Read Deltora Quest #6: The Maze of the Beast Online
Authors: Emily Rodda
Deltora Quest #6: The Maze of the Beast (10 page)
T
his book has been compiled in secret. If the work had been discovered by any authority, I, its author, would have paid with my life. Or so I believe.
The risk was worth taking. Forces are working in Deltora to suppress the facts of our past as well as those of our present. Lies are everywhere. King Alton believes that the kingdom is thriving. He thinks that if monstrous perils once existed in far-flung corners, they exist no longer.
I know this is false. Because I, who once wore the silken gloves and velvet tunic of a palace librarian, now scavenge for food in the gutters of Del. I now know what the common people know, and more. I could never have imagined such a future for myself. But I regret nothing.
Perhaps I would never have fled from the palace if the king’s chief advisor, Prandine, had not ordered me to burn
The Deltora Annals
. The threatened destruction of the
Annals
, that great, vivid picture of Deltora over the ages, was more than I could bear. And so it was that while pretending to obey Prandine’s order, I saved the
Annals
and myself.
This book contains material drawn from
The Deltora Annals
as well as new information I have gained in the past few years. It describes many of the dreadful, mysterious beings that haunt this land. Some of these creatures are as evil and unnatural as their master in the Shadowlands. Others are native to Deltora. All grow stronger every day. Yet the king does nothing to offer his people protection. They hate him for it. But why should he help, since he does not know the monsters exist?
None of them are spoken of in the palace except as beasts of legend, dangers of the past.
Books such as this are needed to correct the lies that have become official truth. The people are too busy scraping a living to write down what they know. Writing, in fact, seems almost to have disappeared among them. I fear that lies may one day become the only “facts” available to students, unless people like me act to prevent it.
What the future holds for us, and for Deltora, I cannot say. But when my hopes dim, I take heart in remembering another thing I did before I left the palace. It concerns yet another book —
The Belt of Deltora
. It is simply written, but full of wisdom. From the day I first found it in the library, I believed that it was of vital importance, and that it contained the keys to Deltora’s future, as well as its past. I kept it hidden, for I knew that if Prandine saw it, it would quietly disappear. I had planned to take it with me, but at the last moment something moved me to change my mind. I hid it, instead, in a dim corner where it would only be discovered by an eager searcher.
I cling to the hope that one day Prince Endon might find it. Even Endon’s friend, young Jarred, might do so, for though Jarred has no great love of books, his wits are keen. He may remember the library if one day he is in urgent need of knowledge. I know in my heart that if Deltora has a future, it lies with these young ones. It would be my joy to know that in some small way I have helped their cause. In faith —
Josef
Writing in the city of Del in the 35th year of the reign of King Alton.
T
his ghastly beast is called the Glus. Its lair is the Maze of the Beast, a series of caverns beneath the sea floor on the west coast, near to where the River Tor joins the sea.
No one who has faced the Glus has lived to tell the tale. But it was my good fortune to meet one who saw it from a distance and survived. For a time after I left the inn, I lived in one of the city’s drain-tunnels. Other homeless people had taken shelter there. One of these was Ranesh, a rascally young thief. On my first night I heard him crying out in his sleep, moaning of “the Beast” and “the Glus.” In the morning, in return for a crust of bread and a wizened apple, he told me his story.
An orphan from a village called Where Waters Meet, he worked on a boat that carried passengers along the River Tor.
The boat was captured by pirates, which are a growing menace on the Tor, it seems. The pirates robbed and killed the passengers, but took Ranesh and his captain to a cave on the coast. There the captain was thrown into a hole that led down to the Maze of the Beast. As his screams of terror drifted upward, the pirates laughed. Then Ranesh was also thrown into the hole — at the end of a rope tied around his waist. The pirates wanted him to work for them, for he was lively and strong. They were showing him what he would suffer if he gave trouble.
Ranesh told me what he saw as he dangled, helpless, in the Beast’s lair. It was the picture that still haunted his dreams.
Great spears of stone hung, dripping, from the cavern roof. Everything shone blue and white. The captain lay struggling, his legs wound about with white threads that gripped him hard as stone. A monstrous, white, slug-like creature loomed over him. The stripes on its back were glowing as another mass of white threads sprayed from its gaping red mouth. The captain was covered. The struggles ceased. The Glus settled over him … and then Ranesh was pulled to the surface again, and saw no more.
