The Drowned Tomb (The Changeling Series Book 2) (30 page)

“And we have a Peacekeeper army amassing nearby…” Robin said pointedly.

“My thoughts exactly,” Karya nodded.

Henry shrugged. “It’s better than nothing, I suppose.”

They all looked at Jackalope expectantly. “Whatever,” he muttered, scowling. “Just keep up.”

He stomped off again up the hill. Karya sighed, looking up the steep incline. “What I wouldn’t give for a flying boat…”

“Have you picked up the scent yet?” Robin asked. “Your mana-trail, or whatever it is?”

“Faintly,” she said. She stared ahead. The land still rose up and up before them, but they had put a gratifying distance between themselves and Worrywart. “It’s a long way. I didn’t realise I’d torn us so far. Phorbas’ mana is stronger than I thought. You know it’s odd. Ever since I used the knife, I’ve had a hankering for crumbly Lancashire cheese.”

Henry rolled his eyes, stepping past her into the thick bushes that crossed their path.

“Could be worse I suppose,” he said. “You could be h—”

Henry didn’t manage to finish his sentence. Something huge and dark erupted from the bush in front of him without warning. A coiled mass of shadows and muscle, barrelling into him and knocking him backwards into the others, sending them all flying onto the grass.

Henry yelled in shock, and Karya cried out. Robin’s nose was filled with a terrible smell, rank fur, a deep violent, animal smell. His heart skipped.

The creature which had erupted from the bushes, shimmering around its edges like smoke was followed by another, then another. Large and black and sinewy, they prowled out from the bushes on thickly muscled paws. Larger than lions and blacker than midnight. Robin untangled himself from the pile on the floor, eyes wide in surprise and horror. He knew this smell.

“Skrikers!” Henry yelled. “It’s skrikers.”

One of the massive shadow dogs lunged for him, grabbing Henry by the forearm and shaking him like a rag doll. He cried out in horror and pain. Another two barrelled down the shallow hill towards the spot where Karya and Jackalope had fallen, getting between them and Robin and cutting his friends off from view. Startled birds erupted from the treetops, complaining in loud caws.

Robin’s mind whirled. How could there be skrikers here?

There was no time to think or act. The devil dogs gnashed and pounced around them. His mana stone flashed and Robin threw a Galestrike at the creature gnawing on Henry, filling it with as much mana as he could. The blast of air hit the monster full force, sending it flying and rolling off yelping into the bushes with an explosion of leaves. Robin turned and cast another two, throwing a javelin of powerful air at the two hulking beasts bearing down on Karya and Jackalope. The first strike missed, the blast of air hitting the bole of a nearby tree with a crack, sending bark and wood shards flying into the air. The roar and snapping jaws of the beast were deafening, but the second Galestrike hit the mark, knocking the huge dog off balance and sending it sprawling. It skittered to the side, falling at Karya’s feet in the long grass and churning a deep furrow of mud. It would have ploughed straight into her had not Jackalope whirled her out of the way. The tall Fae had a knife in his hand. Robin hadn’t seen it before. He hadn’t even known Jackalope was armed.

More skrikers were emerging from the bushes all around them. More than they could handle. Henry was staggering, staring around wildly, clutching his injured arm to his chest. Robin saw Karya and Jackalope turning in a circle back to back, keeping the circling beasts in view. A small avalanche of dirt and scree rolled down from the turned earth where Karya had buried the second dog.

Robin raised his arms again, shaking with adrenalin, ready to loose another barrage, when a cold presence behind him made him whirl instinctively.

“Hello again, Master Robin,” said a cold, crisp voice from beneath the trees. It sent chills down his spine. There were two figures standing there, one of whom was Miss Peryl. She looked sour.

The other, who now stalked forward out of the shadows, a huge and growling skriker flanking either side of him, was an old man, white and willow thin, in a dark suit, and with sleek hair oiled to his head, a bright funhouse green. He was smiling at Robin, lips tight, but his eyes were cold and murderous, and as black as the bottom of the ocean.

