Mamelon 2 - Chapter Eleven

CHAPTER ELEVEN

At the Wright’s home in leafy Tonbridge Wells, three shadowy figures stood solemnly and close together in the master bedroom.  Gail and Tim Wright held hands while Etta the Magela joined them in mind and spirit if not in body. Together, they pooled ages-old powers that had been both blessing and curse since birth.

Tim Wright struggled to project his alter ego across time and space to reach Mamelon in his role as Timon, Holy Seer. Gail, it seemed, for her part, could not get beyond towering ramparts of ancient stone that seemed impregnable.  At her side, Etta willed her daughter, at considerable cost to her own well-being, to focus on the son whom she was frantic to save.

Gail, feeling all but drained of her natural senses, somehow managed to rally, the more so as support from the others flooded into her and gave her the strength and vision to command a gap in the far distant wall through which she was able to enter.  At the same time, she was aware of other, less friendly forces, hovering at the edge of her mind and threatening harm. Yet, there was, too, a hint of something or someone else to which she could not even begin to put a name so did not try, but knew instinctively ‘it’ was on her side.

She found herself in a huge cavern and soon spotted the druids and the makeshift litter on which they carried the inert figure of Michael Wright or Michal as she must think of him here. This proved less difficult than she imagined as Gail felt herself being absorbed into the entire Mamelon ethos and mythology as if she had never been away. I am Galia of Mamelon, she silently repeated to herself several times before it became unnecessary because now she was Galia of Mamelon.  Her thoughts flew to Calum, her firstborn, and her heart skipped several beats. Hastily, she concentrated on Michal.

“Speak not of Calum,” Etta had told her sharply when she had tried to raise the subject with her mother. “Don’t even think of him. Dark powers have acute hearing. “No one must suspect he lives or not only Calum but all of us risk losing everything. Everything, daughter, everything, she repeated.” A single glance had warned Galia to drop the matter instantly and resist asking even one of the many questions on her lips. 

Galia took several deep breaths. For now, it must be her firstborn Motherworld child to whom she must devote a single minded care and attention.

She followed the druids through a maze of passages that took them ever deeper into the mountains. Finally, they paused for rest. The two Robed Ones carrying Michal laid the litter down. Almost at once, they made a circle and she was almost overwhelmed by the concentration of power that descended upon her like a raging flood.  Gasping for breath, she rallied and hurried towards the unconscious Michael, praying that, between the three of them, they could keep her warded from druid mischief. As yet, there was nothing to suggest the Robed Ones were aware of her presence. Dear, Ri, let it stay that way.

At the litter, Gail of Tunbridge Wells, now Galia of Mamelon, concentrated wholly upon the young man she must think of as Michal or he would not respond to her powers nor would they have any effect anyway on any protective wards the druids may have placed around him. In vain, she summoned every ounce of will power to restore the still, pale, figure on the litter to a state of consciousness, at least to the extent that he might become even faintly aware of her presence. She sent a stream of familiar images into his mind, but to no avail. Soon exhausted, she began to panic. There was no telling for how long the druids would be distracted either by their own rites or her magic. Should they discover and challenge her, she was even less certain how she might fare.

It was on the cusp of Galia’s hope and despair that Michal opened his eye.

“Mother?” he groaned. Gail heaved a sigh of relief, not only that he was awake but at his way of addressing her. Michael only ever called her, Mum.

“Yes, Michal.it is I. No questions, we do not have time. You are in the company of druids that mean you harm, and I have come to take you to a safer place.”

Michal sat up and gave his mother a fierce hug while observing The Robed Ones over her shoulder. “How long before they...?”

“My guess is, not long.” She told him bluntly. “We need to go now.  Can you walk?”

“I think so?” Gingerly, Michal swung his legs to the ground, took several steps, and would have fallen heavily if his mother had not caught him.”

“It’s no good. I am too weak. You must lend me of your strength, Mother.”

“I dare not, my son. I need all I have or I cannot stay even for the short while I am needed here. Empty your mind of all but the will to live, survive, and more. Journey far within, and further still. Let your very selfhood fly all time and space until it can reach out and touch the spirit with which you were born, and then enter. Let it mingle with the blood coursing your veins. Motherworlder, you may be, but you are of the bloodline no less for that. It will help you, save you, and shine light on you where there is only darkness.  But you must want it, my son ….want it, will it, acknowledge it, and then practise to use it well if any of us are ever to be returned to the reality of our first choice. “

“Choice..?” The word thundered through his brain.  “I have a choice?” The words sounded weak, feeble, and he barely recognized his own voice.

“Choose, Michal. Choose to seek, find, and learn to use or…” Suddenly overcome by an intense weariness, Galia, unable even to finish her sentence, sank to her knees. She could but trust her firstborn Mmotherworld child would reach such a place within himself where words were unnecessary and he would understand all she was trying to say, hopefully far more.

For his part, Mick-Michal found himself drifting on the very sound of his mother’s words; this made no sense until he, too, was overwhelmed by an awareness of his own breathing so intense that it hurt. His head began to throb. At the same time, he became dimly aware of another sound, a vaguely familiar one trying to find a way through to his inner ear. Suddenly, the lilt and lyric of the Okay Song burst into his head and blossomed like a flower, every note a petal opening up to some tawny dawn.  Now he was flying through the air across the wild, angry, wilting Mamelon landscape. At last, he touched down. A veil of mist began to lift. I know this place. Something brushed his face and floated to the ground. He bent to retrieve it, recognized its coppery hues and turned to find himself at the Fire Tree, Heart of Elvendom.