A year after that, he escaped from the pirates during a battle with a rival crew, and travelled east. He knew he would face the Glus should he ever be re-captured. He far
preferred roaming the streets of Del to taking that risk.
I understand his feelings.
The Maze of the Beast has been known since ancient days. It is part of Toran folklore, and is referred to in
The Deltora Annals
several times. But nothing has been written concerning the Glus’s origin. I believe the answer lies in a Toran folk song called “Little Enna.” The song is at least a hundred years older than the first Maze of the Beast tale. Compared to other Toran songs, it has no great beauty.
W
hen first I heard of Ols, I did not believe in them. I nearly paid for that mistake with my life.
The Dread Gnome Sha-Ban told me of these white, formless creatures that could take the shape of any living thing — human, animal, or even insect. When attacking, she said, Ols emerge from their disguise, rising like ghastly, flickering white flames with holes for eyes, gaping, toothless mouths, and strangling hands. She said that Ols had been created by the Shadow Lord and sent into Deltora in the hundreds to spy and kill. She insisted that in the countryside everyone knew of Ols, and feared them. In my conceit, I doubted her. Surely, I reasoned, if Ols were so well known I would have heard of them. I forgot that Sha-Ban was the first traveller in years to bring fresh news from the west. I soothed her as if she were a child with nightmares, saying there were no Ols in Del. I did not consider that Ols might be all about me — listening, watching, spreading lies — doing their master’s evil work in secret. I bitterly regret my foolishness. Everything Sha-Ban told me was true, and she paid for the telling with her life.
After I found her dead I ran to the inn, collected my things, and crept out the back way. Through a window I saw the two fruit-sellers from the market talking to the innkeeper. He pointed towards the attic. They nodded, and strolled to the stairs. I looked at them carefully and saw they were Ols, and the killers of Sha-Ban. I knew I would be their next victim if they could find me. I left hastily.
You too, dear reader, must learn the signs by which Ols can be recognized. One day your life may depend upon it. To help you, I have painted a scene such as you might see anywhere.
Eight Ols are present. You must try to identify them, using these clues: Ols travel in pairs, which do not always look alike. They cannot eat or drink. They are cold to touch, and if they are in human form they try to disguise this by covering themselves with garments, even on the hottest day. Every Ol has the black mark of the Shadow Lord at its core, and whatever shape it takes, this mark appears somewhere on its body. If the mark cannot be hidden by clothing, it is often disguised among many other marks. An Ol can hold a shape without break for three days. After that, its control falters. The shape wavers for a few seconds before the Ol regains control. This faltering is called the Tremor. It is brief, but unmistakable.
If you suspect you are in the company of an Ol, slip away quietly. Do not try to stand and fight. Ols have enormous strength, and the dread chill of their touch is crippling. They can only be destroyed by being pierced through the heart, which is on the right side instead of the left. Once I saw this happen, but that is another story. I had intended to end this writing here, but I cannot. I learned too late that when Sha-Ban told me of Ols, she was speaking the truth. So I must add something else that she said, for this also might be fact, rather than fancy. She had heard a rumor of a new kind of Ol. Called Grade 2 Ols by those who believe in them, they are said to be far more cunning and difficult to recognize. They can successfully pretend to eat and drink, make their skin seem warm, and go about singly. If this is true, it is disastrous, and shows that the Shadow Lord has continued striving to improve his evil creations. What, then, is to stop him from going further? What if he at last creates a Grade 3 Ol? One that can be so like a human, for example, that it is impossible to distinguish it from the real thing? Or one that can imitate non-living things, as well as living? Then none of us will be safe. I can only pray that it will never come to pass.
I
t was the season for skimmers, and this year more skimmers than ever were coming over the Wall of Weld.
From dusk till dawn, the beasts flapped down through the cloud that shrouded the top of the Wall. They showered on the dark city like giant, pale falling leaves, leathery wings rasping, white eyes gleaming, needle teeth glinting in the dark.
The skimmers came for food. They came to feast on the warm-blooded creatures, animal and human, that lived within the Wall of Weld.
On the orders of the Warden, the usual safety notices had been put up all over the city. Few people bothered to read them, because they were always the same. But this year, in Southwall, where Lisbeth the beekeeper lived with her three sons, they had been covered with disrespectful scrawls.
No one knew who was writing on the notices — or so the people of Southwall claimed when the Keep soldiers questioned them. Like everyone else in Weld, the Southwall citizens were very law-abiding. Most would never have dreamed of damaging one of the Warden’s notices themselves. But many secretly agreed with the person who had done so.
