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This Is No Fairytale
I’ve never felt this cold, whether from the paralysing fear or arctic temperatures, I don’t know, but spasms rack every compressed part of my body. After we took to the air, I tried scraping and tearing at the claws encasing me, even resorting to biting, but I achieved nothing. If Broken Beak felt anything at all from his terrified cargo, he wasn’t letting it affect his flight path. Besides, if he did release me, I’d have a few seconds of freefall in which to celebrate my freedom before the sudden stop.
I can’t tell how long I’ve been trapped. Below, the trees thin out to a trickle as we rise, higher and higher. The temperature plummets, my panting breath freezing as it leaves my gaping mouth. Winds shriek, twisting around my body, fuelling the soaring wings above. A jagged branch grazes a tattoo into my boot as we fly clear of the last treetop, leaving only mountain peaks poking through smoky mist. Night offers a featureless backdrop to my kidnap, grey wadges of cloud slithering across twinkling starlight.
The air thins around us, the nauseating weight of altitude sinking into my stomach and fogging terrified brain cells. The world turns black as we pass through clouds, muffling any sense of space and time. We suddenly pop through into clear sky and my eyes threaten to freeze open in the bitter cold.
Far in the distance, jagged towers pierce the clouds. We’re flying straight for them and I strain to fill those edges into a recognisable form, but it’s still too far away, wafting in and out of focus. Only the crushing pain of claws clamped around my body keeps me conscious.
My eyelids must have closed for a moment because, when they open, we’re approaching a castle, its spearhead turrets poking out from behind an encroaching wall of rock. But this is no fairytale palace. Stone grey darkness screams of imprisoned monsters, allowing not a single ray of light to escape the nightmare. Every few feet along the jagged wall sits a statue from the depths of hell: coiled snakes in mid strike, wide open mouths drawn back over heaving fangs.
As we dive towards the roof terrace, I catch movement out of the corner of my eye. My neck’s so stiff I can barely turn, but the outline of opening wings reveals an eagle taking off from its rocky perch. It dips and swerves, allowing me a glimpse of a savage beak and beady eyes before diving in a massive swoop, dropping below the wall and out of my eyeline.
I saw enough, though. Enough to recognise Wings. Enough to know he was here and abandoned me to this terrible place. Worse, he’s left Dulcis to her fate; whatever that might be. I can only pray she’s still alive, somewhere in this vampire edifice.
A chorus of shrieks rises from the castle roof and three eagles take flight in a flurry of feathers, speeding after him. An ear-piercing squawk sounds from my captor, the vibration passing down through grasping claws and shaking my body. The eagle posse instantly turns back and lands, forming a circle on the rooftop.
Broken Beak dives and I try to scream as rock rushes up towards me, but there’s no breath left in my traumatised lungs. For a horrifying moment, I expect him to smash me into a red stain on the rooftop but, at the very last second, he opens his claws and I plummet. Both arms shoot out ahead of me in reflex, breaking my fall, and I land with a sickening thud, almost dislocating my shoulders from the impact and smacking my knee on bare rock. I lay, screwed up in a ball, groans echoing through my brain, as I weather waves of pain lashing my body.
Claws slap down beside me. Out of one squinting eye, I watch them shrink back into a man’s naked feet. A hand grabs me by the hair and yanks me to my knees. He looks enraged. It probably has something to with his scarlet face and a nose veering off towards his ear, courtesy of a whack in the mush with a plank. I don’t see his palm before it smashes across my cheek. I’m too cold to feel the full force, but my head snaps to the side and pain shoots through my cheek bone with a crack, leaving blood trickling out of a nostril.
“That’s for my face,” he yells, competing with the wind as it howls around the rooftop. “Watch her. She stays here ‘til I return. I have to tell the king she’s here.” And with that, he hurries away.
