The Rose of the World (69 page)

‘Fent!’

Slowly, the creature’s head swivelled to search her out, the eyes fixed themselves upon her. Then a curtain of smoke came down again, obscuring one from the other. Even so, Katla felt her heart flip, felt a seed of doubt take root in her stomach and send its shoots flowing up through her breast and down into her knees, making her tremble. What appalling fate had overtaken her brother since last she had seen him, tricking her into the knot-game on the top of the Hound’s Tooth, jeering at her as he and his treacherous friend had bound and gagged her and then left her tied to a chair, before running down the cliff path to take her place on her father’s ship? And whatever must have become of the rest of her father’s expedition? How on Elda could two of its members have turned up on the opposite side of the world to the arctic seas around Sanctuary, one dead in the desert, the other – her own twin brother – made a monster and now fighting her friends amidst the dead in the bowels of a volcano? Abruptly, she felt herself out of her depth, displaced; afraid.

Katla . . . Katla . . . You have come . . . I feel you near me. Take strength from the sword. Soon I shall be free . . .

The sword heard the voice of its master, even if Katla was too disorientated to heed it. It swung towards the thing which had been Fent as if of its own accord and suddenly she found that she was running, her feet dragged forward, unwilling, to confront her brother. Up went the sword, then down in a great shearing blow. The monstrous arm rose to fend off the falling blade and a terrible screech ripped through the air as the blade ground and scraped on the adamantine substance of that limb. Katla staggered back, feeling her own arm go numb to the elbow, and watched in amazement as the flames that ran the length of the sword turned purple, then green, then all manner of other unnatural hues.

Fent laughed and, turning, found that his other three opponents had had the nerve to creep closer while he dealt with his sister. Lunging out, he sent the hillman flying backwards with a single murderous swipe. Then he turned his attention back to Katla, who was still fighting to keep control of the sword as it whirled wildly through the air.

‘Ha, sister!’ the monster cried, and even the timbre of Fent’s voice was changed, for it was low and booming where before it had been light and nasal, and where before it had owned an edge of sharp malice, now that edge had been honed to a steely nonchalance.‘Now it is truly just like one of the old hero tales, as twin fights twin, one light, one dark, for the fate of the world!’

Then he came at her with a single bounding leap, the curved blade of his new hand levelled at her head. Katla ducked and spun, bringing the greatsword up in a scything stroke of her own. Again, claw met blade and sparks flew like hot iron off a whetstone. Breathing hard, Katla fell back, considering her next move.

‘Tired already, sister? Surely not – we’ve only just begun!’

‘Fent – Fent – what has happened to you?’ she panted. ‘What have you become?’

‘What – you mean this?’ He wielded the limb at her, grinning madly. ‘I don’t remember you complaining when the seither gave you back your arm! Rahe has made me what I should always have been. You, you have a sword and I—’

The arm came crashing down and the sword swung up desperately and spun off it with a screech. Katla danced backwards, trying to keep her balance. If she fell he would not spare her, she knew it with a terrible, deep certainty. There was no feeling left in him at all. Nevertheless, she had to try to engage him somehow.

‘Rahe – who is Rahe? Did you reach Sanctuary? Did the expedition succeed? Where is Da?’

‘So many questions, sister! Still the yapping little fox-haired bitch, I see.’

Again, the claw came down at her in a blur of darkness, and again Katla slipped away and let the sword take its swing. This time, the blade ricocheted off the strange limb, catching Fent on the shoulder, and he hissed in what might have been pain.

‘That was not friendly, Katla. Not friendly at all.’

Now he leapt high, right over her head, so that she was forced to fall to her knees to avoid him; but as if attached to the monstrous boy by an invisible thread, the sword followed him, dragging her arms around in an uncomfortable arc, this time nicking at his legs.

Fent let fly a howl of fury and he turned and thrashed the inviolate limb down on the blade so that it rang and chimed. Black smoke billowed off it; but when the smoke cleared, the fire which encompassed it burned brighter than ever.

