Circle of Nine: Circle of Nine Trilogy 1 (32 page)

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

T
he air inside the Grounds was noticeably warmer — an attempt to hatch the hundreds of black eggs that were incubating. The eggs were carefully arranged in piles, depending on the identity of the other-host. Some of the piles had other-hosts sitting on them in reverie, clicking slightly in private communication with the occupants of the eggs. From some segments of the grounds came the sounds of screeching and crackling as the occupants of the eggs were released. In a white steel tower at the far end of the Grounds sat the appointed members of the Amew, performing their duty of overseeing the Hatching and ensuring that any undersized Azephim or any Bindisores or deformities were killed the instant they hatched.

Despite Seleza’s constant attempts to change the Azephim old ways, Ishran knew that although there appeared to be hundreds of incubating eggs in the grounds only the Ghormho of each batch was definitely fated to survive. The second egg hatched from the batch, the Glazrmhom, stood a good chance, but the remaining newly hatched baby angels would be eaten upon hatching by the other-host. For seasons Seleza had attempted to change the archaic practice, proudly displaying her entire batch to the citizens of Kondoell, but despite her example cannibalism continued to thrive as the other-hosts freely shared their offspring with the Amew and Watcher Guards. She had long since decided to turn a blind eye to the practice.

Seleza headed imperiously to the largest pile of eggs. For what had seemed countless eystons she had been hatching this latest batch after each egg had shared her body for one half-turn of the Wheel. Surrounding their Queen sat other hatchers absorbed in their task. Seleza and Ishran’s appearance attracted no attention in the Grounds where all Azephim were regarded as equal. Both the formation of life and death were of equal importance to the Azephim.

‘I think it is nigh time you consider returning the Eom to the Web.’

Seleza’s words hung in the air — an order? A request? Ishran swallowed hard, sensing the importance of the conversation. An impression came to him — the Eom. Inactive, dominant, mocking him. Ishran the useless! But there had been recent life in the crystal . . . he had seen a spark . . . if the Tremite writings were correct . . . He fixed his eyes on his other-host in an intense stare.

‘It might prove too dangerous to attempt to cross with the Eom. As you are aware, it has itself elected to remain in Eronth. Don’t you feel that we should honour its choice? After all, it is Eom! We cannot just move it around when it suits us! We cannot leave such matters to mere whims!’ he said, his voice sounding ineffectual even to his own ears.

Seleza hissed and outspread her wings. She was an imposing sight when in the process of Hatching.

‘A whim? My people are being destroyed by some malignant malaise! The entirety of Kondoell has never recovered from the abduction of Eom! Originally I allowed you to keep the crystal in Eronth, feeling it better for my people to recover their energy without intervention from an outside source. I knew if Eom was here we would all be tempted to draw on its power. But I see now that was a mistake, for my people never did recover their energy! All that they did was to continue to deteriorate into the shambling lost souls that you have now witnessed in the Uluree! Now you stand before me, the Ghormho, and tell me my wish for the return of Eom is a whim!’

Despairingly, Ishran glanced around him, but the Hatchers remained oblivious to their heated words. ‘You don’t know for sure that it is Eom that has caused the plague to fall on you. I tell you, it could be Bluite viruses or radiation from Heztarra. In all the meditations that I have performed on Eom the communication is always the same. The Eom wishes to stay in Eronth! Why, it has even drawn a Webx Elder siblrot named Gwyndion to help it reactivate! Plus the nova has been charted by the Tremites and the child Maya, the chosen one, has been conceived at Belthane!’ He could not help feeling pleased with himself at the logic of his argument.

Now specks of spittle began to appear on Seleza’s lips. Her incisor fangs grew, bursting her mouth open in her fury.

‘What of the original Elders?’ she spat at Ishran. ‘They crossed with Eom and the Wizards into Eronth! What happened to them? Don’t tell me you developed a taste for Webx sap? Or did they end up being turned to stone as well? The Elders would have possessed the knowledge to reactivate the Eom but no doubt you have lost us that opportunity as well!’

Ishran hesitated, wondering if the Azephim Queen was already aware that the Elders hung suspended in his dungeons, enveloped in the deadly light rays, cocooned in a sleep that was neither death nor life. They had fallen into their coma shortly after they had crossed from Kondoell. At a loss as to how to revive them, Ishran had used his Spinnerets. The Wheel of the Year had turned countless times while Sati and he had struggled with various rituals to awaken the sleeping Elders. Now his other-host was mocking him. If she found out that he couldn’t even activate a pair of aged Webx Elders the shame would kill him!