I sit back on my heels and rub numb arms, trying to friction some warmth into my limbs and steady surging fear. All I get is slimy white and green gunk spreading down my shredded coat. It seems I’m splattered with the bird shite that’s inches deep on this filthy rooftop, the putrid stench making me retch.
Glancing up at the eagle sentries, I notice they’re all nursing bleeding wounds. Did Dulcis’ wolf inflict the fresh cuts, teeth marks and patches of ripped feathers? I’d applaud her spunk, if I wasn’t scared of their retaliation, against her and me. They catch me staring and decide to entertain themselves by scooping and flinging crap at their prisoner, to a chorus of angry squawks. I hug myself tighter and close my eyes against the splattering abuse, ignoring humiliation and rank fear by fixing my thoughts on what’s important:
Endure. Bide my time. Find Dulcis. Get us both out of this foul place.
I’m soaked in excrement by the time Broken Beak returns, wearing some ridiculous, luminous blue, embroidered woollen suit, complete with gold piping and epaulettes.
“Move,” he snarls, shoving me through a crumbling doorway with a savage crack splitting the arch, its wooden door stinking of green mildew. Beyond, a stone staircase heads down into darkness. A single torch rests against the wall, its flame barely lighting the next shattered step.
“Can’t see,” I mutter, staring at my shuffling feet.
“Shut your mouth,” he snaps, “if you want to live.”
Dread crawls deeper into my soul with every trembling step, my nose running from a combination of blood and the dank, penetrating cold. A sharp crack echoes down the stairwell and a lump of rock drops out of an arch and bounces down the steps, disappearing into pitch darkness with fading thuds.
A fist smacks into my spine, shoving me through a side doorway. I hurry forward, anxious to get out of his range, and stagger straight onto a hanging balcony. My arms cycle, straining to prevent me nosediving through a hole in the banister and plunging into the room, below. Broken Beak grabs my collar and yanks me back. Heart hammering, I peer down at the huge hall, while he wipes his shite covered hand down the wall.
The castle might have been impressive, once upon a time, but time has not been its friend. More like its bitter enemy, since the entire structure teeters on the brink of collapse. The once ornate, rusting iron banister that circles the balcony has chunks missing as though some giant dragon took starving bites.
A wide staircase leads down to the enormous hall, much like the one built by the wolves for their wooden mansion, except this version is ten times the size and constructed of cold, grey stone, steps worn into a dip from centuries of passing feet. Gigantic statues of intertwining snakes surround the space, poised to strike like coiled springs, tails resting in the hall, heads stretching up beyond my level. Some have long since fallen, a crumbling tail all that’s left. Others are missing an eye, a forked tongue or a dripping fang; a savage testament to faded glory.
Writhing metal holders wind all around the walls as placements for torches, but barely one in a hundred are lit, giving it the air of a mausoleum. What happened to this place? There isn’t a single painting, carpet or wall hanging to break the gloom. It’s like all hope died and rotted the very foundations.
Even worse, the walls are covered in a revolting brown mould, creeping down the stone like a putrid ghost.
“Move.”
He’s started up again with the shoving and I can’t stop myself snapping, “Stop doing that.” He hacks and a glob of spit lands on my chest. It serves him right when it brings on a coughing fit, though it doesn’t stop him hauling me through another archway.
It hits me why I find this whole place so depressing; it’s not just that it’s freezing, dark and crumbling, but because it’s utterly silent. Ever since leaving the cackling bunch of birdbrains on the roof, we haven’t passed another living soul, snake or otherwise.
Where is everybody?
Broken Beak hauls open a door which delivers a gothic creak, sending a shiver of dread through my nerves. Inside, the floor tips down, leading to a small hole where a trickle of water drains away. The ceiling has a metal pipe high above my head and running water deposits in a metal cistern, from which hangs a chain, ending in a snake head. It strikes me as an early idea for a flushing toilet.
“Wash,” Broken Beak mutters, shoving me into the dangling chain. “I’ll get clean clothes.”
