Wrath of Kerberos (9 page)

“The Lord of All chose well, Ignacio, and has revealed to us his chosen warrior. Will you lead us on this expedition?”

Ignacio looked at the headless corpse at his feet and the blood staining the sand. His had been the hand of judgement and it felt right that his sword had been the tool of the Lord’s vengeance.

“Do you see the light, brother?”

“Yes.” Hadn’t this been the glory revealed to him in the cells of Scholten Cathedral? Hadn’t this been the path that the Lord had intended he take all along? “Yes, I see the light.”

“Then lead us. Help us to find Makennon’s heretics and bring them to justice.”

Ignacio took Susannah’s hand. Once the Final Faith had been his enemy, but now he could see that all he had been running from was his own destiny.

E
MUEL DIDN’T KNOW
how long he had been crawling. Perhaps days. Once he had walked, but his water had run out, the sun had leached the last of his strength and he had been reduced to this – a babbling infant amongst the dunes. Even when the night came there was no relief; the moon burned as hot as the sun, its brilliant white heat searing into the very core of him.

He had come as far as his body would allow and the darkness that was closing in had little to do with the night. Emuel welcomed it, but until it claimed him there was time for one last song.

He took something of the song of the dunes, something of the song of the Stone Seers and something of the song at the heart of the
Llothriall,
and wove the cadences together. Though his throat was dry and his lungs ached, the quiet music that came from him made the coming end seem somewhat less terrible.

Emuel’s breath faltered and he struggled to draw the air he needed to finish the song; it came only in a whistling gasp. His heart slowed, each beat shaking his body, the silences between them becoming longer and longer.

In one of these silences he heard something moving across the sand towards him. He managed to raise himself on his elbows – though doing so caused him incredible pain – and what Emuel saw filled him with horror.

The thing that had hatched from the obsidian egg had found him.

It moved with its belly low to the ground, crawling on four stumpy legs that seemed unsure of themselves, as though they had only recently learned how to walk. Behind it, it dragged a barbed, whip-thin tail and the evening breeze rippled the paper-thin membranes of its wings. The creature’s hide was jet-black and reflected the moonlight in a golden sheen. It had grown since hatching: it stood almost three feet high at the shoulder, and was approximately the length of a grown man from its snout to the tip of its tail.

Emuel hoped he had outpaced the beast, but now it was clear that it had been following him all along. Sensing his weariness, it was moving in for an easy meal. The eunuch didn’t have the strength to defend himself, so he sent up a prayer for a quick death.

As the beast came, it was accompanied by a sighing that, at first, Emuel took to be the wind, but as the creature loomed over him and its hot breath blasted into his face, he realised that the noise was coming from deep within its throat. The creature swayed in time with its song. It was then that Emuel realised what it was doing; it was repeating the song that had not long since come from his own lips. The music was growing in strength and Emuel felt strangely invigorated by it. His body no longer burned with the dry heat of the desert, his breath no longer scalded his lungs.

The creature looked into Emuel’s eyes as the song came to an end. It unfurled its wings and, as its shadow fell over him, Emuel thought that this really was the end. But instead of being devoured, he was gently plucked from the ground and laid across the creature’s back.

The creature began to sing again as it carried him across the sand, introducing its own variations on Emuel’s theme – singing melodies that the eunuch had never heard before, that had the suggestion of something other, something alien; something vast.

The creature’s back rolled beneath him and Emuel was reminded of the swaying of the deck of the
Llothriall
. He wondered where his friends were now and whether the Final Faith had finally caught up with them. He hoped not; he would rather they were dead than in the clutches of Makennon or Querilous Fitch.

With the moon and stars gently rocking above him, Emuel found himself being lulled into sleep, and he went with it, grateful for its sanctuary.

He awoke what seemed like only moments later, rolling over and landing heavily on the ground, his right hand sinking into something cold and wet. He looked up to see the creature sitting back on its hind legs, looking down at him almost expectantly, and then he looked round to where he had been brought.

They were by a lake, surrounded on all sides by low, chalky hills. It was still night, though the moon was now on the wane. A great chorus of insects and amphibians shouted their song to the stars. Emuel realised that, beside himself and the strange creature, this was the first real life he had encountered in this arid place, and he found himself strangely moved by this night chorus.

Emuel staggered forward as the creature’s snout prodded him in the back. He tumbled to his knees by the water’s edge and it was only as he did so that he realised how fiercely thirsty he was. He drank long and deep and the most wonderful coolness spread through him, banishing all memory of the desert.

There was a soft snuffling behind him and he turned to see the vast lizard settling down to sleep, curled around its tail, its wings folded tightly to its sides. Emuel put his hand on the creature’s flank and was surprised to find that its flesh was dry and cool.

Wrapping his cloak about himself, he lay next to his new companion and, feeling reassured by its presence, slept himself.