“Greetings, young Michal.” a soft, lilting voice reached his ears almost as if it had sprung from the Okay Song itself.

The figure of a man, whose features he could barely make out although his senses told him he was old, made Michal start. At first, from what he could tell, he thought it was Astor, the grandfather to whom had first been drawn but learned since to mistrust on a previous visit to Mamelon. How could I have forgotten? Memories of that visit passed like a twenty-first century movie through his mind. He tensed, grew wary, and then relaxed completely. This was not Astor, He was in no danger. The stranger meant him no harm, on the contrary. I can trust this man with my life.

I can’t see or hear you very well,” Michal thought it best to be honest.

“That’s because I am here, and am not here. I am as you find me, and not as you find me. I belong here, and do not belong here. We have much in common, wouldn’t you say?”

Michal nodded.  Excepting his mother, he had never felt as confused by or as comfortable with anyone in his whole life before.

“You have journeyed far, young Michal, and have further yet to go. But this is a good beginning. That is to say, as much as any awareness implies beginning. Trust your senses and they will bring you to a good end. That is to say, as much as any awareness implies an end. It is not so, of course. But that is something else we can discover for ourselves or impose lesser alternatives of our own making. Go now, and tell your mother how we met by the Fire Tree, Heart of Elvendom, and she will be reassured. You are of her blood, young Motherworlder, part elf, and part druid for all you are but human. These parts of a whole, they will serve you well, my friend, but only if you choose to let them and are willing to trust magic over human instinct as and when the time is right”

“How will I know the time is right?” Michal was not sure he understood.

“You will know, and then it is up to you which path you take. Now, close your eyes and return to your mother for I fear her strength is failing and I must attend to it as best I can.”

The image of the old man began to fade.  “Who are you? How are you called?” Michal cried, “You know who I am. Surely, I may know who you are also?”

But the image had already vanished.

Like birdsong in a light, summer air, Michal heard once again the command to close his eyes, and did so only to be instantly catapulted into a blankness that was as uncomfortable as it was uninspiring. Hastily, he opened them again, and found himself gazing into his mother’s eyes; they looked troubled and anxious, but lit up like twin moons in a dark sky the second he gave her a huge, reassuring grin. “I saw an old man sitting by the Fire Tree…” he began but Galia put a finger to her son’s lips.

“That is good, very good, but we are running out of time. You must go Michal, and go now.”

“Are you coming with me?”

Galia shook her head. “I must return to the Motherworld. Believe me. I can help you all from there, far better than if I were to remain, even if that was an option which it isn’t,” she added ruefully. “Go and find your brother. He is with friends, and they are your friends too.”

“But I have no idea where he is or Bethan either.”

“Use the puli, and it will guide you to Peter. As for Bethan…” Galia sighed. “She is safe. Mulac will see she comes to know harm.” For now, she added silently.

Michal’s serious expression brightened considerably. “Mulac may be Nu-gen, but I trust him with all my heart.”

“There is more to Mulac than you know…” Galia began before realizing what she had said and clapped a hand to her mouth to prevent all she longed to say. Yet, what can I say and how would it help to tell you Mulac is your brother, Calum? Dear, Ri, what am I thinking? Minds, too have ears. I must go, now, before I ruin everything. “Go, my son, and know that you and your brother are much loved by parents who are sorrier than you will ever know for burdening you with Mamelon’s past, present, and future.” She gave Michal an impassioned hug, kissed him on the cheek, and was gone before he even realized it, vanished just like the old man.

Still feeling slightly dazed, but much stronger, Michal felt in his pocket for the small, flat stone shaped like a triangle that had been a parting gift from La-Ri, the elf queen. Instantly, it pointed in the direction its owner trusted he should follow.

Moving away from the druid circle and into one of several tunnels leading ever further into the mountain, Michal discovered to his amazement that he could not only run, but also faster and lighter of foot than ever before.

Galia watched him go and managed not to cry if only because it would further drain her of those innermost resources she was relying on to see her safely back to Tonbridge Wells. It came as no surprise that she felt no inclination to stay except for her children. She had hated Mamelon once, and she hated now, even more so because it threatened her children. All my children... Will I ever see Calum and Nadya again? How they must hate me for abandoning them?  But I thought you were dead. Astort said…

But there was no time for regrets or recriminations. Gathering all her willpower and struggling to establish mind contact with Etta and Timon, Galia  prepared herself for the journey back to the Motherworld and the Gail Wright persona she had long since adopted and grown into just as she might have grown into a new pair of shoes until they fitted perfectly.

Her mind reached out. Again and it again, it reached out, but found nothing and no one, only a vast emptiness across which her inner eye could see no way to cross unaided.  She began to panic. Help me! Timon, Etta, help me! But her cries fell on deaf ears. Her heart sank. For now, at least, there was no discernible way back. In desperation, she tried Astor. Father, help me. If you ever cared for me at all, help me now. Again, she received no response.  She thought she sensed a presence of sorts but could not determine its nature, only that it meant well and might even be trying to help her, but it was barely a flicker and was quickly snuffed out like a candle. She considered the analogy. Had the candle ben snuffed out by accident or design?  Someone is working against me, but who? She shivered despite the clammy heat.  For it had to be her old enemy, Ragund.

