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I’m awash with guilt as we sweep over the mountainous landscape, heading for the far side of the peak. Not that I’d change my mind, but I hate leaving Curt behind, mostly because I don’t feel safe without him and there’s nothing safe about what I’m doing. Miserable self pity, cold fear and a compressed torso keep me quiet.
Wings swoops over the jagged edges of the drop, keeping tight to the contours of the land. It would have been sensible to launch our mission in darkness, but we’re well and truly out of time. One squawk escapes his beak and I peer up at him. Beady eyes catch my gaze and he cricks his neck sharply. I understand his signal and lift up a thumb in reply – we’re almost there.
As we sweep up to the mountain, that gothic monstrosity of a castle pokes through the clouds and I shiver. The last time I headed this way, I trembled in the clutches of Gulid and was about to be dropped onto the terrace. My knees still creak when I crouch. The grey rock with its coiled snake gargoyles now bears a mottled brown tinge, as though the whole castle is rusting. Triumphant mould creeps over the stone, claiming its freezing, empty prize from the dying clutches of the Snake Empire.
Leaving crumbling turrets behind, Wings soars up and over the mountain’s summit, burying us deep in rolling cloud cover. Slowly he circles, lowering through swirling mist until landscape peeps through the final wispy layer.
One glance at what lies below forces a huge intake of air into frozen lungs. Detail might be lost in distant perspective, but even this human eye can glean the mammoth size of the enemy incursion. A multitude of tents dot the open landscape, trees having been felled for fuel and to clear space, leaving a bald patch in the thick forest. Hundreds of camp fires fill the air with smoke. Between the tents, the entire landscape seems to undulate, flowing like lava or water. It takes my shocked mind a moment to interpret what I’m seeing: snakes, hundreds of them, slithering across the ground, and they must be huge serpents to register from this height. Eagles encircle the camp, frozen in place like statues.
I have no doubt now; Alpha’s decision was right. Our Alliance has no chance of defending against this display of might, even if their monstrous king should fall. Our pack must flee, yet in my heart of hearts I know flight won’t save them. Enslavement awaits my family and I’m not letting it happen. I didn’t face down creaking old age, constipation, hot flushes and hellish depression for nothing. I’m made of tougher stuff than you think.
A swift scan of the camp reveals no sign of a cat being kept prisoner. If it’s a kitten and easy to hide, I may never find it.
Wings drops through the clouds, divebombing for a dense area of trees on the outskirts of the camp. Just as I’m about to be plunged into leaves and branches, Wings tips sideways, slips through a gap between the rows of trees and bumps down onto one claw, hopping along the ground. He finally grinds to a halt resting the knuckles of his other claw in the dirt to prevent him keeling over onto his side. I tap on that claw and he opens, allowing me to roll out of his grip into the mud.
“Thanks,” I mouth, not bothering to wipe myself down.
Wings sidesteps until he’s hidden behind two tree trunks and a crop of lush undergrowth. He keeps nodding his head sideways.
“What?” I mouth.
He points his beak, stretching his neck, until I sidle up beside him and peer through the grass in that direction. Well, blow me down if he hasn’t dropped us on the very outskirts of the camp and right next to some sort of cart, draped in a leather tarpaulin, one wheel rim poking out from a corner. Whatever’s inside it isn’t at all happy, since it periodically rocks back and forth and emits a rattle, like something hard tapping against metal.
A thunderous roar sounds forth from under the cover, nearly bursting my eardrums and reverberating in my chest, even at this distance. Meow, my ample backside. That’s no kitten. I’d say Wings has found our cat and it’s a big one. Lord help me.
A man marches over and kicks a wheel. “Shut up or you don’t get any food.”
A symphony of grizzling follows that warning, but not the rumbling depth of roar from before. My whole body trembles at the prospect of facing what lurks under that tarpaulin and the eagle drops a wing around my shoulders. I look up at him and he shakes his feathered head, eyes wide.
“I’ll be fine,” I whisper. “It must be in a cage. As long as I keep clear, I’ll be fine. I just need to talk to it. I’ll be fine.”
Wings delivers a tiny squeak and swamps me in both wings. I part the feathers and peer back at him.
“Did you see that cart from up there?” I ask. His heads bobs a yes. “Great eyesight.”
He lifts his wings a few inches and shoves a beady eye right against my eyeball, as if to say, ‘I’m an eagle, don’t flannel me.’
