The Flight of the Griffin (12 page)

After a few moments Loras cleared his throat with a polite cough. ‘Who else Mahra? That’s only two so far.’

‘I’m sorry,’ she answered. ‘Yes there was Pew and Clement, then Magician Barrick and then…’ she drifted again but this time without the smile. ‘And then there was Magician Credence Bleak. Credence Bleak was in fact the highest ranking of the four and he ruled the Academy with a will of iron.’ She shivered. ‘Not a nice man as I recall. I do remember that he and my master never saw eye-to-eye on very much; they were always arguing - naturally he championed Chaos. Anyway, eventually the magicians fought and death rained down upon the island. From what I can remember Magician Bleak survived for a time, plotting his dark spells, but the Academy was no more. Please remember that this was all a very long time ago.

Magician
Bleak would have known that one day the heroes would be walking the halls again in a bid to complete the great spell on the eve of what Chaos is claiming as its time of triumph. He understood that in this distant future the heroes would have to be stopped for Chaos to reign alone. He would have known the skull we seek and will be trying to stop us, even from his grave.’

****

Thankfully Mahra’s report only dampened their spirits a little and they were eager, after drying out their clothes, to explore the island and do their best. Loras placed some protective spells on
The
Griffin
with a warning to the others that if they returned before he did, they could undo the spells by naming the boat three times.

‘If you don’t and you forget…well, you don’t want to forget, all right?’ Loras seemed pleased with the spells he’d placed and no one doubted that they’d be effective in keeping the boat safe.

They made their way to the little beach huddled down in the small rowboat against the ever-present drizzle and gazed through the mist and rain at the walls of dark grey granite that loomed up ahead.

‘There’s a narrow path cut into the cliff that runs to the top,’ started Mahra, but her words were carried away on the wind. ‘I remember one of the biggest worries of anyone coming back to the island,’ she continued a little louder, ‘was that they had to climb the path to get to the Academy.’

Loras peered up from under the hood of his cloak at the huge storm-lashed cliff, imagining himself as a newly arriving apprentice and despite the circumstances, felt a thrill at being here. The place where magic was born and taught to the gifted. He sighed and pulled his cloak a little tighter around him.

The boat crunched up onto the sandy beach and the crew jumped out with Mahra making a fuss that she’d got her feet wet.

As always, it felt strange to have solid ground under them rather than the steady motion of
The
Griffin
and they trudged off after Mahra, crunching through the sand with their heads bowed against the rain. The climb was every bit as perilous as Mahra had warned. The slick rain-lashed path sometimes disappeared into the cliff’s shallow caves, where they could thankfully catch their breath out of the wind and rain, but, for most of the climb they were exposed out on the narrow slippery path with a sheer drop to the beach only one wrong footfall away.

As they neared the top, they became even more exposed to the elements. The wind howled with an even greater fury, tugging and pulling them towards the edge, as if deliberately trying to pluck them from the cliff face as they held on; slowly shuffling forward. Thunder crashed overhead and lightning danced upon the cliff above them, showering them with pieces of stone and forcing them to constantly flatten against the rock face trying not to look down.

They were on hands and knees as they eventually crested the top and made their way to the relative shelter of a group of large rocks, to gain their breath and rub some life into numb, bruised hands.

‘Was it always this miserable here, Mahra?’ shouted Loras over the howl of the wind.

She looked down at the four cold unhappy faces peering up from under their hoods and crouched next to them.

‘No, I remember the isle as a place of sunshine. It was always windy, but that was a good thing. We would sail around the island or fly kites, seeing who could make the best and what magic could be used in the construction. The storms came when Magician Bleak tried to bring the world to Chaos,’ she glanced around. ‘I think he finally did bring this little part of the world to Chaos, but I can’t think that even
he
expected it would turn out like this.’ The wind changed direction and icy rain drove down with renewed ferocity, chilling them even further.

