A Thundering of Monsters, page 3
Yet Rundel’s room was mostly bare. His shelves contained copies of books that detailed the laws of Piping, as well as histories of Tiviscan and the Custodian Elite. There was nothing by way of keepsakes, nothing that had even a pinch of sentimentality.
The room weighed heavily on Erner’s heart.
“How long has it been since we were last here?” Rundel said as they entered.
“We left the day after Patch Brightwater’s trial,” said Erner. “Four months back.”
“Four months . . . ,” said Rundel. “It feels like years.” He visibly sagged, leaning against his desk.
Erner insisted he get into his bed and rest. “I’ll wake you in plenty of time for the Council,” he said. Grumbling, Rundel took off his boots and coat and climbed into bed. He was asleep within moments, and Erner took the chance to lay a thick blanket over him.
He could do with sleep himself, but he wanted to visit the infirmary on the north wing first. There they had a small bathhouse that kept water heating from dawn to dusk, and Erner planned to ask them to keep one of the larger tubs free for his master.
Before he went anywhere, though, he opened a small closet next to Rundel’s desk and took out a folded coat. The coat was deerskin and had belonged to Patch—taken from him when he was brought to Tiviscan and jailed. Patch’s grandfather had made it for him, and Erner had promised to look after it; it had been here for safekeeping ever since. He unfolded it and hung it from a hook by the door.
He looked forward to returning it the next time they met.
Coming back from the infirmary, he passed by the notice board at the entrance to the Custodian Quarters. Neither he nor Rundel had paid it any attention on their arrival, but now he took the time to look over some of the notices pinned to it—a collection of local and worldwide decrees and pamphlets.
One of the pamphlets caught his eye, and he stared at it for a full minute before tearing it from its nail and hurrying to Rundel’s room.
“Virtus!” he cried as he entered. “Master!”
Rundel was quick to wake, as all law enforcers tend to be. “What is it?”
Erner thrust the single sheet of paper into his hands. “Skamos was destroyed,” he said.
Rundel read through the report. The details were sparse—a dragon army had forced the evacuation of the city of Skamos before destroying it “in moments with fearsome weapons.” He raised an eyebrow. “It must be exaggeration,” he said. “The rocks the dragons used on Tiviscan were effective, certainly, but damaging a castle is very different from destroying a city. The Council will no doubt have more information by now and will be planning their response.”
He looked at Erner’s worried face. “Patch Brightwater certainly has a habit of being in the wrong place at the wrong time,” he said. “But the report states the city was evacuated beforehand, so we must assume they’re all safe.”
“We can’t be sure of that,” said Erner.
“Trust me,” said Rundel. “The printers of such pamphlets wouldn’t fail to mention casualties if there were any. They think it makes for a much better read if deaths are plentiful. With luck, some of the dragons of the city would have answered Alia’s request for help, in which case even now they scour the forests of the Ortings, hunting down the Hamelyn Piper.”
“I hope you’re right,” said Erner.
“Don’t fret,” said Rundel. “We’ll hear encouraging news soon enough. For now, our task is unchanged! I gave Tobias and Alia my word not to tell the Pipers’ Council about their plans until we’re certain the Council can be trusted. I will tell them that Ural Casimir is dead, and I will tell them of my own brush with mortality, but news of the Black Knight must wait. If there’s even the slightest chance that any of them are in league with the Hamelyn Piper, it would be disastrous.” He shook his head. “Prophecies . . . ,” he said. “Whether you act on them or ignore them, they’re always trouble. I despise the things.”
Erner said nothing. A prophecy was the reason for their caution now—one spoken by Alia in a magical trance on Gemspar Mountain as she’d made the very first attempt to cure Wren’s curse. The prophecy had been a warning of betrayal that had eventually cast suspicion on the Pipers’ Council.
But the very same prophecy had already led to Erner being captured by mercenaries and held prisoner by pirates. It had almost cost him his life.
He despised prophecies just as much as Rundel did.