Saro watched this unnerving bout feeling as if he were in a dream and sunk to the waist in rising sand. He could barely make out what was happening down below him, for there was a frantic bustle of activity everywhere he looked, all obscured by belching smoke and vapours. In the spaces where the smoke cleared, he thought he glimpsed the dead in the heart of the volcano, where no live thing could ever exist, dislodging rock after rock as if digging for treasure. Meanwhile, the three figures on the other side of the chamber dodged in and out of view, striking and falling back. Then he saw Persoa hurled against the wall as if by a giant’s hand, saw the hillman strike the rock with a crash and slide to the ground, and lie there dazed; or dead.

With his heart in his mouth, he searched for Katla, only to see her on her knees, the greatsword held unsteadily overhead. He looked down at the weapon he held in his own hand with misgiving: what could he do to help Katla with this small notched weapon he bore? Especially against a warrior who moved so fast it was impossible to follow his movements. But he had vowed to fight with her, to guard her back against all comers, and no matter how short the odds of survival, he knew he must keep his word. With a yell, he shook off his torpor and charged down into the hellish arena, sword raised like an axe.

More by luck than by judgement he managed not to fall into the bubbling pit of fire, though smoke drifted everywhere as thick as cloth. He waved his arm frantically about and as the vapour cleared before him, he saw the thing Katla had called Fent barely two yards away, bearing down upon her with a feral grin.

Yelping, Saro ran at him, keeping low. He had meant to take him in the stomach with the ball of his skull, but the monster was too quick for him. Sidestepping, it caught him a glancing blow with its more ordinary hand, sending him sprawling. But Saro was not to be dismissed so lightly, and shoving himself upright again with a speed born of sheer desperation, he flicked out with the dead man’s sword and managed to stick the point of the blade into the crook of Fent’s knee as he charged again at Katla.

Fent stumbled, then snarled with rage and whipped around; and now Saro truly knew the meaning of fear as he got his first good look at Katla’s opponent. For here in front of him was a perverse reflection of his beloved. The figure was small and wiry, with whipcord muscle and pointed features just like Katla’s: except where her skin was a pale golden, this creature’s was black as if charred; yet smooth and unblemished, unmarked by battle or fire. Its hair, standing out in a wild red halo, was the exact same hue as Katla’s, and the mad blue eyes which crackled fiercely out of its fine-boned face reminded him uncomfortably of Katla’s eyes when she took back the greatsword from him in Jetra Castle and he had thought himself about to die.

And when the thing raised its arm he saw with horror and disgust that this was where any resemblance to Katla Aransen ended: for the appendage was far removed from the likeness of any human limb, being hard and massive and shaped like the claw of a Galian lobster, with two great cutting blades which clacked one against the other, the edges serrated, slightly overlapping, razor sharp.

He brought his sword up in a despairing gesture and waited for the killing blow to fall. For a moment, he even closed his eyes. At least he had won Katla a few seconds, he thought. She might have had time to scramble away. Then something jostled his elbow, something warm and silky-hard, and when he looked down, there was Bëte at his side, shoulders bunched, muzzle wrinkled in fear and anger, black gums curled back to expose her great fangs, her amber eyes fixed on the advancing figure. The roar she gave throat to hummed and buzzed in his breastbone, giving him both heart and strength. He remembered the fighting spirit of the little cat he had rescued at his villa, a tiny thing against what must have seemed to it overwhelming odds. Feeling the despair slough away from him, he ran full tilt the monster.

Man and Beast they struck Fent together, and their joined momentum bowled him over. Suddenly, Saro found himself on the lip of the pit, teetering dangerously; then sharp teeth sank themselves into belt and cloth and skin and dragged him back. But in that moment, he glimpsed a bizarre sight down there: the army of dead men – or the few of them who were left – were unearthing a figure from the depths of the heart of the mountain, a figure which had been weighted down with massive boulders and pillows of cooled lava. It was a man; but beyond that the figure defied description. It had the semblance of flesh, the shape of flesh, but he swore that through that flesh he could make out the molten rock beneath it, as if it were ghostly: the shade of what had once been a man and now was but a vision.

‘What is that?’ he cried wildly.

It seemed the world had changed shape again, become surreal, more dreamlike than before; for now there was a voice in his head and he knew it to belong to the great cat; knew it with the core of him which knew truth from seeming.