No longer did Galia resist the tears welling in her tired eyes as she confronted her greatest fear, one that had haunted her far, far, longer than she cared to recall.

Suddenly, through her tears, she saw a dear face she had not seen for more lifetimes than she cared to count. “Calum!” she tried to call out, but no sound came from her lips. The image remained. though, but wore an expression of distress and fear. She struggled to send positive, reassuring thought waves, and seemed to sense a response, but could not be sure. 

As suddenly as it has appeared, the image vanished, and there was nothing left to hold on to but her innate identity as Galia of Mamelon, consort to Michal the Great. She was unprepared for the rush of adrenalin that coursed her veins. Yet, had she not old scores to settle? She owed her children that much, and her murdered husband. Bracing herself for whatever may lie ahead, she heaved a huge sigh that conveyed mixed feelings, but primarily one of fierce anticipation.

Galia of Mamelon had come home.

Mamelon 2 - Chapter Ten

CHAPTER TEN

Ricci was not happy being a snake. That is to say, he was not happy being this particular snake. A little snake would have sufficed.  But, no, it was big, and not even pretty. Moreover, it appeared to have a mind of its own since he was finding it extremely difficult to manoeuvre different parts of the elongated body that kept swaying this way and that.  Even so, he had escaped the Krills and must count his blessings. Now, at least, he could…Do what, exactly?  Get help? Where do I go for help? Who is going to help us anyway? He had already tried making mind contact with Astor, and failed miserably.

He sighed. That is, he meant to sigh but was only able to produce a noisy rattle. The ghastly sound made him start to the extent that his snake body first quivered its entire length before flying into a frantic coil that poor Ricci was quite unable to control and which nearly strangled him. Uncoiling took a while, and considerable concentration. Afterwards, he continued to fret. Why was it, he asked himself, as he had a thousand times, that adopting the shape of bird, beast, reptile or whatever did not necessarily lend him immediate access to the very best of its natural faculties? He had put the question to Astor, of course, more than once. Astor, though, had simply remarked that he still had a lot to learn. Ricci almost sighed again, thought better of it, and settled instead for staying annoyed with Astor. What the devil use is a mentor who doesn’t mentor properly? Aggrievedly, the snake stretched to its full length, but not for long as Ricci’s train of thought was rudely interrupted by a blood-curdling yell.

Ricci slithered to a nearby ledge that gave him a grandstand view of what was happening below and did not like what he saw. The surly Nu-gen, Mulac, was trying to take on the band of Krills singlehanded.  Naturally, it was a lost cause from the start and he was soon overcome by a sneaky blow from Radik who had crept up behind him.  Bethan, Ricci was relieved to see, had surrendered to the inevitable, but was now showing more concern for the Nu-gen’s fate than her own. Ricci adroitly wriggled to express further irritation. The relationship between these two was incomprehensible to the point of sacrilege. She’s a Keeper, for Ri’s sake, and he’s…Well, being Nu-gen says it all. At the same time, Ricci began to panic as the hopelessness of their situation made him nauseous. Astor had placed them in his care, after all. They were his, Ricci’s responsibility. Let’s face it.  Being a snake has its limitations. Unable to summon a vestige of optimism, Ricci slithered down the rock face and into the Krill camp, taking care to avoid being trodden on.

For a while, Ricci just watched and waited, although if he had been asked for what, exactly, he would have been at a loss to reply. He took great pleasure in letting rip with a long if subdued hiss when Arissa appeared. He had never trusted the female. The fact that she was clearly on very familiar terms with Radik came as no surprise either.  I’d have put nothing past this one…

The appearance of a kikiri, however, gave Ricci such a shock that he almost jumped out of his snake skin especially when it then proceeded to lead the captives out of the camp as if they were invisible. A kikiri here, of all places, and making itself useful…? How can this be? It is unheard of. He was about to follow them when the two Krills meant to be guarding the captives caught his attention.  Their backs to the cave wall, they were plainly oblivious to the escape. Nor did anyone else exhibit any signs of raising the alarm.  Most peculiar, I’ll say!

“Why do you suppose Radik wants them anyway?” one was asking.

The other shrugged. “To get us across the lake is my guess/”

“Dom-y-Baba...?”

“Yes, Doom Lake, and well named. It can’t be far now and the monster will be sure to demand  payment. What could be better than fresh meat?”

“One is a Motherworlder though...” The first Krill sounded doubtful. .

The second Krill shrugged again. “Meat is meat, and everyone knows no meat tastes better than human, whatever its source. Ask any druid if you don’t believe me,” he added with a cackle that made Ricci’s blood run cold. It had been rumoured that druids as well as Krills loved to feast on human flesh for as many lifetimes as he could recall.

It was at that moment Radik and Arissa chose to emerge from the makeshift tent where their animated silhouettes and raised voices had demonstrated to just about everyone present, not least Ricci, that it was the Krill leader who danced to Arissa’s tune not the other way round. Ricci permitted himself another long, low hiss.  The elf, Pers, was not alone in being bewitched by this devilish female. What is her plan? What is she after? Whatever, it bodes ill for all of us, I’ll say!

Ricci looked around and spotted the elf cowering in shadows near the place where the captives had been only moments before. He looked around again, but there was no sign of Tol, Strange... But Ricci barely had time to reflect on the gentle giant’s absence when Radik let out a shriek of rage that almost sent him flying into another hysterical coil. As it was, it took every last drop of concentration to impose his will on the snake body. He succeeded, but at the cost of an excruciating headache. Oh, my poor head, it is positively swimming. He longed to put a comforting hand to his throbbing head, but of course he couldn’t. This is ridiculous. No hands, no feet…What am I supposed to do, for Ri’s sake, moult?

