The Lost Tohunga (25 page)

Mat gripped his taiaha and beat away another blow, but was forced to give ground. He tried to bring the weight of his taiaha to bear, but the blade that met his blow was thick and heavy. Wood chips splintered from his weapon as he parried a series of blinding attacks. He could barely see the blows he
was parrying, and knew he was outmatched.

He desperately blocked, and then shouted as the tip of the blade left a bloody trail up his left forearm. He had to give more ground, until his foot caught in the wreckage of the chandelier, and the world tipped. He crashed to the floor amidst the twisted metal, half-winded and gasping for air.

He couldn't move.

The pallid thing licked his lips, and thrust downwards.

 

Parukau dragged Hine up the stairs, threw open the doors and pulled her deeper into the building. They burst into what she realized with shock was a hospital ward. And yet it was much more: in the centre of the room on a stone dais was a ghastly thing that drew the eye and appalled it. It appeared to be a giant heart which pulsed in emerald splendour. A giant heart carved from pounamu. It hung above the room like some alien squid, a distended sac of stony, translucent flesh from which spread a tangle of tentacles that became veins, which gripped and punctured the skin of at least a dozen patients on life support in the hospital beds. There were no doctors, no nurses, but there were beeping machines and diodes everywhere.

As she stared at that great alien leech, she saw that one of its chambers was darkened, the same chamber through which a taiaha handle had been thrust, piercing the flank of the organ. Viscous black fluid ran down the flanks of the organ and pooled in an overflowing stone bowl. A gold chalice sat beside the bowl, as if on an altar.

The men and women imprisoned here lay on hospital beds,
pierced by the tubes that ran from the life-support equipment, and the veins that distended from the giant heart. Those veins were fixed to their flesh like huge, sucking worms. Most of the prisoners were Maori. They gazed out sightlessly, their chests rising and falling slowly.

Parukau turned to her, his goblin face eerily reminiscent of Evan Tomoana's shaven skull. ‘Welcome to my parlour, little fly. Two avatars will make a potent addition to my little coterie. You and Tutanekai, joined forever in my service. And the Adept boy, too. You will all feed me, Hine.' He jabbed a finger at her.
‘Stand still!'

She felt herself locked in place, her limbs frozen. She could not even scream.

He went first to the chalice and drained it thirstily, licking the spillage on his chin and inhaling deeply, as if it were the finest of wines. ‘You cannot imagine how good this feels, Hine,' he told her. ‘It's better than anything I've ever tasted. Like booze and drugs and sex and murder all rolled up into one.' His eyes were glazed. ‘If only I had more time to savour it. But unfortunately my tipua outside are falling apart, and my enemies will be here soon, although with luck Col will slay the leaders. And there is one thing I need to do here before I can wreak full havoc upon them.' He turned to a male patient, a Pakeha. ‘I must fulfil my Pledge to this man, so that my powers will not be hampered.'

Hine didn't comprehend. All she could see was that horrible beating heart, to which he was going to bind her forever. She tried to call the water again, but her mind was as locked up as her body. All she could do was watch as Parukau removed the old man from the huge heart. The newly detached veins
swayed like worms. He made a gesture, and they all moved in unison: towards her, snaking slowly with their maws widening.

The patient was an ancient white man with long, grey hair and a hook-nosed face. Parukau leant over him, chuckling softly. ‘See, old man: I keep my bargains; I've freed you. But I've a wee surprise for you, Asher.' He pulled open the man's slack mouth, as though about to administer rescue breathing. ‘You see, I won't need to let you rule over me as agreed —
if I am you!
'

His parasite soul slid from his mouth, just as she had seen it do at Taupo police station. It began to slide from his mouth and into the old man's. She gaped, while those detached tentacles writhed through the air towards her, readying to latch on. She opened her mouth to scream as they lunged.

But it was Parukau they seized.

