In the end we chose to keep Spits with us, but agreed not to turn our backs on him, to take turns sleeping, and to cut him loose if he ever threatened violence.
We made slow but steady progress through the mountains. If the weather had been finer, we’d have raced through, but all the rain had led to mudslides and slippery underfoot conditions. We had to walk carefully, and were often forced to backtrack and skirt around an area made inaccessible by the rain and mud.
“Does it normally rain this much?” I asked Spits.
“T’ tell the truth, this has been one o’ the better years,” he chortled. “We gets very hot summers – long, too – but the winters are dogs. Mind, it’ll probably break in another night or two—we ain’t hit the worst o’ the season yet, and it’s rare t’ get more’n a week or so o’ nonstop rain at this time o’ year.”
As though the clouds had been listening, they eased up the next morning – affording us a welcome view of blue sky – and by night, when we set off, it was the driest it had been since we landed at Spits’s shack.
That same night, we topped a small peak and found ourselves on a sharp decline into a long, wide chasm leading out of the mountain ridges. The base of the chasm was flooded with rainwater, but there were ledges along the sides which we’d be able to use. Hurrying down the mountain, we located one of the broader ledges, tied a rope around ourselves to form a chain, me in front. Spits in the middle, Harkat behind, and set off over the fast-flowing river, edging forwards at a snail’s pace. Spits even went so far as to cork his jug of poteen and leave it untouched!
Day dawned while we were on the ledge. We hadn’t seen any caves in the cliff, but there were plenty of large holes and cracks. Untying ourselves, each of us crawled into a hole to rest, out of sight of any passing dragons. It was extremely uncomfortable, but I was exhausted after the hard climb and fell asleep immediately, not waking until late in the day.
After a quick meal – the last of Spits’s dried fish slices – we tied ourselves together again and set off. It began to drizzle shortly afterwards, but then it cleared for the rest of the night and we progressed without interruption. The ledge didn’t run all the way to the end of the chasm, but there were ledges above and beneath it which we were able to transfer to, making the journey in stages. Shortly before daybreak we came to the end of the chasm and crawled down to a flat plain which spread out for many kilometres ahead of us, ending in a massive forest which stretched left and right as far as we could see.
We debated our options. Since none of us wanted to sleep in a hole in the cliff again, and the route to the forest was littered with bushes we could hide under if we spotted a dragon, we decided to head for the trees straightaway. Forcing our tired legs on, we jogged briskly over the plain, Spits feeding himself with poteen, somehow managing not to spill a drop despite the jolting of his arms as he ran.
We made camp just within the edge of the forest. While Harkat kept an eye on Spits, I slept soundly until early afternoon. Harkat and I caught a wild pig soon after that, which Spits gleefully roasted over a quickly constructed fire. We tucked into our first hot meal since leaving for the mountains more than two weeks earlier—delicious! Wiping our hands clean on the grass afterwards, we set off in a general southeast direction – it was hard to tell precisely with all the tree cover – prepared for a long, gloomy trek through the forest.
To our surprise, we cleared the trees a few hours before sunset—the forest was long, but narrow. We found ourselves standing at the top of a small cliff, gazing down on fields of the tallest, greenest grass I’d ever seen. No trees grew in the fields, and though there must have been many streams feeding the soil to produce such greenery, they were hidden by the towering stalks of grass.
Only one object stood out against the otherwise unbroken sea of green—a huge white building a couple of kilometres directly ahead, which shone like a beacon under the evening sun. Harkat and I shared a glance and said simultaneously, with a mixture of excitement and tension, “The Temple of the Grotesque!”
Spits stared suspiciously at the building, spat over the edge of the cliff, and snorted. “Trouble!”
THE STALKS of grass grew thickly together, a couple of metres high. We had to chop our way through, like hacking a path through a jungle. It was hard, slow work, and night had fallen before we reached the temple. Studying it by the light of a strong moon, we were impressed by its stature. Made of large rough stones which had been painted white, it stood thirty-five or forty metres high. A square building, its walls were about a hundred metres in length, and supported a flat roof. We did a full circuit of the exterior and there was only one entrance, a huge open doorway, five metres wide by eight or nine high. We could see the flicker of candlelight from within.
“I don’t like the look o’ this place,” Spits muttered.
“Me neither,” I sighed. “But if it’s the Temple of the Grotesque, we have to go in and find the holy liquid that Evanna told us about.”
“Ye two can trust a witch’s word if ye like,” Spits grunted, “but I ain’t having nowt t’ do with dark forces! If ye want t’ enter, best o’ luck. I’ll wait out here.”
“Afraid?” Harkat grinned.
“Aaarrr,” Spits replied. “Ye should be too. Ye can call this the Temple o’ the Grotesque if ye like, but I knows what it really is—a Temple o’ Death!” And he stormed off to find a hiding place in a patch of nearby grass.
Harkat and I shared Spits’s gloomy opinion, but we had to venture in. Knives drawn, we crept to the doorway and were about to enter, when the sound of chanting drifted to us over the clear night air. We paused uncertainly, then drew back to where Spits was hiding in the grass.
“Changed yer minds?” he hooted.
“We heard something.” Harkat told him. “It sounded like voices—human … voices. They were chanting.”
“Where’d they come from?” Spits asked.
“To our left,” I told him.
“Will I go check ’em out while ye explore yer temple?”
“I think it would be best if we all … went to check,” Harkat said. “If there are people here, this temple … must be theirs. We can ask them about it and … maybe they can help us.”
“Ye’re awfully simple-minded fer a demon,” Spits laughed cynically. “Never trust a stranger, that’s what I says!”
That was good advice, and we paid heed to it, quietly sliding through the grass – which didn’t grow so thickly here – cautiously closing in on the chanting. A short way beyond the temple, we came to the edge of a clearing. In it was a small, peculiar-looking village. The huts were made of grass and built very low to the ground, no more than a metre high. Either we’d come to a village of pygmies, or the huts were only used as shelters to sleep beneath. Rough grey robes were bundled in a pile in the centre of the village. Dead sheep-like animals were stacked one on top of another, close to the robes.
As we were taking in the sight of the village, a naked man appeared through the grass to our right. He was of ordinary height and build, a light brown colour, but with lanky pink hair and dull white eyes. He walked to the mound of dead sheep, dragged one out and returned the way he’d come, pulling the sheep by its rear legs. Without discussing it, Spits, Harkat and I set off after him, keeping to the edge of the village, still hidden in the grass.
The chanting – which had