Page 39 of The Poisoned King (Impossible Creatures #2)

Manticore

The next morning Anya and Christopher were bent over the antidote in the kitchen, adding the somulent leaf, when Nighthand and Irian came in together.

They were in a hurry—Irian’s hair was still wrapped in silver sleep-silk, and Nighthand had shaved an accidental lightning bolt into his beard. Ratwin was with them, her green horn only half cleaned.

“There is no dawdling-times,” said Ratwin. “We have comes to warn you, we is leaving you here for some hour-straights, or perhaps even a number of dayses.”

“We have had a message!” said Nighthand. A vein in his forehead was pulsating with excitement, and his hand was on the knife at his belt. “The thing we’re searching for—we think it may have been found. The nereids have sent word!”

“The timing could not be worse,” said Irian. “We hate to leave you. But we must go. The nereids will speak to me, we hope, when they would not to others.”

“What is the thing you’re looking for?” said Christopher.

“And where are you going?” said Anya.

Irian’s eyes flicked toward Christopher and away. “I can’t tell you. But it’s important—we wouldn’t go if it wasn’t.”

Ratwin nodded. “It’s Wendesday; we’s will be backs by Fridays.”

Nighthand was so eager to be gone, he could barely contain himself. He gave the oak kitchen door an impatient rattle and pulled it off its hinges. “We must go, Irian. We must get there before anyone else does; there is danger if others arrive first.”

Irian hesitated, standing in the now-doorless doorway. “Be vigilant, both of you. We do not know what Claude might do. Keep your sword close, Christopher.”

Christopher nodded. “Of course.”

“And, Anya—here, take this.” She took a knife in an amber scabbard from her belt. Anya longed to cry out; to say, Don’t go! Please stay. But she only nodded, and took the knife, and pushed it down the lacings of her boot.

“I made flapjacks,” said Nighthand. “Have them for breakfast. They have chicken liver and honey in them.”

“And stay safe,” said Irian.

But staying safe is one thing that nobody can promise.

—

Anya and Christopher were in the garden with Koo and Gallia, rubbing the loquillan again and again with the pearls, when the creature came.

There was a rush of wings and a thud on the branch of a tree overhead.

Anya swallowed a scream. Her hand shot to Koo, and she gathered him close.

The creature’s body was that of a lion, but it was winged, and from its head two great ram horns rose. It had lion teeth but human eyes and human malice. Its tail was coiled to a scorpion sting.

“A manticore,” breathed Christopher.

“Don’t move,” Gallia murmured. “Horned manticores are not the common manticore. Hungrier. Crueler. They live high in the mountains to the east and encourage hatred in each other.”

Koo gave a bewildered peep. In one swift movement, Anya thrust him, cawing, into a hedge of white flowers. “Stay. Gallia, keep him there.”

She faced the manticore. It might have been beautiful but for its stink of blood and dead flesh and its expression of merciless intent.

When the manticore spoke, its voice was thick and slurred. “You are Anya Argen, Princess of Dousha?”

She thought about denying it. But what would be the good? It knew already. “Yes.”

“Good. I found an old ratatoska. He saw you fly overhead. He told me where you were after I ate his family.” It heaved in breath. “I have been sent to kill you.”

And it sprang down from the branch straight at her head.

Anya threw herself sideways in the long grass.

The creature’s claw caught against the skin of her calf, but she hurled herself backward, tearing herself free of the hooked tip.

She hauled Irian’s knife from her boot and scrambled to her feet.

As the manticore came on, she slashed with it, her hair in her eyes, putting every ounce of strength behind her stabs.

The manticore hissed. It retreated three steps and gathered its limbs, preparing to spring—and then Christopher’s sword flashed in the sunlight as he ran straight at the beast. It spat and turned from Anya to Christopher. Four claws on each paw extended, curved like scythes.

There was a moment where creature and boy eyed each other, gathering for the fight.

Then the beast leaped. It launched itself at Christopher with explosive power.

Christopher spun to his right, twisting round the body of the beast, striking at its scorpion tail.

Its claws slashed down, drawing blood from his cheek.

There was a crunch of sword against claw.

The obsidian blade grew hot in Christopher’s grasp as he struck again, now at the manticore’s head.

The sword clanged against the great horns, and the creature roared and stumbled.

There was something strange about the manticore, Anya saw. Its movements were slowing, and twice it retched and heaved for air.

Feverishly Anya bent to the ground, scrabbling for rocks. Among the bushes were two stones as large as fists. As the creature pulled back to pounce at Christopher, Anya let out a yell and hurled the stones. Her aim was strong; the first went wide, but the second struck it on the eye.

The manticore screamed, filling the air with a vile stench. Instantly Christopher made his move. He held his sword inches from its breast, and it froze.

“Tell me who sent you,” Anya said, “or we’ll kill you.” She pointed her knife at its throat.

