Chapter Twenty-Four The Death of Sorush
Twenty-Four
The Death of Sorush
Malcolm rode on the back of Prince Keshvād, with Gulya flying on his right and a witch called Tuuli Latvala on his left, a close companion of Tilda Vasara. With her came seven other witches, and Malcolm had spoken to them all before they began the journey.
What he planned to do was land in the mountains to the north of Sorush’s cavern, and then approach it under cover of darkness.
He had learned everything the gryphons could tell him about the sorcerer, and he had with him all the items he’d borrowed from Khuroshvili the goldsmith.
According to Tuuli Latvala, the moon would be full when they reached the sorcerer’s cave.
As they flew north along the sea, the witch flew back and forth conferring with her companions, and sometimes soared high above or scouted the air to the horizons east and west. Eventually she flew close to Prince Keshvād, and called out to Malcolm.
“The sky is full of spirits,” she said.
He heard her clearly. “Spirits of what kind?”
“Many kinds. Some I know and some we have never seen before.”
“I can see nothing but the sky.”
“Then you must believe me. I think they are friendly, or at least neutral. I have spoken to some of them. They know this sorcerer you plan to find.”
“What do they say about him?”
“He is greedy and cunning. Most of these spirits are afraid of him.”
“Are there more spirits than normal in this part of the sky?”
“They’ve come from elsewhere. From further east. I think they are apsaras.”
“I don’t know that word. Would they fight for us, if it came to battle?”
“I don’t know. This is like no campaign we have fought before. You want to kill this sorcerer, fine, we do that, or the gryphon will do it, that is not difficult. But what then? Back to the mountain?”
“No. Further east, to the desert south of the Tien Shan mountains.”
“And then?”
“Find a red building, and enter it.”
“Just that?”
“Not without Lyra,” he said.
“I have heard of this Lyra. I loved Serafina Pekkala. Where is she now?”
“Somewhere below us,” said Malcolm, “on the sea, a little north of Baku. Let me read what she says.”
He had been exchanging lodestone messages with Lyra, but the light was failing as the sun sank behind the mountains to their left. It was getting harder to make out the penciled words.
She wrote: We are fleeing from riots in Baku. Fishing boat. Heading north. Where are you?
High above, Malcolm wrote in reply. Can’t see you yet. We can see the lights of Baku, though. We are flying to a cave in the mountains north of the city.
What will you do there?
Kill a sorcerer. Then find you and fly to desert.
Where cave? How far north?
Not sure. Not there yet.
We are maybe a mile from shore. Level with a lighthouse. Three flashes then one.
Malcolm called to Tuuli Latvala, “Look for a lighthouse a little way north of here. Three flashes and then one. Tell us as soon as you can see it.”
The witch swept up into the night and called to her sisters, and they all streamed away towards the north.
Malcolm was conscious of the smell of burning pitch—just occasional drifts of it in the wind.
From various points on the ground outside the city, columns of smoke broke out only to be twisted and torn away by the turbulent air, replaced at once by more smoke and occasionally little sparks of fire, and the smell of other fires too—and the glow from buildings on fire, four, five of them, half a dozen or more.
The lights of the city were being left behind them, and a different darkness beyond showed the vast mass of the Caucasus Mountains.
The moon was rising, and soon, no doubt, the sea below and the country beyond the city would be drenched in a colder light than fire.
Malcolm couldn’t estimate how high they were, but it wasn’t easy to look past Prince Keshvād’s wings; and all he could see when he tried to look down at the sea was a turbid darkness, with occasional streaks of white where waves were breaking.
The smell of burning pitch still whirled past, little ghosts of a smell.
Gulya shouted, “Great fire below!”
A cluster of industrial buildings was blazing near a wide harbor where a number of ships sat at anchor, and thick smoke billowed up, torn and flung away by the winds.
Malcolm could see vessels spraying water and foam through high-pressure hoses, but as he watched, one of the refinery buildings exploded into a fountain of flame, and the sound followed it up through the air: a colossal boom, as long and deep as thunder, reverberating from the mountains and setting the ships rocking on the water.
Prince Keshvād’s great voice roared, and Gulya darted forward to speak to him. Malcolm could feel the mighty lungs rumbling below him, and kept very still. Gulya swept up high, swung round, and skimmed down towards him, and landed on Prince Keshvād’s back beside him.
