Lords of Misrule

Part Six - Sharp Teeth

"The age of chivalry is past. Bores have succeeded to dragons."
Charles Dickens

Córdoba was a faint silhouette in the east, Guadalquivir a light-blue ribbon winding across the Iberian plain, making its stately way to Seville. Beyond the bustling city the old river merged with the Gulf of Cadiz, its waters filtering through marshlands vibrant with life. Seated on a low wall, the multicoloured marble remains of the palace of Madinat al-Zahra at his back, Thomas English let his mind float with the river, let the warmth of the sun ease the aches in his tired body. Fighting the eurytion had left him exhausted and in pain; even only partially manifest, the horse-demon had taken all his strength to defeat. The deep ache centred around his dead left-eye wouldn't let go. Even Koto Kannon lay still on a swath of parched grass, asleep perhaps, but he knew she wasn't one to bask in the sun, her pale skin suffered easily. Given the struggle, maybe... maybe the Sisterhood would grant him some time to recover, let him return to Salzburg or Berlin, to recuperate amongst old books, dust and welcome silence.

Koto's head rose a breath before the sound of flapping wings reached English. A crow landed upon the grass, coughed politely, then spoke.

'Culebre has stolen anjana. Big to-do in the mountains. Speak with Culebre, rescue anjana!'

'No! I want a meal, a cold drink and sleep.' English kept the anger from his voice. The bird was a messenger and there was little to be gained by losing his temper. Kannon crossed her long legs, sat up, rose gracefully to her booted feet.

'Covenant says you go where told. I'm telling, you go!'

Looking to his partner, English gestured at the bird. 'D'you want to join the conversation or do I assume arguing's a pointless exercise?'

Kannon pulled on her sunglasses, stared up at the ruined palace complex. 'The bird will only repeat itself.' She crouched by the crow, stroked the feathers on its sleek, black head. 'Where and how soon?'

Beak tilted to one side, a dark, shining eye reflected her distorted image. The bird spoke again, their instructions were explicit.

As the centaur-like eurytion had trashed English's motorcycle, he rode behind Koto, arms loosely clasped around her waist. Given the bike was stolen in France, it's owner might, one-day, learn of its fate. With his pack strapped on his back and Koto's wedged between them, her blue Yamaha was loaded down, but she rode the bike the way she moved, naturally, with poise, easing around the sharpest of bends, accelerating and decelerating without jolts or stutters.

From Córdoba, their destination in the mountains near Bilboa would be nearly five hundred miles, so once on the tarmac river of the E-5, Koto eased the Yamaha to seventy and kept it there. Given English's obvious enervation, she pulled off the motorway in the late afternoon at the old town of Aranjuez, south of Madrid and not-quite half-way. They crossed the Tagus River, briefly admired the façade of the Renaissance-style Royal Palace before looking for a hotel in the Old Quarter.

The Mercedes suited their needs, informal, almost funky, its restaurant offering both contemporary European and north African-inspired cuisine. English had little appetite, he ate a small meal, showered, then slept. As the day waned, Kannon sat on a wide cushion before the rooms large window, looked out at the cork oak and almond trees that grew in the garden. The sun set, the moon rose; Koto Kannon remained cross-legged before the open window, enjoying sound and smell.

There was a surcharge for breakfast, but they were already on the road before the restaurant started serving at 8am.

The E-5 then the E-80 led them north, the land increasingly rugged as they passed Burgos and entered the lower outcroppings of the Cordillera , the Cantabrian Mountains. The altitude increased, woodland crowned the ridgelines and higher ground, cultivated plots the lower.