“Idiots,! You call yourselves sentries?” Radik was demanding of the two hapless Krills whose responsibility it had been to guard the captives.  “My great-grandmother could have done a better job!” he screamed, waving a deadly blade in their faces. It was to their credit, thought Ricci, that they neither moved a muscle nor did their faces betray any expression other than a dutiful blandness.

“Great-grandmother…?” Arissa murmured absently, but audibly, “I never knew you had one. Or even a mother, for that matter…” But the Krill leader was in no mood for her sarcasm. He was used to it if inclined to mistake it for the kind of banter in which lovers had indulged since the beginning of time. On this occasion, though, he chose to ignore her, forgetting in his rage, that being ignored was something a female with an ego as volcanic as Arissa’s would not tolerate lightly. “Can this be my brave Radik throwing such a tantrum?” she said quietly, yet once again loud enough for everyone to hear. “That our guests have departed is regrettable, I agree, and a mystery. But what is done is done. At times like this, my dear Radik, a leader needs to keep his head, not lose it. In your case, using it for once might also help,” she added scathingly before heaving an exaggerated sigh followed by, “I have to say, Radik, I am fast becoming weary of always having to think for both of us.”

Radik scowled. No match for Arissa in this mood, he had to be content with slitting the throats of both sentries before asking in a tone that anyone but Arissa would have found intimidating, “So why should I care that we have lost the Keeper when I’m sure you have a plan to recover her and that dim-witted Nu-gen?”

“No plan, Radik, simply that we give pursuit without delay rather than stand around wringing our hands like washerwomen caught in a rainstorm.”

Radik glared. What kind of female is this that drives me to slit the throats of two of our band which, Ri knows, is small enough. Yet, she does not say a word or even appear to notice? But Radik was not the fool Arissa took him for, and kept a tight rein on his temper, easily enough now that he had spilled blood. Indeed, the parody of a smile that lit his battered features might almost have been interpreted as subservience. “You are right, of course. They cannot have made much ground so we should catch them before they reach Dom-y-Baba. The Nu-gen is expendable, of course, but we dare not risk losing Bethan, Keeper. She is, after all, the key to Mamelon’s future, and ours.

“Perhaps,” said Arissa thoughtfully. Let us hope so, my Radik, “she purred, “but we must make haste. The Kurzl cares not for such things, only his appetite. Let us hope he has a taste for Nu-gen. Pers, you will see to the tent, and have a care with my things,” she called imperiously to the besotted elf without even bothering to look for him.

Dom-y-Baba, Lake of Doom…Oh, my goodness. Ricci began to panic yet again. It did not help to discover that he had been under an illusion that snakes could travel at speed. Progress was slow as he slithered away from the Krill camp, undecided whether to try and change into a bat or revert to his natural form. Bats can fly, but would I get the hang of their peculiar nervous system? Oh, dear, oh, dear, oh, dear…

Coming to a fork in the tunnel did not help ease poor Ricci’s growing frustration. Instinct suggested he take the left, and then he thought he heard voices, albeit faint echoes, farther down on the right so slid hopefully in that direction.  Oh, what I wouldn’t give for a pair of legs. For now, though, he decided, it may well prove useful to remain a snake. Besides, he could not for the life of him recall a spell for bats.

He had not travelled as far as he expected before Ricci found himself peering down from a ledge at Ygor and his robed followers. Their presence came as no surprise, but what stunned poor Ricci  was the sight of an inert form laid out on a makeshift litter that two Robed Ones were carrying. Michal! Trust a druid to get his greedy hands on one of the bloodline. I daresay he has a plan to snare Keeper Bethan too.  For an instant, his eyes narrowed under the snake hood, exuding a malevolence to which his host body was no stranger. Ricci, though, was by nature a kind soul. Moreover, his hatred of druids smacked of disloyalty to his master. Astor may well be the finest of mages and beyond reproach, but that did not make him any less a druid. Indeed, Ricci never ceased to wonder at the love he felt for Astor. Nor had he questioned that love since entering Astor’s service so long ago that he could scarce recall the circumstances, a love greater even than the intense loathing he felt for Ygor and his rogue band. By comparison, his feelings towards Radik were almost benign if less so regarding Arissa.

Ricci’s jumbled thoughts and mixed feelings suddenly cleared and proceeded to focus upon one thing. Oh, my goodness, Dom-y-Baba.  But Ygor would never sacrifice one of the bloodline to the Kurzl, surely? Michal was too important. Without Michal, no one could enter the Tomb of the Creator even assuming they should ever discover it among the maze of tunnels and yawning caverns that had played host to Foss and other hybrid beings for as many lifetimes as the mountains themselves had stood.  In his mind’s eye, he pictured the key he had worn on a chain around his neck, now safely insinuated into the snake’s body patterns and indistinguishable from a variety of colourful markings. They cannot do anything without it, none of them, Ricci reflected with pride, and I will surrender it to no one but the rightful Ruler of Mamelon. Yet, as he looked askance upon the Motherworlder’s pale face, he could not help but wonder if it was already too late.