The beast was panting, heaving for breath now. “Kill me,” it said. “I am dying anyway. I am poisoned.”

Anya’s hand shook. “What?”

“I flew past a dragon corpse. I ate it. The meat was contaminated.”

“A poisoned dragon?” said Christopher.

Anya saw, in Christopher’s eyes, the same thought. This manticore might be their chance to test the antidote. She wished fervently that Christopher could understand the language of gagana gestures—as it was, she had no choice but to speak.

“We have an antidote.” Anya chose her words carefully, gripping each one like a knife. “I will give it to you—if you swear not to hurt me, ever. And if you tell me who sent you.”

“Bring it.” The manticore choked. “Bring the antidote.”

“You swear?”

“I swear it. Bring it now, or it will be too late.”

“Can we trust what it says?” Christopher said to Gallia, who was perched next to Koo, her wings keeping him pinned to the ground.

Gallia’s eyes were harsh. “It is possible. They’re known for many forms of evil, the horned manticores—they kill for sport. But I have never heard that they deal in lies.”

The creature hunched forward and spat blood. “Bring the antidote!”

“Tell me, first, who sent you,” said Anya. She was sure she knew, but she wanted to hear it.

“A human. His Highness the Regent, Claude Argen. Your uncle.”

Anya did not move, did not flinch. “I didn’t know manticores took orders from humans.”

“We do not. It was a bargain, not an order. He came to me in the mountains with a proposal. He offered me the flesh of all his prisoners, in perpetuity.” Its hind legs were beginning to spasm.

“But I was forbidden to eat you. He said I must kill you but leave you whole. He wants me to bring back your corpse—and to leave you on the lawn in front of the oak doors to the castle.”

“Outside my own home? Why?”

“He needs to prove that you are dead.” The manticore coughed. “So that he can be king.” The beast tried to walk toward her, but it staggered sideways.

“I understand,” said Anya, and Gallia breathed, “Treachery! Oh, treachery!”

“Now bring the antidote.”

They did not dare leave the creature unguarded; they whispered, a swift parley. Then Christopher handed Anya the sword and ran; he was faster, and the creature must not die before they could test the antidote.

“He is very eager for your death, your uncle.” The manticore spat, half saliva and half blood.

“If you return, he has given secret orders: you are to be caught, restrained, and poisoned. It must look like it had nothing to do with him. That is why”—and the manticore heaved for breath—“he could not send a human assassin. It would be suspicious: but nobody suspects a manticore.”

“They should,” she said. She held the sword tighter.

The manticore bared its teeth at her, a smile that was undiluted malice. “I will tell you something for nothing, girl: that’s not your home anymore. You will never get back into that castle alive. Never.”

Christopher reappeared, sprinting, a dish in his hands.

“Claude Argen is a great man for manticores. He offered to install me in the castle, to take care of any dissent his rule might face. There will be much feasting in the years to come,” said the manticore. “I’m to start with your father’s corpse.”

Anya froze. “What?”

“Your father has been found guilty.” The creature stretched its lips in a terrible half-human smile. “Didn’t you know?”

Anya couldn’t speak. Christopher glanced at her stark white face. “You’re lying,” said Christopher. “The trial hasn’t started.”

“You would do better to speak politely to a manticore, even to a dying one,” it rasped. “The trial was moved forward.” Its voice turned to a rough mimic of her uncle’s: “?‘To prevent uncertainty and unrest in the towns.’?” It snorted. “Your father will be put to death in two of your human days.”

Anya’s heart stopped. “Death?” she whispered. She couldn’t breathe. “They’re going to execute him?”

“They can’t!” said Christopher.

“Of course they can,” said the manticore. “If the regent tells them to, they will.”

Christopher’s face was vivid with disgust. He dropped the dish in front of the manticore. “Eat it. The antidote is mixed into the meat. I used all of it.”

The bones in the manticore’s shoulders twitched as it bent to the plate; the ribs heaved for breath. It ate the meat slowly, struggling to swallow. Saliva dripped from its mouth. And then it began to shudder, to quiver across its back and wings. Its eyes watered.

“Ah,” sighed the beast. “Ah, yes.” Its head came up, and the manticore breathed a great gulp of air. It was big, and sensuous. It was as if it were drinking from the sky, and from the blinding light of the day.

“My lungs,” it said. “My stomach. This is the cure. I feel it.”

It pulled back its head and roared until the air shook. The sound and smell of it caused the birds to lift from the trees, shrieking in alarm.

“And now,” said Christopher, “you can go.” His whole body was as tense as iron.

“I can,” said the manticore. “But I think I won’t. Not just yet. I am hungry now.”

Anya said, “You gave your word you wouldn’t harm us.”

“I did not. I said I would not hurt you , the girl. But the boy—”

The manticore launched at Christopher’s chest.