“I got hold of these here cloaks and told the landlord we’re humble monks,” Flem mumbled, swivelling his eyes left and right.
Brianna, who was swallowing her first mouthful of ninja ale21, almost choked on her drink and only just managed to keep herself from spraying liquid all over the table.
“What?” she gasped. “You, a monk? And mother? Which order, for heaven’s sake?”
Her father smiled. “The Order of His Wholesomeness Furlong the god of farming, on account of us having expertise in that area.”
“But isn’t that a silent order?”
Her father’s smile widened. “Only for the women,” he said. Then, because beneath his solid exterior lurked someone who liked to live dangerously, he continued. “A bit of a stick in the mud, I suppose, old Furlong, but some of his ideas weren’t bad. Ow!”
“You’re pushing your luck, Flem Hemlock,” hissed his wife.
“And you’re breaking our order’s most sacred covenant,” Flem responded, his newly found faith in his religion emboldening him. He turned from his fuming wife to his daughter. “Anyway, what’s this all about? We were ‘aving a nice quiet drink at The Crooked Cock afore heading home tomorrow when your note arrived. What did it say mother?”
There was silence from the bench opposite.
“Mother?”
Brianna sighed. “You are an idiot, dad, you really are. Anyway, it was enough to get you here and not go home.”
“Why, what’s happened?”
Scanning the room, Brianna leaned across the table. “We had a visit from a Fitzmichael steward,” she whispered.
“So, they come and bother us from time to time. Usually to accuse us of dodging our taxes while they holds out their hand for a bribe.”
“This one was the slimiest I’ve ever seen, and he came with two heavies. He was asking about Chortley.” Brianna mouthed this last word and it took a few seconds for her father to catch on. Her mother, who’d been very deliberately not listening, needed three repeats before understanding.
“What happened when you told ‘im you didn’t know nothin’, and the, err, person concerned had buggered off?”
There was a moment’s pause as Brianna tried to rearrange the words in her brain so they amounted to anything other than a crass indictment. She failed.
“You didn’t attack him?”
Brianna nodded. “He was bloody rude, and he threatened Mother through me. I’ve had quite enough of being held hostage by someone who wants to get at her. Anyway, you need to stay well away from the farm until things settle down, there’s a witch hunt being organised.”
“I’m not surprised,” Mother Hemlock said, keeping her voice low. “It’s pretty common when we get a new count, or countess. They wants all the power to themselves. In the end, they tends to see sense.”
“How does that happen?” Brianna asked.
“Well, the last time we had a change around was when Chortley’s father inherited. He was young and full of vim, and started organising witch trials, my mother barely escaped,” she said.
“Why did it stop?”
Mother Hemlock smiled. “Your friend Humunculus got through the stone, didn’t he? That was the last fairie war and suddenly us witches went from being persons non grata…”
“What?” Flem interrupted. “Is that Varman? I didn’t know you could speak Varman.”
“It means ungrateful people22, but that’s aside the point. Truth is, we’ll be needed sooner or later but, till then, we’d better hide up. I reckon we’ll be safest at Gramma Tickle’s, but we ought to let her ladyship know, up in Montesham.”
“Velicity? I hadn’t thought of warning her, but you’re right, she could be in danger,” Brianna said.
“It’s probably best if I go,” Flem said, a little too quickly, “you two can head up to Gramma’s and I’ll follow.”
Mother Hemlock shook her head. “Oh no you won’t, Flem Hemlock, our Brianna can go and warn her.”
“Charming,” Brianna responded as Flem’s face fell. “Well, I suppose someone has got to tell her and I’m the only available candidate.”
“And have you heard any news of our Bill?” Mother Hemlock said, performing a handbrake turn on the conversation.
A dark cloud settled over Brianna’s mind. “No, nothing.”
“Well, don’t lose heart, girl. He’s a strong lad. Though why they’ve taken him to the Beyond, I don’t know.”
“Are you sure that’s where he’s gone?”