“Don’t bother,” I splutter, my breath freezing in the icy cold.
“You’re not seeing the king like that,” he replies, already half out the door. “You stink, you old gumwhat.” And with that insult, he slams shut the door. A chunk of rock falls from the ceiling and shatters at my feet, just to illustrate that I’m royally screwed, if I hadn’t already figured it out.
“You can talk, vulture breath,” I try to holler, but my voice breaks.
As soon as I hear his footsteps die away, I’m back at the door, frozen brain cells straining to form an escape plan. No such luck. There’s a door handle, alright, but pulling doesn’t budge it an inch. I plant one foot beside the door, lean back and heave, but there’s not so much as a squeak. Looks like I’m stuck in here.
Alone in this freezing stone cell, terror threatens to get the better of me and I shake so hard my bones creak in the silence. I can’t just stagger around this tiny room; I’ll go mad. And when the bird returns, he’ll shove my head under the water himself.
I peel off my coat and trousers, stiff with freezing excrement, and shiver underneath the cistern thing, hoping my posterior’s few extra pounds provide me with a bit of insulation. I grab hold of the loo chain and gingerly give it a pull. It groans, but refuses to move, that snake face leering at me as though issuing a challenge. Getting a firm grip, I throw my whole weight behind the pull, swinging on the chain.
It gives way, dumping my bare backside on the stone floor with a fleshly plop and opening the cistern. Niagara pours over my head in a never-ending deluge of ice cold water which strips the bird shite from my hair and takes my breath away, along with three layers of skin, leaving me totally clean, but the colour of Dulcis’ bedroom and shuddering in bone-racking spasms.
There’s an almighty dong and the water suddenly ceases, the chain flying back into position and nearly taking my eye out. Bird brain didn’t leave me a towel, so I’m left dripping like a wet dog, hair plastered over my face. Dragging it out of my eyes, I’m scrunching away with my fingers, trying to aid natural curls, when it strikes me that I’m being utterly irrational.
Hold on, Edi. Don’t lose it now. You need to get warm.
The inside of the filthy cardboard clothes is still cleanish, so I use the odd corner and sleeve to dry myself as best I can, before donning my underwear. My teeth chatter so hard it sounds like I’m playing the maracas.
Footsteps echo down the corridor and the door creaks open. A disembodied hand appears, waving a pile of clothes.
“Take them,” Broken Beak shouts from outside and promptly drops the lot. I catch them before they hit the wet floor. Not that he cares, since his next pronouncement is, “Hurry up.”
Frankly, I don’t care what I’m putting on since anything’s preferable to death by frostbite, but I suspect you want to know, so here goes. And no laughing; this is far from funny anymore.
First over my head goes a banana yellow shirt, reaching to my knees, with sleeves I fold in half to uncover my wrists. The frilly collar sticks straight up, like an insane sunflower, but it keeps out the draught. Black woollen socks stretch all the way up my thighs. Royal blue and gold piped trousers actually fit, even if they’re on loan from the circus. With masses of shirt tucked neatly inside, I reach for the jacket, which has to be seen to be believed. Think a cartoon general crossed with 1980s shoulder pads. It would probably stand up on its own. And it’s yellow. Fluorescent yellow.
Firstly, where do they get the dye? Secondly, how come the clothes are technicolour and the surroundings so depressingly grey?
I complete the ensemble with black shoes, consisting of ‘one size fits all’ ankle boots. I’m not the one size, so the clown analogy is gaining traction as I flipflap towards the door.
“Oi, I’m ready,” I cry, but the words emerge as a hoarse croak.
The door opens to reveal a glaring Broken Beak. We retrace our steps, arriving back at the balcony with its entertaining death drop. Thankfully, he decides we’ll take the main staircase, rather than the quick way down. I start descending, pain shooting through my knee with every jolting step. Being dropped onto a stone roof isn’t good for the joints. Add oversize shoes to the mix and I’m flop hopping with every downward gain.
