The Copper Promise (40 page)

‘What is it?’ snapped Frith. ‘Why have we stopped?’

‘We’re here,’ said Jolnir. ‘At the final secret of Whittenfarne.’

They were standing at the edge of a wide pool filled with steaming water. It looked just like all the others to Frith, although he supposed it was rather more circular than usual. In fact, the more he looked at it the more he suspected it was not a natural formation; the edges were too regular, too uniform. A handful of lizards clustered at the far rim, eyeing them warily.

‘I have had more than enough of these,’ he said. He raised his right hand, contemplating a fireball at the creatures.

‘
Pft
. Just wait one moment.’

Jolnir reached down and pushed one of the black rocks at his feet. It sank into the ground as though there were nothing but soft sand beneath it. There was a loud, rasping gurgle, and the water in the pool began to drain away. Frith raised his eyebrows.

‘Do they all do that?’

‘Of course not. Come on.’

Jolnir walked into the depression left by the retreating water. Frith followed slightly more cautiously, remembering how he’d almost broken an ankle when he’d first arrived on the island. Sunk into the very centre of the circle there was, of all things, a door. It was round, made of white rock with silver veins running through it, and there was a face carved in the middle. It was a serene face, sexless. The eyes and mouth were closed. Just beneath its chin was a wide silver handle.

‘Lift that,’ said Jolnir.

Frith wrapped both hands around the handle and tugged. It was just as heavy as it looked, and it took a fair amount of straining before he got the door fully open. It swung upward on hinges that barely squeaked, revealing a set of stone steps leading down into pitch-blackness. Jolnir whacked Frith across the back of the legs with his stick.

‘Light, remember,’ he said. ‘Guidance.’

Frith brought the words to mind, and a soft globe of pearlescent light appeared in front of his hand.

‘You go first,’ said Jolnir.

Frith descended the stone steps. Inevitably he was reminded of the endless walk under the Citadel, where the sense of threat had been heavy on all sides, but these stairs appeared peaceful. They walked for a short time, heading deeper into the island, while the light revealed smooth black walls carved directly into the rock. Eventually the steps ended and they came to a long corridor.

‘What is this place?’

Jolnir said nothing, so they kept on walking. Faces appeared on the walls, just like the face on the door. They all had their eyes closed, and they all gave the impression that they were about to speak. Soon they came to openings in the rock, leading off into identical-looking corridors. Frith followed one of these and found more of the same; more corridors, more faces. Eventually he stopped and turned to face Jolnir.

‘There are tunnels like this under Pinehold,’ he said. ‘Tunnels like it under several places in the Blackwood, according to my father’s maps. But you already know that, don’t you?’

Jolnir nodded.

Frith took a step, intending to grab hold of Jolnir’s ragged cloak, wanting to shake the knowledge out of him, but something stilled his hand.

‘What does it mean? You must tell me. My father studied those maps. He obviously thought it was important.’

Jolnir reached up to one of the stone faces and ran his wizened fingers across it lightly.

‘The mages were not the only people to find the power of the old gods disturbing. There were others who thought that one day it would be necessary to stop them. Permanently.’

‘Who were these people?’

Jolnir waved his hand dismissively.

‘Ancients. Under the instruction of a single master they built these tunnels all over Ede. Such an undertaking as extraordinary. A masterwork. They excavated and built, all in secret, for hundreds of years. All that time and all that effort, and they were never used. Such a shame.’

‘Never used? What do you mean, the tunnels were never used?’

‘They were a weapon, my dear Lord Frith. A weapon to be used against the old gods.’

By the time they emerged back into the daylight, Frith’s mood had worsened considerably. Jolnir had, after imparting one impossible piece of information, retreated back to his usual tactic of answering questions with questions. Frith stomped to the edge of the pool, still shouting queries over his shoulder.

‘But who were they? Who ordered it? How does it work?’

Jolnir emerged from the hidden door. Immediately three of the black birds fluttered down to land on his hunched shoulders.

‘There, my lovelies, I wasn’t gone long, was I? Never far from the sky, never far.’

‘Jolnir, it is very important you tell me …’

‘Always full of questions. Come along, I need to give you the word for healing, do I not?’