The God lies below you; and he is being raised.

Three shall become one again, and Rahe shall be cast down! But first we must deal with this creature he has sent against us, for it is indefatigable and filled with stolen magic!

There was a shriek from behind them and Saro turned again, with dread, to find Katla fallen and the black figure pinning her to the ground with its massive claw. The greatsword lay some distance away, its flames all but extinguished.

‘Bëte!’ he cried. ‘Save her!’

But another got there first.

The red-bearded man flung himself across the smoking ground and thrust himself between Fent, kicking the great claw away from the girl. He towered over the black figure; but for all that, he had no weapon; nor any clothes, either, save a twist of filthy cloth around his hips. Even so, he bared his teeth at Fent as if willing him to do his worst. Incongruously, Saro felt a great wave of jealousy crash over him, seeing the man guarding Katla like a wolf standing over his fallen mate.

Then a cloud of smoke billowed up out of the pit and swarmed over everything and Saro could see no more.

When it cleared, an even more alarming sight met his eyes. The red-bearded man lay collapsed across Katla’s body. There was blood everywhere, over the man, over the ground; over Katla. It was impossible to tell whose blood it was: both lay motionless. Saro felt his heart stop, and knew then that if she died, he did not want it to start again. He felt a great howl welling up inside him, but before he could give voice to it, the pit erupted.

The dead came swarming up into the chamber, their hair and skin on fire, and the black figure – having dealt with the irritating creatures which had stood in the way of its true goal – scythed them down one by one as if they were no more than nettles in a field. Then it reached down into the molten rock and with superhuman strength hauled out the essence of the incorporeal god which had lain buried there these long centuries.

It was Bëte who gave voice to the howl Saro had felt building inside him. She ran to the edge of the pit and stared in as the black figure closed its terrible pincers over her fellow deity, her claws digging into the rock as if she might leap into the fires to save Sirio from Rahe’s monster. But even from where he stood, Saro could see how the intense heat of the mountain’s heart seared her eyes and burned her fur: the awful acrid scent of it filled his nostrils. If she jumped into that cauldron of fire, she would die within seconds; and none would benefit from such a sacrifice.

Weak from his three-hundred-year imprisonment, Sirio squirmed in Fent’s grasp. At last, he gave a mighty cry. The four he had summoned from the corners of Elda had failed him at the last; and now all would be lost.

Saro felt the deathstone burning his skin.

‘No,’ he whispered. ‘No. I cannot use it again. Not even for this.’

And if Katla is dying, would you use it then?

Saro clenched his fist around the stone, tears burning his eyes. Would he? He did not know, though he thought he might, despite the worst consequences. Turning away from the struggle that was playing itself out in the pit, Saro stumbled across the smoking ground to where Katla and the redhaired man lay fatally entwined and cast himself to his knees beside them.

Neither figure moved. Blood had run across Katla’s face, pooling at her nose and mouth, giving her a mask of gore and streaks of darker red amongst the flame of her hair. Tam Fox lay face-up across her, a great rent in the flesh of his shoulder and chest.
Let it be his wound which covers Katla in blood,
Saro prayed guiltily.
Let her be all right. Anything, I will give anything if she is all right.

The moodstone pulsed and shone.

With trembling fingers, he tied his tunic tight shut over the stone and tried to ignore its insistent presence. Would he turn her into one of these grey-skinned afterwalkers? Could he condemn her to the sort of shambling life-in-death he had seen of Alisha’s army? He knew he could not. ‘Katla,’ he said softly. ‘Katla, don’t be dead.’

There was no response. Gingerly, he touched her face. Her skin felt cool and unresponsive beneath his fingers, and slightly damp, like trodden mud. He laid his cheek to her nose and mouth, but could feel no breath. Nor, when he pressed the vein in her neck could he feel the slightest beat of blood there.

Silently, Saro wept.

And now a new voice rose in a wail. Saro’s head snapped up. He twisted around to locate the source of the sound; and there was Mam, cradling the body of the hillman who lay crumpled on the ground below the rock against which he had been flung.