“Too slow,” Broken Beak mutters from beside me, lobbing a sneer past his scrunched nose. “Old, useless and fat.”
“Fast enough to smack you in the gob,” I snap.
He grabs my shoulder and spins me round to face him, forcing my foot to miss the step and hang suspended over the staircase. I’m hopping on one leg when he grips my jacket collar and yanks me nose to nose, spitting, “I hope he lets me rip your throat...”
“Put. Her. Down.”
I recognise the voice even before sneaking a peek past Broken Beak’s threats. Ambassador Anguis rounds the end of the staircase and stares up at us, still dressed like a cross between Mother Russia and Sherlock Holmes.
“Anguis, you lying piece of shite,” I let rip, fighting the bird’s death grip in a frenzy to get at that snake Judas. “What have you done to Dulcis? If you’ve hurt her, I’ll kill you.” I try kicking my captor, but agony shoots through my knee and the threat ends with a screech of pain. “Ow, you arse. Where’s my girl?”
“I’m here, Edi.”
The owner of that beautiful voice appears behind Anguis, now dressed in a sharply tailored, plain black suit, draping silver grey fur over both shoulders. She would look like she stepped off a catwalk, if it wasn’t for the puncture wound in her nose. Gales of laughter waft up the stairs towards me as she gets an eyeful of my ridiculous rent a circus costume.
“What in Grojat’s cave are you wearing?” Dulcis laughs, honking like a goose.
I’m overjoyed to see her, but what exits my mouth is laced with anger. “Where have you been?”
“I was carried off by an eagle,” she points out, between snorts.
“You look mighty pally now,” I snarl, slapping my foot back on the stairs. “For a hostage.”
“Alpha Daughter Dulcis isn’t a hostage,” Anguis insists, with the air of a diplomat lying through his teeth.
“Right. We’ll be going home then, back to her father,” I announce, yanking my collar free from Broken Beak’s fist, “who’ll kill you himself, when he catches up with you.” I limp down the next few steps, desperately trying to look brave and scary, but my bones are barely defrosting, my knee’s killing me and my face hurts like hell, courtesy of the bird’s revenge.
“Why are you limping?” Anguis asks, jogging up the steps towards me, his heels clattering on the bare stone.
I almost believe that look of anxiety plastered on his handsome face, but it doesn’t bode well to accept anything in this dilapidated empire. He’s close enough to notice the swelling and bruise around my nose and I’m close enough to spot the shiner brewing under his right eye.
“And what happened to your face?” he asks.
His fingertips brush my cheek, but I jerk my head back. He doesn’t get to play nursemaid or concerned lover.
“Same as happened to you by the looks of it,” I retort. “Who gave you the black eye, Ambassador?”
“That was me,” says Dulcis, with a broad grin.
What the heck’s the matter with her? She seems to think this is all a joke.
“Did you strike her?” Anguis demands, looming up at Broken Beak with an icy glare. “Get out of my sight, before I drag you in front of the king.”
“I only take orders from the king,” the bird sneers, shoving past us both and knocking me into the banister, which scarily leans an inch before springing back into place. He pounds down the stairs, leers at Dulcis and turns the corner. A door slams shut below.
“I’m sorry,” Anguis says, in his deepest, sexiest voice. “He shouldn’t have touched you. I would have been there to meet you, if I’d known...” He cups my elbow. “Come with me.”
Nope. Not happening. I snatch my arm free, rasping, “Get your hands off me.”
Limping gets me down another couple of steps before Dulcis comes flying up towards me and nearly knocks me flat with a cavernous hug, having exchanged guffaws for whimpering at lightning speed. I’m glad to wrap my arms around her unharmed frame and she’s so much warmer than me, I’m reluctant to let her go.
“You’re freezing,” she cries, heaving me back into her crushing grip. With her face briefly shielded from Anguis, she whispers, “Edi,” into my ear and, for the first time, I sense true terror hiding beneath forced jollity.