“How simply wonderful to see you again,” said Mr Strife, in a calm, unhurried tone. “Do you know, I feel we parted on such bad terms when last we met.” His diction was clear and cold. He sounded faintly amused.

As Robin stared, the tall man striding out from the bushes raised his hand, long and bony fingers splayed wide.

Behind him, Peryl smirked a little, her head cocked to one side as she enjoyed the show.

“Let’s see how well we fare this time, Scion of the Arcania,” Mr Strife said. “Far from the Isle of Winds. No magic Shard in your chest this time. How will we dance today? On my terms.”

Karya yelled something behind Robin, but he couldn’t make it out. A skriker was howling, a mournful sound, and his world was filled, edge to edge with the rictus grin of Mr Strife, looming before him. Strife flicked his fingers, sending thick ribbons of oily shadow flying swiftly from the tips to envelop Robin, wrapping around his face, blocking his vision, filling his world with darkness.

WOLF AND WYRM

Robin came to groggily, with straw prickling his face, and cold metal beneath it. It felt as though he had been asleep for a very long time. Somewhere cold and dark and remote.

He shook his head, forcing his consciousness up from blackness. He became dimly aware that he was lying on his side somewhere dark, in a rough foetal position, his hands clasped before him. His head felt full of cotton wool and his whole body ached. Robin forced his eyes to open and tried to move his arms, only to find they were bound tightly at the wrist with thick rope.

The image of Mr Strife, emerging from the shadowy trees and flanked by smoky skrikers rose in his mind, bringing his memory back in a panicked flash. He coughed, spitting out rank straw, and wriggled onto his side, sitting up with a grunt. Where on earth was he?

The answer, he discovered as he looked around, blinking blearily as he came to his senses, was a cage. A large cage, big enough to sit up in, but not to stand. It was circular. Comprised flat black bars. The metal base was strewn with straw, and it domed overhead, like an oversized birdcage. This small prison hung around two feet off the floor, swinging softly with a metallic creak as his movement caused it to lurch. It was affixed to an enormous wooden truss via a thick and ugly chain, over which had been spread a tarpaulin, a rudimentary tent. The tarpaulin was billowing softly, rippling in a wind, as though it were breathing.

Robin struggled with the ropes around his wrists but they were expertly tied, cruelly tight and digging into his wrists, making them raw. His hands ached with pins and needles. He stared around, frantic to see Karya or Henry or Jackalope. What had happened in the glade? There had been skrikers everywhere, and Strife had just knocked him out. Plunged him into an inky nothingness.

He had no idea what had happened to them. He didn’t remember anything after that.

There was a second swinging cage beside him. Henry lay huddled at its base, his clothes muddy and bedraggled. He wasn’t moving.

“Henry!” Robin called out, his voice hoarse and breaking in his throat. His head ached terribly. Had he hit it when he fell? Or was Mr Strife’s dark magic still in his mind like poisonous ink? Where had Strife come from anyway?

Henry didn’t respond. Robin stared, trying to see if he was breathing. Henry’s face was hidden by his tangled mass of hair, a tiny bit of which fluttered in his breath.

Relief washed over Robin, but it was short-lived. Where were the others? There was no sign of Karya or Jackalope.

Robin turned around full circle in the cage on his knees, shuffling in the straw. He found the door, set with a heavy lock, and bracing himself against the other side, the bars cold against his back, kicked as hard as he could.

Nothing happened, other than his shinbones jarred and he set the cage swinging back and forth slightly, squeaking on its chain. Swearing under his breath, he kicked again and again. It was no use. It was locked fast. Robin stopped. He was breathing heavily and forced himself to calm down. Okay. This was bad. He was captured, trussed up like a turkey and locked in a cage like Hansel and Gretel by his worst enemy, but panicking wasn’t going to help. He had to think.

There was a great deal of noise outside the tent. All around them, a constant muted rumble of activity. It sounded like a tremendous number of people. A regular thud of hooves passing the walls. Horses? But they sounded heavy. A heavier tread than any horse he could imagine. Where was he? Where had Strife taken them?