Mother Hemlock nodded. “It’s the only answer that makes sense. Those little lizards come from there and they’ll be keen enough to return, I’m sure. Someone may ‘ave to follow him. It may come to that.”
“How can they do that? The Darkworld is poison to us - it scarred Thun and he’s built like a stone latrine. And anyway, there are no more portals.”
Flem Hemlock and his wife swapped meaningful glances.
“What?” Brianna said, looking from one to the other.
Flem nodded and Mother Hemlock sighed. “Well, yes, it seems the Darkworld is closed to us, but it didn’t harm Bill did it?”
Brianna swigged a mouthful of ale, on the basis that she was likely to need it very soon. “No,” she said, wiping her mouth, “I guess it must be something to do with him being half faerie. But, unless there’s something you haven’t told me, there’s no faerie blood in our family.”
“That’s true enough, but Bill isn’t the only person we know with a faerie for a parent.”
“Chortley!” Brianna hissed, only just able to keep her voice down.
Mother Hemlock gave a grim smile. “Yes. A year ago, I’d ‘ave said it would be useless to ask him, but he’s grown a lot in that time. Pity we don’t know where he is.”
“Oh, I reckon I know where he’s goin’” Flem contributed. “He’ll be headin’ to the eye of the storm if I’m any judge.”
“So it seems, daughter, that all roads lead to Montesham. You’ve got a witch to warn and her lover boy to find along the way.”
Brianna pulled herself to her feet. “Joy,” she said. She put a hand on her Mother’s shoulder and squeezed Flem’s hand, then turned and stalked out of the pub, not even noticing the outbreak of scratching as she passed.
Chapter 10
THE BEYOND, OR GAIA AS the elf called her world, was warm. As soon as they’d stepped through the shimmering wall of the cave, the draconi, who’d been shivering despite Bill’s attempts to keep them warm, scattered and ran through the lush grass shrieking with joy.
Stingzlikeabee gave them a moment then, with a harsh cry, called them to order. “Our mission is not yet complete,” she said, “we must show the warmblood what his people have done.”
Bill shrugged. He’d gone past the point of reacting each time he was blamed for all the unexplained woes of the Beyond. “Whatever,” he said.
He felt himself lifted again and the countryside began to pass by. Although countryside isn’t really an adequate description for a landscape that was more alive, more wild, than any he’d ever seen. It felt, to him, that this must have been what his world looked like at its primordial beginning. The basic shape of the scenery wasn’t so very different but where, on his world, there were well tended fields and managed woodlands, here the meadows were wall to wall colourscapes of wildflowers and the grass was a deeper, richer, green than anything he’d ever seen before.
They were travelling along what appeared to be a narrow trackway and Bill looked up as they passed through a copse. From their mahogany barked trunks to their unguessable heights, these were trees such as he had never seen before. As old as the hills, as tall as mountains, these were the sorts of trees that were never invited to parties for fear of intimidating the other guests.23
There was something ancient and yet vividly alive about the place. Bill looked up to see a pair of large birds flapping across the gap between the trees. There was something odd about them, something that forced his mind to perceive what was actually there.
Huge lizards with wings, gliding serenely across the sky. They had long beaks which opened from time to time to emit a squawk that was somewhere between a crocodile and a lemur on the evolutionary hit parade24.
“They is called Paterosores.”
Bill interrupted his gawping to look down at the bright little face peering out from beneath his boots.
“Well, that is what the masters call them. We calls them fish-eaters-wot-fly and you does not need to worry, they is not dangerous. Unless you is a fish,” Sebaceous said, his voice trailing off in a manner that suggested he wasn’t entirely sure.
“No, I’m a man,” Bill said, twiddling his fingers to demonstrate his lack of fins.
Sebaceous shrugged. “I is a man too, that means nothing more than gender stereotyping, or so my Minnie says.”
“We will rest here for a while,” Stingzlikeabee said.
They had reached a more open stretch of track warmed by the afternoon sun. Immediately, Bill felt himself lowered and he caught a blur out of the corners of his eyes as the draconi made themselves comfortable.