“Are you alright?” I ask.
“Fine,” she replies. “’Cept my nose. Oh, and my ribs.”
“They haven’t hurt you any more?”
“No. I hurt them, though,” Dulcis continues, with relish, pulling back to meet my eyes. “There was a big fight on the roof and I bit chunks out of lots of eagles, til Anguis explained that I can go home as soon as I’ve spoken to the king.”
I don’t believe that for a second and glance at Anguis. Sure enough, he won’t meet my gaze.
“He gave me these lovely clothes,” says Dulcis, fingering the fur, her eyes wide with barely contained dread. “What happened to you?”
“Dumped on the roof, covered in shite, frozen in a shower and smacked in the face, so pardon me if I hate you right now,” that last bit being aimed at Anguis and delivered at double the decibel level. “What are you doing taking us prisoner and, more importantly, why can’t I wear that?” I ask, waving a hand at Dulcis’ chic getup.
“I’ve already told you, you’re not a prisoner,” Anguis replies, nonchalantly leaning on the banister. An ominous creak has him upright again. “I’m sorry if you were given that impression.”
“Seriously? You think I’m that gullible?” I snarl, waving fluorescent yellow arms. The movement blurs on the retina like a sparkler. “We both got grabbed by eagles against our will and dumped here. Though I guess you weren’t aiming for me, right? You thought you were getting Adamo.”
“What? Why did you want him? Did you hurt him?” Dulcis demands, that feisty warrior suddenly resurfacing.
“You can both leave by the front door,” Anguis replies, an edge creeping into his voice. “I won’t stop you.”
“I see. We’re miles up the mountain with no shelter or way to travel down again,” I point out. “Dulcis might make it. I’d freeze to death in ten paces. If my bloody knee lets me get that far. Or the front door doesn’t drop on my head.”
Anguis’ lips twitch as though he’s about to laugh. That just makes me livid.
“Granted the castle has seen better days,” he agrees. “But let me take you somewhere warmer, at least.”
“Where’s Adamo?” Dulcis demands, her mind locked on one track.
“Not here,” Anguis tells her. “Still bouncing in snow with his general.”
“Why did you...?” I begin, but he cuts me off.
“Stop. Please. I’ll answer your questions, but we’re all shivering. Especially you.” He punctuates his plea with a mild cough. “Please, come with me. I promise no harm will come to either of you.”
“And nobody ever lies around here,” I mutter, starting downstairs anyway. This banana get up might be warm, but the hall has the ambient temperature of Siberia. “Let’s get this over with.”
Unfortunately, the combination of wobbly knees and massive shoes doesn’t make for grace and I almost nosedive on my second step, forcing Dulcis to grab me.
“Pardon me,” says Anguis before sweeping me into his arms and hurriedly transporting me downstairs.
Reminding myself that he’s far from Mr Darcy, I let him carry me across the crumbling ballroom without objection, principally because the stench from that brown gunge is horrendous and I’d like out of here as fast as possible. Dulcis rushes ahead, delivering the universal teenage mantra of “Ewww.”
I tilt my head back to get a look at the revolting stuff as I’m carried through the doorway, making sure not to touch the slimy, shiny mould, like a combination of excrement encased in honey. I swear it creeps forward a fraction and puffs out stink like a skunk. Right now, I’d swap this circus outfit for a full Hazmat suit.
“Where are we going?” I ask Anguis, who’s barely straining under the weight of my rear end, despite intermittent coughs.
“To the king’s rooms,” he replies. “It’s warm there and there’s no...” His voice fades away as though he was about to reveal something he shouldn’t. I’d lay money on the missing word being a variation of ‘mould’. He stares straight ahead, refusing to meet my enquiring gaze. “Through there,” he tells Dulcis and she obligingly heaves open another door.
And that’s when it gets really interesting...
