Chaos Storm (The Flight of the Griffin Book 2) (18 page)

The city of Bedlam sat higher than its twin. Rising on the hill behind, dominating both the river and the lower city of Mayhem below. The taller grey buildings of Bedlam were colossal in their arrogance as if each were attempting to intimidate its neighbours like a gang of unruly bullies in a playground of giants. Mayhem, by comparison, sat squat, ugly and sprawling upon the lower side of the river, cowering at the feet of its taller sibling.

Smoke rose from countless chimneys to hang over both cities, merging with the heavy cloud cover creating downpours of black, filthy rain that made it hard to see where the cities ended, and the sky began. It was not a welcoming sight.

Quint directed
The Griffin
down into a clearing close to Bedlam. He saw little reason to fly any distance away, there were few travellers on the road, and the thick woodland came very close to the city wall.

Mahra laid a cautious hand on Quint's arm. 'I think it's best we leave the swords and bows with
The Griffin
… don't you?' She saw Quint's cold hand flex around his beloved bow. 'We can't go marching into that city armed to the teeth and expect to blend in, can we Quint? If we stand any chance of getting those skulls, it will be by deception. I'm sorry, but carrying that bow, you aren't deceiving anyone.' Quint sighed, knowing she was right and reluctantly tied his sword and bow onto
The Griffin's
back. The big yellow beak swung round to look at him, the golden unblinking eyes so hard to read. Quint stroked her beak and she snorted, her breath coming out as a cloud in the chill wet air.

'Look after them for me,
Griffin
. We'll be calling on you really soon… at least I hope we will.'

Pardigan walked over and added his sword and a few words of thanks, and then
The Griffin
sank back on its haunches and took flight, showering them with mud and water before disappearing into the clouds. Gathering their packs, they made the short walk through soggy woodland to the edge of the treeline, and took their first close look at the city of Bedlam.

They were used to rain by now, but the rain that fell here could only be described as falling in a constant misery, leaving black streaks on their skin and clothes wherever it touched. A group of armed warriors rode past them, splashing through the mud and puddles and on and into the city through the unguarded gates in the distance, the sound of the horses' hooves clattering noisily as they entered the cobblestone street.

'What now?' whispered Pardigan. 'What's the plan? Do we just go marching in?'

'Well, I suppose so… I haven't really given it much thought,' confessed Quint with a shiver. 'Let's get in and find an Inn or something. We need to get warm first. I can't concentrate on much else at the moment.' The sound of a clattering wagon sent the three friends quickly ducking back into the trees just before a group of woodsmen came along the road escorting a wagon full of damp, freshly chopped firewood. Heads hung low and stained black from the rain and soot of the city, the men on the wagon appeared exhausted. It obviously wasn't just the warriors that were dirty black from head to foot; it seemed to be the rule throughout the Barbarian community.

'We have to get dirty,' said Quint under his breath. 'If we're as black as them we'll blend in.' He picked up a handful of gloopy black slime and dolloped it onto Mahra's head.

'
Hey!
' she hissed, pushing him away. 'What do you think you're doing?'

'Well, I can't imagine you to be deliberately getting dirty. We have to look like we live here. I'm giving you a helping hand.' She glared at him then smiled as Pardigan slapped two handfuls of slime on Quint's face. They spent a while trying to stay as quiet as possible while smearing the mud on each other, giggling and spitting theatrically when it got into their mouths.

Coming out of the woods, the good mood they had shared moments before dropped abruptly away as they stood in the muddy road looking up at the dark foreboding walls that loomed ahead of them.

A rainy, muddy day was never the best time to see any city, and being soaked to the skin, and freezing cold didn't help much either, but there was something more about this particular city. Feelings of misery and despair seemed to ooze from every stone and roof tile of Bedlam. Noticing the effect it was having on her two friends, Mahra walked between them and slapped a hand on a shoulder of each. Pardigan jumped, and Quint shook his head to clear the awful feelings the city had filled him with.

'Come on, it might not be that bad,' said Mahra. 'I remember they used to sell wonderful cakes here. Let's find someplace to rest and see if they still have them. If we don't dry out and eat something soon, we're going to perish long before we get a chance to search for the skulls.'

They trudged on towards the gate, gazing up at the many small black windows set high in the city wall. It felt as if the many eyes of a giant spider were staring down at them, following their progress along the road as if the city itself had been awaiting their arrival and was watching them walk into its embrace.

