PART TWO
Nettle wheeled his naked body out of the way just in time for the huge paws and wicked claws of the beast to miss him and thud into the rock where he had lain. There was a loud splash and a bellowing roar as the panther landed at the pool’s edge, already swinging its great fanged head about in search of its missing prey.
Nettle had already reached his sword and he drew it now, the curved double-edged blade not much bigger than the slavering teeth of the hunter. Between the gleaming bronze and the rippling pool there were reflections of the hot sun cast all about, like spirits in flight.
But the two only saw each other, hunter and hunted, drawing a slow circle as each faced their foe, silently waiting for the next strike.
Nettle breathed deep, summoning his courage and steadying his nerve. He could not yell for Thorn or Hira, they were too far to hear. He could only plan his next attack, and hope his strength availed him.
In a flash the panther surged forwards, and Nettle had to dive out of its path to avoid its claws. Now lain upon his side, he scrambled to face his attacker before it struck again. He had not the endurance to dodge or deflect another such blow – the great beast would soon wear him down. He had to fight.
There was a blur, the animal pouncing straight for the supine warrior, its heavy bulk moving with almost unnatural grace and speed. It caught its foe, long claws sinking into Nettle’s chest and shoulders. He bellowed in pain, and with both hands and the last of his will thrust the point of his blade upwards.
The claws remained in his flesh, but not deep, and they did not tear at him. The snarling face, an inch from his own, froze in confusion and pain. Then the massive beast slumped, and was still.
Nettle had just enough of his wits about him to turn as the panther fell, letting it slip off his blade and beside him, rather than crush him with its massive heft. He lay there for a while beside it, naked and wild as a beast himself.
In time he stood, and surveyed the slain panther. How tragic it looked, laying there. Nettle took no pride in the kill, for the knew that it was he who had stumbled into the animal’s lair. It had been queen of its own domain, and he had been lucky to live even to tell of it. Just another animal on the Isle of Beasts.
He would honour the creature by making use of its pelt somehow, he decided, as he tied his loincloth back about himself. First though he needed to return to the women and aid their efforts before any other creatures found him here, bleeding and exhausted from the fray.
This was Nettle’s last thought before strong arms grasped him from behind, a shadow fell across his vision, and he was pulled bodily away into the jungle.
At the ocean’s edge, Thorn and Hira had set to work on a means of escape. The captain’s knowledge of seafaring ran deep, and she knew what materials from the wreck and surrounding shoreline would best suit their purposes. Thorn wanted to save as much of the Moon Chaser’s remaining bounty as she could, but Hira was more pragmatic.
“If treasure is what you seek, little one, there is plenty where we’re going. For now, we ought not to carry too much weight. We three are the most vital cargo.”
“But I weigh so little...” said Thorn, tugging at a bolt of silk. She let go, however, and returned to freeing loose nails from the scattered wood, which Hira was hammering into their resurrected vessel with a scavenged sword-hilt.
The captain raised her head from their work, her keen eye aimed at the treeline. “Your companion has yet to return,” she commented.
Thorn rolled her eyes. “That boy is so easily distracted. He’s likely fallen asleep in the hot sun, or is splashing about in the pool.”
“I only think of the hands I lost to that fell jungle,” said Hira grimly. “I hope he hasn’t wandered in.”
“I’ll check on him,” said Thorn, and she flew off with a flutter of her wings.
In no time she returned, bright eyes wide with panic. “Hira! The pool... Nettle is missing!”
“Missing?” The captain rose and drew her blade, already marching across the sand, led by the fairy.
“There was only blood and scraps of cloth. I saw no sign of him,” said Thorn frantically, and sure enough, as they reached the oasis their companion was nowhere to be seen.
Hira spat. “This cursed rock will be the death of us all!”
But Thorn was already peering into the dense undergrowth, noting how some ferns lay flat, and the drops of crimson upon the verdant leaves were of both fruit-flesh and blood.
“We have to find him,” said the spirit, her resolve never long forgotten.
Hira’s gaze was cold and distant. “I’m sorry, little one. But like the sailors before him, I fear your friend is lost.”
Thorn blazed with indignation. “No! You may have abandoned your crew to their fate to save yourself, but I cannot do the same.”
Hira stirred angrily at that, but the fairy had already disappeared into the trees, a little bronze blur, swallowed by the deep dark of the jungle.
Onwards she sped through vine and mossy bough, sending birds and insects chittering from her path. Her keen wings cut a swathe through the ferns that littered the forest floor, and her bright eyes watched for any sign among the myriad strange plants that swelt beneath the canopy.
The light beneath the leaves was gold and green, and everywhere was the powerful scent of flowers and fungi, life and death. There were a thousand turns to take, yet nowhere could she spy Nettle. Instead she saw more trees, each of which might have been the same she had seen moments ago.
Burning with frustration she stopped, and it was then that her sharp ears caught something strange – or else not strange, a familiar sound not from the whispering chorus of nature. From one side, through the trunks of the trees, came the sound of footsteps.
