Modern Magick

The Heart of Hyndorin: 6

I tore through the unnatural mountain valley on the trail of Wyr, my Pup, and the long-sealed door to Torvaston's settlement. Whether the gods had answered my hasty prayers and granted me a burst of speed, or whether my magickally supercharged state put wings to my feet, I began to gain on Wyr despite his head start. He charged headlong through the verdant grasses like a fox with a pack of hounds on his tail; that, I supposed, made me the hounds. I could be sorely tempted to tear him apart with my teeth, too, once I caught him — if Pup didn't beat me to it. I didn't think she had too many violent tendencies, but one never knew. Wyr could rouse the bloodthirsty instincts of a block of stone.

It occurred to me, as I pelted along, to wonder where Wyr thought he was going. His flight seemed aimless; around us and ahead of us stretched the same, unbroken grassy landscape, dotted with the same patches of purple heather, the same wizened old trees. No apparent destination rose upon the horizon, nowhere for a fleeing thief to take refuge. Nowhere for a legendary door to lie hidden, either.

I was forgetting the unusual behaviour of mountains, in Enclaves associated with that ancient troll court. Between one step and the next, the mists cleared from the skies; looming with shocking suddenness out of the ether rose a peak the equal of its majestic twin at old Farringale.

Complete with its own complement of griffin residents. Enormous nests were dotted here and there up the rocky face of the mountain — apparently unscaleable, considering its absolutely sheer sides — and in the far distance, I glimpsed a few familiar, dark, winged shapes wheeling upon the winds.

I felt a moment's strong satisfaction. Hadn't we said there would be griffins here? The pleasure of having a theory confirmed never gets old, however many times one is proved deliciously, perfectly correct.

But that was to grow distracted from the point, because I was still hurtling towards a sheer rock face at improbable speed, and so were Wyr and my absurd, furiously yapping pup. Something about the shape and structure of that peak struck me as odd; too structured, too symmetrical, too sheer. Not altogether natural.

I didn't have time to study it any more closely. Ahead of me, Wyr skidded to a stop at the base of the peak, and stared — hopelessly? — up at the unclimbable expanse of rock before him.

'Wyr!' I yelled. 'Giddy gods, where is the damned door.'

He did not look back. I forced air into my burning lungs and energy into my flagging legs, and put on a final burst of speed in a bid to catch up. Not that he had anywhere to go—

—I stopped dead as Wyr shot skywards, borne by a slab of levitating rock which had, to my eye, come out of nowhere. He'd stepped onto it deliberately, of course, though by what mechanism he'd caused the thing to bear him up the peak I couldn't tell. Perhaps he hadn't. Perhaps it did that by itself.

Stranger things were happening out here.

Unfortunately, that was the very same moment that Pup caught up with him. Fastening her sharp little teeth into his leg with a yip of victory, she, too, was borne haplessly upwards, attached to his trouser-leg.

'Pup!' I wailed.

Wyr's involuntary cry of pain was my only consolation.

I paused a moment in frozen dismay. Wyr had out-jockeyed us again, and this time we'd lost poor Pup to his wiles as well.

I shook myself. Get a grip, Ves. If there was one unusually buoyant slab of stone attached to this peculiar peak, there could well be more.

Alban, Jay and the others found me there some minutes later, urgently questing for a second magickal elevator and coming up with nothing.