I know that. The manacles drain your power, and with it your life.”
With a sneer, Quarastus reached to a pocket and took out a small bundle of dried herbs, breaking it in two. When nothing happened, the sneer fell away, replaced with abject horror.
“Oh dear,” said the Hamelyn Piper. “The manacles drain the power of braids too.” He smiled. “I know all about the curious knots you use, storing magic. I’ve used the same trick myself, paying Sorcerers to create useful little spells.” He limped towards the pile of catapult spheres, perilously close to where Patch, Wren and Barver were hiding.
Barver and Wren shrank back, but Patch stayed where he was – he had to watch, even at the risk of being seen.
“Feeling weak, Quarastus?” the Hamelyn Piper called. His movement towards the spheres was slow, each step wrenching an agonized grunt from him.
The ancient Sorcerer was growing more gaunt by the second. With eyes that spoke of cruelty and malice, he glared at the Hamelyn Piper. “I could ask you the same question. You’ll die very soon, but not me… I’ll fade, and grow so thin that these manacles will slip from my feet. And when they do, my magic will start to return.”
At the ammunition pile, the Hamelyn Piper cut into a tarpaulin with the blood-covered knife, revealing the sphere beneath. He plunged the blade into the sphere’s grey surface, opening a gouge from which black powder began to pour. It was so close to Patch that he could smell the sharp odour of sulphur.
The Hamelyn Piper dropped the knife and held cupped hands under the flow, filling them before making his slow hobbled way back towards Quarastus, letting the black powder pour between his fingers, creating a line stretching back to the sphere. Patch could see another line beside it – a dark wet line of the Hamelyn Piper’s blood.
Quarastus watched in horror. “What, you think you can scare me?” he said. “You expect me to tell you where the amulet is, is that it?”
The Hamelyn Piper said nothing, taking each slow step carefully, watching the flow of black powder from his hands.
“I’ll outlive you!” cried Quarastus, wrenching at the manacle chain. “I’ll strip the armour from your corpse!”
The Hamelyn Piper stayed silent. At last, ten feet from Quarastus, he stopped and fell. With great effort he sat up, and took a fire steel and flint from a small pouch in his belt. With the flint in one hand and the fire steel in the other, he held his hands ready to strike sparks.
“You wouldn’t dare,” cried Quarastus. “You’re bluffing. You’d die too – and you’ll never find the amulet if you kill me.”
The Hamelyn Piper, his breathing difficult, smiled. “I’m not so sure I couldn’t,” he said. “I came here to make you tell me where the amulet was, yes…but the closer I got, the more I felt it. This space in the armour where the amulet fits, it called out. And I heard a reply!” He looked towards Tiviscan Castle. “You kept it close, all this time.”
The sudden shock on the Sorcerer’s face gave him away.
“I thought so,” said the Black Knight, nodding. He started to cough, and when he finished he spat blood onto the grass. “Your knife went deep,” he said. “It’s time to end this.” He raised his hand to strike the fire steel.
“Please, no!” cried Quarastus. “I can save your life, if you just free me! I promise!”
“Goodbye, teacher,” said the Hamelyn Piper. “You taught me well.”
The hand came down, the sparks hitting home. The trail of black powder erupted into smoke and flame, working its way back towards the damaged sphere.
Patch felt panic surge through him. He’d thought the same as Quarastus – that the Hamelyn Piper wasn’t really going to do it, and kill them both. He turned to Barver, but Barver was already taking action, grabbing Wren and Patch and slamming them on his back before leaping into the air, flying desperately towards Tiviscan.
Patch turned to look behind them. The burning powder reached the sphere and erupted into a vast plume of smoke and fire, rushing towards them. Barver adjusted his position to put his body between the blast and his passengers just as an even greater explosion came, the entirety of the stockpile going up at once. It struck with such force that Patch couldn’t breathe. Smoke engulfed them, and Patch felt himself torn from Barver’s back, hurtling onwards as he was plunged into darkness.
All Patch knew was that he was falling again.
