“Now, remember,” he said, “we are not to be seen. And they mustn't see where the eggs are coming from, either. They mustn't know we know they're coming.”
As he spoke, the head of a worker ant popped out of the tunnel. It briefly examined the broken egg at its front door and then turned back inside. A few seconds later it returned with other ants, who began busying themselves around the rest of the broken eggs. At this moment, the horde of assassins broke through, trampling the eggs into the earth and knocking the ants aside.
The ants were outraged and, within seconds, a huge swarm had spread out from a multitude of hidden entrances and ventilation shafts. Half the assassins had already passed the spot when the ants struck. Hundreds of them attacked the remaining half of the army as it attempted to push its way through the sea of brown bodies. Three or four ants at a time assaulted the Vapourer's best, spraying acid in their faces and biting them with their strong jaws. And into this mêleé, the fairies threw the remaining eggs. They broke with a soft thud, enraging the ants even further.
“Whoa!” laughed Argus. “See that assassin with the bright red hair—ah! Maybe not. He's just had a very close hair cut.”
“Yes,” said Hornbeam, satisfaction in his voice, “he kind of lost his head a bit there, didn't he?” Argus sniggered.
“I think we'd better be going,” said Myrtle suddenly. Her companions looked at her in surprise. Myrtle pointed down the tree. The ants had begun scurrying up the trunk and would be on them in seconds.
Argus and Hornbeam nodded and followed Myrtle up into the canopy. They were distracted by a loud scream of rage, and looked down to see one of the assassins being dragged into the burrow by five ants.
“That's unbelievable!” said Argus with awe. “He's just about to die a horrible death and he's not frightened. He's just very, very annoyed!” He shook his head in disbelief.
They looked down to the floor below them. It was carnage. Bits of ants and assassins lay everywhere. But while the group of fighting assassins grew steadily smaller, the ants just kept coming.
“We'd better get going,” said Myrtle hurriedly, “before we join them.” The ants on the trunk were now standing on each other, trying to reach the fairies.
“Well,” said Myrtle, skirting under the cover of the trees, “I think Cinnabar might call that a result!”
“We've virtually halved their numbers!” exclaimed Hornbeam.
“But will that be enough?” said Myrtle.
“It'll have to be,” said Hornbeam. “We haven't got the time to do any more than cut the odds.”
Myrtle nodded. They would have to rely on the element of surprise and hope the assassins would be careless and overconfident, and the fairies could make their own small advantage count.
Myrtle and Hornbeam said goodbye to Argus on the top of the tower and ran down the stairs to find Cinnabar. He looked relieved to see them and was delighted at the news that the ants had destroyed half the assassins.
“Good idea that, taking the eggs. They wouldn't have stood a chance against the whole colony. It's a pity we didn't think of it earlier. If we'd had the time, we might have got all of the Vapourer's army. Never mind—it's still an excellent start. It's greatly improved our chances. I wonder if the Vapourer knows what's happened?” He paused and looked out into the woods. “We've about twenty minutes then, before they arrive. If they arrive.”
“Do you have a plan?” asked Myrtle.
“Er, no. Not really. Well, sort of,” was the reply. “Hooktip's taken half our lot into the woods and hidden them—at least, I hope he's hidden them. We had this vague idea of letting the assassins make their attack and then, when they're all in front of the palace, sneak up on them from behind, so we can attack them from the front and the back. And above. Maybe drop heavy things on them.” Cinnabar shrugged.
“Sounds okay,” said Myrtle uncertainly.
“I don't think the assassins have any kind of plan other than kill everything they meet,” said Hornbeam. “There's no reason why your plan shouldn't work. I don't think, as an army, the assassins work on a tactical level.”
“Well, to be honest,” confessed Cinnabar, “we've no idea what we're doing, but we thought something was better than nothing. And it gives our people a little more confidence if they think we've got a plan.”
“Where's Liam?” asked Hornbeam.
“Oh, he went to Mezereon's rooms. He thought he might take a look at what your master left behind—see if there are any clues to what the old fairy meant. I don't suppose anything's occurred to you?” Hornbeam shook his head. Cinnabar sighed. “Oh, well,” he said, “at least it'll keep him occupied until he's got something else to worry about. Anyway, let's crack on. Myrtle, I need you to lead the troops at the gate. That'll be the place they'll go for first. Try and hold them off as long as possible. If we can't reduce their numbers or they start getting interested in other parts of the palace, we might have to let them in and trap them in the courtyard. So we'll need all the doors and windows leading off from the courtyard locked and barred. Hornbeam, can you help Myrtle get that done and then come and find me?”