“Don’t change,” I whisper, inserting my fingers between us and pushing his beak back. “We may need a fast getaway.” He frowns and jigs on the spot. “I’ll be careful. I promise. Be back before you know it.”
Not giving him time to stop me, I creep in the direction of the cart, carefully placing my feet in soft mud and grass to avoid the snap of twigs. As I approach the frozen eagles, encircling the camp, not a bird moves or blinks, with only the odd feather rising in the breeze. Strangely, they’re all facing inwards, not out at the surrounding forest or up above. Clearly, the serpents don’t expect any opposition. But then, why should they? The demented Armpit could defend the camp on his own.
A sudden flash of shiny green scales makes me drop low in the undergrowth. An enormous serpent slithers past, catching a living statue with the rattling end of his tail. The frozen eagle topples onto his side, lying in the mud with half his face submerged. The serpent continues on its journey without a backward glance at the bird’s distress. Even at his worst, I doubt Serpen treated his eagle servants with such utter disdain.
Serpents writhe over one another, twisting and sliding, their sheer height and bulk packing every inch of space. The cart stands on the edge of the camp to prevent it being smothered, which is good news for me. The thought of trying to slip through that den of worms makes me want to pass out.
And then I spot them.
Just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse. In amongst the serpents and eagles, plastering themselves against tent poles and trees as they inch their way from space to space, are two people I sincerely hoped never to lay eyes on again. It’s the poisonous messenger herself and the purveyor of patricide: Decipa Longfang and Big Wolf’s youngest son, Fidus.
Now I come to think of it, what better place for two traitors to hang out than with this lot? They don’t seem particularly happy, judging by the miserable look on their faces, but that’s hardly my concern. No doubt they’re giving up useful information to the enemy. I wondered how Armpit knew who I was, or Sospa.
That was your fault, my conscience points out, in the voice of my angry wolf.
Oh, shut up. The eagles probably told them, ages ago.
I glance back to discover whether Wings has seen the wolves. He has, but a mass of feathers waves at me to hurry up. I rise a few inches, then hurl myself flat in the mud as though I’m on elastic. The human version of Armpit weaves towards the cart and he looks like I used to feel after a night clubbing and too many cocktails. To wit, ghastly. He’s unsteady and panda eyed, stopping every few steps to lean on a tent rope, or a handy frozen eagle, all the time stroking that burnt out gemstone like it’s a beloved ailing pet.
He hauls the edge of the tarpaulin over his shoulder, gifting me a glimpse of metal bars as wide as my wrist. So, it’s not just a cart; it’s a mobile prison cell. I was right; the cat’s being held captive. The king groans as he bends and slips inside. A booming roar follows and the cart shakes as though hit by an earthquake. Two weaker growls fade into a whimper, then silence. Up goes the tarpaulin and Armpit reappears, minus the gemstone, wobbling back into the swarm of snakes.
It’s now or never. Onwards and upwards. Fortune favours the brave, or some such hogwash. I’m tiptoeing over to the cart like a cartoon villain doing Swan Lake, when my progress is arrested by the sight of the eagle on his side, beak almost submerged in a puddle. I can’t leave him like that. Wings will kill me when I get back, but I just can’t. Grabbing his shoulder, I push down until his body rotates, leaving him face up. It’s still undignified, but it’s better than blowing bubbles down his beak. Please don’t unfreeze and give me away.
I glance back at Wings, who’s rocking back and forth with rage, glaring at me. Miraculously, I make it to the cart without being rumbled and crawl under the tarpaulin, praying I’m right about this cat and won’t become a tasty snack. It may be broad daylight outside, but it’s pitch dark in here. Desperately urging my blind eyes to adjust, I hear something scratching and scraping barely inches from my face.
“I’m not here to hurt you,” I whisper, breathlessly. “Please don’t bite me.”
A chain clangs.
“I just want to talk to you.”
There’s another clang and a horrible squeaking scrape, like fingernails down a blackboard. An outward breath puffs through my hair. A lone pair of eyes emerge from the gloom, way above my head, staring straight down at me, pupils shining as though floating in the darkness. If it’s standing up, then it’s huge.
An ominous growl rumbles like an approaching storm.
“ Grrrrrrr. Sooooooo dargggg doyyyy sarrrrrr.”
