CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Below Lunis, City of Moons, in the heart of the southern territories
of Mamelon, Ragund, the Dark Mage, sprinkled a few grains of red dust into a
flickering flame. All at once, it flared ceiling high, sending out not only a
heat that would have reduced a lesser being to ashes but also a power surge
that flung him across the room.
Sprawled in one corner, and in spite of an excruciating back pain,
the Dark Mage recovered quickly, throwing up a hand to shield his eyes from the
glare. By now, the flame was a sheet of fluorescent white light. Peering
between blackened fingers, Ragund could only gaze in disbelief at the imprint
upon it of features unseen and unheard of in Mamelon for motherworld centuries.
“Michal!” he gasped.
This spectre of the murdered Ruler did not trouble the Dark Mage for
long, however. Michal the Great was
dead. Of far greater concern to Ragund was the source of the power surge. The
young-old face gave vent simultaneously to feelings of fury and relish. It
hardly mattered, for now, that the mighty flame died as suddenly as it had
reared, the vision with it. For one thing he understood only too well. There
were forces abroad in Mamelon that he had only suspected until now.
The light of battle flared in snake-like eyes. “Astor!” Ragund’s fiendish expression broke into a
gleeful smirk. “So…” he hissed, “you break cover at last, oh self-styled Mage
of Mages!”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“You
will go that way,” said Etta.
“Oh, no, not Fah-y-Noor!” protested
Ricci.
The
magela had used a stick to sketch a rough map on the earthen floor of Mulac’s
tent. Now she looked up and nodded mildly. Her relaxed expression was
deceptive. Mulac recognized it at once and bit his lip. His mother meant
business. To argue would only be a waste of everyone’s time.
“That
desert is accursed!” Ricci wailed “The Dragon Hills are much safer. I’m only
thinking of them,” he added, glancing at Mulac and Beth who were earnestly
studying the crude map. A shade too earnestly, thought Etta, and
her heart missed a beat. But she forced herself to concentrate on their present
danger. It would not do, she told herself, not for the first time either, to
confuse the gift of Sight with mere anticipation.
“The
Dragon Hills woild take too long to cross….” Etta was unmoved by Ricci’s
pleading look, “…and time is short,” she reminded her old friend.
“Nu-gen
have crossed deserts before,” growled Mulac.
“Not
like this one, they haven’t!” declared Ricci, “I’ll say! Anyway, Bethan is not
Nu-gen? We have to think of her too,” he argued. He did not like this Mulac
character one bit. “Fah-y-Noor is no ordinary desert. Not for nothing is
it called the Place of Skulls. Better by far to play safe and arrive in one
piece, surely? The Dragon Hills have my vote,” he repeated stubbornly. But he
knew the look in Etta’s eyes. It was a
forgone conclusion that he would be outvoted.
“Safe,
pah…!” Mulac spat on the floor with such derision that Ricci’s hackles went
into orbit.
“How
dare you! I am only thinking of the female. Someone has to, for Ri’s sake!”
Mulac
curled his lip and looked set to heap more abuse on the indignant Ricci.
Etta
opened her mouth to intervene, but Beth beat her to it. “I can take care of
myself!” She was furious. “I’m a match for the pair of you any day!” she fumed,
“After all, I’m from the motherworld, aren’t I?” The challenge itself
astonished her only marginally less than whatever native impulse prompted
it. But she held each startled gaze
coolly enough, stoically ignoring the fact that her insides had turned to
jelly. She was not afraid of these
people or this Fah-y-Noor that
was scaring the wits out of Ricci. What
did frighten her was the strength of feeling rising in her like a tidal wave as
the urgency of their situation struck home. Although the true nature of that
urgency continued to elude her, warning bells were ringing in her head as if
tolling that time was against them. She,
Bethany Martin, would do well to heed the warning. However absurd, she would play whatever part
she must in all this. Nor was she about to let any sexist nonsense stand in her
way.
“Bethan
speaks the truth.” Etta’s smile was as broad as it was genuine. Ricci shrugged.
Mulac scowled at all three in turn and stormed out of the tent. “You must
forgive Mulac. He is unused to females who speak as they find,” murmured the magela
and looked from Ricci to Beth with a twinkle in each eye.
“You
wouldn’t dream of it, of course,” muttered Ricci whose petulant frown amused
both women.
“I
am The Magela,” Etta pointed out, laughing. At the same time, it struck Beth as
faintly odd that she hadn’t said, “I am his mother.”