Rye, the youngest of Lisbeth’s sons, had the half-thrilled, half-fearful suspicion that his eldest brother, Dirk, might be responsible.
Dirk worked on the Wall as his father had done, repairing and thickening Weld’s ancient defense against the barbarians on the coast of the island of Dorne. Brave, strong, and usually good-natured, Dirk had become increasingly angry about the Warden’s failure to protect Weld from the skimmer attacks.
Sholto, the middle brother, thin, cautious, and clever, said little, but Rye knew he agreed with Dirk. Sholto worked for Tallus, the Southwall healer, learning how to mend broken bones and mix potions. The soldiers had questioned him when they had come to the healer’s house seeking information. Rye had overheard him telling Dirk about it.
“Do not worry,” Sholto had drawled when Dirk asked him anxiously what he had said in answer to the questions. “If I cannot bamboozle those fancily dressed oafs, I am not the man you think I am.”
And Dirk had clapped him on the shoulder and shouted with laughter.
Rye hoped fervently that the soldiers would not question him, and to his relief, so far they had not. Rye was still at school, and no doubt the soldiers thought he was too young to know anything of importance.
As the clouded sky dimmed above them, and the Wall darkened around their city, the people of Weld closed their shutters and barred their doors.
Those who still followed the old magic ways sprinkled salt on their doorsteps and window ledges
and chanted the protective spells of their ancestors. Those who no longer believed in such things merely stuffed rags and straw into the chinks in their mud-brick walls, and hoped for the best.
Lisbeth’s family did all these things, and more.
Lisbeth sprinkled the salt and murmured the magic words. Dirk, tall and fair, followed her around the house, fastening all the locks. Dark, lean Sholto trailed them like a shadow, pressing rags soaked in the skimmer repellent he had invented into the gaps between the shutters and the crack beneath the door.
And Rye, red-haired and eager, watched them all as he did his own humble duty, clearing the table of Sholto’s books and setting out the cold, plain food that was always eaten at night in skimmer season.
Later, in dimness, the three brothers and their mother huddled around the table, talking in whispers, listening to the hateful, dry rustling of the skimmers’ wings outside.
“Folk at the market were saying that there was a riot in Northwall this morning,” Lisbeth murmured. “They said that the Warden’s signs were set on fire, and the crowd fought with the soldiers who tried to stop the damage. Can this be true? Citizens of
Weld
acting like barbarians?”
“It is true enough,” Sholto said, pressing a hardboiled duck egg against his plate to crack the pale blue shell as noiselessly as he could. “Skimmers killed three families in Northwall last night. It is only the first riot of many, I fear. When people are afraid, they do not think before they act.”
Dirk snorted. “They are sick of the Warden’s excuses. And they are right. Everyone on the Wall was talking of it today.”
“And you most of all, Dirk, I imagine,” said Sholto drily.
Dirk’s eyes flashed. “Why not? It is obvious to everyone that a new leader must have risen among the barbarians — a warlord determined to conquer Weld at last. Every year, more skimmers come. Every year, we lose more food and more lives, and work on the Wall falls further behind. The Enemy is weakening us, little by little.”
“We do not know there
is
an Enemy, Dirk,” Sholto muttered. “For all we know, the skimmers come here of their own accord. For skimmers, Weld may be nothing but a giant feeding bowl, in which tender prey are conveniently trapped.”
Rye’s stomach turned over.
“Sholto!” Lisbeth scolded. “Do not say such things! Especially in front of Rye!”
“Why not in front of me?” Rye demanded stoutly, though the bread in his mouth seemed to have turned to dust. “I am not a baby!”
Sholto shrugged, carefully picking the last scrap of shell from his egg.
“We might as well face the truth,” he said calmly. “A wall that cannot be climbed, and which has no gates, is all very well when it keeps dangers out. But it works two ways. It also makes prisoners of those who are inside it.”
He bit into the egg and chewed somberly.
“The skimmers are being deliberately bred and sent!” Dirk insisted. “If they were natural to Dorne, they would have been flying over the Wall from the beginning. But the attacks began only five years ago!”
Sholto merely raised one eyebrow and took another bite.
Dirk shook his head in frustration. “Ah, what does it matter anyway?” he said, pushing his plate away as if he had suddenly lost his appetite. “What does it matter
why
the skimmers invade? They
do
invade — that is the important thing! Weld is under attack. And the Warden does nothing!”
