The Flight of the Griffin (9 page)

‘Sure we’ll find it?’ echoed Quint. ‘You don’t know?’

‘No,’ said Mahra. ‘I don’t know. I also don’t know what to expect when we get there, but I seem to be remembering things when the need arises. My mind has probably been affected in the same way as the book and the island. Which means the spell is still active and extremely powerful.’ She paused for a moment. ‘When we get to the island, either I’ll know a little more, or we’ll just have to follow our instincts. I’m sorry but that’s all I can tell you for the moment.’

They realised that although thin, it was all they had. As for the agent of Chaos that followed; not much could be done except stay ahead of him and act with the best of their new abilities, if and when he did show up.

The next morning Quint and Pardigan went ashore to buy provisions and have a last look around the town of
Sterling. Quint reluctantly left his bow and sword on the boat, but both boys carried knives.

‘I’ve never carried a blade before,’ said Pardigan. ‘It’s strange, I’d feel quite naked now if I didn’t have one with me,’ he felt the knife under his cloak and sighed. ‘A wise man once told me never to carry a blade. He said there would always come a time when you’d cross paths with a person that has a greater ability, who’d take it away from you and… ’ He left the sentence unfinished, drawing a finger across his throat theatrically, and then shrugged his shoulders.

‘Do you really feel different?’ asked Quint. ‘I mean me, personally, I feel…strange. I know I’m me, but I’m not the me that I recognise…do you know what I’m talking about or am I babbling?’

‘Yeah, I feel the same as you. I guess we all do, but I think we’ll get used to it; I hope so anyhow. I do like feeling a little special. My only worry is whoever’s following us. Knife thrower or not, and I don’t care if I
can
go invisible, he scares me. I’m not sure why exactly, but he does.’ They continued to walk into town chatting in low voices, so as not to be overheard.

By mid morning, they were back on the boat and
The Griffin
got underway, heading once more for open sea.

****

Matheus Hawk sat huddled in concentration over a cast-iron brazier – the hot coals painting his face with an orange glow. He added another pinch of powder from a bag, and smoke billowed up, filling the room and stinging his eyes, but he was past the point of caring. The spell he was casting was a seeing spell and it wasn’t working. He was searching for the boat that housed his quarry, yet time and time again it was proving to be unsuccessful. His patience was growing thin as he watched visions change in the coals through red-rimmed eyes. He’d been doing this for several turns of the glass and was becoming extremely fatigued, but still he pushed on. Constantly the visions moved from boat to boat, as scene after scene was shown to him, yet nothing appeared that was remotely like the boat he had entered in the port.

At last he could take it no more. Turning from the brazier he stood and stretched. Clenching and cracking his knuckles, he strode to the window and threw the shutters wide. Smoke billowed out allowing light and air to flood back into the room. Breathing deeply, Matheus stood staring down into the street. Knowing his tactics would have to change he contemplated his options. This was no ordinary matter of tracking down some common thief or fugitive. Magic was involved here, potent magic, and if Matheus had come to enjoy one thing beyond all else, it was his magical skills. The chance that he could acquire new knowledge was even more tempting than any reward the fat merchant could put in front of him.

There was a powerful spell that Matheus had used only twice before and was hesitant in using again, but he was considering it now. To request the aid of demon kind was fraught with peril. Matheus knew he was a powerful magician, but was also aware of his limitations and knew even he would have problems controlling a demon, but if an agreement of some sort could be made …

After eating a sparse meal of raw vegetables and cold rice, he spent the afternoon in meditation. By nightfall he was decided, ready and prepared.

The brazier was re-lit and several clay bowls of carefully prepared herbs and powders set to the side. Placing the brazier in the centre of the floor, he then spent some time and care, drawing a series of complex patterns and designs around it. While he worked, his mind went back to the sessions with the one he had called ‘the magic man’. The crippled magician, desperate for medical aid, food and water, had begged Matheus for help, but had received only the bare minimum necessary to keep him alive; alive enough for Matheus to extract the information he craved. He’d written these scraps of knowledge down on small blocks of parchment and he was now studying them while scratching his charcoal stick on the floor, sending whirls and spirals off to the four corners of the room.