4
The Tentacle
Patch & Barver
A Piper’s gift was a very rare thing.
One of the most popular children’s games was to play at being a Piper, and that was sometimes the way a child realized they had the gift—finding that they could create simple forms of magic merely by whistling. Their friends would look on with envy.
The magic was greatly enhanced when a Pipe was used. An ordinary instrument like a flute had the opposite effect, robbing a Song of all strength, but a Pipe was specially crafted to enhance a Piper’s gift and transform those magical melodies into Songs of extraordinary power.
Now, as Patch played his Healing Song, he thought back to when he’d first discovered he had the gift. He would sit in the woods by his grandparents’ home, whistling and seeing the effect it had on the wildlife as they drew near, intrigued and playful. His younger self would have been astounded by the things he could achieve with Song now, his skills honed by his time at Tiviscan.
He focused his Healing Song on Cramber, as Tobias had instructed. The other griffins—Wintel and Merta—slept as he played, as did Barver. For the first two days, the dressings around Cramber’s midriff had been red with blood as his chest wound repeatedly tore open with his breathing. Now, the dressings were clean; as long as Cramber’s breathing was kept controlled, the wound shouldn’t tear again.
It was a challenge for Patch to maintain that slow, steady breathing with his Song. It required rapid finger work at times, and after an hour of playing he was worn out, but it was rewarding to see Cramber so serene.
There were two other Battle Pipers in their army who excelled at Healing Songs, and now one of them came to take over from Patch and to let him know that the attempt at climbing down the cliffs was about to begin.
Patch woke Barver, and together they returned to the glade where the rafts and scaffold were being built. All work had stopped, though. Everyone was leaving the glade and heading toward the nearest cliff edge. The pair followed and found thirty or so soldiers and a small group of Pipers lined up along the cliff, Alia and Tobias standing among them.
It was easy to spot who was intending to make the climb itself—two men and three women stood with rope tied between them. The bulk of the rope was coiled on the ground nearby, its end tied firmly to the trunk of a sycamore. After a little more preparation, one of the Battle Pipers began to play a Song that was very familiar to Patch—the Song of the Climb. The greatest effect would be felt by the volunteer climbers, of course, granting the skills needed to move easily from handhold to handhold, but inevitably some of its influence touched all those standing near. Patch felt his hands almost yearn for rock to grip. He moved closer to the cliff edge and looked down to the sea. A drop like that would have scared him without the Song, but not now.
He thought back to when his dungeon cell in Tiviscan Castle had been breached. He and Wren had almost fallen to their deaths, but with the Song of the Climb he’d managed to climb down the cliffs under the Castle and find safety—his little rat friend clinging on for dear life.
The volunteers were soon ready. A small team took the strain of the rope at the top of the cliff—ready to give out slack or to haul the climbers back if necessary.
The first climber lowered herself over the edge and started to descend. “Tricky going!” she called. “The rock crumbles easily in places—be careful!”
Progress was slow, the climbers losing their footing often as the fragile rock gave way. Everyone watched in silence as they got lower and lower down the cliff. One of the team letting out the rope called out from time to time to mark the progress: “Forty feet! Fifty feet!”
The climbers reached halfway down the cliff without trouble, and Patch could feel the relief in those around him. They all knew what was at stake here—if the climbers had lost consciousness and had to be pulled back up, all their plans would be in ruins.
But the relief was short-lived.
The ground began to shake, so slightly that Patch thought he’d imagined it at first. Then the shaking grew.
“There!” shouted a soldier, pointing to the sea at the base of the cliff. Patch looked in horror as a vast area of water frothed up, and from it emerged a shape so huge that it took a moment before he could accept what he was seeing.
A tentacle, rising from the depths!
Patch stared as it reached ever higher. The narrowing tip of the terrifying shape was now as high as the cliff itself; the base of the monstrosity was sixty feet thick at least, and rock seemed to flake off as it moved, as if it had been buried in the stuff.