Engulfed in the chaos of noise, smoke and dust from the explosion, he screamed Barver’s and Wren’s names as he plummeted, even though the dust choked him.
He was still screaming when he had the wind knocked right out of him, and only when they emerged from the dust cloud could he even see who his saviour was.
It was Wintel. “Don’t talk,” the griffin told him, as he spluttered and coughed, trying to thank her. She brought him to the top of the Castle’s eastern wall, and there were Alia, Tobias, Rundel, and Lord Drevis.
Wintel took off again immediately, flying back out to the devastation.
Alia kneeled beside Patch as he struggled to breathe, unable to stop coughing. “Slowly,” she said. “Breathe slowly. You’re safe.”
“Wren…” he managed at last. “Barver…”
“All the griffins are out there, looking,” said Alia. “They took to the air just before the explosion. We’d been watching the Hamelyn Piper, but had no idea you were even there until Barver suddenly flew up, with both of you on his back.”
Patch stood and looked out towards the dragon camp. He could see all five of the griffins, flying close to the dust cloud, and the thought hit him hard: nobody caught Wren.
His legs gave way, and he slumped down, but it was only a moment later that he saw a small black shape flying towards them, and realized nobody had needed to catch her.
She had become a crow, and flown to the Castle herself. She perched on his shoulder, and together they waited anxiously for news of Barver, while watching the rapid retreat of the mercenary army.
“Was this you?” Tobias said to them, astonished. “The dragons? The mercenaries?”
Patch nodded. “Team effort,” he said. He didn’t quite have the breath yet to explain – nor did he want to, until their friend was found.
When Barver appeared at last, several minutes after the explosion, he could barely keep in the air. He landed just outside Tiviscan town and seemed to collapse, lying utterly still. Wren and the griffins flew over to him, and by the time Patch got there Wren had taken human form again.
Barver’s eyes were closed. Gaverry was holding him, sobbing; he was so much larger than his son, it made Barver seem especially fragile. The other griffins looked at Barver in shock. Stripped of feathers, and his flesh still seeming to smoke, they feared the worst.
Patch reached out and touched Barver’s underside, scorched by the explosion. The heat from it was almost painful. “He took the brunt of it,” he said, looking to Wren. “We’d both be dead if he hadn’t.”
“His feathers…” said Merta, horrified.
“He told me to cut them off,” said Patch. “So he would look more like a dragon, and we could sneak into their camp and…”
But at that moment Barver opened his eyes. He looked to Wren, and then Patch, and smiled weakly. “We made it, then,” he said. He saw his father’s face above him. “I might just lie here for a bit, Dad,” he said. “I hurt all over.” His eyes closed, as he slipped into unconsciousness again.
Gaverry wrapped his great wings around his son, enclosing him completely.
“Let me examine him,” said Merta, after a moment. Gaverry opened his wings. Patch and Wren stepped back to give Merta space, and soon she told them that Barver had broken no bones and suffered no severe injury that she could find. “We’ll nurse him here until he wakes and is ready to move,” she said, and Gaverry nodded in silent gratitude.
Patch caught sight of the statue of Erbo Monash, with its trough and hand pump, in the central square of the town. Water, he said to himself, thinking of the heat emanating from Barver. He set off at a run, a little unsteady. Spotting a wooden bucket lying abandoned on the roadside, he grabbed it on his way. The hand pump took a dozen strokes before the water gushed out, but the bucket was soon filled and he hurried back.
“Good thinking,” Merta told him, dabbing the water carefully on Barver.
Alia and Tobias were there too. “We were watching when Quarastus made his appearance,” said Alia. “It was difficult to see exactly what happened, but you were right there… Why did the Hamelyn Piper do it? Killing them both?”
Patch explained about Quarastus stabbing the Hamelyn Piper, only to find the red manacles clapped around his ankles. “There was so much blood…” he said. “I think the Hamelyn Piper was moments from death.”
“He couldn’t have his victory,” said Wren. “So he wasn’t going to let Quarastus win either.”