Energy began crackling along the charcoal lines changing from intense blue, the colour of Order, to a dark crimson red, the colour of Chaos. Matheus was sweating freely in the stuffy atmosphere, yet he pulled the hood of his cape over his head, to better concentrate on the complex rituals of the incantation ahead. He had read and re-read the passages necessary several times over, and felt confident in his ability to perform the task. Yet, he remained uncertain of what direction to take once the task was complete; that of calling the demon into this realm.

Much would depend upon careful negotiation to see if he could persuade the demon to do what he wanted. If all else failed, he had set call-back spells at various stages of the pattern and was confident he could return the demon should anything go wrong.

Still, it was with some measure of uncertainty that Matheus finally took his position, sitting cross-legged in front of the brazier. Drawing several deep breaths, he commenced a deep rhythmic chant. As the brazier smouldered, he dropped different herbs and mixtures onto the glowing coals, repeating this at odd intervals. Around him shadows and lights danced upon the walls, smoke moved in patterns through the thick air and the energy in the room grew until every hair on his body was standing on end. Even the dust on the floor was dancing, drawn along the patterns as the energy crackled and glowed. It was becoming less and less blue, and more and more the deep crimson red of Chaos, as the spell’s energy sank through the layers of awareness and into the realms of darkness. Down and down, sinking lower and lower, Matheus moved through the darkening mists, seeing strange beings and spirits. Some noticed him but most did not, each caught up in their own private nightmares. The chant no longer resembled a collection of words, but had become a vibrating mixture of energy and sound that twisted together controlling the spell. Window shutters, that had been carefully closed and bolted before he’d begun, now rattled and banged with an urgent fury.

Drawn by the noises and the strange glow coming from the room, the landlady of the hostel was trying to force her way in, but the normally flimsy door wasn’t budging. It now seemed fixed as if made from iron. A mixture of concern for her room and fear of the strange noises, smells and lights from within lent her a reckless courage as she tried with all her might to gain entry. After a particularly loud ripping noise and a further shaking of the building, which sent plaster and dust raining down over her head, she finally gave up and ran shrieking down the stairs. In her wake she passed several guests peeking round their doors with white scared faces and large fearful eyes. Violent crackling and rumbling sounded like thunder throughout the building, as if a violent storm were confined and dancing within the small upstairs room. Cracks began appearing in the walls and roof tiles were now raining down, smashing onto the street below.

Completely unaware of his surroundings or his slumped body, Matheus had become one with the spell as he continued down through the ever-spiralling levels of spirit, seeking the lowest realms of darkness - the place where the demons dwelt.

****

Water washed back over the deck, as another wave was met head on.
The
Griffin
seemed to come alive at times like this, attacking each new wave with a crash and a slap that sent water spraying over the delighted crew as the deck bucked and fell beneath them.

Quint was standing at the wheel teasing every bit of speed from the old boat, while Loras, who had been sent forward to stand on the bowsprit, kept watch for any logs that could still be a hazard to them this near to the coast. Loras didn’t like this duty much and was holding on in fear; his cold wet fingers locked around the safety rope as the bucking boat nearly tossed him overboard for the umpteenth time.

Pardigan and Tarent were perched along the topside of the boat adding their weight to allow her all the speed she could muster. They hung over the side, leaning back with outstretched fingers competing to touch the rushing waters that sped past beneath them.  Free from the cares and worries that life had recently brought them, the crew of
The
Griffin
sailed on in search of a magical island.

When Loras crawled back into the wheelhouse, Quint could see how green he was so sent him below to change into something dry.
The rest of the crew were enjoying themselves, feeling free for the first time in days. Thoughts of people following them, new magical abilities and mysterious challenges were thankfully forgotten for a time as they busied themselves with the familiar tasks of helping to keep
The
Griffin
sailing hard. The land was soon lost behind them and after several turns of the glass the last of the gulls that had been following also departed.

