The goblin nudged the tranquilizer dart with his shoe. "Or at least he did until about twenty years ago, when I killed him."
Gull had left them to die.
In the voice of Orpheus he had compelled them to lie upon the ground and await an inevitable death. Now the sound of beating wings grew louder and Conan Doyle winced at the horrid shrieks that filled the air in the distance, growing nearer by the moment.
"I can’t move," Danny growled. The demon boy’s tone was a mix of rage and panic. "If those razor birds come back for us, we’re screwed."
"It is not the Stymphalian Birds whose cries you hear," Conan Doyle said, forcing the words from his throat. Gull had not commanded them to silence, but even so any action that was not part of his instruction was difficult.
"It’s not?" Danny asked with a spark of hope.
"No. I’m afraid it is something far worse." Conan Doyle wracked his brain, desperately trying to think of a spell or incantation that could counter the power of Orpheus.
"Excellent," Danny replied sardonically. "Those birds were so last week. I would have been really embarrassed to have them rip me to shreds and eat my entrails. Hopefully something much cooler will kill us.."
Conan Doyle managed to roll onto his back, gazing up at the misty sky of the vast underground cavern. The ceiling was so high that the true height of it was impossible to discern. "Sarcasm will do nothing to help us, boy. If that’s all you can contribute, I’d appreciate it if you would hold your tongue."
"Dude," Danny exclaimed. "There’s a good chance we’re about to die here. I think me being sarcastic is the least of our friggin’ problems."
The shrieks were closer now.
"Gentlemen," Ceridwen scolded in a whisper, her face pressed to the ground. "Perhaps our energies could be put to better use, hmmm?"
Conan Doyle was glad to hear that she was conscious, but hardly thrilled that she would be awake to experience what would likely be a grisly fate. A succession of horribly shrill cries filled the air; eager wails of excitement from creatures that had at last found their prey.
The Harpies had found them.
Warm fetid air blasted the ground from the power of their wings, kicking up dirt and dust as they dropped from the sky. There were three of them. Their hideous, bird-like bodies reminded Conan Doyle of vultures, but with the heads of women. The Harpies roosted upon the rocks and perched there, gazing down on their prey. Conan Doyle could feel their hungry eyes on him, and smell the stench of death wafting from their feathered bodies.
Danny Ferrick began to whimper. "Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit."
"Control yourself, Daniel," Conan Doyle instructed, with all of the authority he could muster.
Oh shit, indeed.
The Harpies huddled together, strengthening the image of vultures. But vultures did not speak. " What have we here, Sister Twilight?" one of them asked in archaic Greek, its voice a terrible screech.
" I’m not sure, Sister Dark," replied a second.
" I think a tribute has been paid to us, sisters," said the last of the three. " Oh yes, I think the one whose beautiful song we heard has bestowed this honor of fresh meat."
"Come now, Sister Dusk," said Twilight. " Why would one who sang so beautifully wish to pay us tribute?"
"Are we not beautiful as well?" Dusk replied.
As the other Harpies agreed, Conan Doyle frowned. He was skilled in linguistics, particularly ancient languages, but he should not have been able to understand them so well. Curious, he glanced sidelong at the demon boy. "Daniel," he whispered. "Can you understand these creatures’ speech?"
"Yeah, but I wish I didn’t. If they’re gonna eat us I wish they’d just do it and get it over with, their voices are like fingernails on a damn blackboard."
Fascinating, Doyle mused. It was as if the Underworld were somehow accepting them, bestowing upon them an understanding of the ancient language of myth. They were becoming part of this place. It made certain things easier, but somehow he found it very unsettling as well to wonder what else it might mean. This was something that he would need to look into later… if there was a later for them.
"An offering perhaps," Sister Dark suggested. " For safe passage across the land. As Charon takes payment for passage across the Styx, this is our due for allowing them to cross the land unhindered."
"An interesting theory," said Twilight, reaching up with a talon to scratch the side of her head. The Harpy’s hair was long and gray, matted with filth. "But I’m not sure that…"
Conan Doyle cleared his throat. He could understand the Harpies. Could they understand him? "If you would like to know why we have been left here, good sisters, all you need do is ask."
The creatures exchanged glances and then fluttered down from their perch on the rocks. They alighted upon the ground, another cloud of black dust roiling beneath them.
" Look, sisters, the carrion speaks," Twilight said, bending forward to take a closer look. " Do you have answers for us, tender morsel? Do you know the reason why you have been abandoned here?"
Conan Doyle could feel Gull’s spell weakening slightly, and was able to sit up. The Harpies recoiled, baring razor-sharp teeth and hissing in warning.
"Just stretching, my dears. No cause for concern." He wanted them as calm and complacent as possible, in case an opportunity to escape should present itself. Danny was moving about more freely also, as was Ceridwen.
"My belly rumbles for food," Dusk shrieked. " You will explain why you are here immediately — or go down our gullets with questions unanswered. Soon I will be too hungry to care."
"Of course, of course," Doyle answered. "Let me see." He raised a hand to stroke his mustache. "Where to begin?"
The Harpies leaned closer, eager to hear his tale. Their feathers were stained and matted with the dried blood of previous meals, the smell wafting off their bodies sickening.
"We are here, my compatriots and I, because we were betrayed."
Twilight cocked her head to one side, intrigued. "The one whose voice sang the most lovely of songs, was he the purveyor of this betrayal?"
Conan Doyle nodded. "Sadly, yes," he explained. "He acquired, by magicks most foul, the voice of Orpheus, and has used its persuasive capability to steal away one of our group, and to order us to stay to meet our fate at your mercy."
"Horrible," Twilight hissed.
" Terrible," said Dark, with a disgusted shake of her head.
" Appalling," Dusk interjected for the sake of unity with her sisters. "It is enough to weaken the already precarious trust we have in those that we so tentatively call friend."
Dark and Twilight turned their attentions to their sister, obviously taken aback by her words.
"Your trust in us is precarious, darling sister?" Twilight asked, ire in her tone.
Dusk shook her head furiously. " No, no. Do not misconstrue. I speak of friends, not dearest family."
Then Dark flapped her wings in agitation. "And what friends do you have in this misbegotten place but us? Can you tell me this?"
Like the electricity in the air before a thunderstorm, Conan Doyle sensed it growing around him, raising gooseflesh on his arms. He frowned deeply and glanced around, trying not to draw the Harpies’ attention. Someone was using magick. He glanced toward Ceridwen, her regal features in profile. She was conscious and sitting up, but he could tell that she was in no condition to attempt a spell of any kind, and Danny was not capable of such a feat.
Then who?
The Harpies were being manipulated, a spell had been cast to foment hostility among them. Their argument was reaching a fevered pitch and they had begun to scream at one another, their talons digging into the dry, rocky earth as they grew more agitated.
"And what of you, Twilight?" Dark shrieked, spittle flying. "Do you mistrust me as well? Am I the last to know how you two really feel about me?"