Where is Astor, whenever I need him most? Not the first time, Ricci’s devotion to the White Mage was sorely tested as he struggled to decide on the best course of action. I must get to the lake, and hopefully catch up with Bethan and the Nu-gen along the way. Oh, but suppose they arrive and the Kurzl…Panic threatened another near suffocating coiling-up, more than enough to calm even Ricci. He wondered if the druids were aware the lake had dried up and all that was left was a sprawling bed of red sand. As for the Kurzl, some stories suggested it had made its way to the Sea of Marmela while others insisted it continued to live where it had dwelt since Ri created the mountains, ever poised to make a kill, creating quicksand to draw being or beast into its lair.

 A vision of Bethan, Keeper, being sucked into the jaws of the Kurzl loomed in Ricci’s graphic imagination. Oh, my, oh my…There was no time to waste.  Struggling in vain to recall a spell for bats, he wriggled away as fast as he could.

Mamelon 2 - Chapters Eight and Nine

CHAPTER EIGHT

It was twilight in leafy Tunbridge Wells where Gail Wright was pacing her garden path. The boys were late home, very late. True, they may well have been invited to tea or supper at a friend’s house. It was not unusual, especially during school holidays when they seemed to think all normality was suspended.  Even so, it was unusual that neither had called to let her know. Nor was either of her sons picking up his mobile phone. She frowned and tried in vain to ignore the suspicion threatening to drag body and spirit into a downward spiral.

Gail sighed. It would have to be an evening when Tim has to work late. I need him here. I can’t do this on my own. They are his children, too, for heaven’s sake.

A barely audible sound like a leaf rustling on the trellis of roses near where she stood startled her and caused her to turn sharply. An elderly but still beautiful woman, while hair piled high, stood in the trellis arch smiling at her with a radiance that was simultaneously comforting and alarming. “Mother…!”

“Yes, daughter, it is I, Etta, your mother. That is to say, my dream self so do not attempt to touch me.” The voice was as sweet and faint as distant birdsong.

“The children…” Gail began, but did not need to finish the question on her lips since she already knew the answer.

“They are in Mamelon, yes, but you know that. Ignore your innermost feelings at your peril, daughter.  Heed them, and it can only be to everyone’s advantage.”

“Are they alright? Are they safe? No, they cannot be safe or you would not be here? Did father send you?”

“He does not know I am here. Not yet, anyway. Astor has troubles of his own.”

“The children…?” Gail was impatient for information and reassurance.

“Peter is among friends, but Michal…”

“He is in danger.” It was not a question. Etta nodded. “He needs me. That’s why you have come, to take me back.”

“You will come, of course.”

“Of course, although…” Gail hesitated. Etta lifted an eyebrow questioningly, full quivering with a hint of impatience. “He is alive?”

“He lives, yes.”

“Then, what…?”

“Druids...” Her daughter’s gasp of horror told Etta she need say no more…yet. “They mean him harm. Their leader, Ygor, his magic is stronger than mine, much stronger. Yours, on the other hand…”

Gail pulled a face as she swallowed the bile that leapt to her throat. “Last time, coming back…it was hard.”

Etta, misinterpreting the other’s expression, commented dryly, “Coming or going back anywhere is always hard.”

“Tim…I need to leave him a note…” Desperately anxious though she was for her children, it was all happening too fast. Frantically, Gail played for time, knowing in her heart it was a pointless exercise.

“Tim was once a Holy Seer,” Etta pointed out, a cutting edge to the musical voice. “Do you honestly think he needs a note? He knows, just as you have known all the while you have been wearing out the stones on this path where you stand. He arrives even as we speak.” Almost instantly, the voice softened. “Time is not on our side, daughter. We both know it. Now, come, and be sure Timon will see you back safely.”

“The children too…?”

“The children too,” said Etta with a show of considerably more self-confidence than she was feeling.

“You promise?”

“I promise. Now, come.”

Mother and daughter ran towards the house, Etta silently berating herself for making a promise she feared she may not be able to keep, Gail struggling to rise above a fear that had been stalking her for days with all the stealth and purpose of a would-be assassin. 

   

CHAPTER NINE

In the bowels of Lunis, City of Moons, Ragund the Dark Mage stared in disbelief into the seer bowl. Nothing, I see nothing. What or whose are they, these forces that are bent upon foiling me at every turn? In so far as his plan was to keep young Michal out of Astor’s grasp and within his own, it had worked up to a point. Whoever had the upper hand in the young Motherworlder’s destiny would ultimately shape the destiny of all Mamelon. Astor was not easily distracted but he, Ragund, had succeeded where so many others had failed. So where am I going wrong? What am I missing? How is it that dastardly rogue druid, Ygor, has succeeded where I have failed? For it has to be he, there is no one else...

Only fleetingly did Ragund contemplate the possibility that he might have underestimated Astor’s powers. Who else but the White Mage, for example, could have enabled that fool, Ricci, to journey through solid rock? To create an illusion to fool the majority while allowing a select few to penetrate it, though, was one thing... “But it was no illusion, I am sure of it,” he muttered as anger gave way to frustration. Yet, if not Astor, who is taking sides against me and meddling in my affairs? Ragund continued to fume.