Open water was a terribly lonely place and Quint felt himself fighting down the worries that came bubbling up, doubting his ability to navigate and never finding land again. On this heading he had no idea when land may be reached and had the worry that if it was a small island, they might miss it altogether, especially if they arrived in darkness. He continually kept an eye to the compass and also to the wave tops to try and guess where the tide and currents were pushing them. Despite the burden of command he still managed to enjoy the sail and kept most of his fears at bay knowing that if they did go on and on, then in two or three days they could turn around and come right back the opposite way. For now, it was simply a great time to be alive and he smiled as the spray washed back over the boat. It was all too much for Quint and it wasn't long before he called for Tarent to take over at the wheel. With a last look at the compass and instructions to keep the boat on course he pulled off his shirt and made his way carefully to the bowsprit to take up his favourite position. Tying himself securely to the safety rope and bracing himself against the rise and fall of the boat, he lifted his arms high in the air and once again laughed and shouted his defiance at the sea.

****

Having waited for a rich victim all evening and now most of the night, the two thieves standing quietly on a dark street corner were becoming increasingly frustrated. They stepped back into the shadows and watched as three more people left Blake’s and walked up the cannery towards
Market Square. Driven by desperation, they quietly followed, keeping a safe distance behind. Halfway up the Cannery the three stopped, exchanged a few final words, and the tall skinny fellow broke from the other two and headed down Weaver Street, his companions continuing on up towards the Square. Seeing their opportunity at last, they hurried to the corner of Weaver Street and peered around. It was dark, the oil in the street lamps long burnt out, but they could hear the shuffling sounds of their victim as he ambled along towards his bed.

‘Let's get this done and go home, I’m way past fed up with this.’ The speaker slapped a billy-club into his hand and started into the shadows. The second thief drew his own favourite weapon, a long thin knife, and followed him, eager now that the waiting was at last coming to an end, and it would soon be time to play - this was the bit he liked best.

They slipped into the darkness, following the sounds of the retreating figure and broke into a quiet trot in an effort to catch up with him.

‘Shhhh…’ The first thief stopped, holding out his hand to halt his partner. ‘I don’t hear him.’ They both listened - straining to make out a sound in the warm still night. Two cats sang close by and a dog was barking in the distance, but
Weaver Street itself was silent.

‘Come on, he’s here someplace.’ They followed each other further up the street with hands held outstretched in the still, inky black air.

‘Look! What’s that?’ Standing unmoving, in the only ray of moonlight to reach between the buildings, was their victim. His arms spread to either side as if in welcome, a hood covered most of his face and his cloak hung low to the ground. The two thieves approached cautiously.

‘Tell you what, old feller…you throw over yer purse and we’ll just leave, then yer can go back to yer nice comfy bed. You can cry to the watch about all this in the morning, eh?’ They slowly edged forward, but the stranger didn’t move.

‘Give us yer money or I’ll cut yer,’ hissed the second thief glancing up and down the street. ‘Oh...for the sake of the Source!’ Unable to wait it out, he moved in quickly, pretending to stab down and then at the last moment switching to a thrust to the stomach. It was his best move, but it was the last thing he ever did. There was a flap as the stranger’s cloak moved, then a crunching sound and then the thief was simply a dark crumpled shadow on the ground. The stranger rose to stand over him once again, slowly spreading his arms in unholy welcome.

‘Jeb? …Jeb?’ The surviving thief stared at the cloaked figure then back to his fallen friend. ‘You scum! I’ll do fer yer and no mistake.’ He leapt in, jumping over the fallen body, and sent a thundering swing with his club towards where the cloaked stranger’s head was…except his head was no longer there. He glanced around in the darkness then felt hands flutter gently against his face - a nerve was pinched below his ear and, unable to move, he let the club fall with a clatter to the cobblestones. The stranger was behind him now, fingers sinking painfully into his eyes as a deep gravelly voice whispered into his ear.