The Magic Lands (60 page)

With his eyes intent upon the
Wolf, Mo crossed the great expanse of the hall, passing over the
huge mosaic.

"A wonderful work of
craftsmanship, don't you think?" the Beast observed as its guest
approached, but Mo made no reply, only coming to a silent halt
several yards before the throne, undaunted by the glittering gaze
that greeted him. "Why not kneel?" asked the Wolf, licking his
snout.

At this, the lion smiled.
"There will come a time," he said softly, "when
you
shall kneel." If he had expected a reaction
to this, it did not come. The White Wolf appeared unperturbed and
simply regarded the other animal with curiosity. "It's all
relative," it remarked. "In the end, we all get what we
deserve."

"I know what you deserve," Mo
stated.

"Yes?" the Beast queried with
interest.

"Damnation," the lion spat with
utter contempt.

Chuckling with unbridled mirth,
the White Wolf nodded emphatically. "Of course, my dear old friend,
of course I do. There's no doubt about it. But is there no room in
your heart for mercy? For forgiveness?"

Mo glared at the Wolf, but
hesitated before answering. "It is not my place to forgive
you."

"Always passing the buck, my
good friend, that's always been your problem. You must learn to
take some responsibility. As I have."

"Yes," Mo retorted
sharply. "You
are
responsible. For corruption and suffering, for hatred and
perversion. These are your legacies."

The Wolf growled and moved
restlessly on the tender cushion beneath its haunches. "Empty
words. Just like your promises. You think that you know so much,
half-one, but what can a half-one know? Only half of it." Suddenly
the Beast screamed with laughter, the sound of it causing Mo to
flinch. "Indeed," the Wolf continued, "half, and that's all you
know, one half of the story. You only ever see your side. That's
your trouble, no sense of balance. It seems to me that you should
take a good long look at yourself, deep into your bitter soul. In
your beclouded eyes, I am the defiler. But what of you? What have
you become? Perhaps I should put you out of your misery."

"Why don't you try?" the lion
roared, head moving from side to side in a gesture of defiance, his
golden mane flowing.

But the Beast only shook its
head, a pitiful look upon its sly face. "If only I could, I surely
would," it said, mockery mingling with some other, more ambiguous
sentiment. "If it could be done, I would oblige you, out of the
compassion I feel for one so misguided. But my hands are tied, so
to speak. Even I must play by the rules."

Mo glowered at the Wolf. "You
are a coward!" he called with anger, "you speak of rules, but when
have you ever respected any of those made at the first dawn? You
disgust me. And I will see you dead and cast back into the
darkness. There is no hope for the likes of you."

For a brief moment, the Wolf's
eyes flared with some dark emotion that betrayed its true feelings
toward its adversary, an utter bestial hatred. But then as quickly
as it had come, it was gone and the White Wolf was smiling
amicably. "Dear one," it appealed as if indulging a child, "you are
misguided you know, don't you see that? You should take care. I've
watched you mixing with the wrong crowd and asked myself time and
again why you put yourself through it. They are all so ungrateful
for your efforts. They don't appreciate you, just as they don't
appreciate me, so why not make a fresh start? I know we could be
friends again and I could offer you so much, so many treasures. All
yours for the asking, if only you would come over to my way of
thinking. After all, aren't we more alike than you would admit?
Blood-brothers? Kith and kin? We don’t have to be on opposite
sides. I never wanted it that way."

The lion roared again and
everything around them seemed to tremble with the fury of the
sound. "Let us end it now," Mo breathed and the White Wolf's face
became stern and hard, his muscular frame tensing as it leant
forward on its throne.

"You will perish," it
proclaimed with certainty, "but not until the time is right. Right
for me and mine, right for you and yours. You shall die, a long,
slow death and you will scream for mercy. You will beg me for your
life. You will do anything so that I should spare you from the
torments I have devised. You are mine, old friend. Just wait and
see, be patient. It will come sooner than you think."

And then, as if a pebble had
disturbed a reflection cast upon a lake, the face of the Beast
began to ripple and fade, everything that had been there passing
away.

