The Manticore's Secret: Part Two of the GameWord Trilogy

  The Manticore’s Secret

  Part Two of The GameWorld Trilogy

  Samit Basu

  PROLOGUE

  APART FROM THE occasional croaking of a small and angst-ridden tree-frog the circular clearing in the heart of the Great Forest is silent in the darkness. The tree-frog (Melnkohli flaikatcha) in question has a lot on his mind. He has spent most of his short life contemplating the historic injustice he has suffered – an old aunt his parents had owed flies to had been allowed to name him, and she had named him Sweetie Croak.

  Sweetie’s somewhat limited vocabulary prevents him from launching into a moving speech, but from the anguished bulging of his eyes it is clear that his soul is in deep torment. It is all very tragic. But tonight, this clearing in Vrihataranya is about to witness an event of far greater significance than the desolation of Sweetie Croak.

  Tonight is the night of the new moon, the third night of Tigermonth. From all over the world, followers of the Rakshas Danh-Gem, living in hope of his prophesied return, have assembled in Vanarpuri for a great council. They are at this very moment being addressed by Angda, sister of Bali the vanar-lord. Great gongs still ring in the ancient vanar city, but the mighty trees of Vrihataranya have killed off the smallest echoes; not even a whisper filters through to the clearing.

  In a small ruined temple outside Vanarpuri, the Brotherhood of Renewal has just assembled. It is a historic meeting; Bjorkun Skuan-lord and Omar the Terrible, Scourge of the Artaxerxian Sands, are meeting the Dark Lord in waiting, Danh-Gem’s heir, Kirin half-ravian, for the very first time. Their secret deliberations this night are going to shake the very foundations of the world.

  But the cloaked conspirators of the Brotherhood do not know what is happening here, a few days’ march from their temple. Had they known, they would have been here. Here, where there is no hum of excitement, no animal night-song, no starlight; here, where there is only darkness.

  And Sweetie Croak.

  The clearing is no random space in the middle of the jungle; it has been worked upon by hand. There is a small pit in the clearing, hollowed with great skill into a perfectly smooth hemispherical basin, with a raised triangle of earth in the centre. Three large, perfect spherical globes have been placed in the basin, one at each vertex of the triangle. The globes are made of a metal not of this world. It is a ravian metal, irichalcum, commonly known as moongold.

  Sweetie Croak croaks soulfully.

  Sudden movement. Out of nowhere, a bone-dart suddenly whistles across the clearing and catches him in the vocal sac, causing him to explode in a rude and amusing manner.

  As his insides form an interesting pattern on the jungle floor, Sweetie Croak’s dying thought is this: If his aunt had been present at his death, she would have renamed him Splatty Croak. Which, all said and done, is a much more respectable name.

  He dies, slightly mollified. The silence is now complete.

  And then there is a faint sound - heavy boots tramping through the forest, cracking branches underfoot. And a faint buzzing of flies, and the swish of a heavy feline body moving through the undergrowth.

  And there is light; bright naphtha lamps, held aloft on sticks, head slowly towards the pit, swaying uncertainly. An intricate pattern of yellow-white light dances on the trees across the basin.

  Bearing these lamps are small, squat figures, twelve in number, all except one clad in heavy armour.

  Vamans.

  They struggle through the undergrowth, which is shoulder-high for them, cursing the forest in harsh voices. Occasionally their leader, Kor Betpo, growls at them to be silent, for there could be vanar sentries abroad, gliding through the treetops like giant birds of prey, and secrecy is essential to the vamans’ mission.

  In front of the vamans treads an unearthly, grotesque feline form.

  Manticore.

  From far away he looks like a giant, mangy lion, but he lacks any semblance of majesty or grace. Manticore’s mane is thick and shaggy, and his face an obscene parody of a human face, vaguely Avrantic. He lurches through the night, occasionally snarling at the flies that swirl around his drooling mouth, irresistibly drawn to the overpowering stench of dead flesh coming from its three rows of teeth. One row for biting, tearing, ripping; an endless array of long fangs that constantly tear even at his own gums; clotted blood cases his thick Avrantic lips. A second row for chewing, huge molars joined by strings of ragged flesh. The innermost row is for bone-shaping – as he feeds, his inner teeth swirl and grind away at the larger bones, shaping them into darts that he stores in his dragging belly and fires with deadly accuracy out of a muscular sphincter at the end of his hollow tail. The deadly poison that coats these darts comes from his liver. He limps – his left foreleg is scarred and twisted, a reminder of the time he was nearly killed by a human, Hihuspix the neo-Hudlumm of Kol’s Silver Phalanx. Apart from the marks on his legs, all Manticore remembers of Hihuspix was that he had been lean, healthy, and surprisingly sweet.

  Manticore steps out of the trees and stands in front of the pit. The vamans break into frenetic activity; they run around the circle, setting up various complicated scientific instruments – gauges, pendulums, wires, measuring sticks, strange contraptions full of bubbling liquids. The hiss and chatter of steam and clockwork is uncannily loud in the forest as the machines of the vamans spring to life.