Cries came from the climbers to pull them up at once, as the shaking ground caused pieces of the cliff wall to give way. The lower two climbers lost their holds and slipped, hanging helpless as the great tentacle moved toward them. The rope team hauled as quickly as they could, but it was a race that could only have one winner. The tentacle reached for the climbers, wrapping itself around them one by one as they cried out in fear.
Suddenly Patch was aware of other soldiers running to the cliff near him—archers with their bows ready. They loosed a volley at the tentacle before they were ordered to stop. The arrows bounced harmlessly off the dense flesh. The only danger was to the poor climbers now in its grip.
“Stand clear!” came a cry, and Patch knew the voice at once—it was Alia, purple sparks flowing around her hands as she prepared to do whatever she could to save those brave lives. Everyone backed away from the clifftop, giving Alia the room she needed. The climbers were screaming now, waved around by the colossal tentacle—brought close enough to the clifftop that Patch could see the absolute terror in their eyes before the tentacle swung away again.
Patch felt the power build as Alia’s concentration grew, a grim determination in her expression. The brightness of the purple sparks around her fingers intensified, and she leaned forward.
Here it comes, thought Patch—whatever Alia was planning, she was about to do it. And then he felt something else, some kind of heat in the air, and the grass itself seemed to glow with a ghostly white light that converged on Alia. She looked suddenly anxious, glancing around her as the glow rose at her feet like mist. With a crack like the breaking of a tree, the light leaped up and engulfed her. She collapsed to the ground. An instant later the light was gone.
Alia lay still.
The screams of the soldiers in the tentacle’s grasp drew Patch’s attention, the vast arm speeding near the clifftop again. This time it came even farther, coming over the grass, provoking shrieks from those who thought it was trying to capture more victims. Instead it slowed, almost resting on the ground at the top of the cliff. When it pulled away this time, the climbers were left behind—gasping for breath, shocked beyond measure.
But unharmed.
The tentacle began to slip beneath the waves, and within mere seconds it had gone completely. The rumble beneath their feet settled too.
Soldiers ran to the climbers and helped them come away from the edge. Alia got to her feet and stared out to sea, looking strangely lost. Patch and Barver hurried over to her, but they were beaten to it by Tobias.
“It seems the raft idea has hit a major snag . . . ,” said Alia, despondent.
“Are you injured?” said Tobias, his anguish clear. “When the light engulfed you, I feared for your life.”
Alia waved his concerns away. “That was a warning,” she said. “The magic in this place doesn’t take kindly to the interference of upstart Sorcerers, apparently, but if it had wanted me dead I’d be little more than ash by now. The next time I try something like that, I suspect it won’t end so well.” She looked to the weary climbers, who were hurrying to untie their ropes.
“I can still try to fly around the coast,” said Barver. “I’m sure I could evade the tentacle, if I was quick.”
“It was a warning to us all, Barver,” she said. “That . . . thing could crush you in an instant. You’re forbidden from risking it.”
“But I—”
“Forbidden!” She stared out to sea. “I can’t lose anyone else, Barver. I can’t.”
Patch’s hand instinctively went to the cross-eyed owl. “She’s right,” he said. “Don’t. Please.”
But Barver wasn’t giving in so easily. “Then let me fly straight out,” he said. “And get help that way! If I’m swift enough, something that large wouldn’t have a chance of catching me, and—”
“No, Barver!” shouted Alia. “Even if you didn’t lose consciousness after a hundred yards and plummet to your doom, there’s something else. If you’d been paying attention, you would have seen it when the arrows flew at that beast.” She called over two of the archers. “Each of you, fire one arrow out to sea,” she ordered. “The greatest distance you can manage.”
The archers pulled back their bows and fired high. The arrows soared, going beyond where the tentacle had been, and then:
They shattered in the air, stopped by an invisible barrier.
“You see?” said Alia. “There’s no escape out there.”
“Alkeran escaped!” said Barver. “He was injured and threw himself into the sea. And no great sea monster devoured him!”