While Ragund knew he must never underestimate the she-devil, Galia, nor could he quite believe her powers were any match for his own. No, not even taking into account her relationship with that whore of a Magela, Etta. It was only to be expected that Etta would give her daughter what help she could, but that help was limited, surely? Beware, Etta, of trying to defeat my purpose for your own ends. I can destroy you at any time should so I choose, and well you know it. At the same time, the wily mage was well aware that, were he to carry out his threat, Astor’s revenge would put even their bitter rivalry in the shade.  He sighed. Only if absolutely necessary would he dispose of Etta. Could it be possible that I still have feelings for her? He sighed again. What am I thinking? I must be getting old. Once, many lifetimes ago, he and Astor had been friends. Even now, he sometimes wondered how far  loving the same woman, and Etta choosing Astor, had resulted in one friend choosing the path of Light and the other the path of Darkness.

Having only moments earlier attempted mind-talk with the Krill leader, Radik, and been thwarted every time, by what means he would give much to know, Ragund glared into the seer bowl. In vain, he drew upon all his energy to summon images that would tell him exactly what was happening at the heart of the Purple Mountains. Yet again, there was no response, the bowl as lifeless in his hands as the gold that shaped it. 

………………………………..

Meanwhile, in another room nearby, Ragund’s consort, Shireen, was giving vent to frustrations of her own, not least by throwing every movable object upon which she could lay her beautifully manicured hands at its door and walls. “How?” she screamed, “How?”  How could it be that Arissa,  whose  mind body and spirit she had taken for herself, corrupting the original to nothing more than  kikiri, suddenly found a way to communicate with the very beings that threatened not only her, Shireen’s, ambitions but also her life.? “Who is doing this, who??” she screamed again. Not Ragund, she was certain of it.  If he ever suspected she was plotting against him, he would destroy her as soon as look at her.

Shireen found herself drawn to the long mirror that stood against the north wall. Was it a trick of the imagination or had Arissa’s beauty started to fade? I cannot be as I truly am, I cannot she raged.

Pride and ambition aside, Shireen was in no doubt that Ragund’s rage would know no bounds were he to discover he had been making love to a shrivelled crone for the best part of a lifetime. Radik had guessed the truth and would remain a threat for as long as she had need of him. But of the Krill leader she was not afraid. Radik, she could manage until the time came when she would destroy him. No, it was only Ragund whom she had good cause to fear. Had she not witnessed at first hand  the lengths of savage cruelty to which the Dark Mage would go in order to impose maximum pain on his victims, and lasting for as long as he so desired?  Radik was a worm by comparison. Shireen smiled into the mirror and showed her gleaming white teeth. She would enjoy crushing the worm when the time came.  As for Ragund, he too would discover that the woman whom he had bedded for the greater part of his life still had a trick or two up the sleeve upon which she wore her heart.

Shireen licked her lips with relish, only to freeze with shock and horror when the mirror image did not do the same.

Mamelon 2 - Chapters Six and Seven

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. 

Mamelon 2 - Chapter Five

CHAPTER FIVE 

As soon as it became clear the Krills would overwhelm them without much difficulty, Ricci stepped back into the shadows and hastily muttered a changing spell that actually worked for once, instantly transforming him into a snake.  He hurriedly slithered away, persuaded this was the best course of action since it would leave him free to help Bethan and Mulac as and when the opportunity arose. Besides, he needed time to think. They had just passed no small distance through solid rock, no mean feat even where magic was involved. Moreover, he doubted whether Astor’s powers, great as they were, could be responsible. There is magic abroad of which I have never known the like, Ricci pondered, refusing to be distracted by the war-like cries behind him. But how can this be, and if not Astor’s whose? Not Ragund’s that’s for certain. 

Ricci was in no doubt that if the Dark Mage had contrived to lead them inside the rock wall, he would have left them there to suffocate. A shiver passed through his snake body as he manoeuvred it to a safe place from which he could keep an eye on what was happening to his companions.

Beth saw no point in putting up a fight and surrendered angrily to the first two Krills that confronted her.  Mulac, though, pulled a dagger from beneath his tunic and fought like a madman. Time and again, the handsome blade found its mark, penetrating thin layers of Krill flesh exposed around the creatures’ evil-looking scales. Inevitably, he was finally brought down by a hefty blow from a cudgel-like object to side of the head that sent him reeling and tumbling off the ledge into space. 

The Krill that felled Mulac had crept up on him from behind.  Beth could only watch, helplessly. She could hardly shout a warning with a knife at her throat. Besides, there was far too much noise for it to have found its mark. Taller and more powerfully built than the rest, Beth recognized him at once as the leader, Radik. It was Radik, too, who grabbed Mulac by the legs and hauled him to safety before shouting orders to several others who proceeded to part carry, part drag the unconscious Nu-gen into their camp below, Here, there was space for everyone to move with ease safety.

In spite of her predicament, Beth breathed a sigh of relief. She had been terrified Radik would have them both killed without a second thought.

Her captors, having bound Beth’s hands behind her back, now tossed her against the cavern wall where Mulac, too, was unceremoniously dumped soon afterwards.  Most of the Krills then scuttled into the shadows but for Radik and one other who entered a makeshift tent.  A light inside the tent revealed the animated silhouettes of other figures. One of the tent flaps remained partly open and Beth could hear voices, but paid little attention as her chief concern was for Mulac whose breathing was loud and rasping. Bending over him and feeling for a pulse, she was relieved when the swarthy Nu-gen opened one eye and winked at her.

Mulac had barely managed to sit up when, despite their hands being tied, both moved in for a kiss to which each gladly responded.

“Where is Ricci?” Mulac whispered.