Seated on her eggs, Seleza’s throat constricted in rage. She could see clearly enough the fate of the Webx Elders. Ishran and his slut Bindisore wife were still occupied with using the Web killing techniques. How such a weakling son had been born the Ghormho was beyond her! The Glazrmhom of Ishran’s batch, his sister Rashka, showed more power and mental skill than Ishran had ever possessed. Incredulously she surveyed him coldly before launching into one of her endless tirades about Sati. Moodily, Ishran attempted to close his mind off while the adjectives he had been hearing for years swirled furiously around him.

‘Incompetent, dangerous, sluttish, power-mad, stinking ageing Bindisore! Joke of Kondoell!’

Fervently the Ghormho prayed that the Amew could not overhear the abuse he was receiving. For the millionth time in a half eyston, he asked himself why he had been fool enough to visit his other-host.

*

Dinner that evening was a subdued affair, the servants tiptoeing around the simmering family. Rashka sat at the side of the long banquet table, glowering at Ishran, her dark polished nails threatening to shred the white lace cloth on the table. There was no love lost between the siblings. Rashka had not bothered to dress for dinner, to Seleza’s displeasure. Her hair hung unbrushed to her waist, dyed the golden-caramel colour that was the fashion for the younger Azephim. She wore faded brown leather pants and a black shirt that was ripped and had dried bloodstains on it. There was a large bite scar taken out of her left cheek, the result of a recent wrestle with a lion. Big-cat wrestling had become a popular pastime with the tribe of affluent, bored young Azephim that Rashka associated with. In contrast, Seleza wore a white lace gown that was cut to reveal her breasts and embroidered with precious pearls and diamonds by the Bluite servants who worked in the Azephim labour factories. Her eyes shifted between her two children. Snarling softly she sniffed the old enemity between the two.

Maug was served, along with tender ilkama breast and tall chilled glasses of Bluite blood. The aroma of scented candles mingled with the tangy, appetising fragrance of the meat. But Ishran failed to appreciate the savoury feast. With every mouthful he reminded himself that Seleza had the most skilled poisoners in the Web in her employment. She could easily decide to murder him and cross to Eronth, claiming the Eom as her own.

If he survived this meal, he promised himself, if he lived through this agonising visit, he would renew his efforts to reactivate the Eom, but first he would cross to the Blue Planet and hunt. He felt the urge to prove that he was worthy, an Azephim to be feared. Seleza in her turn watched the Ghormho through slitted eyes, feeding on his fear, passing some of the energy through to Rashka. The night was still young but already she was growing weary. She was only too aware that if the Eom was not returned to the Web the entire Azephim race was in danger and it infuriated her that Ishran did not immediately volunteer the Eom to save his own people. Living with the Bindisore had weakened and corrupted him! If he did not volunteer the Eom she would have to cross and she was loath to do so when she was suffering from the paralysing malaise that had fallen upon her race. There had to be a better way than just killing him, and her mind raced feverishly.

Rashka sat watching her brother, fantasising about his death, her teeth in his throat, in his stomach. Then she fixed on a mental image of cracking the head open of the loathsome Bindisore that he continued to mate with. Excited by her imaginings she smiled widely at Ishran. Soon, she promised herself, on a Dark Moon, she would cross and claim what was rightfully theirs.

*

In the centre of the still, dark night the Ghormho made his hurried exit from the Web. His wings outstretched to full span and he flew quickly into the light rays, panicking as he went for fear that he would be shot to the ground by his other-host’s death rays. But he was in no immediate danger. Seleza had well and truly retired for the night. All that remained of the Azephim Queen was her head, which floated gently in the restoration tank. Her mind was aware that her first egg had flown from the Panchion, but she let him go unimpeded. Already the Amew were whispering to her in her dreams that the prophecies were coming true . . . the triple alignment of Jupiter, Saturn and Mars had occurred for the third time . . . the Nova DO Aquilae. The signs were there, and a plan was beginning to form.