Alia nodded. “That’s true,” she said. “Perhaps this place took pity on him and let him go.” She pointed to the water, where the tentacle had submerged. “But did that look like a beast that would simply let us leave?”
“Then what?” said Barver. “What do we do next?”
But Barver already knew what, really. All of them did. They turned to look back inland, toward the meadow, and beyond.
“Next, we see what creatures are waiting among the bone trees,” said Alia. “It’s time to talk to your father again, Barver.”
Barver took the pigeon and rabbit that the cooks had put aside and returned to his father’s cave. This time Alia, Tobias, and Patch went with him, which was a first—Barver had asked that his father be left alone by the others, at least to begin with. After twelve years without company, Gaverry Tenso—for that was his name—was deeply uneasy about the presence of so many new arrivals.
“Are you sure he’ll be okay with us coming?” asked Patch as they approached.
“He needs to get used to it,” said Barver. “Give me a moment to see if he’s awake.”
Barver went inside while the other three waited. Soon enough, Barver appeared again and gestured for them to enter.
“Forgive the mess,” said a deep voice from shadows at the far side. The cave was dim, with only the natural light from the entrance. A hundred feet wide, it was high enough that Barver didn’t even have to crouch. Around the edges of the cave were dozens of pieces of carved wood; wood offcuts and shavings were strewn across the bare-rock floor. The carvings, Barver had told Patch, had been his father’s savior all these years. The griffin would cut down trees with his great claws and use the wood to create the carvings. Patch had been expecting rough-hewn things, but instead they were beautiful, ranging from sculptures of animals to abstract spheres with intricate swirling patterns etched into the surface. He marveled that such delicate work could be achieved with a griffin’s huge claws.
Gaverry Tenso stepped forward with a nervous smile. Around his neck was a great metal collar attached to a heavy chain that looped on the floor. There was enough slack there, Barver had said, for him to get a few hundred feet from the cave, allowing him to hunt his food and reach a water spring.
He was significantly larger than Barver, his coloring black and green; his feathers didn’t have the same luster that other griffins had, and those around his collar were ragged and sparse.
“You remember Patch?” said Barver. “You met him that first day.”
Gaverry nodded. “Now that my son has told me all about your adventures together, it’s good to see you again, Patch.” He came closer and reached out his hands. It was the griffin way to shake two hands at once, so Patch reached out his own.
“And you,” he said. Even though he was used to Barver, Gaverry’s hands seemed huge; Patch was very aware of how sharp those claws must be. But the handshake was as gentle as the wood carvings were delicate.
“And these are Alia and Tobias,” said Barver.
Gaverry smiled and shook hands with them both. “My son has been telling me about the Hamelyn Piper and the Eight. He told me both of you were among those great heroes, but that I’m not to bring it up because you don’t like talking about it.”
“He doesn’t filter anything,” said Barver. “You get used to it.”
“Out of practice!” said Gaverry. “Sorry! My friends here never complain.” He nodded to the carvings. “But I’m trying hard. I’ll endeavor not to break wind while you’re in here, as it might overpower you.”
Barver raised an eyebrow. “I brought some food,” he said, offering up the rabbits and pigeons.
Gaverry took them and had a deep sniff. “Wonderful!” he said. “Cooked food is such a joy! I envy my son, always having his own source of fire. The greatest benefit of being half-dragon, I’d say. Anyone want some?”
“We’ve eaten,” said Alia. “This is all for you.”
Gaverry sat and picked out a piece of rabbit, relishing it as Alia and Tobias told him of the day’s events and their intent to venture into the bone trees.
“I did wonder what was happening,” Gaverry told them. “I felt the ground shake and could hear your shouts and screams, but there are too many trees between here and there for me to see what was going on.”
“Has it happened before?” asked Alia.
“The shaking ground, yes,” he said. “But I’ve never seen a tentacle rise from the depths! It’s quite impressive that you’ve annoyed this place so much, given how short a time you’ve been here.”
