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The Tower of Hypothermia
The birdman sniggers as he drags me through the castle by my collar, my fingernails scraping at the fabric as I fight to breathe. Shoving me through the middle of the firewall sets light to my jacket and a lock of hair, forcing me to put out the flames with my bare hands. Before the scent of burnt hair and skin leaves my nostrils, I lose all sense of direction and the foul stench of that creeping mould comes back with a vengeance.
I’ve left Dulcis in the hands of a madman. I don’t think things can get much worse.
I’m wrong.
Here I am, slipping and sliding along an ice coated terrace, outside in sub zero temperatures, frigid wind blowing gales of snow straight into my face. If I have any skin left after that shower and the burns, I’m losing it now. A pale sunrise, straining to pierce the blanket of cloud, casts an insipid glow over endless grey stone. Jagged crenellations lining the top of the wall are chipped, crumbling and, in some cases, missing, promising a direct plummet to a hideous death, should I slip.
“Watch your feet,” Broken Beak hollers above the howling wind and drops my collar, ensuring I don’t take him with me on any fatal plunge.
Avoiding those gaps leaves me zigzagging from one turret to another, arms stretched out wide, like I’m tightrope walking. Even though I veer as far away as possible, I’m still close enough to see over the exposed edge, revealing a sheer drop down the side of the castle.
Vertigo swamps my brain and squeezes a roiling stomach. I’d love to close my eyes, but that’s a death sentence with ice underfoot. I catch a glimpse of something black, moving near the base of the far turret, a long way beneath us. In order to get a better look, I clutch my chest and let rip with a honking cacophony of bronchial coughs, delaying long enough to squint through swirling snow.
A brief change in the wind suddenly reveals grey, black and brown fur with a fine dusting of snow, shuffling along a lower terrace. There’s no time to count, but it looks like there’s dozens of wolves and bears down there, chained together at their necks. Whatever’s happening to them, they look healthier than the men accompanying them. I’ve no idea whether I’m seeing eagle or snake guards, but they look appallingly sick, such that I can’t guess their ages. Even from this distance, skeletal frames make them seem like ghouls marching to their own tombs. One guard clutches at his chest, much in the same manner as my fakery, fighting to haul in breath. He staggers from the strain and a grey wolf pads sideways, propping up the guard until he can gather himself and move on. One by one, the chain of hostages turns the corner and disappears from my confused gaze.
Something weird is going on in this hellish place, but at least some of the missing are alive.
“Move on,” Broken Beak bellows in my ear. The shock causes a jump and a two foot sliding scramble that ends with me slapping onto my backside, which, as we already know, is the most padded part of me. It’s also better than going over the side.
“You’ve had a good look at them,” he says, yanking me back on my feet by the collar. “You won’t be seeing them again.”
I’m not sure whether he’s threatening me or them, but it makes no difference, since I’m headed straight for a turret at the end of the terrace. The tall, thin structure tapers at the top, pointing at the sky like a crumbling javelin, riven through with cracks and missing stonework. An arched window frame lies open to the elements, wind whistling through the gap as though playing a tune on the flute.
That tower is the only structure at the end of the terrace and the wooden door, left wide open, reveals steps going up, not down. There’s no way it’s big enough to house a room and I turn to stare at my captor in confusion.
“Inside,” he snarls, shoving me in the chest.
It’s so cold out here, I try to convince myself heading through that door will reveal a miracle of warmth and safety, but the foul stench emanating from the tower kills any scrap of hope left within me. I stagger up eight stone steps and fall to my knees at the top, landing in the centre of a circular room, so small, if I stretch out my arms, I’ll be able to span the radius. Directly opposite the arched window frame sits a twin, snow flurries whirling around the room in a vortex, flakes briefly settling on the thick, brown mould that coats every inch of stone.
My eyes rise to meet Broken Beak’s gaze. “You must know if you leave me here, I’ll die.”
“That’s a shame,” he sniffs. “You can always jump. It’ll be a swift end.”
“Miserable Toerag.”
I wish I could think of a more colourful insult, but I’m fighting the desire to lay down and die.
“Goodbye, then,” he chuckles, jogging down the steps. “Doubt I’ll be seeing you again.”
The door slams shut with a terminal thud and a bolt rams into place. I’m left staring at the door, berating my choices, wondering how I managed to end up here, much as I used to stare at my office computer. Do I just give up until hypothermia puts me out of my misery?
Firstly, I’m British, middle-aged and a woman; we don’t know how to give up.
Secondly, Dulcis needs me.
Thirdly, those bear and wolf hostages deserve a rescue, even if I’m not in the shape for it.
Fourthly, I really want to know what’s going on in this place.
Fifthly, and most importantly, I’m going to smack that bird in the mush ‘til his face is flat. And boot Anguis in the nuts. And wipe the smirk off Serpen’s face.
And go home to Curt.
Oh, for goodness’ sake, don’t start with the whimpering; that’s not going to help anyone. Get up before you freeze to the spot: an ice statue with a huge backside.
I put my hands down to lever myself off my knees and my singed palms land splat in the mould covering the floor. It feels like sticky toffee pudding, right up to the point this syrup crawls off the stone and onto my fingers. A scream that would rival any horror movie erupts from my mouth as I leap around the tiny room, desperately trying to shake the revolting gunge off my hands. Big blobs fly through the snow, splatting onto their mates lining the walls. I slip and slide down those eight steps, but there’s not a scrap of clean stone left on which to scrape off the remainder. Even the back of the door is covered in mould. Only one option remains and it’s not much of an option if I want to live, but instinct’s screaming at me to get this foul stuff off me NOW.
It’s so cold that heaving in breath stabs a knife through my chest, but I scramble back up the steps, stagger over to the arched window and lean out as far as I dare, before scraping the stinking mass on a clean piece of stone. Even then it fights me with all its strength, clinging to my hand as though its life depends on it. One final scrape sees it gone, along with another layer of skin. Thankfully, or not, I’m too cold to feel the pain. I can, however, experience every moment of terror as I dangle upside down from the windowsill, hanging over a sheer drop. It probably goes all the way to the base of the castle, and Hades beyond, but hovering mist and heavy snowfall blocks that dizzying view. I right myself and shuffle stiffening legs over to the other window, but both have been built directly over the drop and not the terrace, preventing escape. Climbing out would be impossible; the stone is so weather beaten and jagged, there are few safe handholds in the rock and even if there were, it would be suicide. I’m hardly built for rock climbing.
A hacking cough fights its way up from my lungs and I feel like I’m having a heart attack. I have to keep moving, slapping my arms around my body and rubbing over my heart to keep hypothermia at bay, but, even so, I know I don’t have long. I can feel the icy fingers of death creeping along my bones, freezing brittle veins.
Curt was wrong. This can’t be my story. If this was my story, it wouldn’t end this way. He’d be my hero and find a way to rescue me, and Dulcis.
If this is my story, where are you?
I’m not supposed to need saving. Not a modern woman. We’re supposed to be cast iron, sword wielding bad arses, able to defend ourselves. You know what? Even bad arses get tired and scared.
Curt, where are you?
Is Anguis really going to let his king kill me? I can’t believe I thought that snooty armpit was charming. Curt was right. I should have listened to him. And hit Broken Beak harder when I had the chance.
I’m so enraged at allowing myself to end up here, I almost miss the shadow as it flies past. A familiar shape flutters in the corner of my eye, begging my head to turn towards it. Recognition causes a massive smile to crack my frozen face.
And then the idiots crash land on the roof, landing straight on those three eagle guards.