Not
long afterwards, the three set off on horseback. The shaggy creatures reminded
Beth of ponies she and her father had once rode on holiday one summer although,
where they had barely gone at a steady trot, these were as fleet of foot as the
finest horses. She refused to cry. Even so, she missed her dad terribly and
brooded for some time about the ups and downs, twists and turns, their lives
had taken since the death of her mother only a few years ago. What would he
make of her now, she wondered? Get a grip
girl, she could almost hear him say, Get
a grip… It made her chuckle and she felt much better for that.
Mulac’s
expression grew surlier than ever. He tried to dismiss the motherworld female
from his thoughts and concentrate on the task in hand. Ri alone knew what they
might find in the Purple Mountains, assuming they survived the desert. He may
have been scornful of that idiot, Ricci, but he, too, had heard stories to make
the blood run cold. Consequently, even Nu-gen avoided Fah-y-Noor. Only, his blood did not run cold. On the contrary,
he relished the challenge. Adrenalin flowed like fast-flowing lava through his
veins. A heat on him brought sweat to
his brow. Nor was Bethan, called Beth, ever far from his thoughts.
Ricci
was fed-up. He hated riding. It was an extremely cumbersome way to travel. He
would have much preferred to fly. It had crossed his mind to invoke a changing
spell upon his companions whereupon barking noises in his head reminded him
that their untrained minds would not be in the least receptive. Oh,
what a pity. He sighed. The
animal beneath him pricked up its ears, and to his annoyance slowed to a near
halt. A light kick against the flank
designed to spur the beast on, had the opposite effect. It promptly came to a
complete standstill.
They
had reached a sloping expanse of bush that formed one wall of the wasteland
basin called Fah-y-Noor. Beth
recalled the magela’s map. To one side of them stretched the tail of the Dragon
Hills; on the other, an area of rocky terrain that formed the dragon’s head.
Ahead of them lay sheer desert. Beyond that, a purple haze flirted with the
horizon…their goal.
The
rock formation that grew into what resembled a dragon’s head held a queer
fascination for Beth. Involuntarily, she
shivered. The others made no allusion to it. No wonder, she mused, for she had
a sense of the unspeakable. A deeper intuition warned her to close her mind to
it so she did. But feelings of dread stayed with her and a chill settled on her
heart.
“Why
have we stopped?” growled Mulac.
“The
horses seem to think they know better than us,” declared Ricci.
The
mist had worsened. Immediately ahead, a clump of trees rose like ghostly
fingers.
“Listen!”
Beth urged her companions.
They
strained their ears and heard nothing for a while, and then voices.
“Look,
a fire!” Mulac kept his voice low while pointing to a faint light not too far
ahead.
All
three dismounted.
“We
should investigate,” said Ricci without taking a step.
“I’ll
go,” Mulac volunteered and gestured for the others to stay put.
Ricci
heaved a sigh of relief. “Don’t do anything rash,” he felt obliged to say.
There was simply no telling with Nu-gen, and this one struck him as a
particularly impetuous sort. “I mean, there’s no point in asking for trouble,”
he added and sensed Beth’s unspoken rebuke. Mulac ignored him.
“Be
careful,” murmured Beth with mixed emotions she had no wish to examine too
closely. But if Mulac heard, he gave no sign.
Mulac had heard. Moreover,
his heart beat all the faster for the note of genuine concern in her voice.
There was no time now, however, to mull over its effect on him. As he approached the trees, the voices became
clearer. He recognized a cackling sound that might have been laughter or chanting.
“Krills!” he swore under his breath. Only once before had he ever encountered
krills, and that was long ago. It was not an experience he had any wish to
repeat. They had taken him prisoner and
it was by no small miracle that he’d escaped.
Such was the extent of his shame that he had never revealed it to a
living soul, not even Etta.
Mulac’s scalp prickled. He swore again, mutely this time. It took a
little while for his eyes to get used to a shadow play on the wall of mist, a
band of chanting krills slowly moving around a small campfire, its flames
licking at their scales. He edged closer until he lay sprawled on his belly at
the outermost edge of the circle. They were just as he remembered them; evil
personified, their rainbow scales a travesty of all things beautiful. Inside
the circle, their terror almost tangible in faces hideously distorted by the
flames, two bound captives were plainly visible. “Elves…!” He could not
suppress a cry then bit his lip, tasted blood on his tongue and hastily gave
silent thanks to Ri that any sound must surely be drowned by the chanting.