Indeed these were louder than the natural sounds of the birds and beasts around her, as if those marching made no attempt to hide their passage through the undergrowth. It was by their clumsy noise-making that Thorn marked them from afar.
The spirit looked around, taking a moment to carve a rune in a sapling with a flash of her wings. By this she would know if she circled back here again. Then, she flew towards the steady sound of her fellow jungle intruders.
Soon she found herself deeper within, so deep that the hot sun struggled to reach through the twisted trees, and all was cast in shadow as though night had fallen.
Undeterred, the fairy struck her shining hands together, and between them made a spark, which became a candle-flame. This she held in her palm as a lantern, and by its glow flew on through the inky depths.
The hanging branches here were like stalactites, the ground a carpet of rotting, fallen leaves, all whirring by Thorn as she aimed herself towards the steady sound. Then, suddenly, she saw another light.
Extinguishing her own with a thought, she took a hiding-place behind a knotted stump to watch the procession before her unfold.
There were a half dozen mortals, men, women and others, a motley assortment from across the scattered isles, tramping together through the thicket. Each wore their own garb, the simple dress of working folk, and each had a wicked scimitar or cutlass in hand.
The one at the front, a wiry older man with a sun-weathered pate, held aloft the flaming torch Thorn had seen. Two others, the strongest looking amongst them, held a figure in their arms.
Nettle! Thorn drew breath but did well to make no sound as she spied her friend amongst the throng. He struggled, but his hands were bound in coarse rope and there was sackcloth over his head so that he could not see.
What was more he bled, a row of short gashes across his upper torso. He wore only his loincloth, and the jeering parade prodded at his bare back with the points of their weapons.
Thorn bade her time, following the grim parade at a distance, flitting from one branch to another, keeping her sights always on Nettle.
It was not long before the oppressive canopy thinned above them, and the fairy felt the heat and light of the sun again. The path ahead sloped up now, and there were stones in the dirt, stained with moss and lichen.
It was only now that Thorn saw that which had been hidden by the gathering shadow and leaf litter that had blanketed the forest floor. Her bright eyes widened as there emerged two snakes, each thrice her height or more in length, which crawled along on their bellies before the marchers.
Indeed the serpents seemed to lead them, for the man with the torch marked their passage, and followed their slithering trail. This was sorcery, surely, though Thorn knew from a glance that the serpents were mere beasts, and not of her kin. What spirit’s power drove them hence, and how did the humans know to walk behind?
Thorn took up a perch overhead as the two snakes, pale against the greening stone, led their charges up the hill, until the whole strange pilgrimage finally came to a halt in a wide clearing.
Here was a circle of stones, bare and polished but rough-hewn as natural boulders. The snakes which had led them came to the very centre of the circle, where a pit had been dug into the earth, and descended into it. There were more like them within, a great writhing of serpents, too entangled to count.
At the far side of the pit a man waited in the shade of a tall tree. This man was fair of skin and hair, and wore long and comfortable robes of fine, white silk, unsullied by the grime of the jungle. He was handsome also, with high cheekbones and full lips, his eyes a pale and icy blue.
Thorn saw on his finger a silver ring set with a sea-blue stone, which shimmered in the dappled sunlight. The fair-haired man outstretched his arms and smiled widely at his guests, greeting them in a low, melodic tone.
“Ho! Friends! You have returned to me, as indeed I knew you would.”
“Your grace and power brought us here,” said one of their number clumsily. “The snakes led us back to you, as you foretold, o great King Finnhar.”
King! Thorn scoffed silently to herself from her lofty bough. The king of dirt and serpents! These fools would not last long against the two of them, once Nettle was free. She furrowed her brow. Her companion tossed and pulled against his captors, but in his weakened state they had him overpowered.
She knew she had within her the power to restore him to fighting strength with but a touch, if only she could reach him. The little spirit summoned her cunning, and began to devise a plan.
“Well then, friends,” came the sing-song voice of the man they called Finnhar. “What is this gift you bring your King? A new addition to our merry band?”
“A warrior, o King,” said one, a short, glum person dressed in filthy leather scraps. “We saw him slay a beast of the forest with our own eyes.”
“To kill a serpent is a sin!” admonished their king. “You did well to bring this villain to me.”
“Not a serpent, lord King,” said another nervously. “A great panther.”
Thorn was sure she saw the man in white bristle with fear, but he kept his posture and the lilting song in his voice.
“A panther, you say? Yes... Indeed, it was I who sent that beast to deal with him. How tragic that it was slain.” His tone hardened. “This outsider is a danger to us all. He must be sacrificed. The great spirit commands it!”
Then from behind the white-robed man came a sudden crashing from the thicket. Hira burst forth, enchanted blade flashing in her hand, and grasping the man’s arm from behind she held him there, whirling Foe Cutter around to bring its edge against his throat.
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