Merta had used all the water he’d brought, so Patch took the bucket and turned to go back to the statue to refill it. For a moment, he looked out at the plains of Tiviscan, where the Black Knight’s mercenary forces had camped. The mercenaries were fragmented and distant, now, fleeing the scene in scrappy clusters. In their panic they’d left behind equipment, weapons, and even some of their horses, and Patch knew that they would always believe they’d encountered the most horrifying monsters in existence – creatures that no description could possibly do justice to – instead of half a dozen slightly ragged oversized chickens.
The thought made him gasp.
“Oh!” he said to Wren. “The cockatrices!”
Wren’s eyes widened. They looked out into the plains until they spotted a small group of mercenaries, kneeling motionless about half a mile away – those who’d been closest to a cockatrice as it had started to hunt. There would be five other such groups, Patch knew – one for each of the cockatrices they’d released.
Those unlucky few were still paralysed, caught in a trap of indescribable terror. Much longer, and their hearts would give out, ready for the cockatrices to feed. But the siege was over – just because they were mercenaries didn’t warrant letting them die. “You should take Cramber and Wintel,” said Patch. “Go as a crow. If I go with you I’ll slow you down.”
“I’ll grab some sacks,” said Wren, and she went to fetch the two young griffins.
“Are you going to explain any of this?” Alia said to Patch. “Wait…did you say cockatrices?”
Patch smiled, but he realized that it wasn’t just Alia and Tobias waiting to hear what he said. More and more people had come out of the Castle, and now he was surrounded by faces eager for his response. “Monsters and onions,” he said. Those around him raised confused eyebrows, but they would have to wait. “I’ll explain later. Right now, I want to get more water for Barver.”
“We can get someone else to fetch water, Patch,” said Tobias, but Patch shook his head.
“I’d rather do it myself,” he said. “If that’s okay.”
He made four more trips before Alia forced him to rest, and – of course – give the explanations everyone was desperate for. When Wren, Cramber and Wintel came back, carrying six well-tied sacks, Patch was telling the tale of how their plan had come about.
Everyone listened enrapt, as he described the final confrontation between Quarastus and the Hamelyn Piper. They cheered when the tale ended; they cheered even harder when Barver woke again.
Patch and Wren ran to him, and the three hugged. No words were necessary.
As morning became afternoon, clouds stifled the early warmth of the sun, a chill breeze coming across the plains.
Underath and Alkeran had been searching in the area around the explosion, looking for what was left of Quarastus and the Hamelyn Piper – Underath not willing to take their demise for granted. When they came back from their search, it had apparently been fruitful, although Alia refused to tell Patch the gruesome details.
The dragons and mercenaries were long gone. Of the Hamelyn Piper’s troops, the only ones left were those who’d been captives of the cockatrices, and those too injured to flee the waves of terror that had swept through them all. They had been securely locked in the Castle dungeons.
The soldiers and Battle Pipers ventured out into the remnants of the mercenary and dragon camps, hunting the remaining explosive spheres and destroying them from a safe distance. The whole of Tiviscan, it seemed, gathered to witness the spectacle. Food had been brought to the town’s outskirts, and fires lit to roast meats and cook flatbreads, as the celebrations truly began.
Whenever a cache of spheres was found and prepared for destruction, the sounding of horns gave notice. Then, a volley of fire-arrows would trigger the great boom of another explosion.
And even though Patch, Wren and Barver would jump at every one of the blasts, they cheered and applauded along with everyone else. It was, Patch noted, far better to watch that kind of thing from a distance.
There was a particularly large explosion from the furthest end of the mercenary camp, which brought a roar of approval from the crowd. This one had been triggered by Underath, with a pleasing display of coloured sparks falling from the air.
“Best one so far,” said Wren. She took a bite from the chunk of roast pork she was eating, and offered some to Barver. Although he’d recovered enough to get up and move around, he’d not eaten anything yet, and that worried her. “Hungry?”