  This is Manticore’s hour of glory, his moment of supreme triumph. He has kept the secret, performed the sacred task that was given to him two hundred years ago.

  In a strange, broken voice, he sings

  ‘By the sacred circle now

  We must fulfill our ancient vow.’

  A vaman mutters ‘Bloody poet’ under his breath. Kor waves for silence. He offers Manticore his ceremonial battle-axe.

  ‘Servant’s blood and vaman steel

  Come forth lords to kill and heal!’

  ‘Why does the fat cat speak in rhyme?’ mutters one vaman to another. ‘Can’t tell you; I haven’t time,’ comes the grinning reply, followed by a clunk as the questioner’s gauntlet crashes into the answerer’s helm. Kor barks out a short order, and all mirth is extinguished.

  Smiling horribly, Manticore offers Kor a mangy paw. Kor runs the blade of his axe across it. Manticore snarls; the cut is deep. He lays the bleeding paw on the edge of the circle.

  A rivulet of dark blood runs down the basin to the raised triangle in the centre. As the machines click and hum, Kor and Manticore watch silently as the sides of the raised triangle are clearly outlined in a pool of Manticore’s blood.

  The moongold spheres suddenly light up, producing a dazzling silver light. The vamans cry out in surprise and anticipation. Manticore’s eyes burn with excitement.

  ‘The beacons lit, my blood is taken

  I cry out to my lords – awaken!’

  ‘Enough,’ says Kor suddenly. A vaman swiftly bandages Manticore’s paw; another enters the pit and wipes the line of blood heading from the edge towards the centre. Manticore smiles at Kor. It is a sly and cunning smile.

  They wait in silence, casting long radial shadows on the mighty trees around them, watching the glowing moongold spheres and the frothing, lapping blood in the centre of the pit. The blood seems to be disappearing; it is as if the spheres are sucking it in.

  A vaman enters the pit, his eyes glued to a glowing sphere. In his hand is a metal rod. He looks up at Kor, who nods. He gingerly touches the sphere with his rod.

  There is a loud hissing sound and the vaman is suddenly enveloped in smoke. When the smoke clears, the other va
mans wail, because lying in the middle of the pit is a smoking, smouldering corpse in red-hot armour.

  Manticore laughs aloud.

  ‘Tamper not with ravian magic

  Lest your end be brief and tragic.’

  The spheres are glowing even brighter now; they seem larger in size, and tendrils of pure white light seem to connect them, forming a triangle of crackling, sparkling light, as if three bolts of lightning are being held together by force. Outside the circle, wind sweeps dead leaves into crazy spirals around the clearing.

  Two days pass. The vamans and Manticore kill every living thing that comes anywhere near the clearing. But there is no significant disturbance, the vanars do not come; and the vamans know that the rumour of Manticore’s approach alone ensures that most creatures will give the clearing a wide berth. This is why they have let Manticore out to feed quite regularly since he came to them, to the Hidden Ziggurat, a few months ago as the sacred scrolls had said he would, when magic became strong enough for him to reappear, heralding the Second Coming of the guardians of all that is pure.

  On the third night, the shining spheres start to quiver. Clouds hide the thin crescent moon.

  The vamans gather around the triangle of light and gasp as the spheres slowly rise in the air and start to spin. The triangle starts to rotate as the spheres spin around in a blurring circle.

  Blossoming out of nothing, a dome of bright light appears, filling the basin entirely. Manticore shrieks triumphantly.

  ‘Secret kept and hope renewed,

  My lords approach, stern, steel-sinewed!

  Quake and tremble, lowly mortal!

  Oath’s fulfilled! Behold the portal!’

  Rham Anpo, the vaman in charge of the scientific paraphernalia, has finished taking readings. ‘I have to go back to camp now, could someone else take charge of the instruments?’ he whispers. ‘I’ll explain later – just remembered something.’

  Kor nods – he knows Rham is reliable, a brilliant scientist, and this can be dealt with later. Rham runs off, in the direction of the vaman camp.

  A few minutes later, three shadowy figures appear inside the dome of light.

  Kor looks at the only vaman not in armour and says ‘It is time, Rae.’ Rae Baipo, a thin, haggard vaman priest, mutters a prayer and runs into the light. And burns.

  The others watch him helplessly as he struggles inside the portal, and shake their heads when he falls, screaming. Then they turn their attention to the shadows, which are slowly growing and taking human form.

  Three ravians step out of the manticore’s portal.

  For a few moments they are just indistinct, shining figures of light. Then their shapes become clearer and better defined. Three shapes, two male, one female, naked, perfect. The vamans stare in awe, wonderment, and growing lust. They are hypnotized, spellbound; they have neither seen nor imagined such beauty in living form.

  The ravians are flawless. Majesty and power shine in their glowing eyes. The vamans kneel, trembling. In a weak voice, his eyes unable to leave the spectacular form of the ravian woman, Kor stutters, ‘Welcome back.’

  She smiles sweetly at him, and at Manticore. ‘Robes, please,’ she says in a low, musical voice. The sound of her words almost matches the movement of her lips.

  The vamans have not brought clothes, but their camp is nearby. The ravians assimilate this information and smile sweetly, if slightly reproachfully.