At regular intervals, small stone gutters spewed arcing waterfalls of black filth that splattered into large puddles in the road. In other parts of the road, the mud was so thick that a wrong footfall immersed their boots in stinking slime even as they waded at the edges.

The gateway, when they got there, was dark and deserted. There were no torches lit in the failing light to guide in late travellers and no guards stepped forward to demand knowledge of their business nor asked to see papers of any kind. There were no beggars, no trader's agents, no hostellers offering rooms, and no opportunists ready to snatch an unguarded bag; none of the distractions you might normally find when entering a city. There weren't even any criminals swinging by their necks from the walls; it was a long way beyond strange. As they walked through the gate and onto the streets of Bedlam for the first time, they found it completely and utterly deserted.

The city was cold, dark and incredibly gloomy and the feeling of misery, and despair had an almost tangible thickness in the air. A stream of black water ran down the middle of the cobblestone street that greeted them, tall silent buildings lining either side with their doors firmly shut and their windows shuttered even tighter.

'This is even scarier than I thought,' murmured Pardigan, fingering a knife in the sleeve of his cloak. 'I was ready to see streets full of Barbarians… but this! Where is everybody? I was worried we weren't going to fit in, but there isn't anybody to fit in with!'

'I don't know,' whispered Mahra. 'The last time I was here the streets were crowded.' She glanced around as the sound of running feet caught her attention. A small boy ran out of a side alley, slipped in the stream with a splash and a curse, but got up in a flash and continued at a run, further into the city without noticing them, his footsteps disappearing into the distance.

'
Wait!
' called Mahra, but the boy ran on without looking back.
'Please stop.'
They hurried after him down the dark street, but he'd gone, and the city once again felt deserted, the only sound the gurgling and dripping of water.

They walked on, and the street eventually opened into a small square with a covered well at its centre. Several buildings around the edge appeared to be Inns. The first they approached had a sign hanging outside with a picture of a bed and a mug on it, which seemed to confirm their suspicions, however, the door was locked as was the door to the second Inn and the one after that, as well.

'It's deserted, like a city of ghosts,' whispered Pardigan, staring round for any sign of life, ghostly or otherwise.

'Maybe the population is the army,' offered Quint, 'and they're all camped down by the mountains waiting to go through the Bolt. Maybe…' but he didn't get a chance to pass on any other theories as a troop of Barbarian warriors entered the square.

'
Run!
' shouted Pardigan, and before either Quint or Mahra could decide whether that was the best course of action, they were running as fast as they could, further into the city with the warriors shouting orders at them from close behind.

With laboured breathing and the heavy sound of their footsteps echoing between rows of dark silent buildings, they ran on, the shouts and curses of the warriors following. Pardigan led them in a dizzying chase, changing direction whenever the opportunity presented itself, trying to throw off their pursuers while looking for a bolt-hole at the same time. At last, with the sounds of pursuit became fainter, they slowed down to a walk.

This was now a different area of the city. The buildings were taller, some even aspiring to be grand under their coat of wet black slime. To a certain degree it resembled the merchants' areas of some of the cities back in the Realm, or would do if it were cleaner. This may be a Barbarian city now, but they almost certainly hadn't been the ones who had built it.

They stopped outside a large building at the corner of where two streets met to form a crossroads, it was boarded up and appeared to have been the recent victim of fire, the smell of smoke was even stronger here and there was a burnt window frame lying in the street. With a quick glance around, Pardigan began pulling at the boards covering the door. He struggled vainly for a moment before Quint stepped up to help and they soon had the bottom two boards off and were pushing their way inside.

'It's dark in here,' whispered Mahra, stating the obvious as she squeezed in, helped by the unseen hands of Quint. Inside, it was indeed as black as night. Pardigan replaced the boards roughly back over the hole, and Mahra lit a small glow globe that illuminated blackened sooty walls. Stepping over a fallen beam, they moved off into the building.

'It's not really the plush accommodation I'd been longing for,' whispered Pardigan as he followed Quint up a flight of stairs. 'I wonder if the kitchen is still serving food?'

Twice they had to retrace their steps, searching for a passage with floorboards that weren't burnt through making their way either impossible or unsafe. When they had finally clambered up four floors to the highest rooms they were tired, but knew they could now relax and rest a little, the building was as deserted as the city.