Mulac felt physically sick. It was incredible enough that elves had
ventured outside the Forest of Gar, let alone been taken captive by krills
seemingly bent upon crossing Fah-y-Noor
of all places. But he knew only too well the horrors that must be passing
through their minds. They would have
been told, of course, that one of them was to be burned alive as soon as the
chanting stopped, but not who. No wonder they looked terrified. Even so, the
Nu-gen reflected grimly, whoever was chosen would be the lucky one. The other would be made to watch, carrying
sight and sounds in his or her head while the krills devised other hideous
playtimes. Death, when it came, would be a blessed relief.
A fit of trembling came over Mulac. Now and then, in their travels,
his tribe had chanced upon the descendants of those taken by krills for slaves.
Most were hideously deformed and many spoke only gibberish. All had been used
for sport, their lives spared only because it would have been kinder to let
them die. Of these, only one had appeared almost normal and stayed with the
tribe for several lifetimes. His name was Tol and he never spoke. One day, Tol
disappeared without trace. Mulac sighed. He had liked Tol. They had become friends
in spite of the fact that Nu-gen, by their very nature, did not easily form
bonds outside the tribe.
A picture of Bethan, called Beth, passed across his inner
vision. Mulac shook his head in
disbelief. How could he indulge in personal thoughts at such a time?
Meanwhile, Irina fought off a growing nausea, and with difficulty
since she had only ever tried on the occasional whim, attempted mind contact
with Kirin. Help is near. I can feel a presence. But Kirin only
moaned. To be bound hand and foot was a torture beyond all imagining for an
elf. Her thought probe barely scratched the surface of his misery.
Suddenly, the chanting stopped. The krills, too, halted abruptly in
their tracks. No one spoke. Nothing moved. Even the flames seemed little more
than a pattern of sorts on the wall of mist closing in.
Now, before it is too late, Irina screamed
in her head to the same invisible presence, daring to hope that it might prove
more than wishful thinking. The krills had grouped in a semi-circle and were
closing in. It was impossible to tell upon whom their beady eyes fastened the
longer, herself or Kirin. Please, she begged.
Mulac pulled the knife from his belt. To charge the krills would be
madness. But what else can I do? His
only hope of rescuing the elves turned on the element of surprise. He braced
himself, and was poised to spring when he heard a sound behind him. He swung
round, knife drawn, and had poor Beth pinioned to the ground in seconds. “You
fool!” he hissed.
“I thought you might need some help,” she whispered, eyeing the
blade at her throat with alarm. He promptly sheathed it, put a finger to his
lips and gestured for her to stay put.
“If things go badly, return to Ricci and travel by way of the Dragon
Hills,” he murmured. Before she had fully grasped his intention or even had
time to peer into the clearing herself, he had gone.
It inspired Mulac to know Beth was watching. Uttering a
bloodcurdling war cry, he ran into the mist exhorting his non-existent troops
to battle. “Kill, kill, kill…!” he yelled. It seemed to work. The krills
scattered, leaving a way free for him to reach the captives. Rapidly, he untied
the male. But before he had quite finished, the elf let out a warning
shout. Mulac did not hesitate, twisting his
body to confront the enemy. One of the krills whom he took to be their leader
was about to spear him.
While Mulac and the krill fought, Kirin hastily finished freeing
himself and gave all his attention to Irina.
“Help him!” Irina cried but Kirin ignored her and continued to tug
at her bonds. Meanwhile, more krills were emerging from the mist. For some
reason, they did not attack at once but grouped around their leader.
Mulac and Radik parried thrust for thrust. The Nu-gen knew he had to
aim for the krill’s eyes. No knife could penetrate the protective scales. Unwittingly, he allowed the krill leader to
force him into making a turn so that his back was to the others. In seconds, he
was grabbed from behind. Radik rushed
forward, the point of his blade at the Nu-gen’s Adam’s apple. At the same time, he glimpsed a shadowy
figure over the krill’s shoulder that leapt amd brought Radik sprawling to the
ground. Mulac lunged backwards with his
foot, catching a krill off guard that was about to plunge a knife in his back
and sending it flying. Others closed in. Mulac fought like a wolf. The stranger
fought with equal vigour. Mulac, fighting off several krills at once, had no
time to wonder who he was only to reflect, fleetingly, that he was plainly no
elf.
Things were not looking good for them.
Just as it seemed inevitable they must be overpowered, help came
from an unexpected quarter. A series of what appeared to be bolts of lightning,
but could not have been because they did
not strike from above and were aimed directly at the krills, came from all directions. Instinctively, the
krills fell back and spread out. The lightning followed them. One by one, they dropped to the ground,
screaming in agony. Some managed to pick themselves up and stagger off into the
mist. Others lay dead or stunned where they fell.
