Chalkhill wasn’t reassured. ‘Won’t it disrupt the Realm?’
‘The Hael Realm or the Faerie Realm?’ Brimstone asked blandly.
‘The Faerie Realm,’ Chalkhill said. ‘Who cares about the Hael Realm?’ He plucked at Brimstone’s sleeve. ‘Look here, Silas. I really think this is getting much too dangerous, even to protect something like – ’ He nodded towards the entrance of the inner, crystal cavern, ‘I’m sure I read somewhere that the reason nobody calls the Jormungand any more is because it has such a disruptive influence.’
It would be pleasant to kill him now and stop this endless prattle, but that would hardly be a sacrifice. Brimstone made a monumental effort. ‘Only at a local level,’ he said smoothly. ‘Usually just an earthquake or two, rivers drying up, the occasional hurricane
… that sort of thing. In a godsforsaken country like this, who’s going to notice? Or give a toss?’
‘Will we be able to get away? Before the earthquakes and the hurricanes?’
‘Oh, it’s not immediate!’ Brimstone exclaimed. ‘The effect builds up over a period of several days – something to do with the strain on the fabric of reality.’ He smiled thinly. ‘You’ll be a distant memory, Jasper, long before anything unpleasant happens.’
To his relief, Chalkhill seemed reassured, for he said, ‘All right, Silas, what do you want me to do?’
The preparations took three quarters of an hour. When they were finished, the gloomy cavern was furnished with a temporary altar set with unlit spell cones at each corner, a circle of free-standing black-light candles and a series of tortuous glyphs painted freehand on the floor by Brimstone.
‘Is that it?’ Chalkhill asked. ‘Is that all you need to call up the Jormungand?’
‘Actually this calls up Bartzabel, the Jormungand’s keeper. But if you keep him sweet, he’ll lead in the Jormungand. The whole thing’s not as easy as it looks. It needs a lot of concentration.’ And blood, Brimstone thought, but pointless upsetting the sacrifice. ‘Now, I want you to stand over there in the north and don’t move unless I tell you. That’s very important. If you wander about it can disturb the energies with unforeseen consequences.’
‘Yes, all right,’ Chalkhill said and walked to the northern wall of the cavern. ‘Here okay?’
‘Perfect,’ Brimstone said. ‘Now stand still and shut up while I perform the orison.’
Most of it was in a language Chalkhill didn’t understand, but at the climax of the orison, things got a little clearer. ‘Thou House of Idleness wherein I shall set up the Throne of Justice,’ Brimstone intoned. ‘Thou cold body that I shall fashion into a living flame. Thou dull ox that I shall turn into the Bull of Earth. Bartzabel! Bartzabel! Bartzabel!’
As usual, it was the name that did it. There was a shimmering in the air before the altar as something small and compact began to manifest. Chalkhill leaned forward for a better view. He’d seen several of Brimstone’s demon evocations in the good old days, but this seemed to be something of a different order.
‘I unbind thee from thy chains,’ called Brimstone loudly. ‘Come forth and manifest! Come now, in fair and pleasing form, from thy palace of seraphic stars! Come, be my slave, thou spirit Bartzabel!’
Chalkhill wasn’t sure what he was expecting – something creepy with horns, no doubt – but what he got was a chicken. He stared in utter astonishment as the bird materialised a few feet from the ground, dropped to the floor of the cavern, then strutted towards Brimstone.
‘Cluck!’ said the chicken fiercely.
Forty-Nine
In the old days, Brimstone would have wrung its neck, ‘In fair and pleasing form!’ he snapped, using the formula he learned in demonology school. ‘Preferably your proper shape.’
The chicken transformed at once into a motleyed clown who cartwheeled the remaining distance and whispered, grinning, into Brimstone’s ear, ‘You sure you really want to do this, Silas?’
Brimstone jerked back. ‘You’re not Bartzabel!’ he hissed.
‘Is that Bartzabel?’ asked Chalkhill from his station in the north.