Robin forced himself to be logical. He scanned the tent, looking for anything that might help, and that was when he saw the Peacekeeper.

It had been standing so still, between one of the dark upright timbers, that Robin hadn’t noticed it at all. It made him jump.

The Peacekeeper didn’t move or react to Robin’s motion. It was simply standing, thin arms limp at its sides, clad in the strange, glossy armour, like a creepy rag doll. Its face – or lack thereof – was even more disturbing close up. It was sackcloth, stitched together roughly and clumsily in patches of dirty, mismatched fabric. There was no mouth or nose in its lifeless scarecrow face, only two ragged and threadbare holes for eyes. Robin couldn’t see any movement in the darkness of the sockets. It seemed utterly lifeless.

Except
it
isn’t
.
I
can
feel
it
watching
me
, he thought with a shiver. Experimentally, he back away to the far side of the cage, keeping his eye on the Peacekeeper the whole time.

Almost imperceptibly, it turned its silent, expressionless head to follow his movements.

Robin shuddered. The eyes were wide circles, making it look eternally surprised. Empty and cold as a midnight winter’s sky.

Forget
it
, he forced himself to think.
Just
forget
it
.
Pay
no
attention
to
the
Peacekeeper
.
It’s
not
doing
anything
;
it’s
just
standing
there
…
being
freaky
.

He focused on opening the cage.
One
thing
at
a
time
,
Robin
… Featherbreath might do it, might be able to move the mechanisms around inside, lift the tumblers, pop the lock.

And
then
what
? A deceitful little voice inside him mind said.
Then
you’ll
be
out
there
with
the
armoured
mannequin
from
hell
.
Is
that
really
a
good
idea
?
These
bars
are
the
only
thing
separating
it
from
you
.
It’s
still
now
,
yes
.
But
what
it
it’s
just
…
waiting
for
you
?

Robin ignored the voice. He needed to get out. To get Henry out too. He reached determinedly for his mana stone around his neck.

It wasn’t there.

He stared down in alarm. His chest empty.

“Lost something?” a chirpy voice asked behind him. Robin spun on his knees, his bound hands still both clasped to his empty chest as though he were praying.

Miss Peryl had entered the tent. She was dressed immaculately in her charcoal suit, her hair a sleek and shiny curtain, and her eyes and lips dark. She looked a far cry from the wild murderous banshee she had been when last he’d seen her out on the snowy plateau.

“Has the wickle Scion lost his wickle mana stone?” she asked in baby voice, approaching Robin’s prison, her hands clasped behind her back. “No magic for you, little man.” She frowned crossly. “Doesn’t matter how much you gimme those big blue puppy eyes. You...” She wagged a finger, “...are in a time-out.”

“Where is it?” Robin asked, furiously. “Where are Karya and Jack? If you’ve hurt them—”

Peryl looked irritated, she puffed out her cheeks. “Oh, pipe down, blondie,” she said. “Big Brother Strife took your mana stone. It’s over there, don’t pitch a fit about it.” She flicked a thumb at a table. Several stones and laces were gathered together in a dish. “Guess he didn’t want you slipping away again. Can’t really blame him for that, can you? I mean, you got away on the silly flying island. Then you ran away from me and Ker too. Then you leave me out in a snowstorm. All on my own, I might add.” She shook her head. “You really are a slippery little fish, aren’t you?” She gripped the bar suddenly, her face darkening. Robin scooted away as far as he could to the other side, away from the Grimm, glaring at her.

“I can’t believe you tricked me back there,” she said, in a wondering voice. “You are quite the devious little beast, Robin Fellows. Trying to escape me and Brother Ker, when we had a deal and everything. A deal you broke. Then trying to kill me … with a rock.” Her dark eyes narrowed. “That,” she said slowly, “is not … very … heroic.”

“You tried to kill me first,” Robin said hatefully. “Or did you forget?”

She made a raspberry noise. “Huh. Kill you? As if. How stupid do you think I am? Do you have any idea what the Dark Empress would do to anyone who actually killed you?” She shook her head. “No, no, I’m not that brave. Satisfying as it would have been, I was only going to torture you a little. No need to be such a baby about it.”