T
HE FISH THAT
he managed to palm out of the shallow water the next day tasted foul, and Emuel doubted that cooking them would have made them any more palatable. Not that his companion was complaining; the creature wolfed down two of the spiny, dull-scaled things and then went sniffing around for more. Emuel wasn’t inclined to go fishing again, however. Instead, he sat looking out across the water, wondering what direction they should strike out in next.

The creature sat behind him, flexing its wings, creating a pleasing breeze that played across the back of Emuel’s neck, ruffling his hair. He closed his eyes and began to hum idly to himself, the creature soon picking up the tune and joining in.

“Hey,” Emuel said, turning around. The creature cocked its head and snapped its jaws. “How about we play a game? Remember this?”

And Emuel sang the song he had been singing when the creature had first come to him in the desert. When he stopped, the creature took over and, together, taking turns, they wove a complex, eerie melody. Emuel could taste the taint of magic in the air, and he looked down to see the tattoos that covered every inch of his flesh entwining around one another, moving to the rhythm of the song.

“What are you?” he wondered as the creature closed its eyes, seeming to move deeper into the music. He smiled and put his hand on the creature’s head. It nuzzled his hand and licked his palm. “I shall call you Calabash,” Emuel said, remembering the old choirmaster of his church in the Drakengrat range, whose legendary voice had attracted the praise of many a parishioner.

A high-pitched keening sounded from across the water and Emuel and Calabash raced to the water’s edge. On the far shore was a creature almost identical to Calabash, although this one’s flesh had a dark ochre hue.

The creature raced up and down the shore, calling out to Calabash, clearly desperate that they be united. However, it soon became obvious that this creature neither had the wisdom, or the intelligence to navigate the lake’s perimeter as, with a cry, it threw itself into the water.

At first it appeared to be a strong swimmer, its snout cutting through the water like the prow of a yacht. But its wings trailed behind it, weighing it down, and as it reached the centre of the lake, its strokes began to slow.

Emuel did nothing the first time the creature went under, sure that it would struggle on and reach them. The second time it went down, however, he could see the fear in its eyes. Without stopping to disrobe, Emuel threw himself into the lake.

The water was warm and he could feel the trailing fronds of weeds brushing against his ankles as he struck out. The only thing to mark where the creature had been was a stream of bubbles, rising slowly to the surface. When Emuel reached that spot he struck down blindly, his hands sweeping through the murk until they knocked against something that felt like a stick. Emuel grabbed hold and pulled, hauling the creature to the surface by the edge of one of its wings. It thrashed against him and cried out, but Emuel rolled onto his back and pinned the creature’s wings to its sides. The creature emitted plaintive cries as Emuel carried it back to shore.

Out of the water the creature shook vigorously, snapping its wings forward and spraying Calabash and Emuel. It reared on its hind legs as though to intimidate them, but when Calabash did nothing and Emuel merely patted its flank and smiled, it settled down and began to sniff around them both. Calabash darted away a few times and once nipped the creature on the nose, but the bite wasn’t intended to wound, merely warn, and soon both creatures were exploring each other, ending their examinations with querulous calls and flapping wings.

Emuel sang and was delighted that this new arrival joined in with as much gusto as its mate. Its voice was more delicate than Calabash’s, and he was reminded of another member of his choir. “Anania,” he said, recalling the slight woman who had used to sing the song of the sacraments so beautifully.

As though the memory of his choir had summoned them, they were suddenly surrounded by a host of voices, as more of the creatures clambered over the hills surrounding them, calling to one another as they came, singing out their joy at finding their brothers and sisters. Emuel found himself at the centre of a family of winged lizards, and as they stared at him with their brilliant eyes and flapped their wings and snorted their joy, he felt that amongst these strange beings, he had found a sort of home, a congregation with whom he could share his joy.

C
HAPTER
E
IGHT

N
OW THAT THEY
had been trekking across it for some time, Silus was beginning to appreciate the beauty of the desert. It wasn’t quite the arid, lifeless landscape that he had first thought. Instead, it seemed to be a living entity in itself, its moods changing with the hour of the day. Dawn would see it whisper into life, the wind finding its voice as it hissed across the dunes, gently rousing them from sleep. The pale sun would soon grow in intensity, however, and they would struggle against its glare, the heat mocking them by conjuring up mirages of cool, clear water that disappeared the moment they drew close. At the height of the day they would take sanctuary in tents and shelters, though even out of the sun the heat was incredible and they could do nothing but sit and watch the sand phantoms dance before them, too tired to even talk to one another. Once the sun began its slow trek down the sky, they would set off again, their journey becoming easier as the land gave up its heat and the soft wind cooled the sweat on their backs.

All this toil was worth it, Silus kept telling himself, for the sunsets.

He had never thought of sand as having any colour, but as the sun began to dip behind the dunes it revealed the full palette of the desert – from a fiery red to a deep midnight blue. Despite being drained from each day’s journey, he and Katya would sit and watch the display, apart from the rest of the camp, not talking but holding each other; and this, for now, was enough.