Mo, a badger once more, now
stood alone in a ruined city, where great monoliths of stone
towered all about him, testaments to a dead world, destroyed by
some potent and terrible force, and amongst the rubble of torn
buildings, weeping children lay, writhing in agony, their eyes
pleading for help and perhaps for something more than that,
something greater.

As Mo looked upon them, he
suspected that he knew what it was.

They wanted forgiveness.

What black dream had the Wolf
sent him now? What dreadful vision was this, where children
suffered so? As he contemplated this, one tiny child, gaunt and
filthy, skin charred and blackened, sunken eyes imploring, called
out to him through tears of pain. "I'm sorry," it sobbed
desperately, "please believe me, I'm sorry."

The badger felt useless and
lost. There was nothing he could do.

Another child, hairless and
disfigured, began to crawl with difficulty toward him, picking its
way through the devastation, dragging itself painfully nearer and
Mo could hardly bear to watch it. He just wanted to close his eyes
and shut it all out.

My God, this should not be.

He couldn't even say if it were
a boy or a girl.

"This way," instructed Dredger,
his long legs taking him through the dank streets at a good speed.
At his heels Tom jogged to keep up, wishing the man would slow down
a little.

"But how can you know where
they are?" he questioned, panting, out of breath.

Paying no heed to the boy's
doubtful tone, the warrior merely grunted. Then, after a pause, he
said. "Your friend and I have a new relationship. You can be sure
that I will find him."

Hearing this, Tom knew it was
pointless to question the man further on the matter, so he decided
to save what little breath he had and to concentrate on staying as
close to Dredger as he could. He was acutely aware that the warrior
had dangerous fires smouldering within him, that could burst into
violent flame at any moment, but he was also an ally, who had
helped them on numerous occasions, and Tom was determined that they
would not be separated from him again.

As they hurried on through the
thick fog, his mind began to dwell upon all that had happened to
him, the need to understand it all becoming more and more urgent.
But the only thing that really struck him was the way in which he
had come to accept the bizarre events he had witnessed, since
somehow slipping from his own world into these magical, yet deadly
lands. He had almost become accustomed to the games the White Wolf
played with them, and though it seemed a strange observation, Tom
had come to believe that in many respects this world was clearer
and easier to define than his own. For in the place that he had
been born and educated, everything was indistinct, troubles passing
over people like shadows, subtle, sometimes intangible, but always
dark, and always felt. He had heard of wars and murders, abuse and
deceptions, all committed by Mankind against their fellows and it
had confused him, for there was no evil Beast who could be blamed,
there was no White Wolf who could be held responsible. But now, in
this cruel, fantastic place, he had discovered that there was an
answer, or at least part of an answer, to why those terrible things
were happening. He had come to the conclusion that both this world
and his own were linked in a chain and that each kingdom, each link
in the chain, although separate, was yet a part of the next and he
felt sure that he, Jack, Mo and Dredger were fast approaching a
resolution that would explain the purpose of those myriad world’s
existence. He was still uncertain about what that might be, but he
knew in his heart that there was nothing more important. Tom smiled
grimly as he followed the warrior, surprised at the way his mind
worked, the thoughts and ideas he now entertained.

Turning a corner they went
along a dismal back alley, drains emitting a foul odour of decay
and for a moment the mist lifted revealing a white plaque upon the
wall. Gin Street.

"This isn't..." he started,
bemused that there should be a name on the sign at all, only to
have Dredger put up a hand and cut him short.

"Over there," the man told him
sternly, pointing toward a gloomy doorway.

Tom peered into the coiling
mist and could not make out what the man had seen, but as he drew
nearer, the stark reality of it bit deep into his mind. There, in
the shadows, Jack and the doctor both lay slumped against a wall.
But Tom felt no joy at having found them again, for neither had
stirred as he and Dredger approached. And on the ground beside
Jack, a small knife had been discarded, the blade smeared with
blood.

Standing there in the foggy
gloom, his heart empty, despair once more weighing upon him, Tom
tried to tell himself that everything was all right. But one glance
at Dredger's grim face told him things were very bad indeed.