She pushed away from the bars, setting the cage swinging. She turned her back on Robin and walked over to the still and silent Peacekeeper. “I’m very cross with you, though, you should know that. You tear away from us, dragging me with you, leaving my idiot big Brother Ker to discover the secret valley of the Undine, alone. And so stealing my glory.”

She reached up and absently stroked the sackcloth face of the Peacekeeper. It didn’t react. “It should have been my glory. Not his. You have no idea how much that irks me,” she said sulkily. “I mean, really. Do you have any idea what it’s like being the runt of the litter? Finding this Shard, delivering it to Eris?” She turned, folding her arms and frowning at him. “This was my stepping stone. My chance to actually matter at court, and not only did you snatch it away from me, after I was good enough to save your miserable life from the sirens, but you leave me for dead in the snow and disappear, making me do the one thing I really didn’t want to do.”

Robin glared at her.

“You,” he said, “are certifiably insane.”

She ignored him. “You made me call Captain Super-Sour!”

Robin blinked. “Strife?” he asked. “He’s your boss though, right?”

Her eyes flashed furiously, and she stalked back to the cage, grabbing the bars so fiercely it made the prison shake.

“He is…” she hissed through gritted teeth, white against her dark lips. “ … my elder. Nothing more.”

“One must always respect one’s elders, Miss Peryl,” came a voice behind her, cold as a mountain stream and clear as a bell. For a second, Robin thought it was the Peacekeeper, that silent sentinel, who had spoken, but he was wrong.

He wouldn’t have thought it possible, but Peryl’s face actually paled. He saw her visibly compose herself.

Mr Strife, looking like a slender undertaker, had silently appeared in the tent. He was smiling at them, his cold, thin lips conveying a convivial warmth that never reached his black hard eyes. He was holding a fob watch, set with a blood red stone, which he consulted briefly, in a genteel manner, before snapping it shut and tucking it away deftly in a pocket behind his dusty, grey lapel.

“Respecting your elders is the natural order of things,” he continued. “Where, after all, would we be, without order? A place for everyone yes, and everyone in their place.”

Peryl turned to face him, and Robin got the distinct and confusing impression that she not only hated him, but feared the old man too.

“Our Lady Eris is not fond of order, big brother,” she said sweetly. “It isn’t her nature.”

Strife’s smile dropped. “You are a fool, youngest,” he said coldly. “There is order even in chaos. Our Lady has not taken the Netherworlde and made it her own by sheer happy chance. She has strategy, she has campaign. She rules by the order of chaos.” He inclined his head at the younger Grimm. “You disturb that order, child, with your pitiful ambitions and your petty games. You would make fools of us all. And you drag me from Dis. Me? For what?”

“To capture the Scion, of course,” Peryl draped an arm across the cage, like a game show hostess displaying a prize. “Don’t act so put upon; you’re glad I called, admit it. What better reason is there to leave our Lady’s side?”

He frowned at her. “I have other duties,” he snapped. “I am not at your beck and call. This task, the finding of the Water Shard, was trusted to you and to Ker.” Mr Strife wore dark gloves, and now he dusted off his hands, removing imaginary lint from his exceptionally long fingers. “Well,” he amended. “To Ker anyway. And yet here I am, cleaning up your mess for you.” A corner of his mouth turned up. “Ker has discovered the hidden vale – even now his army swells here. This may assuage our Lady’s anger … a little.” He looked up through his eyebrows, still fiddling with his gloves. “But you?”

Peryl raised her chin – defiantly, Robin thought – though she did not speak. Her fingers were still gripping his cage, and her knuckles, he saw, were white.

Strife shook his green head. “ … As I said, a place for everyone … I wouldn’t be surprised if your utter, monumental failure here landed you in the pits, with poor brother Moros.” His beetle black eyes glittered. “How would you enjoy that, little sister? Entertaining the Shidelings? Perhaps that at least would still your flapping tongue. Fates know, nothing else will.”