They made their way back to the mystic’s home in silence, and as Jolnir pottered about inside his hut Frith stood by the fire. One of Jolnir’s assistants, the woman Luggin, was sitting by the embers trying to warm a kettle over the meagre flames.

‘I can help you with that.’

Frith formed a small ball of fire and let it settle gently into the coals. After a moment the fire grew in size, licking the bottom of the battered kettle.

‘There you go …’

To his surprise, Luggin took hold of his wrist, bony fingers gripping like a vice. She stared at him with wide eyes.

‘What is it?’

She pointed to the fire, then back to his hand. The headband around her forehead was slipping and she pushed it back up in one distracted movement.

‘You want to see it again?’

When she nodded, he summoned another ball of fire in his free hand, and she made a shrill noise of delight. There was a rustling from the grasses and, as though called there by some signal Frith couldn’t hear, Muggin and Dobs came shuffling through the grass, their eyes as bright as the female assistant’s.

‘Here.’ Jolnir emerged from the hut with a piece of parchment in his hand. When he saw the three assistants crowded round Frith he chuckled. ‘It appears you have an adoring audience, Lord Frith! Go ahead, show them what you can do.’

Smiling a little, Frith pictured the word for Hold, and there was a collective gasp as a ring of black stones rose from the ground to hover above the fire. Luggin ran her fingers over the strips of fabric hanging from his wrist, murmuring under her breath.

‘It’s almost as if they remember!’ Jolnir came over to the fire and handed Frith the parchment. There was a new word on it, inscribed in black ink. ‘Your healing spell, as promised.’ He drew the stick from his hump and poked Luggin in the midriff. ‘Is this echoing in that empty mind of yours? Does it remind you of something?’

Frith dropped his hand, letting the rocks fall.

‘What do you mean, remember?’

‘You’d think such knowledge would be long gone, but it seems they do recognise Edenier when it’s right in front of them. I always said they wouldn’t know real magic if it bit them on their arses, but it seems I was wrong about that.’

Frith found his eyes were drawn to the headbands worn by Luggin, Muggin and Dobs, and the symbols drawn there. They were familiar, weren’t they? And what sort of names were Luggin, Muggin and Dobs, anyway?

‘Who are they, Jolnir?’

‘Nonsense theories, they used to say. Looking down their noses at me, the only one who knew the truth. Ha!’ There was an edge to Jolnir’s voice now. ‘They’re more use doing my fetching and carrying.’

Frith cleared his throat.

‘The mystics of Whittenfarne, the
other
ones. That’s who they are, isn’t it? What did you do to them?’

Jolnir waved a stick.

‘Made them more useful, is what I did.’ He poked at Dobs, pushing the bewildered man back a few inches. ‘Just the tiniest touch, is all it took. Such weak minds. I have more knowledge in my fingertip than the lot of you combined!’ His voice was steadily rising, echoing within the bird mask. ‘I have seen things you idiots wouldn’t be able to comprehend! Ridiculous creatures, crawling around in the mud. Trying to make sense of the words of gods!’ Suddenly, he was bellowing. ‘Show them, Frith! Show them what my nonsense has wrought!’

There was an odd frequency to his voice, and for a moment Frith found his hands rising of their own accord.

‘No, I will not. I am no mummer’s dog, jumping through hoops.’

The bird mask swung towards him rapidly, and Frith took a step back.

‘Then I will show the fools myself!’

Jolnir reached under his mask and jerked it up over his head. He threw it down onto the rocky ground, revealing a huge, monstrous bird’s head, nearly identical to the mask he’d discarded, except the eyes were yellow and wet and real, and his razor sharp beak opened to reveal a wrinkled black tongue. With the mask removed he seemed to unfold somehow, his cloak falling away to reveal a pair of enormous black wings. He unfolded further, becoming taller, while his spindly grey arms flexed and stretched. The thing that was Jolnir rolled its head on its shoulders and snapped its beak, apparently relieved to be free of its confinement. He was a good eight feet tall now, and although it was difficult to see his body through the remnants of rags and swathes of feathers, Frith thought he was partly human. Or human shaped, at least.

‘I am O’rin, you idiots!’ cried Jolnir. He bellowed with laughter again, and his birds rose up in attendance around him. Frith edged away.

A god? How could a god be here?

Muggin and Dobs were cowering in the dirt, while Luggin was already running, heading for the distant black hills.

