The Lost Realm Page 24

  The imaginary Pip smiled, and when Gulph opened his eyes again a great cloud of smoke had drifted over the arch to shroud the severed heads. Now that Nynus and Magritt were no longer staring down at him with their dead, accusatory gazes, he found the strength to move on.

  Beyond the gate Gulph saw no evidence of the strange combat that he’d encountered outside. In fact, Idilliam appeared to be deserted. He picked his way carefully through the city, keeping to the edges of the roads to avoid the puddles of blood running down the central gutters.

  Blood, but no corpses. Where are they all?

  Peering in through the grimy windows of a tavern, he saw that the barroom was full of people. His heart lifted . . . then he saw the torn flesh hanging slack from their faces and the raw bone jutting from the ends of their fingers.

  He hurried on. All the buildings Gulph passed were filled with the undead. He saw nobody alive. As he made his way through the maze of streets, gradually approaching the great walls of Castle Tor, it dawned on him that Idilliam was no longer a city.

  It’s just one giant tomb.

  Rounding another corner, Gulph found himself looking up at the towering stonework of the castle’s western wall. With a start he realized he’d stood on this exact spot before, shortly after he and Nynus had escaped from the Vault of Heaven.

  I climbed the wall. I wanted to get inside and rescue my friends. Then the guards came. . . .

  It seemed so long ago.

  Now here he was again, in the same place, with the same hope. The glimpse he’d had of Sidebottom John’s memories had shown his friends in chains. That meant they were probably in the castle, or perhaps the Vault of Heaven.

  “Pip?” he breathed. “Where are you?”

  The sun glanced off something shiny. It seemed to be hanging right in front of his eyes. The tip of Kalia’s crystal sword! Gulph watched in dismay as the blade steadily became visible. In a moment he would be able to see the sword’s hilt and his own hand wrapped around it. And then . . .

  Gulph ducked into a nearby alley. Squeezing his way between two slumped, timber-framed buildings, he hid behind a mound of moldering crates and rotting vegetables. His heart was hammering.

  Both his hands were now visible. He held his breath, concentrating, trying to conjure up those essential sensations—sand, heat—but to no avail. He let out his breath with a gasp. He’d never felt so exhausted.

  Come on, Gulph! If they see me, you’ll be just another corpse wandering about the ruins. . . .

  Forcing himself to relax, he made ready to try again. But before he could collect his thoughts, the pile of rubbish to his right stood up.

  Crying out, Gulph stumbled backward. What new monster was this?

  The thing advanced. It seemed to be made of broken wood and compost: a hideous, lurching demon with misshapen arms and a head covered in fungus. Muck showered from it like poisoned rain.

  Gulph held up the sword, aware now that most of his body was visible. The muck monster came on, shedding its outer covering to reveal what he should have guessed was underneath: the naked bones of one of the undead.

  The tottering corpse made a sudden lunge. The fungus collapsed in an awful avalanche, revealing a grinning skull. A single toadstool jutted from one eye socket, its red-and-white spotted cap looking hideously jaunty.

  Shouting again, Gulph swung Kalia’s sword. The blade hissed through the air, crystal bit into bone, and the skeleton folded up like a child’s puzzle. It hit the ground with a soft thump, no longer a monster, merely the remains of some poor soul who’d already passed on to a distant place.

  A better place, I hope.

  Gulph felt the rest of the invisibility leave him in a kind of gusting sigh. It was a relief. Using his power was like tightening all his muscles at the same time: tense and tiring.

  But I’m going to have to do it again to find—

  “Gulph? Is it you? Is it really you?”

  The voice was frail and wondering. Lowering the sword, Gulph turned slowly around. Someone stood in the sunlight at the end of the alley: someone small, dressed in a grimy red jerkin and green britches.

  It was Pip.

  His throat too tight to speak, Gulph stumbled out of the alley and swept her up in his arms. He held her tight, and when her arms wrapped around him and hugged him back, he started to cry.

  They stayed that way for a long time, until Gulph finally relaxed his hold and stepped away from his oldest friend. He looked her up and down, taking in her thin body, the filthy state of her clothes, the hollowness in her cheeks, and his joy turned to a fierce breed of sorrow.