‘What you’re seeing is the very heart of the Chaos storm that’s been changing so many things on this planet,’ shouted Mahra over the noise. ‘It’s been storming here for centuries but the imbalance has only been felt as far away as Freya, with it’s incredible heat, since this year.’

Quint stood up ready to move. ‘Come on, my friends, let’s get out of the rain and see if any magicians are still at home.’

The dark stone of the Academy glistened in the rain and lightning lit its sides sending bolts of energy crashing into the towers. They moved off along a path choked with thorn bushes and tall weeds that led up to the forbidding fortress. It was enormous. If it was an Academy, then it was certainly well fortified with towers at each of its four corners and a tall inner sanctum that rose higher than the surrounding battlements. Windows dotted the upper levels of the outer wall but none were in reach of even the tallest of ladders. A large hole, that at one time must have housed a massive door, now gaped like a hungry mouth as the crew approached. Its stonework had caved in at the sides as if something had ripped the huge doors from their hinges and tossed them away, leaving loose stones hanging down like ragged teeth dripping a constant flow of water.

The Academy waited patiently, glaring down upon its first visitors in over a thousand years.

****

Bartholomew Bask stared across the small wooden table into the stern unsmiling features of Matheus Hawk. It was distressing to be back in Blake’s so soon. He was sweating freely, his piggy eyes darting around the room constantly expecting any one of the drinkers to attack at any moment; rabble.

Bartholomew lifted a hand away from the table, peeling the lace of his sleeve from one of the many sticky patches, with theatrical disgust. He took a deep breath and wiped his brow with a perfumed handkerchief. Lifting it to his nose, he inhaled deeply in an effort to keep away the heady aroma of the bar and its patrons. ‘Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear,’ he muttered, casting a glance at the hooded figure opposite him. For a moment, he was in danger of losing his self-control and running from the building, but then he gathered himself and managed to ask his first coherent question.

‘Mr Hawk, I’m confused. If you know who the thieves are, why am I not sitting here with my belongings in front of me?  I am, we agreed, paying you for results, not moonlit meetings in this Source-forsaken gutter hole.’ He cast around quickly to be sure he had not been overheard. 

He’d spoken briefly to Blake upon arriving and had decided that Blake was not a person he wanted to upset. A nasty common man with an obvious aversion to bathing was how he’d summed him up. To Bartholomew’s horror, Blake had leaned in close to whisper in his ear about where the ‘Awk’ was sitting. Bartholomew had watched the unshaven face with its black stinking mouth and rotting teeth come close to his ear and had barely suppressed a shudder of revulsion. He feared Blake had picked up on his dislike and it was quite possible he was now feeling offended.

‘I know who the thieves are,’ rumbled Matheus, forcing Bartholomew to lean in across the table to hear him. ‘I know where they were, and I know where they’re going,’ he leaned in even closer to Bartholomew, obviously, because he knew it was upsetting him. ‘I also know that this is more than a common petty house theft. I need to know what was in your safe other than the money.’

Bartholomew mopped his brow again and gathered his thoughts. His main concern had been, and still was, the money and papers.

‘There were papers, some old books, deeds and contracts, er…some trinkets…
Oh I don’t know!’
he spluttered.
‘
I want my money back and the papers too! Why can’t you just get them, I can pay you, then we can put this whole sorry story behind us and move on?’

Matheus smiled. ‘Unfortunately, Mr Bask, it’s not that easy. You see...my friend here believes that you had something else in that safe of yours, something extremely precious. There was a knife in there, and a book, and my friend wants those two things very badly. In fact so badly does he want them that he’s willing to help me find your thieves and even get your money back.’

‘What friend is this - is he here?’ Bartholomew glanced around uncertainly, seeing only the same group of rowdy drinking parties he’d seen moments earlier. He noticed Blake staring across at him and he quickly broke eye contact. ‘Who is this friend of yours? If he can help us I want to meet him. I care little for the knife; if he can help, then it will be his.’ Bartholomew was now extremely uncomfortable and was becoming more and more desperate to end the meeting and be away.

