The White Fox (34 page)

“And what about us?” Jack put in, gesturing at Sardâr and Bál.

“That’s where we come in,” Ruth said.

He turned to see her and a select group of her crew emerging out of the shadows of the entrance chamber into the sunlit valley. The majority of the crew had already returned to
The Golden Turtle
, but a few of the heavy lifters had remained to help clear the valley. They were now all carrying a variety of crates and baskets.

“Supplies,” Ruth answered to Jack’s quizzical look. “We wouldn’t want to be going hungry on our jump through space, would we?”

He grinned awkwardly. He was struck again by how stunning she looked—her jet-black wavy hair and deep brown eyes. He caught himself staring and focussed on a boulder somewhere to her right, conscious of his blushing cheeks.

“We need to go,” Sardâr prompted, gazing across the valley at the entrance to the tunnel.

Adâ was the first to make her way round the dwarf king and all the goblins, shaking hands and cracking knuckles as appropriate. Hakim followed her, then Sardâr, then Lucy, then Ruth, and finally Jack. The goblins grinned at him as he passed, and the king responded with his usual solemn nod.

Amidst waves and good-byes, they departed, striding out across the valley in a trace of the route they had trod during the battle. They reached the bridge and crossed it, beginning the shallow incline to the mouth of the tunnel. They passed the pyre of goblin dead, now little more than grey ash and commemorative banners fluttering in the breeze. As they reached the top of the rise, with the torch-lit entrance to the tunnel looming before them, they turned back.

They stood in silence, surveying the valley before them. The plateaued cliffs and boulders, rust red in the dusk that had so permeated the rocks in their experience, now shone metallic golden grey in the morning sun. The rock formation of the fortress rose like a resolute beast, its many horns of metal chimneys and gangways glinting in the light. It was the glow of a kingdom that had come to the very brink of destruction, whose enemies had come right to the gates, and had stood steadfast against invasion and now xenophobia.

Jack saw Bál’s expression. It was one of mingled pride and sadness. With a start, Jack realized that the dwarf was probably facing exactly the same experience that he and Lucy had only weeks before. Bál had spent his entire life cushioned within these mountains—this fortress was his workplace, social life, and home—and now he was duty bound to protect it by travelling far away from it.

Bál lingered there on the edge of the precipice for a few seconds. Then he turned, and, nodding at Jack in recognition, marched past him into the deep shadow of the tunnel.

Jack waited a moment longer and followed.

It did not take them long to return to the lake where
The Golden Turtle
was again moored. The dome of shiny metal, the size of a small jet, bobbed above the water, the artificial flippers glistening under it at the four compass points. The hatch on the top of the shell was hauled open as they arrived, and the crew began storing their baskets and crates within. The unlikely platoon—three elves, two humans, and one dwarf—stood by the water’s edge, watching the process silently.

“Right, we’re sorted,” Ruth called from the hatch after the last of the boxes had been stowed securely below deck. “Ready to go.”

Jack breathed out long and low. The sun had just risen over the crest of rock behind them, showering the bright irradiance of an autumn morning over their mountainous basin. Sparkles of silver crystal shimmered over the surface of the small lake, and the dome of the turtle shell looked almost as if it belonged to a real-life amphibian. The solitary tree, hanging over the face of the water and so slate dead before, rustled with new life as every one of its myriad leaves became a dancing platinum gem.

He turned to Lucy. Sardâr and Adâ had already withdrawn to walk around the lake, facing each other and conversing in low voices. Hakim and Bál had tactfully given them space and were engaged in the awkward farewell of two who had to respect one another.

Lucy’s gaze was fixed firmly on the water, determinedly not looking at him.

Jack cleared his throat. This was the moment he’d been dreading.

There was a long, long silence.

“Look … take care of yourself … We’ll … we’ll be seeing each other …” He gave up. He was frantically running over all the emotional good-byes he’d seen in films, but the best he could come up with was Rachel Dawes’s final letter to Bruce Wayne in
The Dark Knight
, and this was an awful source as the character had died within hours of writing it. Not very reassuring.

She looked at him. Her eyes were slightly red and glimmering with the evidence of blinked-back tears. She didn’t try to speak. She just pulled him into a hug and pressed her head into his neck.

Jack put one arm around her and stroked her hair gently with his other hand. He could feel her tears streaming down his tunic. He didn’t care that Ruth was watching, that Sardâr and Adâ had returned to their side, that Hakim and Bál had lapsed into silence. He only cared that Lucy would be okay.

Finally, after what must have been minutes, they broke apart, Lucy dabbing her eyes crudely with her palm.

“Look after yourself, won’t you?” she said eventually, her voice soft but steady.

“Of course I will. It’s you I’m worried about.”

“Don’t be stupid. I’m the Karate Kid.” She grinned. “And you’re Gandalf the wizard. But I’m ready to leave this world, I think. I’ve had enough of living inside
The Lord of the Rings.
”

Jack stopped himself from saying, “What could possibly go wrong?” He knew it would have reassured her, but given where they were going, he didn’t want to tempt fate.