Then Dr. Watson groaned, low
and stifled, but at least it was evidence that he still lived.
Crouching down beside the man, the warrior quickly examined him
with deft skill, but Tom's thoughts were with his friend and he
went to kneel beside the motionless boy.

"Jack," he said urgently, "it's
me, Tom, I made it back."

At first there was no response,
but just as Tom was about to speak again, Jack turned slightly, his
face pale, eyes fluttering open. "I made it go away," he said, his
voice feeble, barely to be heard, and Tom wanted to hug his friend,
his relief so great, almost ignoring the blood that soaked Jack's
shirt.

"What happened?" he asked with
concern, checking himself and through tired, watery eyes Jack
managed to look at his friend and smile.

"It's nothing…I can take it,"
he said with feigned courage.

Dredger, who had attended to
the doctor, now moved over to Jack, his expression calm and
businesslike. "Do not attempt to move," he ordered, assessing the
boy's injury.

Jack tried to smile again but
could only manage a grimace. "Is Mo here too?" he asked with
difficulty.

"For the moment let us concern
ourselves with your wound," Dredger told him and Jack gave a frail
nod, allowing the man to unbutton his shirt to reveal a bloody
incision in his stomach; to Tom's untrained eyes it looked to be
frighteningly deep, and judging by the way the blood was pumping
from the wound, it was as serious as he feared.

"Quickly," Dredger directed,
turning to Tom, "rip a thick piece of material from your
clothing."

"How long?" Tom questioned,
taking hold of his jumper.

"Just a thick piece," charged
the man, his impatient tone having its effect upon Tom.

Tearing at his clothing in a
frenzy, he produced a fair-sized length of material and held it out
to the warrior.

"Now," said Dredger, "place it
in the boy's mouth."

"Wh...what!?" Tom stuttered,
"but I thought it was to stop the blood?"

Dredger eyed him with a dour
expression. "There is no time for that, it is almost too late as it
is. If you want to save your friend, do as I say!" Tom obeyed,
placing the cloth into Jack's mouth. "Bite down hard!" the warrior
instructed and Tom watched as the boy clenched his teeth upon the
makeshift gag, his eyes wavering, showing white, unconsciousness
threatening to claim him.

Withdrawing a little to allow
Dredger more room to work, Tom saw the man kneel and lower his
hands toward Jack's wound, and though a hundred questions ran
through his head, matched by as many doubts, he realised that it
was much too late for words. He could only look on, helpless and
hope that the warrior knew what he was doing.

Dredger brought his hands
together upon the bloody hole gauged in Jack's stomach and it
seemed to Tom that the pressure was only causing more blood to
emerge, facilitating death's approach. Glancing at the face of his
friend, he saw Jack's eyes widen as pain assaulted him, Dredger's
fingers exploring the ugly gash, penetrating his flesh and Tom knew
that if it were not for the cloth the other boy bit down upon with
such determination, he would surely be screaming.

Blood covered the warrior's
hands now, but still he exerted pressure, delving into the wound.
Jack's eyes filled with tears as an agony, unlike anything he would
have believed possible, surged through him. He cried out, the sound
muffled by the wad of material in his mouth, but the man did not
stop.

His face lined with deep
concentration, tiny droplets of sweat running down across his brow,
Dredger spoke three words. "Heal thy wound."

And as Tom gazed down at the
hands of the warrior a miraculous thing occurred. From his fingers
a faint glow began to emanate, as if a golden thread, delicate as a
spider's web, was being woven from within Dredger's own skin,
passing out from him into Jack's wound to reconcile the severed
flesh, binding it together, the laceration disappearing with
startling speed.

Tom watched in disbelief. But
even though he felt astonishment and wonder at what he was
witnessing, he only had to look at Jack to see the intense pain he
was still enduring while the healing was in progress, to understand
that this was no simple exercise. And this was reinforced when he
glanced at the warrior, a tremendous weariness and strain etched
upon Dredger's features. He realised then that this magic did not
come without a price to be paid.