Myrtle and Hornbeam hurried off, leaving Cinnabar alone on the wall. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Then he drew his sword and ran his finger gently along its edge. It was razor sharp. That'll do, thought the prince. He'd never used his sword in anger. Most of the sword-play he'd been taught was just for show and of little practical use.
Right! he thought to himself. Here goes. Come and have a go if you think you're tough enough.
*
THE Vapourer rendezvoused with his army when they were about ten minutes from the palace. He sat on his dragonfly, in a tree, watching the creatures collecting below him.
He waited.
And waited.
At last he said, “Where is everyone?”
“Everyone?” echoed Charlock. “Master, this is everyone.”
“No it isn't!” snapped the Vapourer. “There were over a hundred and fifty when you set off. Now there's—”
Charlock stood in silence as the Vapourer counted.
“Stop moving!” demanded the Vapourer. He tutted. “I'll have to start again.”
He counted. Charlock waited. What difference, thought Charlock, was it going to make now, knowing how many of them there were? They weren't going back just because they'd lost a few assassins on the way, surely? Were they?
The Vapourer had finished counting. “Seventy six?” he exclaimed. “A hundred and sixty two of you went out! What happened to the other—” The Vapourer did some serious maths on his fingers. “—eighty six? Eighty six! That's over half of you! What's happened to them? You're not asking me to believe you didn't notice the disappearance of over half your army?”
Charlock shrugged. Then one of the assassins sidled up to him and whispered something in Charlock's ear. Charlock look vaguely surprised. “Apparently, Master,” he said to the Vapourer, “the rest were attacked by a colony of ants. I did not know at the front, so I cannot tell you the outcome. Though it would seem some of us might be a little delayed.” He held up a silencing hand to the Vapourer. “No matter. When we have finished with the fairies, we will return to the nest and take our revenge.”
The Vapourer shook his head. “No, no, no!” he screamed. “There are now not enough of you to guarantee success. We must go back and wait until I have made some more of your kind! Eighty six! How could you be so careless?”
Charlock stared at him and suddenly darted up the leg of the dragonfly, bringing himself face to face with his master. “Why didn't you give us wings?” he hissed.
“Wings?” said the Vapourer. “What do you want wings for?”
“With wings we would have been invincible! Why did you anchor us to the ground?”
“Don't you think it's hard enough making a creature that can walk, talk and think,” screeched the Vapourer, “without throwing flying into the pot! Now, we are aborting the operation. Do as you're told and t
urn this army around!”
Charlock looked at his master steadily, as if seeing him clearly for the first time. “No,” he whispered and punched the Vapourer solidly between the eyes. The Vapourer slid off the dragonfly, dropping to the ground like a sack of potatoes. “You should have given us wings!” shouted the assassin as he watched his master drop. Charlock replaced the Vapourer on the dragonfly and turned to Bogbean, who was sitting, horrified, at the rear.
“Git!” growled Charlock. Bogbean jumped off with a whimper and ran for his life.
Charlock turned to face his fellows. “Right, boys!” he said, taking the dragonfly's reins. “Let's go and find those fairies and show them who's the biggest bully in the playground.”
With a unified yell, the remains of the army surged forwards, their weapons raised. Ahead and above them soared Charlock, astride the dragonfly and surveying all he was about to own.
They reached the palace in minutes. It was shut. This surprised Charlock. But no matter, his army knew what they had to do and he could trust them to get on with it. He, meantime, had an appointment with one of the castle's occupants.
He landed the dragonfly on top of the tower. It appeared to be deserted. Somewhere in this palace was the human child, and while the fairies were occupied with the army trying to batter their front door down, Charlock would search the place until he found the snivelling creature. He grinned maliciously. Time to play.
Downstairs in Mezereon's rooms, Liam searched frantically through the wizard's papers. He knew he should do it methodically, he knew he was panicking, but time was running out for him. If he was to get out of this situation, he needed to find an answer now, before the fighting started.
He flicked through the piles and randomly opened books—“Chantrelle's Mythology of Faery Genealogy”, Ectobius Greenmoss' “A History of Human Habitation and Its Effects on Fairy Society” and finally, Gromwell Bugloss “The Laws of the Faery Kingdom With Regard to Genealogy, Lineage and the Succession of the Kingdom”.