“The witches are coming back,” she said, almost breathless. “Round the headland. And rain is coming too.”
The city was behind them now, and the headland rose sharp and dark out of the sea ahead. Prince Keshvād beat his wings harder and they rose high above, sweeping around the cliffs and out to sea a little way before tilting to the left and following the shoreline.
“There’s the lighthouse!” said Gulya, and through the clouds and the first lashings of rain and the swirling smoke there it was at the point of the headland, a light flashing one-two-three and then one, one-two-three and then one.
Immediately Malcolm turned to look to the sea directly out from the lighthouse. But if there was a light on the fishing boat it must have been very small, or else they’d dowsed it for safety. Malcolm craned to look for the quick-darting black-garbed fliers.
“Tuuli!” he cried. “Here, here!”
Watching them wheel and soar before swooping down close to the great gryphon, he felt his heart gripped, for a moment, by fear. They were so few, and he and Gulya so small, and the task they were facing was so difficult…
“Malcolm! Malcolm!”
It was another witch, not Tuuli Latvala, calling to him. “I can hear you,” he called back. “Did you find the lighthouse?”
“Yes. And the boat. Tuuli Latvala has gone to speak to Lyra.”
Malcolm imagined the little boat swaying and lurching on the rough sea with Lyra on the deck holding tight to the rail, and the witch landing lightly beside her, and Lyra’s astonishment.
“Gulya!” he called. “Gulya, could you ask Prince Keshvād to fly lower?”
Gulya beat her wings and sped to the great gryphon’s eagle head. He turned to listen to her, and said something in return, and Gulya wheeled and came back to report.
“We can land on the ground, but not on the sea. With waves and wind like this, the prince can’t risk going low enough to speak to the boat.”
“I understand,” said Malcolm. “Has the witch spoken to them yet?”
He looked at the lodestone again. He had only the flickering fire from below to read it by, and he peered closer, conscious that the stone was slippery with rain and that his hands were cold, and held it close to his eyes.
Taking on water, he read. Can’t stay out. Making for shore north side of lighthouse.
See you soon, then, he wrote in response.
“Gulya!” he called, and the little gryphon swooped down to listen. “Where is the forge of Sorush?”
“It’s the cavern that’s—” she began, but then cried out with shock.
Malcolm caught his breath.
The entire mass of the mountain range, looming high above the waves crashing on the rocky shore, had suddenly burst into flame.
From a thousand and one openings, caves, crevices, cracks, gorges, clefts, caverns, and grottoes, a thousand and one orange-red tongues lashed out, licking the stony walls and cliffs above them, flaring this way and that in the tempestuous air buffeting the shore.
Malcolm and the gryphons and the witches on their cloud-pine branches could hear the roar of fire even above the howling of the wind.
Great swags and banners of flame, sheets and flags of it, tore loose from their caverns and hollows and flew on the wind like blazing vultures eager for flesh to consume.
“Which one is the forge?” Malcolm shouted.
Gulya cried aloud, but her words were lost. Malcolm felt as if a madness had seized him. There was no way back from this now; Sorush would die, or he and Gulya would. As for Lyra—
She was writing again. Now it was the light from the blazing mountain that showed Malcolm what Lyra was saying. He wiped the rain off the stone and held it up so it shone a flaring, glistening orange and yellow. The words came through:
Making for jetty now—white posts—
That was all.
Malcolm read it aloud, shouting the words as clearly as he could.
He leaned out and looked down, holding tightly to the great feathers of Prince Keshvād’s back.
The gryphon was wheeling in the gusty air and scanning the shore below with great sweeps of his head.
As for Gulya, she could make no headway against the wind; it was all she could do to stay close.
Then the prince spread his wings wide and plunged downwards in a sickening dive straight towards the little jetty with the white posts.
Malcolm’s hands were shaking with the effort to hold on, because he had no other purchase than his grip on the thick-shafted feathers.
He could hear the roar of the fiery caverns even above the rush of wind, but only for a moment, because Prince Keshvād was beating his wings inwards, swinging himself up and back, reaching down with his lion feet and making ready to land.
But he had only the narrow jetty to aim for. A sheer cliff rose straight up beyond it.
Malcolm could see the boat now, low in the water, still some way out. Then came another mighty sweep of the gryphon’s wings, and another, and they hung for a moment suspended in the air before gravity took them the last little way down to the rotting boards and swaying posts of the jetty.