Finding a room that wasn't quite as damaged as the others, they shed their wet cloaks and after lighting a fire in the small grate, began to feel life re-enter their weary bodies. They shared a meal of almost dry biscuits and three bruised apples, taken from Bartholomew's table three days before, and sat steaming in silence.

A short while later, as the boys held various items of their clothing out to the fire to dry, Mahra stood and with a nod to her friends, leapt forward. The snowy white barn owl flew out into the corridor in search of an open window and some answers as to why the city was so deserted.

As she left the building, gliding out into the rainy night, the sound in the distance of thousands of voices rose in a roar of excitement and echoed through the city. Casting about, Mahra decided it was coming from down closer to the river. Fighting through the damp air, she rose above the rooftops to survey the gloomy city. In the distance, she could see a large round structure surrounded by a faint glow of light. It was almost certainly where the sounds were coming from. She gave another flap of her wings, her curiosity drawing her on.

* * *

The Emperor, Djinn Tsai, had sat upon the elephant throne for more than eight hundred years - a considerable measure of life, unimaginable for any mortal man. Yet to one such as him, it was still merely a passing fancy. To sit upon the elephant throne was an opportunity for him to learn and grow with the experience of ruling a people and, consequently, to gather the particular form of energy he craved above all else, before possibly seeking other distractions for a life that could have no measure.

However, the lives of his subjects, once a source of amusement and distraction to him were fast becoming little more than an irritation. They lived such a short time span and spent most of it consumed by such a multitude of constraints and addictions that what he had found at first amusing and a little baffling, was now little more than irritating. To place such overwhelming importance in petty emotions like love, hate and honour made them complicated creatures, easily controlled, yet impossible to understand, but then maybe that was because the Djinn was no ordinary man.

Awareness had first settled upon the Djinn in the first violent dawn of creation, a time when the rocks were still cooling, the time when the planet was just starting to form its hard outer shell.

For thousands of years, it had dwelt in contentment deep in the womb of the earth, growing and forming, approaching the moment when its spirit would first walk free and conceive the thought, 'I am.'

In those early days, as the planet had shifted and shrugged, slowly settling into a more stable, if not yet hospitable environment, the black crystal that housed the flicker of consciousness that was the Djinn, worked its way to the outer surface and was eventually found by one of the first humans, who immediately set great store in its beauty.

Wrapping it carefully in a layer of animal skins, the man took it to his cave where he and the others worshipped the crystal through countless generations. It was during this worship that the Djinn discovered an energy source that apparently was abundant in these creatures that bowed down to it. It was a source of energy they called their souls.

As it was worshipped, the crystal slowly drew upon this energy and grew in power. However, it was only when the village elders decided to make a sacrifice to it that it began to understand the full potential that a promised soul represented. When, one bright morning as the first blush of dawn broke on the horizon, the shaman sacrificed a small screaming child before it, the Djinn felt a rush of energy the like of which it had never experienced before, it was a pivotal event in the Djinn's existence. What was more, the soul of the child continued to live on, talking, calling… pleading, instantly becoming the most intimate of companions. The Djinn knew it needed to be free to explore this new source of power, to gather more souls, more companions.

Sending out its essence, the energy that was the Djinn took the body of a young man who had come alone one day to pray for healing from a minor wound. The Djinn had healed the young man but then consumed his soul before taking over his body. The man's name had been Tsai. Now, with a physical form outside of the crystal, the Djinn was able to turn upon the rest of the village, drawing in the essence of their being, their souls, revelling in the orgy of energy it felt flood within it as it chased down every last man woman and child and broke their fragile bodies to release and capture the souls within. The Djinn reflected that it was like the village woman he had seen cracking eggs to gather the yokes, it killed and smiled and felt pleasure for the first time.

Now, so many lifetimes and lives later, all of this was but a distant memory. The Djinn still used the form of the villager, seeing little reason to change outwardly after all these years, and sat upon the elephant throne for the one thing that gave its existence meaning, the continued gathering of souls.

The throne room was in darkness, all except for the area around the throne and crystal, which was lit by a single candle for the Emperor's private meditation.

