The Tiger, Summoned
In the Great Hall the Tiger turned and sniffed the air. It paced towards Christopher. The muscles rolled along its back as it came, and its claws rapped at the marble floor.
The Tiger’s head went back and it roared, its teeth laid bare, its mouth hungry with saliva. The sound battered the walls and shook the chandelier and cut through Christopher’s head like a weapon.
Christopher was exhausted, his skin throbbing, his legs shaking under him – and even so he tried to reach the Tiger. Desperately he tried to conjure the flare of Light, to summon the bond.
He could not. There was a single flicker, and then nothing. He was too weak, or it was too angry.
It was a dark creature, he could feel that.
It had a history of blood. It preyed upon the weak for sport.
But it was alive, and it had a kind of desolated grace and beauty, and it – more than the hind, more than the Cerberus – was caged.
The hind had worn chains; the Cerberus had been locked away.
But this was something else. The Tiger was caged in its mind. And he knew Morax had caged it.
Christopher drew his sword. The Tiger circled him, its lips drawn back.
The Tiger slashed at him with four hooked claws, each as long as a carving knife.
Christopher leaped backwards. The obsidian sword felt hot in his hand.
The Tiger lashed out again and Christopher’s blade swept right and cut at its foreleg.
It roared in pain. He jabbed again; the creature’s great sinuous bulk recoiled, and he swung his blade after it, catching its flank, his breath coming in gasps, driving it back.
The Tiger snarled, a sound that ripped at the air.
Then without warning it sprang. The point of Christopher’s sword caught at its side but it soared high, and its huge paws hit his shoulders and he was knocked to the floor, his head cracking against the marble, the sword flung wide.
Its weight was crushing. He felt its claws digging into the flesh of his shoulders.
A thin rivulet of blood ran down his collarbone and trickled on to the floor.
Its teeth were inches from his face. Christopher felt its reeking breath hot on his cheeks. He closed his eyes. He hoped it would be fast.
Then the Tiger spoke, and it was with Astor Morax’s voice.
‘Bring me the Immortal, Christopher Forrester, or I allow the Tiger to kill you.’
‘No,’ said Christopher. It came out as a croak.
‘This is your final warning.’ The Tiger thrust its face to his and roared. The sound was agony; he screamed in pain. The beast’s saliva ran on to his face. ‘Bring Teren to my boat.’
‘No!’ And this time he shouted the word, bellowed it. Christopher twisted his head to the side, away from the Tiger’s breath. He sent a desperate, wordless plea, a telegraph out towards the living creatures of the island. Help me! But he felt no answering pull, and no help came.
‘Think, boy. The Tiger will kill you, and then the princess, and then every single living creature on Glimt. And then when there is nothing in your palace but blood, I will come ashore and take the Immortal child. Bring him to me, or you and the princess and all your creatures will die together, and their deaths will be your choice and your doing.’
There was a snorting sound to his left. Christopher opened his eyes.
Ahead of him was the Great Hall’s oak door, open to the outdoors.
The behemoth was trying to squeeze inside, trying to knock down the ancient doorway that was too narrow for it to pass.
Its face yearned towards Christopher and it bellowed, but it could not fit. On its back was perched a bird.
Christopher stared at them. He felt, in the farthest edges of his mind, the flicker of an idea, so faint that even he could not yet see it clearly.
‘Wait! Wait. Yes!’ Christopher looked straight at the Tiger, at the black flame in the centre of each pupil. ‘I’ll bring you the Immortal,’ he said. ‘You don’t need to come ashore. I’ll bring him to your ship. I’ll come on the Neverfear. But you must call off the Tiger!’
‘The Tiger stays to keep watch.’
‘No! I am offering you a deal! Call off the Tiger, and I will bring Teren! Or there’s no pact, and you let him loose on the palace. But are you sure the Tiger won’t kill the Immortal? Are you sure you can control it? And it’ll take time – time you don’t have.’
The Tiger breathed its terrible rancid breath on his face. ‘Then hurry,’ it said, and once more it roared, a roar that shook Christopher’s body.
It turned and stalked towards the mirror. The Tiger gave a fluid leap, and disappeared back into the shimmering surface, a black and orange streak disappearing into silver.
Christopher leaped after it and drove the hilt of his sword into the glass. There was an ear-splitting crack and great shards showered down around his feet.
There were footsteps. Anya came limping into the Great Hall, leading the Immortal by the hand. Ratwin ran beside them and Jacques rode on her back, one wing held stiffly at his side.
‘What happened?’ Anya cried. ‘I heard something terrible!’
‘The Tiger. It came through.’
‘Came through?’ She looked wildly around the Great Hall. ‘Is it here?’
‘No. It was called back.’
‘By who?’
‘Astor Morax.’
‘Why?’
‘I surrendered.’
‘What?’
His eyes signalled to Anya: come outside. The behemoth, still wedged in the doorway, gave a low growl. The bird cocked its head.
‘Jacques, Ratwin,’ Christopher said. ‘Quick – you need to break or cover every mirror in the palace.’
‘Whats are you goings to do?’ said Ratwin.
‘I’m going to go to Morax,’ said Christopher.
‘What? How can you?’
‘Because if I don’t,’ said Christopher, ‘he’ll kill us all.’
‘What about Teren?’
‘I said I would bring the Immortal to him. I said I would sail out now on the Neverfear. I have an idea.’
‘Is it the kind of idea that can get you killed?’ said Anya.
‘Yes,’ he said, and smiled.