  Kor makes a brief speech. On behalf of the Rebel Union of Marginal Labour, he welcomes the saviours to this troubled world. He begs them, in accordance with their ancient treaty, to rid the land of the Dark Lord reawakened and teach the vamans the secret art of portal-making. He speaks of other underworlds, of vamans and ravians living in love and harmony all over the universe. The speech is slightly longer than it would have been if the ravian woman had been either less beautiful or clad.

  The younger, taller male ravian steps forward and replies in kind. He speaks of the reunion of the ravians and vamans being just the first step of a journey down a glorious road, a road that would one day lead to eternal peace and happiness not just for Obiyalis (for that is what the mighty ravians, empire-builders across the stars, name this world) but for the whole universe. He also asks Kor who else knows of the successful opening of the portal; Kor replies, no one. The manticore’s secret has been kept perfectly.

  Manticore has seen ravians before, of course. He has served them for hundreds of years, but something puzzles him now – during previous entrances, the Pure Ones had always been clad, and had been able to bring anything they needed with them. And they have brought two objects this time too - an amulet dangling seductively around the woman’s neck, and a strange black sphere in the older man’s hand, which contains what looks like trapped lightning.

  Why this spectacularly naked entrance, then?

  The answer comes to him in an instant – they are playing a little joke on the vamans. Manticore has never really grasped ravian humour, but he knows it is best to smile conspiratorially in these situations.

  The young ravian woman meets his eyes, and smiles back. He is impressed - she has powers he has not seen before. As her eyes flick from the vamans to him, for a moment he can actually taste vaman flesh – a rare delicacy, though choosier predators have complained of its toughness.

  And when the ravians return from the vaman camp, clad in shining armour and bearing deadly weapons, Manticore has eaten his fill. The ravians walk before him now, their keen eyes piercing the darkness of Vrihataranya, seeing much more than what is visible in the light of the naphtha lamps in their hands.

  As he leads the ravians away, a little fat red man appears behind a tree, his eyes tiny points of light. He doesn’t know who he is, or where he is or why, but he knows he likes being here.

  He stands still for an instant watching the lovely ravians, his button-like pupil-less black eyes twinkling comically. Then he scampers off into the endless forest. He is ravenously hungry, and is wondering what to eat. And there’s a song in his head, dying to get out, but he doesn’t know the words.

  Three months later, a new Dark Lord is crowned. His name is Kirin, son of Danh-Gem.

  CHAPTER ONE

  THE CIVILIAN’S PALACE, west wing, Turtlemonth 8th, 3 pm

  Times have participated in enjoyable but potentially illegal and injurious activities: 3. Times have felt distinctly murderous tendencies for pleasant, innocent person: 2. New combat spells perfected 7. Magic 15/20 (there’s just so much more of it around, the denominator increased) Attraction for Asvin 85/100 (same reason)

  In addition to his numerous other virtues, it turns out Asvin learned a lot more than yoga in his years at the ashram. I mean, I thought I was in good shape, but he could be a contortionist in his spare time…mmm.

  It’s been three weeks or more since I last wrote, but who cares? Birds chirp merrily at me, there’s a spring in my step and it’s only because I sound like a hippopotamus in heat when I sing that there isn’t a merry tra-la on my lips.

  Simoqin’s Hero (melodramatic sigh, hands clasped on bosom, My Hero!) is now at yet another ridiculous social function, meeting important people, simpering modestly. Tall tales are being told right now about how he single-handedly, almost casually, wiped out a horde of rakshases that killed his friends on their asvamedh, and followed that up by also wiping out various international gangs of badly brought up ugly beasts.

  Simoqin’s Hero is also probably displaying his finely honed combat skills as he deftly deflects the hordes of blubbery society matrons who want him to marry their daughters. All this while simultaneously avoiding excessive swollen-headedness and all other harmful side-effects of fame and heroism – the only weakness he’s displayed so far is an occasional distressing tendency to grow his hair and raise a moustache. Fortunately, my softly spoken promise to clear any moustache I see with giant fireballs seems to have had some effect.

  I’m loungin
g around on my bed, alone for a change, in my new room in the Civilian’s palace – I’ve finally moved out of Enki. Nice room it is too, except for a grim-looking oil painting of an old man in silvery armour holding a severed werewolf head aloft. Sometimes it feels like the wolf’s eyes are watching us.

  Tiara was very sad when I left Enki – poor thing, I’ve really had no time for her lately, and I can’t pretend to be interested in her stories about the rather controlling man she’s acquired over the last few months. And she doesn’t like Asvin at all, which is a problem. She’s taught me a valuable lesson – never talk about the man you love to your friends, because they will shuffle their feet at you and suddenly remember dying relatives. She’s changed since I left. But then, so have I, changed forever and much more than she has, the little airhead.

  Being in the Palace is rather strange. There’s this sense of swimming around in a whirlpool of world affairs, which is really exciting, but the constant presence of guards can be both annoying and embarrassing. There was that time when Asvin and I suddenly met in a mirrored corridor and there was no one around, so we thought…