'I hear you calling me,' the Djinn whispered, tapping the side of the black crystal. Flickers of energy leapt across its surface. 'Don't be so angry,' he soothed. 'Soon there will be more of you, soon we shall grow even more powerful.' The smooth face with its simple smile, pressed against the side of the crystal and his arms raised taking the crystal in an embrace - energy leapt and danced in an angry buzz across the crystal's surface, the Djinn continued to smile.

All was silent until the sound of footsteps echoed from the shadows and the Emperor, Djinn Tsai, turned to see who had interrupted his most holy communion. The fingers of energy that still danced across the crystal mirrored across his black pupils, yet remained unseen by the now prostrate courtier.

'My Lord, the wraiths are ready to move… they beg your leave to advance upon the Desert City of Dhurban.' The courtier remained motionless, his face pressed to the cool stone of the floor as he awaited his Emperor's reply.

'Now it begins,' murmured the Djinn. He turned back to the crystal and an image of the desert and waiting wraiths appeared upon the surface. They swarmed around the great elephants. Hunched forms under black cloaks, agitated, anxious for the moment of release so the hunt could begin. A path had been cleared for them through the marching army, and it was here at the opening that the wraiths swarmed the thickest.

The camels that had been walking in front of the wraiths for days were now harder to control as they sensed the pent-up energy of the wraiths behind them. Eyes wide and filled with fear, the beasts were calling out in alarm as they bucked and kicked back their legs, passing their panic on to other animals in the herd. Their riders, seeking to maintain control, were resorting to the lash, striking at their crazed mounts as they tried desperately to spin about in a bid to see the danger they sensed to their rear. In the confusion, clouds of sand were being kicked up which was only adding to the commotion, it was clearly time for the wraiths to leave.

The Djinn's hand stroked the surface of the crystal and angry flickers of energy tore the image apart. The smiling face turned back to the prostrate man. 'Tell the wraiths to leave – to run with the blessing of Chaos.'

* * *

'
Here?… Here!
' Bartholomew, with snow dusting his hair and rapidly growing beard, gestured wildly at the towering sides of the bolt. 'Why, by the nostril hairs of the great demon himself, did we have to march all this way, when this bit of the mountain is exactly the same as every other bit we've passed?' His angry voice, directed at Loras, echoed along the Bolt causing small piles of snow to fall from the high ledges of the cliff face. Everyone looked up and took a conscious step away from the cliff lest another large rock had been disturbed. Bartholomew's anger had erupted because after making their way up the narrow pass that was the Bolt for most of the day, Loras had finally decided they were in the right place to perform his magic.

The group that stood in the windswept canyon, doing their best to ignore the irate merchant was a pitiful bunch. The travelling had been hard and was getting steadily harder with every step. The wind that howled down the Bolt had continually driven falls of sleet and snow directly into their faces, its icy fingers picking away at their cloaks, finding its way in past their defences by robbing them of any heat and freezing them to the saddles of their horses. To make matters worse, the icy surface of the Bolt was becoming even more treacherous having already claimed its first victim when one of the horses had stumbled badly and gone so lame that even with magic there was no way it could be ridden until properly rested.

'Are you sure this is the place?' shouted Tarent over the gusting of the wind. 'I mean, Old Bartholomew has got a point, there isn't much difference between here and where we were this morning, or at least I can't see any.' Loras looked up from where he had been studying the rocky ground. His cloak wrapped tightly around him, the hood pulled so securely shut that only the faint cloud of his breathing pluming out into the cold air showed that he was actually inside. Loras turned from Tarent to the high rock-face around them and raised an arm.

'High straight sides, no ledges or outcrops of rock,' his voice was muffled from the folds of cloak it travelled through. He kicked a rock and waved a hand at the wet canyon floor. 'Some loose stones, but the base rock is solid and relatively flat.' He loosened his hood a little and his face became more visible. 'We're going to build a wall, Tarent. Not a wall of bricks that you can see and touch, but a wall of magic, and yes, this is definitely the place to build it.'

'Will it take long? Should we make camp?' Tarent's questions went unanswered by Loras, who was back to studying the rock-face again, but Magician Falk nodded his head.

'Yes, let's make camp and warm up.' He rubbed at his hands and pulled his hood closed again from where the wind had tugged it out of place. 'The wall will take only a short time to construct, but the preparation may take longer and, when we're finished, we'll have to make the return trip back out of the Bolt to the ship. We need to warm, rest and build up our energies again.'