 

The mouths of the giant veins clamped on Parukau's back, and he howled in sudden terror. The mocking, knowing eyes of Asher Grieve looked up at him, the mouth curving with wicked glee, and then the world turned to liquid pain. Some kind of tongue stabbed into him, entrails from each vein, and all he could do was scream. He could feel those rasping proboscises inside him, ripping, tearing; and fluids were pouring into him, acidic, burning. He thrashed in their grip, feeling the darkness closing in.

He tried to leave this body, tried to flee, but it was as if some kind of vacuum cleaner were inside him, sucking his soul, and instead of escaping he was drawn deeper, into the mouths that bound him.

Something tore. His soul.

A swirling, sucking oblivion shredded him.

His last perception was of Hine, watching motionless. Without pity.

Then nothing.

 

She saw the old man on the hospital bed flicker his eyes knowingly, and realized then that it was he who was commanding the tentacle-veins. The hideous appendages struck Parukau, clamping over torso and head and limbs. He screamed once, and then one engulfed his head. She saw his serpent-spirit try to free itself, thrashing out of his mouth, but it was sucked back inside. All the veins turned black as the soul of Parukau was torn from the goblin body, ripped apart and digested. The goblin sagged, and was pulled into place beneath that huge, pulsing heart.

The old man coughed once, and slowly sat up. His rheumy eyes swung about. Except for a loin cloth, he was naked. There was no muscular degeneration despite his imprisonment.

She found she could move, and speak. She staggered towards him. ‘Don't get up, sir! I'll get help—'

Too late it dawned on her just who it was who needed help.

Two cold eyes pinned her in place. ‘Hold,' he croaked softly, and she found herself frozen again.

The old man stood slowly, brandished his right hand, and conjured clothes about him, long velvets in an antiquated style. An ebony cane appeared in his hand. He shook slightly, and peered at her. ‘You will be the avatar,' he said, musingly. ‘The Hinemoa. So nice of you to come.' He turned, waved
his left hand, and fresh veins coiled from Te Iho, towards her. ‘My name is Asher Grieve, and I will be your god for the rest of eternity.'

 

Wiri hacked a path through the fleeing goblins. It wasn't a fight; it was a slaughter. They had begun to run before contact was even made, the assault falling apart in the final volley Manu ordered. From then it was brutish and nasty. Warriors bashing the skulls of goblins as they turned to flee — there was no glory, just butchery. But he had to get through fast. Mat was somewhere ahead, and the enemies he faced would be beyond him.

A small part of him worried that he wasn't horrified enough by all this. Had all those years in Puarata's service killed the part of him that felt remorse? Maybe it had, but now wasn't the time to think about it. He dispassionately stabbed and bludgeoned, running through the disintegrating mob. All of a sudden the steps to the Bath House were in front of him. He passed a dazed-looking Riki, kneeling and vomiting beside a dead girl. There was no time to wonder. He took the steps three at a time, stormed through the open doors, and bellowed as he dived, whipping his taiaha at the steel blade that was poised above Mat Douglas's chest.

Col hissed, and his sword snaked at Wiri, but he was already rolling, sweeping at Col's legs, making him dance aside. He came up gymnastically, thrusting and shuffling his feet, seeking a clear patch in the smashed glass and tangled metal.

Wiri saw Mat roll away, throw him a look, and then run for the stairs. The pale swordsman went to follow, but Wiri
blocked him, shoving him away with a surge of strength. He spun the taiaha and poised to counter, three steps above the pale thing.

‘Wiri,' Col breathed. ‘The former Immortal. I always thought you were overrated.' His blade levelled at Wiri's chest. ‘I am commanded to prevent pursuit.'

‘Then you'll have to come through me,' Wiri panted.

‘Perfect.
En garde
, human!'

Friday night

M
at tore up the stairs, following the pulsing, green light through rooms filled with steam bursting from broken pipes, skidding over wet floorboards, before bursting through into the ward. The greenstone heart hung like some kind of hideous parasite above the lines of hospital beds, and he saw Ngatoro at once, right beneath the heart. Hine stood as if stunned and unmoving, but he burst past her, blocking a lordly man he recognized from his vision.
Asher Grieve!
He swung his taiaha at the man's skull in a killing blow.