  “What have they done to you?”

  “I’m alive.” Pip’s hand crept shyly to his cheek, then dropped again. There was an iron manacle around her wrist. “And so are you. That’s all that matters.”

  “What about the others? The Tangletree Players?”

  “They’re all right.”

  “Are they really? Pip, what’s this?” Gulph touched the manacle.

  She looked away. “He keeps us chained.”

  “Who? Who keeps you chained?” But he already knew.

  “Brutan. We’re his players now. He . . . I don’t know how, but he sees to it that the . . . the dead ones don’t touch us. We perform for him. It keeps us alive.” Tears left clean trails in the grime on her cheeks.

  “Well, you don’t have to perform anymore. I’m here to rescue you, Pip. All of you.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t see how . . .”

  “I’ve learned a lot since I saw you last. Watch this.”

  Gulph took a step back. Forcing away his tiredness, he made himself invisible. Doing so made his head throb. He held it for just a moment, then returned his body to the visible world.

  Pip’s face dropped. “Oh. Everything’s changed, hasn’t it, Gulph?”

  The sadness in her eyes made Gulph want to cry again.

  “Some of it’s for the better, Pip. I promise.”

  “Do I know you, Gulph? Do I really know you?”

  “It’s me, Pip. It really is. I’ll explain it to you, all of it, but it’ll have to wait. We have to go to the others now. Will you take me?”

  “Of course I will.” But she didn’t move, just stared unhappily at the ground.

  “Pip? Are you all right?”

  She lifted her head and whispered, “Come on, then.”

  Keeping to the narrow side streets, they circled around the castle until they reached the huge southern entrance. Like the main city gates, it stood wide open. A crowd of the undead milled around in the courtyard beyond, some walking in circles, many just standing still and staring at the ground.

  Gulph held back, nervous about approaching. He’d spent many days here as Nynus’s chief courtier. Castle Tor should have felt familiar; instead it seemed overwhelmingly strange.

  “We’ll be safe,” said Pip. “You’ll see. Can you do that . . . that trick again?”

  Making himself invisible once more, Gulph followed her through the towering gates and into the courtyard. The walking corpses turned to watch Pip as she passed, the flames that served them as eyes brightening with greed. Skeletal hands reached for her, then drew back at the last moment, repelled by whatever unseen shield served her as protection. Gulph’s hand twitched on the hilt of his sword. But they passed through the crowd unmolested.

  Pip led him to a tower jutting from the inner curtain wall. She pulled open a door, kicking aside a swatch of black cloth that had blown against it. Gulph recognized the pattern: it was the standard of King Nynus, which had once flown on every mast over the castle.

  Looking up, he saw a new flag fluttering in the breeze over the tower: the red pennant of Brutan, flying over Castle Tor once again.

  Inside the castle, Gulph’s sense of strangeness increased. He knew every twist and turn of its corridors; at the same time it felt like a foreign land. The fine tapestries that had once lined the ancient stone walls had been torn down. Every piece of wooden furniture
they passed had been smashed. Pictures had been slashed or smeared with what looked like blood.

  The devastation filled him with sadness. He adjusted the bundle on his back, sensing the weight of the gold crown inside.

  The kingdom will know peace again. I’ll make sure of it.

  Like the rest of Idilliam, the castle was now inhabited by the undead. They thronged the junctions where the corridors crossed, and every time Gulph and Pip had to force their way through another crowd of corpses, Gulph gritted his teeth, convinced Pip would be attacked.

  But although it was obvious the undead wanted to tear into her, Pip’s immunity kept them at bay.

  Will it be as easy coming out? Gulph wondered.

  At last they reached the throne room. Gulph steeled himself. The first time he’d been here, he’d been wearing a ridiculous bakaliss costume and carrying a poisoned crown. Later, he’d served in the throne room under King Nynus, watching helplessly as he’d tortured children in a bid to find the triplets of the prophecy.

  Pip must have sensed his hesitation. “What’s wrong, Gulph? Do you want to go back?”