Mulac and the stranger exchanged glances, instinctively understood
one another and ran back to the bemused captives. Mulac grabbed Kirin’s arm.
Seeing that the stranger had seized Irina’s hand, he gestured for them to follow
and ran back to where Beth was waiting with baited breath.
Beth ran to the Nu-gen and flung her arms around his neck. Suddenly,
he felt her tense against him. “Mick!” she shouted. He heard an answering cry
of joy as she pushed him away with such force that he stumbled and almost
fell. Recovering his balance almost
instantly, he swung round in time to see her caught up in the stranger’s arms.
Mulac caught his breath sharply. How can
this be? His comrade-in-arms was yet another motherworlder.
Another sharp intake of breath, this time from Irina, caused Mulac
to take in the bedraggled elves. The male looked merely relieved. The female,
on the other hand, was observing the two motherworlders embrace with a strained
expression that was not, he suspected, entirely due to recent events.
“I am Mulac,” he introduced himself.
“I’m Mick.” Mick stuck out his hand while keeping one arm around
Beth, “and these are Kirin and Irina.”
“Huh, Nu-gen!” snorted Kirin.
“He means, thank you for saving our lives,” said Irina. Kirin had
the grace to blush, but said nothing.
“Are the others with you?”
Beth was asking Mick when a slight figure emerged from the mist.
“Show’s over, I see. Well done, young Michal! I’ll say!” He
pointedly avoided any allusion to the Nu-gen.
“Ricci…!” Briefly forgetting
that he blamed him for everything, Mick broke free from Beth and ran to greet
the cone headed little man.
“It certainly has its uses, this thing you left with me!” commented
another voice somewhat dryly. A tall shadow stepped out of the mist and took on
a familiar shape.
“Pers…!” It was Irina’s turn to express relief and delight as she
ran into her brother’s open arms.
“This is my friend Pers,” said Mick. “Irina is his sister,” he added,
and then, “The elves will take us to the Purple Mountains.”
“What do elves know of what lies beyond the Forest of Gar?” Mulac
snorted conmtemptuously. “I am the leader here.”
“It is this druid thing that leads us, I’m thinking,” said Pers and
eagerly handed the puli back to
Mick. “It slept in my hand. Suddenly, it woke and began shooting fire. I could
not control it.”
“Probably just as well,” commented Mick dryly. He barely gave the puli
a second glance, however, except to note with relief that it still let out its
guiding light. He tensed, nor as this entirely down to any prospect of the
krills regrouping or sending for reinforcements. He had seen the way Irina
looked at Beth. Thrilled though he was to be reunited with Beth, and still on
something of a high after the skirmish, he sensed they were in for trouble of a
very different kind.
Beth’s instincts told her much the same. It hadn’t taken her long to
grasp that the elf girl had her eye on Mick. But Beth’s immediate concern, too,
was something else altogether. “Where’s Pete?” she wanted to know.
“He’s not with you?” Mick closed his eyes despairingly. Irina moved
as if to comfort him. Beth beat her to it. Briefly, their eyes met. Beth was
more galled than shocked at the hostility emanating from the elf girl, and
unhesitatingly, sent out warning signals. Concerning Mick, at least, both women
understood each other perfectly.
“We must move on, and quickly,” declared Mulac. No one argued but followed him into the mist.
His sharp eyes had missed nothing. He had heard of pulis. They were said to be as unpredictable as the druid power
that created them. Strange, indeed, that
a motherworlder and an elf should come to possess such a thing! Yet stranger things lay ahead, he suspected.
Could it be that a druid power was abroad again in Mamelon? His grim expression gave way to an ironic
smile. What else, he wondered, has Etta neglected to tell me?
Kirin took Irina’s hand. “We have to trust this Nu-gen, I suppose.”
“He’s the least of our problems!” Irina retorted, but had the good
sense to keep her voice low. Ahead, she
could make out the two motherworlders with their arms around each other. An
irrational temper brought bile to her throat, but she managed to swallow both
and even managed to throw Kirin a reassuring smile. For his part, Kirin was
happier with his lot than he had felt since they first began this impossible
journey. They were destined to fail, he was sure of it. But that was nothing. Just to be with Irina
was…Everything.
Mulac drove them hard. Nor was it only the prospect of running into
more krills that continued to haunt him, urging haste. The obvious closeness
between this Michal, called Mick, and Bethan troubled him more than he cared to
admit. What does it matter? he kept asking
himself, occasionally muttering aloud between clenched teeth. In vain, though,
the Nu-gen sought to deny his feelings.
To be continued