Sardâr, seeing an opportunity, interjected. “I’m sorry, but we really should be going.” He exchanged a few friendly words with Hakim. The latter turned to Jack and wished him well.

Adâ was next, and she pulled Jack into a brief hug as well. “You’ll be fine. Look out for Sardâr. You’re good at that.”

Jack smiled. He, Sardâr, and Bál moved up the gangway.

Ruth was standing by the hatch, looking jokingly exasperated. “You took your time.”

“Shush,” Jack hissed, pushing her lightly into the hatch.

Her laughter echoed around the metallic chamber below.

Bál descended next, sliding in easily despite his stockiness, and Sardâr after that.

Jack was left standing alone on the top of the shell. He took a moment to savour his last experience of the Stórr Mountains, the magnificent grey rock guardians on all sides, the fresh scent of the mountain air, the slight tanginess of volcanic wind that he’d become too accustomed to. The sun burnt in the blue heavens—a different sun, he realized, to his own and to the one he would next be seeing.

And he saw the three figures under the glistening trees—two women, one man; two real elves, one false one. They were all smiling up at him. He raised his arm to wave, and they did so too. Grinning, his arm clinking with the language ring and the goblin bracelet, he descended into
The Golden Turtle
as the falcon-like bird circled and cawed high above.

The grey energy subsided, and the Emperor stepped out of the doorway.

He strode across the bridge, his boots snapping harshly on the stone. The entire city of Nexus splayed out before him, chaotically regimented into an intricate weave of closely cut alleyways and wide open roads. Out to each side in the distance was the mirror black surface of the endless ocean. The white-crested waves were highlighted in the perpetual moonlight, making each look like individual, wrathful sea beasts.

The exposed walkway between the Cathedral and the Precinct of Despair was completely deserted, save for him. His typical black and silver cloak fluttered eerily in the marine wind. It gave the right impression, he thought, where he was going.

He reached the end of the walkway and stopped, looking down. The Precinct of Despair certainly lived up to its name: a raw, undecorated spike of obsidian stone, shooting upwards into the sky. Each level was a concentric ring, with circular, alchemically protected and barred windows set into it. The spike ran all the way down to the top of the buildings below, where its structure thinned to an impossible diameter. Four elevators operated up and down the very core. Three were used by guards, but one was reserved for the Council of Thirteen.

The Emperor stepped into the Precinct doorway. As he passed under the worn archway, the twin statues on either side reacted. The sinister demonic dragon-like creatures were also carved out of black stone. Their feral eyes lit like will-o’-the-wisps as the Emperor moved between them, and there was the harsh noise of stone on stone as they began to extricate themselves from the walls. A pacifying flick of his hand, and they skulked back into their positions, their eyes dimming.

Four doors were before him, three lit with blue, one with red light. He took the red one. Standing in front of it, he looked straight into the heart of the black rose that was the symbol of the Cult. It scanned his optical profile, then the door slid open. He walked in, and it closed silently behind him. He entered an access code into the keyboard on his right, then the floor. The elevator began to sink into the floor, and then, gathering speed, plunged into the dark abyss.

The wind swirled his cloak around him, threatening to blow his hood down. Clutching it with one hand, he tapped another key on the board. A glass visor rose on all sides, blocking out the worst of the dimensional gale. As he descended, the Emperor looked at the dial on the wall in front of him. The needle swung steadily from the left to the right, each number lighting up in red as it passed. The last number was 52. This floor was reserved for the most high-profile criminals: heretics, unauthorized murderers, and enemies of the state.

Finally, the elevator screeched to a halt and sank slowly into its bottom position. The two layers of doors creaked open, and the Emperor stepped out, his robes rippling slightly in the cold breeze from the shaft. The hallway led away on both sides, only a slight curve showing the shape and size of the Precinct. Metal doors lined the walls, each engraved with numbers. The Emperor strode off to the right, following the plasma lighting on the walls. Despite this, the corridor was still dim, and the ceiling was shrouded in darkness. He stopped in front of the door numbered Genesis III. He had come all this way to find the convict. He only hoped it was worthwhile.

Reaching into his pocket, he drew out a rusted key. These doors could not be opened by alchemy, as sorcery-powered blocking stones lined the inside of the walls to prevent the prisoners escaping. Archaic but effective. He waved his hands over the engraved number, and the illusion was replaced by a keyhole. Inserting it into the lock, he turned it three times. The dials clicked into place, and with a cracking sound it split in half. The two halves slid backwards and parted, revealing the cell beyond.

It was very small and entirely occupied by a figure restrained and suspended by the arms, legs, and neck. His head was slumped forward, so only a hedge of unkempt and filthy hair was visible, framed against the little window. His ripped and dirty clothes hung off him like ragged wings, and his shoes had completely gone.