Page 75 of The Neverfear

But it gave Anya time. She drew herself backwards, every muscle pulling inwards like a coiling spring – and as Darius bent to lift Teren, Anya exploded forwards. With a clash of metal her fiery blades came together, twisted, and struck Darius’s sword from his hand. It flew clattering across the long room. Anya leaped after it, took three victorious steps, and suddenly found that the room was spinning around her. She clutched at the bookcase and blood ran from the cut at her side.

The red-haired man laughed. He strode across the room to retrieve his sword. ‘I’ve never seen anything like you,’ he said. ‘It seems almost a shame to kill you.’

He bent to pick up his sword. And then he screamed, reeling backwards. He looked incredulously at the needle that had been thrust straight through the palm of his hand.

Meri snapped to attention. ‘Batrachomyomachian mice do so love to assist,’ he said. He bowed to Anya. ‘My lady, I am ever at your service.’

Darius hauled at the needle. His hands were wet with sweat and he could not get a purchase on it, and his eyes grew panicked as he tried to pull it out with his teeth.

Anya clawed herself to her feet, fingers scrabbling at the bookcase. She picked up Darius’s sword in both hands, and then she leaped forwards with one great swing, a swing that held in it all her passion and love, every inch of strength Anya Argen had in her small and furious body.

Darius’s own weapon struck him across the side of the head and he crumpled at her feet.

But she had used the flat of the sword.

‘I decided, Meri, back in Dousha, that I wouldn’t kill. And especially not in front of Teren,’ she said. ‘He has to remember everything he sees, forever. I would not add another death. Meri, could you assist me? Would you tie him up? I’ve got to get to Christopher.’

And she took Teren by the hand and half ran, half stumbled from the room.

The Tiger, Summoned

In the Great Hall the Tiger turned and sniffed the air. It paced towards Christopher. The muscles rolled along its back as it came, and its claws rapped at the marble floor.

The Tiger’s head went back and it roared, its teeth laid bare, its mouth hungry with saliva. The sound battered the walls and shook the chandelier and cut through Christopher’s head like a weapon.

Christopher was exhausted, his skin throbbing, his legs shaking under him – and even so he tried to reach the Tiger. Desperately he tried to conjure the flare of Light, to summon the bond.

He could not. There was a single flicker, and then nothing. He was too weak, or it was too angry.

It was a dark creature, he could feel that. It had a history of blood. It preyed upon the weak for sport. But it was alive, and it had a kind of desolated grace and beauty, and it – more than the hind, more than the Cerberus – was caged. The hind had worn chains; the Cerberus had been locked away. But this was something else. The Tiger was caged in its mind. And he knew Morax had caged it.

Christopher drew his sword. The Tiger circled him, its lips drawn back.

The Tiger slashed at him with four hooked claws, each as long as a carving knife. Christopher leaped backwards. The obsidian sword felt hot in his hand. The Tiger lashed out again and Christopher’s blade swept right and cut at its foreleg. It roared in pain. He jabbed again; the creature’s great sinuous bulk recoiled, and he swung his blade after it, catching its flank, his breath coming in gasps, driving it back.

The Tiger snarled, a sound that ripped at the air. Then without warning it sprang. The point of Christopher’s sword caught at its side but it soared high, and its huge paws hit his shoulders and he was knocked to the floor, his head cracking against the marble, the sword flung wide. Its weight was crushing. He felt its claws digging into the flesh of his shoulders. A thin rivulet of blood ran down his collarbone and trickled on to the floor.

Its teeth were inches from his face. Christopher felt its reeking breath hot on his cheeks. He closed his eyes. He hoped it would be fast.

Then the Tiger spoke, and it was with Astor Morax’s voice.

‘Bring me the Immortal, Christopher Forrester, or I allow the Tiger to kill you.’

‘No,’ said Christopher. It came out as a croak.

‘This is your final warning.’ The Tiger thrust its face to his and roared. The sound was agony; he screamed in pain. The beast’s saliva ran on to his face. ‘Bring Teren to my boat.’

‘No!’ And this time he shouted the word, bellowed it. Christopher twisted his head to the side, away from the Tiger’s breath. He sent a desperate, wordless plea, a telegraph out towards the living creatures of the island. Help me! But he felt no answering pull, and no help came.

‘Think, boy. The Tiger will kill you, and then the princess, and then every single living creature on Glimt. And then when there is nothing in your palace but blood, I will come ashore and take the Immortal child. Bring him to me, or you and the princess and all your creatures will die together, and their deaths will be your choice and your doing.’

There was a snorting sound to his left. Christopher opened his eyes. Ahead of him was the Great Hall’s oak door, open to the outdoors. The behemoth was trying to squeeze inside, trying to knock down the ancient doorway that was too narrow for it to pass. Its face yearned towards Christopher and it bellowed, but it could not fit. On its back was perched a bird.

Christopher stared at them. He felt, in the farthest edges of his mind, the flicker of an idea, so faint that even he could not yet see it clearly.

‘Wait! Wait. Yes!’ Christopher looked straight at the Tiger, at the black flame in the centre of each pupil. ‘I’ll bring you the Immortal,’ he said. ‘You don’t need to come ashore. I’ll bring him to your ship. I’ll come on the Neverfear. But you must call off the Tiger!’

‘The Tiger stays to keep watch.’