The blow struck the man's head and the taiaha splintered — but the wizard never even flinched. It was as if the weapon had been made from polystyrene. His eyes swivelled and he gestured coldly. Mat felt himself picked up and flung aside like a doll. He skidded into the stone platform that held the heart, and two veins bunched above him. Hine gasped, and he saw her try to move. And fail.

Asher Grieve drew a blade from his cane and walked towards him. ‘Ngatoro's pet,' he sneered. ‘You can feed me, too, you half-trained mongrel.' He gestured, and the two veins plunged towards Mat.

With a desperate twist, Mat rammed the broken remains of his taiaha into the gaping maw of the nearest vein, caught the other in his left hand, and pulled. The vein was slick to the touch, but its instinctive retraction jerked him to his feet. He gripped the taiaha that was stuck in the side of the giant heart, and pulled. It came out with a sucking noise, and the whole heart pulsed. Every patient jerked, and opened their eyes. Black blood washed the taiaha, making his grip slick, but he twirled the weapon and dropped to a guard position.

Asher Grieve lunged, but Mat's blood-wet taiaha swept the sword-stick aside. Mat leapt into a counter, leaping and striking. For a few seconds they thrashed at each other, until the heavy taiaha snapped the sword-stick in two.

The old wizard snarled as he staggered back, but he palmed a tiny derringer pistol, and placed it against Hine's temple. ‘Halt!' he commanded Mat.

The command was on two levels. One level was threat — ‘Move and I'll kill the girl'—but the other was a sorcerous command that, if he succumbed to it, would hold Mat immobile. A double-bind: move and his enemy would kill Hine; fail to move and he would be held prisoner.

Jones hadn't trained him rigorously for nothing. He solved the dilemma almost without thought, stepping away, but not holding immobile. He felt the magical energies reaching to bind him fail. He eyed the wizard warily.

Asher Grieve half-smiled. ‘Maybe a little more than half-trained,' he acknowledged. He ground the pistol into Hine's temple. ‘No closer, boy.'

Mat's eyes met Hine's as blood trickled down her throat.

There has to be a way …

Footsteps echoed from behind him, and he backed away. Donna Kyle lurched from the shadows, limping badly, her face drawn. Mat swivelled to keep father and daughter in view. The look on Donna's face was murderous — and directed at her father.

Asher Grieve jerked his hand, and Donna was thrown against the heart-platform, where Mat had fallen a few seconds before. ‘Daughter,' he breathed, ‘bring me the chalice. I must drink, and restore myself.'

Mat saw her give a soft sob, and thought he recognized what was happening. He extended his senses and perceived a cord of silver light running from her heart to the wizard's hand. She looked at him mutely, and he could not honestly say what he saw in her eyes.

He stepped aside, lifting the taiaha, still dripping with heart-blood — and swept it through the silver cord.

She gave a small cry and fell against the stone dais, right in the shadow of that grotesque green heart, while Asher roared in sudden pain. Hine twisted and slammed her elbow into the wizard's face, as if this were a bar-room brawl. His nose broke audibly, but he shoved at her, and she staggered towards Mat. Blood streamed down his face as he gestured towards Donna Kyle, who had lifted the chalice, black blood running down its side. He still held the pistol.

For a second everyone froze as the blonde woman lifted the chalice to her lips.

Asher's voice rang out. ‘Yes! Drink, Daughter! Heal yourself! Then we will crush this pair of insects, and rule together.'

 

It took less than a minute of desperate defending for Wiri to realize two things: one, Col was faster and better than anyone he had ever fought; and two, his taiaha was going to splinter inside a minute. Perhaps when he had been an Immortal he could have beaten Col, but as it was he had only seconds left to live.

Except that winning was a habit. He had never lost, not since Tupu that first time. There would be a way. Parry, slash and retreat. Block, withdraw. Half-counter and jab. Lose slowly. He crabbed backwards up the stairs, keeping the Sluagh Sidhe from going after Mat. He took a slash to the shin when he was too slow with one disengage, but every second he bought gave Mat a chance.