“His soldiers fill the skimmer poison traps,” Lisbeth murmured, anxious to restore peace at the table. “He has said that orphaned children can be cared for at the Keep. And he has at last agreed that the end-of-work bell should be rung an hour earlier, so people can arrive home well before —”
“
At last!
” Dirk broke in impatiently. “That is the point, Mother! The Warden has taken
years
to do things that a good leader would have done at once! If the Warden had not delayed cutting the hours of work, Father would not have been on the Wall at sunset in the third skimmer season. He would still be with us now!”
“Don’t, Dirk!” whispered Rye, seeing his mother bowing her head and biting her lip.
“I have to speak of it, Rye,” said Dirk, his voice rising. “Our father was just one of hundreds of Wall workers who fell prey to skimmers because of the Warden’s dithering!”
“Hush!” Sholto warned, raising his eyes to the ceiling to remind his brother of the skimmers flying above. And Dirk fell silent, pressing his lips together and clenching his fists.
Like all the other citizens of Weld in skimmer season, Lisbeth and her sons went to bed early. What else was there to do, when sound was dangerous and the smallest chink of light might lead to a skimmer attack?
Rye lay in the room he shared with his brothers, listening to the rush of wings outside the shutters, the occasional scrabbling of claws on the roof.
He prayed that the wings would pass them by. He prayed that he, his mother, and his brothers would not wake, like those ill-fated families in Northwall, to find skimmers filling the house, and death only moments away.
He crossed his fingers, then crossed his wrists, in the age-old Weld gesture that was supposed to ward off evil. He closed his eyes and tried to relax, but he knew that sleep would not come easily. The closely shuttered room was stuffy and far too warm. Sholto’s words at the dinner table kept echoing in his mind.
Weld may be nothing but a giant feeding bowl, in which tender prey are conveniently trapped….
From Rye’s earliest years, he had been told that inside the Wall of Weld there was safety, as long as the laws laid down by the Warden were obeyed.
Certainly, the laws were many. Sometimes even Rye had complained that they were
too
many.
He had nodded vigorously when Sholto had sneered that the citizens of Weld were treated like children too young to decide for themselves what was dangerous and what was not.
He had laughed when Dirk had made fun of the Warden’s latest notices:
Citizens of Weld! Dress warmly in winter to avoid colds and chills. Children of Weld! Play wisely! Rough games lead to broken bones….
But at least he had felt safe — safe within the Wall.
Lying very still, his wrists crossed rigidly on his chest, Rye thought about that. He thought about Weld, and its Wall. Thought about the history he had learned and taken for granted. Thought, for the first time, about what that history meant.
Weld had existed for almost a thousand years, ever since its founder, the great sorcerer Dann, had fled with his followers from the savage barbarians and monstrous creatures that infested the coast of Dorne.
Turning his back on the sea, Dann had taken his people to a place where the barbarians dared not follow. He had led them through the dangerous, forbidden ring of land called the Fell Zone, to the secret center of the island. And there, within a towering Wall, he had created a place of peace, safety, and magic — the city of Weld.
After Dann’s time, the magic had slowly faded, but his Wall had remained. More than half of the city’s workers labored on it every day, repairing and strengthening it. Every rock and stone in Weld, except
for the stones that formed the Warden’s Keep, had vanished into the Wall’s vast bulk centuries ago. The workers used bricks of mud and straw to mend and thicken it now.
And as the Wall had thickened, little by little, it had crept ever closer to the great trench at its base — the trench from which the clay for bricks was dug.
The trench now circled Weld in the Wall’s shadow like a deep, ugly scar. In the past, houses had been pulled down to make way for it. Soon, everyone knew, more would have to go.
The people did not complain. They knew that the Wall, and the Fell Zone beyond it, kept Weld safe. They had thought it always would.
Then the first skimmers had come. And now, after five years of invasions, it was clear to everyone that the days of safety were over.
The barbarians had at last found a way to attack Weld. Not by tunneling through the base of the Wall, as had always been feared, but by breeding creatures that could do what had once seemed impossible — brave the Wall’s great height and fly over it.
And we are trapped inside
, Rye thought.
Tender prey …
“This room is stifling!” he heard Dirk mutter to Sholto in the darkness. “I cannot breathe! Sholto, this cannot go on! The Warden must act!”
“Perhaps he will,” Sholto whispered back. “The riot in Northwall must have shaken him. Tomorrow may bring some surprises.”