Sebaceous, who seemed to have become attached to Bill, lay beside him with his head barely visible in the closely cropped grass at the path’s edge, and his legs splayed out, soaking up the warmth. His red bowler hat covered his eyes and his arms were crossed behind his head.
Other lizards came and laid down beside Sebaceous, keeping their leader as a buffer between them and the warmblood.
“Come now Mister Bill, relax and enjoy sun and protection of draconi. You are perfectly safe with us. No fish-eater gonna mistake you for sardine!”
Bill had to admit it was nice sitting here, basking in the sun which lay like a blanket on his legs.
He was just beginning to drift off, though they can only have rested for a few minutes, when he was aroused by a rustle and then brought sharply awake by a blob of something cold, wet and slimy landing on his cheek. He opened his eyes and found himself looking straight up into a row of sharp, stained teeth lining a mouth big enough to swallow his head in one chomp.
“Prowler!” cried a lizard, and soon the call went up. “Attack!”
Bill rolled away as the beast bit down. He scrambled to his feet in time to see what looked, for all the world, like a reptilian lion, complete with frill where the mane should be, roaring in pain as it was swarmed by the draconi. He stepped forward to help, but Stingzlikeabee held him back. “Leave them to their work,” she said. “They are not in danger.
And so it seemed. Lizards hung from every one of the leonine reptile’s extremities, and each was hacking at the beast with tiny swords. The creature roared in frustration and pain, and began shaking itself, trying to dislodge its attackers. As it backed away, the draconi began singing in an unfamiliar language that made Bill’s hindbrain sit and blink its nictitating membrane. It was a language of ancient times beneath a young sun when the first hardshells colonised the primeval deserts, leaving their amphibious ancestors hugging the coastlines and riverbanks. It was a language of survival, of merciless self-interest.
The lion-lizard25 screamed as the draconi swarmed over its head. With a roar it leapt into the air, twisting as it went, and plunged back into the trees, lizards scattering.
There was a cheer from the undergrowth and the draconi appeared, led by Sebaceous who was ostentatiously smoothing down his trousers before adjusting the bowler hat that had, somehow, remained in place throughout.
Sebaceous watched as the others emerged, his head nodding as if he was counting them. Finally, two lizards emerged carrying a third; blood seeped from beneath the unmoving figure. Sebaceous ran across to them and examined the injured draconi, then stood again and pointed to a shaded spot of grass beneath a tree. He then trotted over to where Bill and Stingzlikeabee stood, and bowed.
“Sorry for fuss, mistress. Prowlers never learn, they thick as grit. Antonia is injured, misstress, and I beg permission to send her to the wormings.”
Stingzlikeabee nodded. “You may send her with six others, but we must make haste now, we still have far to go.”
When Sebaceous had returned from giving instructions and had watched Antonia and her companions scamper off into the trees, he looked up at Bill. “You must walk now, rock-warmer, we are tired from fighting and fewer.”
Bill could see that the little lizard was exhausted. It was hard to age reptiles, but he reckoned Sebaceous was pretty old by their standards and that the encounter with the lion-beast had taken a lot out of him. “I would be pleased to return the favour,” he said, and, leaning down, he opened his hand and dropped it to the ground. “Get on then.”
Sebaceous seemed taken by surprise and, for a moment, suspicious. But then he appeared to think for a moment, looked up at Bill, cocked his head to one side, and jumped onto the giant palm.
Bill deposited the draconi into a hip pocket and straightened up. “Ready to go,” he said, following the elf along the path.
Chapter 11
“SO, WHAT ARE WE GOING to do?” Clegg asked no-one in particular as the cracked squad sat beside the road to Montesham.
“I dunno, what d’you wanna do?” said Enoch Epocrypha, showering the roadside with crumbs from his cheese sandwich.
Clegg yawned. “Look, first I say what are we going to do, and then you say, I don’t know, what do you wanna do? Let’s do something!”
“Ok,” Eopcrypha said, pausing in his mastication, “so, what d’you wanna do then?”