Matheus glanced to his side and Bartholomew noticed for the first time that another figure was seated at the table with them. He was well hidden in the shadows of the nook, but even so, Bartholomew was sure that he hadn’t been there moments earlier.

This was all becoming too upsetting for Bartholomew. He was a merchant of standing in the community, and here he was meeting with trackers and cutthroats in the seediest drinking house in town. Where had it all gone wrong? Hildy! He was sure that damn cleaning woman had something to do with this.

Hildy's departure had left Bartholomew in a pickle and no mistake. The house had run down quickly after she had left and Bartholomew wasn’t having any luck replacing her. None of the normal methods of employing a maid had turned up anyone suitable - it was most distressing.

Bartholomew jumped, as he realised that he was being spoken to, and noticed also that the stranger had moved closer into the candlelight.

‘Merchant Bask, may I present my good friend and acquaintance Mr Belial.’ Matheus indicated the shadowed stranger. A nervous twitch appeared in Bartholomew’s cheek as he studied the figure that was slowly raising hands to remove the hood of his cloak. A mad impulse to run filled Bartholomew, his hand with the scented hanky came unbidden to his mouth and he chewed on his knuckle.

‘Bartholomew Bask, what a pleasure to meet you at long last, I know so much about you.’ The stranger spoke in a smooth velvety voice and his features, when the hood was lowered, were … beautiful!

This wasn’t a term that Bartholomew used often, especially to describe another man, but this man wasn’t handsome…he was beautiful. Bartholomew reached across to shake the stranger’s hand in nervous relief. He had expected anything, anything at all…but not this, this incredible person.

‘A real pleasure, Mr…I’m sorry, your name again?’ asked Bartholomew, smiling and plainly relieved.

‘Belial,’ said the stranger in a voice that promised trust, friendship and understanding all at once.

Please call me Belial or Mr Belial, whichever you feel most comfortable with,’ he smiled. ‘For we shall be friends and I shall aid you in any way that I can.’

Bartholomew positively beamed. ‘Oh, Mr Belial, I can’t tell you how relieved I am to meet you and find you’re working with Mr Hawk here. As I’m sure you know, I have been wronged and rightly seek regress.’ Bartholomew felt he had at last found a sympathetic audience and relaxed. ‘Belial, that’s not a Freyan name, nor is it from
Sterling or Minster if I’m not mistaken, may I ask where you’re from?’ Bartholomew picked up the tankard of ale that had, until then, remained untouched in front of him. This was turning into a far more pleasant occasion than he had ever thought possible.

‘Oh Belial is an old name, Mr Bask, a very old name. I am in fact a king in a place far, far from here, but have also played the part of ambassador to courts and parliaments before this in many lands. Until recently I was regretfully imprisoned, but our good friend Mr Hawk here came to my rescue and…well here, as they say…I am.’ He smiled a beautiful smile across the table at Bartholomew.

‘Splendid, splendid, can I buy you an ale or a brew or some such thing?’ returned Bartholomew happily as he cast around for a serving maid.  A king and nobleman! Now this was the kind of person Bartholomew had dreamed of meeting. A career could be made on meetings such as this, and in Blake’s of all places! Bartholomew smiled to himself at the irony of life.

‘A king no less, my goodness, Mr Hawk, where have you been travelling to in our service?’ Bartholomew smiled good-naturedly while Matheus Hawk stared back at Bartholomew, a thin sneer breaking his lips.

‘Why I have travelled down to the deepest depths of hell, Mr Bask, for this is the great Demon Lord, Belial. King and commander of eighty legions of demons and second only to Lucifer himself.
That
is where I have travelled to on your behalf, and
this
is whom I have brought to our cause.’ Matheus sat back in triumph, having played his trump card, and regarded Bartholomew with keen interest.

Bartholomew gazed at the two people across the table from him and a strange croaking noise came from his open mouth.

‘I-I-I am sorry, gentleman, but I could swear by the Source that you said…’