  He shook himself. “I’m all right. I just heard an echo of something.”

  “Maybe we should turn around.”

  “What? Why?”

  “It’s just that . . . I don’t think this is going to work.”

  “I’m not leaving you here. Not any of you.”

  Pip twisted her hands. Her face was a mask of agony. “Just go, Gulph. Please, this was a mistake. He’s going to—”

  A thick, broken voice boomed out from the throne room.

  “Little one! I see you there in the shadows. Come to me. Come to me now!”

  “It’s too late for me,” Pip moaned, “but you can still get away. Just go, Gulph!”

  Shoulders slumped, she stepped into the throne room.

  Go? Gulph thought. That’s the last thing I’m going to do!

  But he’d gone only three steps before he realized he could see his hands, floating in the air before him. He concentrated, trying to render them invisible again, but his head felt ready to burst. He looked down at his body in despair as, little by little, it formed itself out of thin air.

  He stopped, torn between wanting to follow Pip and knowing that staying invisible gave him the only advantage he had: surprise.

  All I need is a few moments of rest, then the power will come back.

  But would it?

  Heart thudding, Gulph peered through the giant doorway. The throne room looked much as he remembered it: a long chamber with a high ceiling. During Nynus’s brief reign, he’d ordered the wooden shutters to be drawn over the windows, so sensitive was he to daylight. The shutters had remained in place, although many of the timbers were broken. The sun sliced through the gaps, thin swords of light cutting the dusty air.

  At the far end of the room, standing on a wooden platform, was the throne. On it sat Brutan, Gulph’s father and the undead king of Toronia.

  Rotten flesh clung to his bones in malformed clumps. His once-fine robes had been reduced to shreds of dirty cloth. His face was little more than a vacant skull. In its eye sockets, red flames danced.

  Skipping clumsily in a circle before the undead king were the Tangletree Players.

  Noddy! Oh, there’s Willum, and Simeon . . . Gulph’s hand went to his mouth as he picked out each of his old friends in turn. He’d half expected to find them undead, mere shadows of their former selves.

  Dorry! Gulph thought suddenly. I can’t see Dorry!

  As he watched, Noddy tripped over the wooden hobbyhorse he’d been riding. Metal clanked as he fell to the floor, and Gulph saw they were all wearing chains. No wonder their movements were clumsy.

  No, he thought, it’s more than that. They’re so tired they’re about to collapse.

  A liquid bellow rose up from the end of the hall, accompanied by a repetitive thumping sound. The thumping came from Brutan’s skeletal hand as he pounded it on the arm of the throne. The bellow, Gulph realized, was laughter.

  “Up again!” thundered the undead king in his dreadful, broken voice. “Up again and fall! We like to see you fall!”

  By now Pip had reached the spot where the players were going through their weary performance. As she helped Noddy to his feet, Brutan lurched up out of the throne. Despite his wasted appearance, he was still enormous.

  “Little one!” he roared. “Come forward! What news?”

  Gulph stared at Pip, confused. Did Brutan send the players out to spy on Idilliam? Was that why he’d kept them alive?

  “You are the last, little one,” Brutan went on. “Did you succeed where the others failed? Or does another one of you have to die?”

  “Please,” said Noddy. “We don’t want to die.”

  “Oh, but you do it so well!”

  Dorry? Do you mean Dorry?

  An image formed in Gulph’s mind: the undead king taking the little juggler and breaking him like a branch. Poor Dorry’s face growing pale and slack, then flames rising in his dead eyes. . . .

  “Well?!” bellowed the undead king, impatient for an answer. He rose from his throne and lumbered off the platform. He was huge and awkward, a dead man with the bulk of a bear and no more grace than a puppet.

  The players stood in silence, their heads hanging. Only Pip looked at the oncoming king.

  Brutan’s hand shot out and grabbed Noddy around the throat. Noddy’s shriek was cut off as fingers of bone dug into his flesh.

  “You know something,” growled Brutan, his burning eyes turned toward Pip. “Tell me what it is, or this one joins my army.”

  “Let him go!” cried Pip.