Beth shrugged. “I haven’t a clue,” she had to admit.  “One minute he was there and the next…gone. I did see a snake, though, so maybe he changed himself into one. If so, I do think he might have done the same for us. But that’s Ricci all over. He can be sweet, even charming, and always means well, but the truth is Ricci only really ever looks out for himself.” Even as she said it, though, she suspected she was doing poor Ricci an injustice.

“A wise move,” Mulac growled softly, “and I took him for a fool!” He chuckled. “He remains free while we…”

“…are prisoners,” Beth wailed, giving up all pretence of self-confidence. At the same time, she was furious with herself since the last thing she intended was for Mulac to think of her as some weak female. Even so, she wished he could give her a hug, having to settle instead for a wicked grin that instantly transformed his surly features. She began to relax, reassured by this completely different side to the Mulac whom she had once detested. Theirs, though, was a love they had to accept without question, for now at least. Both knew it was not a love Mamelon could condone. She was, after all, a Motherworlder, but that was not the only reason. Their destinies may well be intertwined, yet both knew instinctively that the time for asking questions would come soon enough.  When that time comes, I’ll lose him. 

Beth made a poor show of fighting back tears that Mulac misinterpreted as her being fearful for the situation in which they found themselves. Krills were not known for their kindness towards others. It was only natural after all. She has spirit, and I love her, but she is only a female. “Don’t cry. It saddens me deeply to see you cry. Besides, all is far from lost. Ricci is sure to find a way to help us.”

“I wouldn’t bet on it,” Beth replied with feeling, but managed a wry smile that cheered them both. Do something Ricci, and don’t be too long about it. You know you can if you put your mind to it. “He’ll do his best, he always does,” she conceded. 

Mulac opened his mouth to say something when they were distracted by movement at the tent. The flaps were flung open wide and Radik strutted towards the prisoners, a smiling Arissa close behind and trailing after her a very unhappy elf.

“Pers, is it you?” Beth cried out warmly thinking to keep the elf on their side, but if Pers heard he made no sign.

“We meet again Bethan, Motherworlder,” Arissa sneered, “and in the company of a worthless Nu-gen too. Appropriate enough, wouldn’t you say, my Radik?”

“The female is very beautiful,” said Radik, much amused by Arissa’s predictably petulant response.

“For a Motherworlder, perhaps, but I am not impressed. What will you do with her, give her to the others?”

Beth paled, bit her lip, and glared malevolently from one to the other. 

“You know I cannot do that. She is precious, this one, “Mulac hissed, treating his captive to such a hideous parody of a smile that Beth was hard put not to retch.

It was then that Tol’s voice broke into Beth’s subconscious, “Take care, Bethan Motherworlder. Do not antagonise him. The ways of Radik are viler even than he looks when roused.”

Where are you Tol? She would dearly have liked to make mind contact with the gentle giant if only for comfort’s sake but sensed it would be unwise to attempt mind-speak at that moment in time.

“And what of the Nu-gen, he is expendable, yes?” Arissa came closer and spat in Mulac’s face. “What say you, Nu-gen?  What shall my Radik and I do with you? You have a fine body. Perhaps I shall ravish you before we decide. Would you like that?”

It was Mulac’s turn to spit. A pellet of well-aimed phlegm landed between Arissa’s eyes that blazed with such utter loathing that Beth expected a violent response. Instead, Arissa threw back her head and laughed, Radik too.  “We will roast it slowly, this one,” Arissa cried gaily and clapped her hands, “and the heart is mine.”

“It will make a welcome change from Foss,” Radik agreed.

“Don’t be so sure,” Mulac growled, “We are tough, Nu-gen, and hopefully, you will choke to death.”

“Better that than being roasted alive, Nu-gen scum,” Radik mocked, still laughing as he took Arissa’s hand and they returned to the tent.

“What did he mean about me being ‘precious’?” Beth asked the question aloud as much to herself as to Mulac.

“You are a Keeper.” To their surprise, it was Pers who answered. He had sidled up as close, as he dared but in shadow so they had not notice his presence. Now he edged even closer but remained no more than a vague silhouette in the gloom.

“All the more reason for you to set us free,” said Mulac.

“What is a Keeper?” Beth asked although, even as she did so, her heart sank as if it already knew the answer.

“Keepers have guarded the Tomb of the Creator from which flows the Spring of Life since the beginning of Time,” replied Pers solemnly.  All have been female and all called  Bethan. It is more than a tradition, it is a duty.  So it will be again once the tomb is recovered.”

“If it is recovered,” Mulac pointed out.

“Why else would Ri bring Motherworlders to Mamelon?” asked Pers with such naïve simplicity that Mulac found himself swallowing the passionate denial on his tongue, not least because he suspected the elf spoke the truth.

“A Keeper…” Beth murmured, and let her inner eye roam freely amongst a pageant of images as strange as it was familiar. Nor did she like what she saw. Duty…? Doom is more like it.

Again, Tol’s voice spoke at her inner ear. “Don’t be afraid, Bethan Motherworlder or ever believe all is lost. Trust me. The task ahead is a hard one, yes, but when it is complete you will discover that the burden you carry is one of choice not doom.”

Where are you?  Yet again, though, there was no reply.

“You must help us,” Mulac was saying to the disconsolate elf. “Are we not friends?”

“I cannot leave Arissa.”

“You mean you dare not,” Mulac growled impatiently, “Are you such a fool to let that evil female control every move you make?”