The front doors burst open, and Tu and Manu and a cloud of warriors ran into the lobby. Col glanced sideways at them, then back at Wiri, his face suddenly resigned. ‘Ex-Immortal,' he hissed, spreading his arms, ‘you're going down with me.'

Two guns cracked from below, and Col staggered sideways at the impacts. His flesh splashed scarlet.

Wiri thrust. The Sidhe gurgled, staring down at the haft of wood that stuck from his chest.

Wooden stakes don't really kill vampires. Well, they do, but the fact that they are wooden is irrelevant. Big, sharp things stuck through hearts kill vampires, and Sidhe and patupaiarehe and everything else.

But some beings die more immediately than others.

Col howled even as he began to crumple, and swung that huge sword as another fusillade of bullets hammered into him. Wiri literally saw the Sidhe torn apart before him, but still Col swung, even as he fell. With his only weapon stuck in Col's
chest, Wiri was helpless, but the Sidhe's swing went awry even as it came. Steel sliced into Wiri's thigh instead of his chest. He scarcely felt it, but his leg gave way in a spray of blood.

 

The magical hold that her father had had over her had been shattered by Matiu Douglas's taiaha blow. How a mere taiaha could do such a thing she didn't know, but maybe the blood it had soaked in for centuries had given it some supernatural power — one could only guess. But now Asher's sorcerous binding over her was broken. She was free … whatever that was.

Donna stared at the chalice, every eye on her. Hine was beside Matiu Douglas, both of them ready to strike. Others burst in. Tu Hollis first, striding towards Hine. When their eyes met, love shone amidst the grotesque evil of this place. Asher Grieve's derringer swung about, unsure where the true threat lay.

‘Drink, Daughter!'

Wiri appeared at the doorway, his left leg hastily bound, held erect by a ragged Maori in a hat and trench coat. The wound was clearly serious, but he was here. Ngati Maungatautari warriors followed, faces shining with fierce love and loyalty to their leader.

Loyalty … Now there's a big word. And love … There's another one.

She felt a pang of envy.
Have I ever commanded actual loyalty? Has anyone loved me? Has there ever been someone I could trust out of love and respect and loyalty, not fear and compulsion?

No, no-one.

She felt the familiar, bilious taste of being excluded, being the outsider, the enemy. Not even the wicked thing that called her “daughter” would mourn her death. She measured her father out of the corner of her eye.
My God, he looks utterly unchanged
— and yet, she could tell he was exhausted. Until a few seconds ago he had been just another prisoner of the bloated heart above them. Perhaps he had aided Parukau by channelling the power of the Heart, but he wasn't attached to that any more. He was spent, she realized. She was his only real hope.

But Wiri and his allies were similarly stricken. Wounded, tired, taken to the edge of mental and physical endurance. Few held a gun. Probably none could stop her if she drank.

I hold the balance of power here. What I choose decides this whole damned war … A sip of this blood and I can burn away the sigil, and I'll be whole and free, and more powerful than I've ever been.

And still the Enemy.

The reek of the heart-blood stole over her senses. Unpleasant, oily and full of menace. She realized another thing: that if she drank it, it might tip her irredeemably down the path of the monsters — to be patupaiarehe, to be a monster, finally and forever.

But if I don't drink, I lose everything.

‘Drink, Daughter,' Asher Grieve repeated. ‘Drink. Heal yourself, and destroy these people. Then you will have won. Victorious, after all your suffering. The prize you have always sought.'

The prize.

What was this prize? Power? But what is that really?
Influence? Dominance? The ability to command? Wealth and luxury? Safety?

No, this ‘prize' would bring none of those things. Dominance would happen only by force; wealth, by theft. And safety would be a myth. There would never be safety — whether she was under Asher's thumb or free of him, there would never be safety. There were always rivals and enemies. How many assassination attempts had she seen upon Puarata even in the relatively short period of her service to him? Dozens, and he had lived centuries before she met him.

It was an illusion. There was no victory, and therefore no prize. There was only sacrifice of all the things she would never have: friendship; laughter that wasn't scornful or derisive; affection that was not bribed or compelled — and love.