  “I think not. What do you know?”

  “Nothing!”

  Noddy beat his fists weakly against Brutan’s slime-covered arms.

  “Pity,” Brutan remarked. “This one is nearly done. Never mind, there are plenty more.”

  “All right!” Pip screamed. “I’ll do it! Just let him go!”

  Sobbing uncontrollably, she ran toward the doorway where Gulph was hiding. When she reached him, he opened his arms to catch her.

  “Pip! What did he ask you to do? Why did he . . . ?”

  To his surprise, Pip evaded his arms and seized him by the wrist. Kalia’s crystal sword flew from his hand and hit the floor with a musical chime.

  “I’m sorry,” she wept.

  Gulph was too shocked to protest. Strong despite her small size, Pip hauled him to the center of the throne room. One by one, the faces of the Tangletree Players turned toward him.

  Slowly, Brutan released his grip on Noddy’s throat. The fire in his eyes burned brighter.

  Pip brought Gulph to a halt before what had once been his father. At the same time, the shadows behind the throne shifted, coalescing into the shapes of a dozen undead legionnaires. Rotten flesh hung beneath their bronze armor; in the narrow beams of sunlight, their bare skulls grinned.

  “I’m sorry,” Pip repeated. She began to cry. “King Brutan, please, don’t kill them. Just let them live.”

  “Is this him?” grunted Brutan, cocking his grotesque head to one side. “Is this really him?”

  Pip’s hand left Gulph’s wrist. Gulph reached for her, confused, wanting to comfort her, wanting to run. . . .

  “Pip,” he said. Pain pounded through his head. The whole throne room seemed to be spinning. “What’s going on?”

  She shook him off. She took a step toward Brutan.

  “We made a deal!” she sobbed. “I’ve done what you asked. Now let the rest of them go!”

  “What, Pip?” said Gulph. “What have you done?”

  Pip gave him a final look, her face twisted with sorrow. Then she turned to Brutan.

  “Here he is,” she said. “I’ve found him, and I’ve brought him to you. Here he is, Brutan. Here is your son.”

  CT THREE

  CHAPTER 22

  Elodie sat on the bench by her bedroom window. Outside, fog lingered over the castle, as if it
had sunk to the bottom of a deep and featureless lake. Elodie guessed that noon was approaching, but she couldn’t be sure; the sun was nowhere to be seen.

  In her hands was the garrote.

  Elodie turned it over, revolted by the slickness of the leather, fascinated by its intricate weave. She’d spotted it lying in the courtyard when they’d cantered back from Hamblebury, still believing they could save Lady Vicerin, and something had compelled her to pick it up. Now she couldn’t put it down.

  This thing nearly killed me.

  Except that wasn’t quite right.

  That man nearly killed me.

  The Galadronian assassin had been executed, yet still the thought of him filled her with dread. She ran her trembling fingers over the garrote, half expecting the evil thing to leap from her hands and wrap itself around her throat. To complete the task for which it had been made.

  She started. Something had changed.

  The leather had felt smooth at first; now it was coarse and gritty. The bench was changing too, its wooden surface shifting beneath her like a slowly rising wave, growing suddenly hot. Something like the sun baked the back of her neck, but when she turned to the window, she saw only the flat gray face of the fog.

  A pale man-shape flitted across her vision. A soft thud made the air shake, although she would have sworn she’d heard nothing. A sigh followed, low and sad.

  There was someone else in the bedroom.

  The pace of Elodie’s heartbeat doubled. She stood, fingers clenched on the garrote. She wasn’t afraid, just . . .

  On the edge. I’m on the edge of something. But I don’t know what it is.

  “Who’s there?” she whispered, not wanting the guards she knew were outside the door to hear.

  Nothing. No reply.

  “Show yourself, ghost.”

  Still no response. The air was dry and hot. Her eyes stung, as if they were full of sand. Her mouth felt full of sand too.

  Why would there be sand in my bedroom?

  The man-shape reared up before her, suddenly there. She recognized him at once: it was the assassin who’d tried to kill her.

  Whose hanged body had only just been taken down from the gallows.