‘I’m not Bartzabel!’ the clown roared delightedly and threw himself into a bewildering series of cartwheels that ended with him sitting on the makeshift altar. He spread his hands in the manner of an entertainer searching for applause and said, ‘Ta-rah!’
‘Don’t move!’ Brimstone called urgently to Chalkhill. He had a horrid suspicion he knew who this buffoon was, and if he was right, it was trouble.
‘No, don’t move,’ echoed the clown. He made a small gesture with his left hand and Chalkhill froze into immobility.
‘I can’t move!’ Chalkhill gasped. He seemed to have difficulty even breathing.
The clown jumped down from the altar, ran like a ballet dancer towards Brimstone and stroked his face affectionately with both hands. ‘Sooo sweet of you to let me out.’ He grinned.
Brimstone scowled. His suspicion was crystallising into certainty. ‘How did I do that?’ he asked.
‘I booby-trapped the Bartzabel ritual!’ the clown told him. ‘What a jape, eh? What a joke!’ He pushed his face forward so his nose was no more than an inch from Brimstone’s own. ‘On you!’
‘Who… is… this idiot?’ Chalkhill asked with considerable difficulty, and bravely, Brimstone thought, considering his captive circumstances.
‘This is Loki, the Trickster,’ Brimstone said sourly. He glared into the clown’s eyes, as if daring it to contradict him.
But the creature drew back, smiling. ‘You know me! How flattering! I’ve always so much wanted to be famous.’
‘What’s… he… doing… here?’ This from Chalkhill again, who seemed determined to interfere with everything that was none of his business.
‘He’s the Jormungand’s father,’ Brimstone told him shortly.
The shock of the news must have eased the paralysis around Chalkhill’s chest, for he managed to say clearly, ‘He’s what?’
‘His mother was rather large,’ Loki said across one shoulder. ‘And odd.’ But his attention was clearly elsewhere. He began to walk round Brimstone in a tight, slow circle. The broad smile slowly faded as he leaned forward to murmur in Brimstone’s ear. ‘I ask you again, Silas: do you want to do this? Do you really want to call my son?’
‘Yes,’ said Brimstone stiffly.
‘Just a minute,’ Chalkhill put in. ‘He may have a point. Do we really, really, really want -?’
‘Shut up, Jasper,’ Brimstone said. ‘I’ve been threatened by scarier things than this.’
‘So you have!’ exclaimed Loki delightedly. ‘And so you will again! But what makes you think I’m threatening you? I simply want to make sure your mind is made up – ’ the smile vanished abruptly ’ – and that you know the price!’
‘I know the price,’ snarled Brimstone. With an effort he stopped himself glancing towards Chalkhill.
‘What’s the price?’ asked Chalkhill anxiously.
Fortunately Loki ignored him. Even more fortunately he dropped his voice even further to whisper mischievously in Brimstone’s ear. ‘The blood price, Silas – now or later!’
‘I know the price,’ Brimstone repeated stolidly.
Loki took a step back, his face benign. ‘I’ll go and get him, shall I? My dear, sweet Jormungand? He’s with Angrboda, I believe. She spoils him rotten, but then mothers do, don’t they?’ He began to walk backwards, grinning at Brimstone. ‘You’re absolutely, positively, sure
…?’ he asked lightly.
‘Yes!’ Brimstone snapped.
‘Just checking,’ Loki said, and vanished.
The cavern suddenly felt empty and very, very silent.
‘What was all that about?’ asked Chalkhill after a moment.
‘Nothing,’ Brimstone told him.
‘Silas…?’
‘What? What is it now?’
‘I still can’t move.’
Good, Brimstone thought. That will make the sacrifice a whole lot easier. Good old Loki. Aloud he said, ‘It’ll wear off in a minute.’ He was wondering if there was anything else he needed to do. Call the Jormungand directly, for example. Or start making the wild promises one used to intrigue these creatures. Or There was a straining in the dank atmosphere of the cavern.