Fury
Astor Morax’s rage was a black hole: it pulled all the air, all the light, from the red stone room.
Darius Alkov, captain of the Astorians, stood leaden and unmoving in the dusk and watched. He could not see Morax’s face, for the sun had set over the Manticores’ mountains, and for that he was glad. He had seen his master’s face only once unmasked and in full daylight, and that had been enough.
Two other men stood in front of Morax: one, young and wiry in the dimness, had a face like a shrew; the older man, Willis, had a mouth like a toad’s. Both wore bracelets of thin black snakes.
‘How did this happen?’ said Astor Morax. ‘I have had word from my spy in the City of Scholars that Glimt cannot now be reached. How did you not know about the fendthorn?’
The older man flinched, and began to stammer. ‘We’ve been interrogating the ratatoskas, Magister,’ he said, ‘but nobody knew they were growing fendthorn. Barely anybody knew that such a thing even existed! Forgive me, Magister, but how could we have known—?’
‘Quiet.’
Morax closed his eyes. A spasm passed over his face. Then he flicked one long white index finger, and the snake on Willis’s wrist snapped its head upwards.
Willis’s mouth opened in a scream as the snake struck. It fastened its jaws deep into the flesh of his wrist. He was dead before the scream had reached its natural end.
‘Ford,’ said Morax to the young, shrewlike man. ‘Take him away. Darius. Get me Petroc.’
The young man scuttled to obey.
‘Tell nobody, you understand?’ Darius said to the boy when they were out of the room. ‘If you speak a word, you’ll be dead before you can gasp. He can rouse that ouroboros from anywhere in the world.’
Ford swallowed. ‘Yes.’
‘Morax can hear everything you say through the ears of the snake. Remember.’ As if in answer, the snake on Ford’s wrist pulsed and writhed against his skin.
Darius strode through the corridors until he came to a cavernous room in which stood a cauldron resting on a fire.
Standing over it was a centaur; his horse’s body was white, his hair dark, his eyes the green of a forest at night.
He too wore the bracelet of the snake, though it did not seem to trouble him.
‘Petroc. The Magister wants you.’ Darius dropped his voice. ‘I warn you, he’s angry.’
‘Then I won’t go to him.’ His voice was low and harsh. ‘It’s not safe.’
‘It would be more unsafe to refuse.’ Darius gestured to the door with his knife and blinked pale eyes above flat cheekbones. ‘Come.’
The centaur said nothing, only followed him to where Morax waited.
‘Petroc,’ he said, and the centaur flinched slightly from his gaze. ‘What do you know about fendthorn?’
Petroc began to speak, carefully, as though reading from a book: ‘The fendthorn. Also known as the Hercules thorn, because it was first bred by Hercules.’ And he began to explain: its properties, its history, its strange and lasting power.
Morax listened, his hand on the head of the flame-eared kludde by his side. And then he gave a small hiss of pleasure. And then he laughed. It was only the second time Darius had heard him laugh and he physically shrank at the sound.
‘There is a way,’ Morax said, ‘that this can be used to our advantage. Darius. You will need to send all three of the great ships out. I must send a message to my spy; she is waiting for my word.’