While the Magicians prepared, the remainder of the group huddled around the wagon and built a small fire, ready to cook a meal and some warming brew. Bartholomew's guards drew straws and the two unlucky recipients of the shortest were sent back down the Bolt to make sure they weren't being followed. As Tarent sat by the fire, trying to ignore Bartholomew's incessant moaning, Magician Falk and Loras crouched down next to him. Loras was moulding a piece of blue clay about the same size as his fist and the older Magician was watching him with a puzzled expression. He gratefully accepted a mug of brew from the cook and took one for Loras who had ignored the offered mug.

'What's he doing, that lad?' asked Bartholomew, eyeing Loras suspiciously. 'Didn't come all this way so he could start making clay pots, did we?'

'Magic, Mr Bask,' hissed Magician Falk. 'My young colleague is building a spell the like of which I have never seen before, and I seriously doubt you could even begin to comprehend.' He turned to Tarent when he saw that Bartholomew wasn't really interested. He sighed. 'I don't know how he's doing it. It's all beyond me, but he claims to be building a wall in that lump of clay and I can do no less than believe him.' They both watched as Loras worked the ball of clay, mumbling to himself, off in his own little world and apparently oblivious to everything around him. Sounds of movement came from down the Bolt, and everyone round the fire looked up as the guards that had been sent to keep watch came hurrying towards them, urging their horses on as they slipped and clattered over the rocky ground.

'
Riders! There are riders coming.
' Upon reaching the group they swung down from their horses and crouched by the fire to warm their hands. 'It's a bigger band than the last group, and they're not far behind us.' All eyes swung towards Tarent who reluctantly pushed himself up from the fire.

'Loras, how long until you're ready?'

'I'm ready now,' said Loras glancing up. 'This is going to be really interesting, I hope it works.'

'
Hope it works!
' exclaimed Bartholomew, 'It'd better work, my lad, we need a nice wall to hide behind and quickly by the sound of it. Get yerself going, go on… off with yer!'

Loras stood with the help of Tarent and moved away, followed by Magician Falk, leaving a worried looking Bartholomew casting about for the best place to hide. Deciding on the wagon, he waddled off and, with no little huffing puffing and cursing, clambered in over the back.

'
Fan out!
' called Tarent. 'But keep close to the Magicians. We'll leave the wagon if we have to.'

'
Leave the wagon!
' came the panicked voice of Bartholomew. There was a scuffling sound as the merchant hurried to get out again and join his men.
'Guards to me!'

'
No, guards to me!
' called Tarent, smiling at Bartholomew's distress. 'We have a fight on our hands, and we need everyone to work together. Defend the Magicians as they prepare.'

Tarent glanced over at Loras and Magician Falk. They were in deep discussion, and Magician Falk was shaking his head. I hope Loras has this worked out, he thought to himself. Right now, this doesn't look good. He glanced back down the Bolt. The sleet had turned back to large fluffy lumps of snow that was fast becoming a blizzard. A growing breeze was driving it in swirling clouds to float up against the rocks where it was settling in growing piles, it was also getting darker, and the temperature seemed to be falling even further. There may be a storm coming, thought Tarent. Squinting his eyes, he gazed as far down the Bolt as he could see, but nothing was coming into view. He glanced down to make sure his staff was still lying on the floor in front of him and fingered the quiver of arrows on his belt, well,
he
was as ready as he could be. He glanced to either side at the anxious faces of the guardsmen, all much bigger and taller than him. The men stood, cold and silent, some mumbling as they made their peace with the Source before once again risking life and limb against a Barbarian blade. They were a tough bunch; had to be to earn a living as a sailor and guard to Bartholomew. Turning back, Tarent saw Bartholomew hurrying as far back up the Bolt as he was able. The merchant kept glancing back to see how far he had come, then hurrying on still further. Tarent felt a tug on his sleeve.

'Ermm, did I mention that we have to leave the weapons behind.'

'Sorry?' Tarent turned from Loras and glanced up the Bolt - still nothing coming - then back to Loras who was studying him intently.

'We have to pile up the weapons and move back up the Bolt.'

Tarent watched the intense expression on his friend's face for a moment before answering. 'There's a band of Barbarian warriors coming from up there that will happily kill us all… and you want us to pile up our weapons, and run away? I'm sorry, Loras but…'