“She doesn’t,” Pers protested, “If she knew I was speaking with you now she would…”

“Skin you alive,” Mulac muttered, furious with the elf’s intransigence,

“Perhaps,” Pers admitted, close to tears, “but I can’t help the way I feel. She is everything to me. I love her, “

“Huh, love!” Mulac scoffed, “Can’t you see she is manipulating you?”

“If you can’t help us why are you talking to us at all?” Beth asked with such quiet earnestness that the elf began to cry.”

“I can’t bear to think of you…”

“Eaten alive?” Mulac suggested so lightly and matter-of-factly that Beth as well as Pers was taken a-back.

“They can’t!” she wailed.

“They can and they will,” Mulac assured her tonelessly. She wished he would show anger, fear even. This apparent acceptance of so terrible a fate was not only uncharacteristic, but scared her even more than the threat itself.  Suddenly, she realised just how much, until now, she had been relying on the Nu-gen to come up with an escape plan. Hadn’t Mulac apparently returned from the dead once?  Surely, he won’t let the likes of Radik and Arissa get the better of him, especially the latter.  She bristled with rage just for thinking about Heron’s dreadful sister. To think we once trusted the bitch… “Pers, please help us, please,” she pleaded.

The elf shook his head. “I can’t,” he wept. “I only came to see if you had any news of Irina.”

“The answer is no,” Mulac snapped, “but you can be sure that if she lives and ever gets to hear of your betrayal, she will disown you.  Gar will disown you. You will spend the rest of your miserable life exiled and alone except for that she-devil who has your wits in the palm of her pretty hand.”

“No, no!” The elf continued to sob quietly.

“If you won’t help us, at least have the decency to go away and leave us in peace to enjoy what little time we have together.” Mulac spread his large hands despairingly and breathed a sigh of relief when the elf slipped further into the shadows even more suddenly and stealthily than he had appeared.

“You were too hard on him,” Beth felt compelled to say. “He is in the grip of dark magic. You must see that, surely?”

“Of course,” Mulac agreed, “but I had to try.”

Both fell silent, unexpectedly and involuntarily drifting into a sense of semi-awareness that was neither wakefulness nor sleep.

It was Beth who first saw the ghostly figure floating towards them. While it had no easily distinguishable features, it had something resembling a finger to where its lips might have been. Beth dug her elbow into Mulac’s ribs.

The Nu-gen grunted, opened his eyes and gave a start. “Kikiri…!” he gasped.

“What…?” Beth whispered.  Mulac did his best to explain. Meanwhile, the apparition continued to hover and watch.

“What does it want?”

“It wants us to follow it,” Mulac said with a self-confidence he was far from feeling.

“With our hands tied behind our backs?”

“Hands, not feet,” he pointed out gruffly.

“Even so, are you sure?”

“No, but what have we to lose?”

“You have doubts,” It was not a question.

Mulac shrugged. “It is a thing of dark magic. But I sense there is something of what it was that remains and that, at least, means us no harm. “Besides, it is as I say. We have no choice but to trust it.

As the pair scrambled to their feet, Mulac involuntarily wincing from various cuts and bruises he had received earlier, they realized their hands were no longer tied. “But how…?” Beth exclaimed albeit softly.

“Who cares? There is magic here, yes, but it sides with us not against us so let us just  be grateful and leave it at that. Now, come.”

“We will be caught, and Ri knows what will happen then,” Beth muttered while massaging her wrists. As if by way of a reply, the eerie figure just ahead of them appeared to shake its head. “Oh, well, needs must as the Devil drives.” Seizing Mulac’s hand, she took the initiative and began walking slowly towards it even though this took them out of the deeper shadows and into full view of several small groups of Krills, As luck would have it, they were too busy cackling among themselves and drinking heavily to notice the odd trio, thereby paying them no attention. Even as they passed the tent, where a light of some kind was still burning and voices could be heard, no one raised the alarm. It’s like we’re invisible. Beth would have shared the thought with Mulac aloud had it not been necessary to keep silent. Besides, she knew he would be thinking the same.

It was the weirdest experience, but soon they were some distance from the Krill’s camp and following the apparition along yet another winding passage. “We’re going down,” she whispered to Mulac who was just a few steps ahead.

“So?” he replied abstractly, his mind turning over various possibilities. Can it be we have escaped one trap only to be led into another? Yet, what would be the point of that? Even so, he continued to nurse grave doubts about their strange guide.

“This isn’t the only mountain. How do we know the Tomb of the Creator is here? It may be in one of the others, “Beth pointed out. “At this rate, we’re as likely to find our own tomb as anyone else’s,” she added grimly.

“We are here are we not?” came Mulac’s cryptic reply.

“Do you think this kikiri may know the location of the tomb?”“

Mulac shrugged. “Who knows what a kikiri knows?  What is certain is that we know nothing. Have some faith, woman.”

The Nu-gen’s brusque tone was music to Beth’s ears. Mulac was back to his usual impossible self.  She was starting to feel almost positive when, without any warning, the ground gave way beneath their feet.

Both plunged screaming, limbs flailing helplessly, into a pitch black chasm.

As she fell, a ghostly figure appeared to Beth. She managed to cry out,” Dad!” whereupon the vision of her Motherworld father swooped and gathered her into his arms. Immediately, she closed her eyes and felt perfectly safe, no longer fearful of what she imagined must be certain death.  In a weird, dream-like state, she heard Mulac cry out also, only to be engulfed by infinite pain and disappointment that the name on his lips was not hers.