“Not really,” said Barver. “Thirsty, though. I could do with some water.”
Patch laughed. “I can handle that,” he said. He picked up the empty bucket and set off for the town square again. With the celebrations in full flow, the town itself was deserted. Patch saw a solitary figure slowly crossing the Castle courtyard, wearing a hooded coat that would surely become far too warm once the cloud cover broke and the sun came out again.
As he filled the bucket and started to make his way back, Patch let himself dream about what the future held. His training in Healing Songs could begin soon, he hoped, once he’d found someone to take over as Guardian of Massarken. He would offer it to Wren first; he reckoned she would think Alia was the better choice, but she deserved first dibs.
He spotted Wren and Barver and gave them a wave, but they didn’t see him and were still too far away to hear him above the bustle of the crowd, even if he shouted.
And then a curious thing happened. The noise of the crowd fell away, though he could see everyone still talking. He stopped and set down his full bucket, and gave his ears a tug. They had been ringing, he realized, ever since the huge explosion, so it had presumably affected his hearing. He snapped his fingers, but was surprised that he could hear it perfectly.
Frowning, he picked up his bucket and started walking again. Wren and Barver, he saw, were definitely looking towards him. He waved, but they didn’t wave back.
“What is going on?” he muttered. Then he walked into something hard and stumbled backwards, clutching his stinging nose.
For a moment he thought there was nothing there, but then he saw a slight shimmer. He reached out a hand and found it, hard and unyielding – some kind of barrier. Ahead, Alia, Tobias and Lord Drevis were rushing towards him, Wren and Barver close behind. A line of Pipers and soldiers was gesturing to the rest of the crowd, keeping them back.
Wren was mouthing something, but he couldn’t hear; she used Merisax instead. Behind you, she signed. She was staring past Patch, and so were the others. Patch turned slowly. He could see the extent of the barrier, creating a dome a few hundred feet across that seemed to be centred on the statue of Erbo Monash. By the statue stood the person he’d seen before, in the hooded coat. The figure was behaving strangely, scooping water out of the trough and running a hand over the ornate stonework.
Patch’s blood went cold. The hood of the coat had been lowered, and Patch could see the man’s face. It was a face he knew, but he could also see the slight glint of shining black around the base of the man’s neck.
The armour of the Hamelyn Piper himself.
“How?” said Patch. He looked to the worried faces on the other side of the barrier. “How?”
Stay right where you are, Wren signed with Merisax, but Patch found himself walking towards the figure, bewildered and enraged. He stopped as he drew near, setting down the bucket that had still been in his grasp.
The Hamelyn Piper stepped back from the statue and removed his coat, revealing his armour in full. Only then did he sense Patch’s presence – he turned around suddenly, ready to defend himself. When he saw Patch, though, any urgency vanished. Although they’d faced each other once before, Patch had been wearing the Iron Mask then; as far as the Hamelyn Piper was concerned, he was just another boy.
The Black Knight dismissively turned back to the statue.
“You died,” said Patch. “You were caught in the middle of that explosion…”
“Yet here I am,” said the Hamelyn Piper. He looked weak, his face glistening in sweat, a smear of blood across one cheek. He started to rap his knuckles on the base of the statue.
Patch knew he had to do something. He slowly took his Pipe from his coat, but it hadn’t even reached his lips by the time the Hamelyn Piper turned around again.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” said the Black Knight with a cold smile. “You Tiviscan trainees, such empty-headed courage! I’m inclined to kill you where you stand.”
“Is that the kind of ruler you plan to be?” said Patch.
The Hamelyn Piper’s smile faded. “Cast your Pipe aside, and you’ll not be harmed.”
Patch didn’t move, staring back defiantly. The Hamelyn Piper began to whistle, building a Battle Song. “Okay, okay!” said Patch. He threw his Pipe to the side, but the Hamelyn Piper released the Song anyway. Patch flinched, his hands coming up to protect himself, but the Song was well aimed – it struck his discarded Pipe, shattering it and sending the pieces flying.