“SHUT UP!” McGuff bellowed, before turning to Chortley, “Sorry, sir, but them two’s driving me up the wall and back down again.”
There was no response from Chortley, who continued to stare at the road, showing no sign that he’d been paying any attention.
“Sir, I think we could do with a plan. If we sit here much longer, we’ll he arrested for vagrancy and up before the Sheriff of Montesham,” McGuff said, keeping his voice low. “And soon enough we’d be in front of your sister and I don’t fancy that, sir, I don’t fancy that at all.”
Chortley continued to stare at the road. “Well, plenty of people do fancy my sister, sergeant. From what I hear, every eligible noble’s son is either in the city or on his way. And quite a few ineligible ones.”
“I wasn’t suggestin’ for a moment that I fancied your sister, sir,” blustered McGuff, “oh no indeed, the likes of me do not dilly dally with her sort.”
“I should think not, sergeant-major. I rather think you’d do better with someone of your own species. My sister is more than half spider, I think, and those idiots courting her are likely to find out what happens to male arachnids once they’ve, ahem, done their duty.”
Chortley smiled grimly. “Well, it appears we’re all outlaws, McGuff, and in the absence of any better plan, I suggest we do our best to intercept some of these idiots and divest them of their illusions, and their wallets. If I’m to oppose my sister I need money to build an army, and even if I decide to go into exile, I’ll need cash to live off. I’m not prepared to slum it.”
“Quite right too, sir,” said McGuff, a man to whom the slum was not entirely unfamiliar.
“So, I suggest we find ourselves a base near Montesham that will allow us to waylay travellers, rich ones of course,” Chortley said, warming to his plan. “But where?”
McGuff was scratching his chin when Jonathan Clegg, who’d clearly been listening to the conversation, interrupted. “It’s well known, sir, that the most dangerous approach to Montesham is through the forest.”
“Well done, Clegg,” Chortley said as McGuff scowled. “We shall make our base in Furwood Forest and make ourselves extremely annoying to the Sheriff of Montesham. At the very least, we will provoke my sister and she’s apt to misfire when she acts in anger.”
It was the most pathetic plan since Field Marshall Vague decided to solve his recruitment crisis by enlisting zombies to fight alongside regular troops.26 But it was the only plan they had.
#
There was a knock on the door of Gramma Tickle’
s cottage. The old girl had been in the back garden on what passed for a balmy summer’s day in the Butterlins Mountains. A casual observer might have thought she was gardening, and that observer would be correct. However, he, or she, would have been completely wrong if they imagined she was doing any of the work herself. As far as Gramma was concerned, being an elemental (especially of the earth variety) came with enough drawbacks to mean she didn’t feel at all guilty at misusing her power by commanding the plants and creepy crawlies to carry out the seemingly infinite number of tasks a small cottage garden generates.
In the past 10 months or so, she’d been imprisoned, fought in a battle and sorted out a load of revolting goblins. So, she’d decided, what she needed was a lickle holiday from it all.27 That was why she was lying in a deck chair in the shade of her favourite oak tree, idly rearranging her poached egg plants. It wasn’t why she didn’t hear the knock on the front door - that was because she was deaf.
Badger, her moth-eaten terrior28 of complicated descent, was slightly less deaf than the old girl, so he heard the door and jumped up onto the forbidden back of the comfy chair to look out of the window. He didn’t like what he saw. There was a thin man dressed in black, impatiently waiting for an answer and, every now and again, looking over his shoulder at the, yes, two large figures looming in the pines opposite the gate. The man was trouble, no doubt about it. But not as much trouble as the witch whose door he was polluting with his presence.
Badger sighed and plopped down off the comfy chair to fetch the old girl from the back garden. As expected, she was lying beneath a tree waving her fingers at the flower borders. It was high summer and, therefore, above freezing so she was lightly dressed in a colourful frock over her industrial wellies. Badger nudged her and she snapped awake.
“Oh, it were you our Badger. What’s the matter?”
Badger looked meaningfully into the house.
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