*

Leicester Square, London. Flashing neon billboards advertising Coca-Cola, McDonald’s, Sanyo and Fosters. Double-decker red buses went past, the brightly lit interiors revealing tiny bowed heads shielded behind newspapers. Static. Intensifying. Picture clearing. The odour of Bluites was overwhelming, making him nauseous. Rain was falling softly, the grey splashes blurring the edges of the scene. He sniffed the air warily. Pavements were wet and crowded with Bluites. He was pushed against them, feeling them recoil subconsciously from the alien who walked among them. Happy, happy hunting. The night air was alive, and writhing with possibilities. Protectors hissed at him in the crowded streets, holding out amulets to warn him off, but he ignored them, intent on the scent. His wings fluttered out and his breath brought thoughts and dreams of death and violence to those who tasted it. Hot on the scent . . . steps leading down, an underground basement, walking past thuggish bouncers, bringing gifts to them of tumours, scenting death. Nice joint, classy, plants hanging from stone gargoyle mouths, music thumping, the vibration spiking white-hot points in the air; sweat, lust, life. Blood moved around in the bodies surrounding him. Life jerking and dancing, eating and drinking. Two young women stood beside him in transparent blouses. Their voices reached him. ‘Bruce Willis was awesome! It’s got to be the best thing he’s ever done.’

‘Emily said that when she was in the States she went to a party at Dahlias and Demi was there. She’s really built up, works out all the time.’

Easy prey, they were easy prey . . . but still he sniffed the air, still seeking . . .

Protectors stepped forward holding up amulets to guard their charges. They could see that the Azephim had eaten recently and therefore had no real reason to seek prey. Ishran snarled at them, pitting his mind against theirs. He felt tempted to open himself and reveal his true being to the crowded nightclub. Gorge on their mass fear and panic. Crush them beneath his feet, throw their soft vulnerable bodies against walls, turn them to ice, turn them to ash . . .

Then he smelt her . . . easy prey . . . the drugs she had taken were numbing her senses. Her auric bands slipped, the Protectors were unable to reach her, to give her the impulse to leave. Her blood would be rich and velvet smooth . . .

Easy.

He headed toward her, causing dancers to step back impulsively for no conscious reason. The static intensified . . . the Protectors would no doubt report him for this transgression, but mentally he told them to fuck off. He was in no mood to argue. She was sitting alone, depressed; she was pretty in a commonplace Bluite way. Mind dulled with man troubles. Ishran smiled. Men made the feeding so easy . . .

He moved toward her and she looked up, not seeing him, of course . . . not innocent enough. But sensing him nonetheless. An image fluttered into her drugged brain, a wedding dress, black lace, heavy, falling to the ground. Moths fluttering. She was fearful without knowing why, like someone had walked over her grave. Her drugged mind was acutely aware that evil was near.

Charmonzhla stood beside him in the nightclub. Beside the angoli stood a demon child, her face grey with death. She was wearing a pink dress with a large bloodstain down the front of it. The angoli’s stone hands carried miniature black roses. He offered one mockingly to Ishran.

‘He wants to kill, he’s bored and lonely. Tired of all his other toys,’ the demon girl said to Charmonzhla. The angoli frowned.

‘Be quiet, Rachel!’ he said. ‘I told you that if we hunted, you had to hold your tongue still.’ He turned to Ishran, his eyes filled with an ancient knowing. Charmonzhla drew Ishran into himself. His face was radiant. Ishran almost shrank from the dark, divine essence of the angoli.

‘Too easy, Ghormho!’ he remonstrated.

He smiled, showing perfect, small white teeth. Ishran relaxed, sensing the angoli’s respect for him, the acknowledgment of his power that others refused to recognise.

‘Too easy a kill for one as great as Ishran the Ghormho!’ the angoli exclaimed.

Ishran felt his wings swell with pride. Never had he known such admiration. Charmonzhla winked at him. ‘Why take one Bluite when you can have them all?’ The demon child snarled in excitement.

Ishran stared at them in shock. Even the Azephim only killed what they needed! Then he laughed aloud as he watched brilliant blue-gold tongues of fire erupt from Charmonzhla’s head. Fire, baptise them with flame. Their fear of death would give him the energy that his race was lacking . . . easy prey . . . Protectors began attempting to hurry the nightclub patrons home, but it was too late. The angels exploded into flames . . . static was buzzing, there was only the screams, static, heat, more screams and laughter.