‘Daughter,' Asher's voice took on greater urgency. ‘Drink!'

She met Wiremu's eye, realizing she had never seen him damaged before. She thought about what he had done: exchanged an eternity of servitude for a mortal span of weakness and vulnerability — and done it for love, yes, but also for honour, and to be free.

Freedom.
The hardest word of all.

Was freedom possible? Could it ever be, when she was wanted dead or alive throughout Aotearoa?

But I'm so damned tired of all this …

It would be so easy to just drink, to turn into the monster her father wanted her to become. She could let the beast do all the thinking, and never have to take responsibility ever again. Blame everything on someone else and never acknowledge any complicity. To be a victim, a murderous victim, from now until someone finally knifed her in the back.

Wiri met her gaze, as if he knew exactly what she was thinking. ‘Donna, you can't go on blaming others for your acts. You have to make your own choice, and be judged by it.'

She looked back at him, his face strained, pain written all over him, but his eyes trained like lasers on her. She looked at Matiu Douglas, so like a younger Wiri, his young face pure and determined, on the verge of everything her life would never be. She knew he wouldn't even have to think about this. She yearned for that kind of childlike clarity.

Something strange and unknown bubbled up inside her.

I'm doing this for you
, she mouthed silently at the boy.

And emptied the chalice over the floor.

 

Mat stared in disbelief as Donna Kyle poured the black fluid to the floor. His brain refused to interpret her silent words.

An apoplectic roar burst from Asher's throat. The wizard's eyes bulged in fury, and his arms rose. Several warriors fired, but the balls froze and shattered before impact. He cast the derringer aside as fire leapt into his hands. It bloomed to a purplish-yellow conflagration in an instant as he shaped it, his arms spreading as he roared. Musket balls shattered around him, and the warriors tried to reach him, seemingly swimming through the air in slow motion as their deaths took shape before them in flame and shadow.

Mat did two things at once: he thrust the heart-blood-stained taiaha into Ngatoro's hands, and he stepped in front of Asher Grieve, lifting up his right hand, shielding the others with his body. There was no plan, just the echo of a conversation with the Goddess of Fire. Her words echoed in
his ears:
You have learnt how to give and take, poai. Fire is yours, to conjure or shape it.

To shape fire.

The wizard stabbed his fingers at Mat, and the ball of fire billowed towards him. The heat filled his senses, as he called ‘Mahuika!' and stood directly in its path.

His right hand, with its one black fingernail, met the wall of fire, and stopped it. As he shouted, four other fingernails, like chips of flint, grew on his hand. From them poured a shield against the fires of the wizard, which threw the flames aside. A curved wall of air rose about him, and the fire battered against it. He felt a furnace-like gust of wind wash over him, felt his skin go slick then dry instantly. But behind him his friends, and Donna Kyle, crouched, safe for now.

The curtain of flames fell away, and Asher Grieve stared at him, thwarted. ‘How did you …?' he muttered, then fell silent, baffled. He sagged and wobbled, his blood-streaked face a mask of disbelief.

Ngatoro rose slowly to his feet, and the veins holding him fell away. He was clad only in a loin cloth and Mat could see his physique repairing itself. He gripped the bloody taiaha in strong hands. ‘Asher Grieve,' he said in a rusty voice. ‘Surrender yourself.'

The wizard took a step away. ‘Surrender? I, Asher Grieve? The man who brewed poison for the Borgias, and burned London? Surrender to native scum like you? Who do you think you are?' He tottered backwards down the ward, his eyes wild, beginning to fade into the shadows.

‘Halt, Asher!' Ngatoro commanded.

For an instant, an unseen struggle was apparent on both
faces, two terrible old men striving for mastery. Every facial tic, every tiny gesture was a clue as to the flow of the forces. Mat sought a way to help, but the forces were bewildering. To intervene was too dangerous. Instead he gripped Donna Kyle's shoulder, holding her in place. ‘Don't move,' he whispered. ‘He doesn't own you any more.'