‘The god of lies,’ muttered Frith in amazement.

‘Well done, my lad,’ said O’rin. It was unnerving to hear that voice coming from a face with no lips. The eyes rolled towards him in approval. ‘You see? This one listens. I am the last old god, the only one not stupid enough to fall for the mages’ trap, although what use is that, I ask you? The magic all gone, my brothers and sisters trapped, and the world all full of foolish little people like you.’ He pointed at the mystics with one grey finger. ‘I hid away, and over the years I became smaller, less powerful. I watched as the Edenier drained from this world, and there was nothing I could do about it. Although that’s not quite the case any more.’

Frith was already moving, already trying to remember the swiftest direction back to the shore, but O’rin was faster. His hand shot down and grasped Frith by the shoulder, squeezing tight.

‘One last taste, my young student. I don’t think that’s too much to ask.’

The strength dropped from Frith’s legs in one sickening wave. He fell to the ground, trying to pull away from O’rin’s grip even as his vision faded and started to turn dark at the edges. The last thing he saw as the rocks came up to meet him was the swirling of soot-black feathers.

The attack came just after lunch.

The
Sea King’s Terror
and
The
Briny Wolf
were skirting the coast of Relios, looking for a place to go ashore. Jarath, who had sailed this section of the Creos Sea many times, claimed that the cliffs softened the further south you went, and that there was a small fishing village called Lockey’s Rock where they could stop and take on supplies.

Wydrin wondered if Lockey’s Rock was still standing. From the patches of thick black smoke they’d seen inland it was likely to be a smouldering ruin by now.

‘How’re you going to find him, Wyd?’

She sat with her brother on the deck, chairs either side of an upturned barrel. They had some hard black bread, half a wheel of strong cheese and a chunk of salted pork between them. The food made her think of her mother, who had provided similar fare on her infrequent visits. She sipped weak mead from a battered tin cup.

‘He’ll be there, somewhere. I’ll just look for the biggest source of trouble.’ She paused, smiling slightly. That was what Sebastian had always said about her, of course. Jarath did not look amused; his normally cheerful face was pinched with worry.

‘Sure, and the biggest source of trouble is a bloody great dragon. I don’t like it, Wydrin. I know you and Sebastian are friends …’

‘He is like a brother to me. A brother that doesn’t whine as much as my real brother.’

Jarath sighed.

‘He wouldn’t have wanted you to go and put yourself in danger like this.’

‘You’re talking about him like he’s dead already.’ She said it lightly, but once the words were out she realised she couldn’t take them back. Jarath just looked at her, and she knew well what that look said. She turned away from him and cut a thick slice from the pork.

‘You worry too much,’ she said eventually. She held up her hands around three feet apart. ‘I was
this
close to the dragon before and I survived. The Copper Cat is a hard creature to kill.’

‘Yes, when you had your lordling there to whisk you away.’

‘That is nonsense and you know it.’ Wydrin shifted in her chair, more annoyed than she wanted to admit. She should never have told Jarath about any of it. Of course he would see it that way, the idiot. ‘Frith caused more trouble than he solved.’

‘I always thought that was your sort of thing.’

Wydrin shot her brother a poisonous look, and drank down the rest of her mead.

‘We’re here now, Jarath. I’m going to find Sebastian, and you’re not going to talk me out of it.’

He raised both hands, admitting defeat, but she could see from the lines on his face that he was still annoyed with her.

‘And what about your stinky friend? You’d better be taking him with you when you go.’

Wydrin stood up, wiping greasy fingers on her trousers.

‘I will. Don’t worry, we’ll be out of your hair soon.’

With that she turned and left, heading for the belows. It was a cold, bright day, the sky streaked with thin white clouds all pointing to the east. A chill wind was blowing, pushing them ever closer to the coast.
It’s always the same with family
, Wydrin reflected.
You spend your life consumed with guilt that you’re letting them down somehow, and then when you meet up with them you can’t wait to get away again.

Down in the belows, Gallo was seated in the dark. The oil lamp had gone out some time ago and he hadn’t bothered to relight it. In the light from the doorway he looked like a dishevelled corpse propped upright in a chair, until he wearily lifted his head in greeting and bared his teeth in what Wydrin assumed was supposed to be a smile.