But it won't have the spell in it that will make me grow back to my right size, he thought. Now he could hear shouting and crashing outside. It was too late, too late. The fighting had started.
He flicked despondently through Bugloss's book. A sheet of parchment fell out onto the floor. Liam glanced at it as he bent down to pick it up, and read the first line. “To grow or reduce a subject in size...”
Liam froze. What was this? He reached out his hand.
“Well now,” hissed a voice in the doorway. “Who have we here? Is it the human child who for so long has been so very, very lucky? I do believe it is.”
Liam stood up slowly. “Oh,” he said.
“Oh?” queried Charlock.
“Nice to see you again,” Liam said as he surreptitiously slid the sheet of parchment under the table with his foot.
“Nice?” repeated Charlock.
“Well, it must be two or three, maybe even four days. Possibly even a week. Though who knows? Time passes so quickly when you're having fun.”
“Fun?” said Charlock. He looked puzzled. This wasn't the reaction he'd been expecting.
Liam edged his way up the table, trying to get within snatching distance of the sword Cinnabar had given him. “I see you've brought some friends with you,” he said, referring to the muffled shouting and pounding he could hear. “You should have said,” he continued. “I'm not sure we've got enough for—how many is it?”
“How many?”
“Friends. How many did you bring with you?” He was nearly there now.
Charlock grinned. “Seventy six,” he said confidently.
“Seventy six?” said Liam, genuinely surprised. He had reached the sword now. “Not as many as I thought. Maybe we could rustle up some sandwiches. Would jam be okay?”
“Enough!” roared Charlock, slamming his knife onto the table. Liam jumped. “You do not play with Charlock!” the assassin hissed. He held up his knife. “This is my playtime.” And giving Liam barely time to draw breath, Charlock leapt over the table and bore down on the boy, the knife raised in readiness.
Liam threw his hand out for his sword, but his clumsy snatch only succeeded in knocking the weapon off the table and onto the floor. As Charlock's first blow began to fall, Liam rolled over the top of the table and fell on the floor, next to his sword. His hand closed on the hilt and, as he looked up, he found himself face to face with the assassin. He felt a searing pain in his shoulder, and watched helplessly as Charlock slowly withdrew his bloody blade, twisting the point through the final centimetre. Liam screamed. The assassin, a derisory smile parting his lips, stared at the boy and licked the blood off the blade.
Liam's senses came back to him. He grasped the sword and smashed its pommel as hard as he could against the side of the assassin's head. Charlock was knocked sideways, giving Liam time to get to his feet and find a space in which he could swing his sword. One lucky stroke, pleaded the boy. Just one lucky stroke.
Charlock rose slowly. He looked angry. A hiss of breath escaped through his serrated teeth. Wordlessly, he held his empty palm up to Liam and cut across it with his knife. Aghast, Liam watched the dark blood bubble out of the line of the wound. Charlock smiled a humourless smile and wiped the blood over his own face, as a commando might spread camouflage paint. Then he sprang at Liam, the knife raised.
With a wild wave of the sword, Liam moved backwards, just avoiding the downward swing of Charlock's knife.
“It wants to play, does it?” hissed Charlock. The blood from his wounded hand was dripping on the floor now. Liam glanced at his own wound. The blood had soaked into his shirt, but it didn't seem too bad.
That glance was a mistake. Within a fraction of the second it took, Charlock had grabbed the boy by the throat and was pushing him back towards the window. Liam dropped the sword to use both hands to catch Charlock's wrist, as again the assassin's knife arced down towards him. It took all Liam's strength to hold the lethal blade just millimetres from his face. His lower back was pressed into the edge of the window sill and he could feel a draught of cool air wafting in from the lake below.
Charlock was not to be thwarted this time. With a savage snarl, he lunged at Liam and sank his teeth into the boy's neck.
Liam screamed in pain, but before Charlock could complete the bite, the boy toppled backwards and out of the window. His scream of pain became a scream of terror as he fell with a crash onto the surface of the water. The impact knocked the breath out of him and even as the water closed over his head, he was already needing to take a breath into his lungs. He fought with his instinct to breathe, struggling to get himself back to the surface before he drowned.
He coughed as his head broke through the surface of the lake and he took in a great breath. As he lifted his chin up and shook his head to clear his face of hair and water, a movement caught his eye. Charlock was already standing on the window sill, preparing to jump.
Liam groaned inwardly and began swimming. Pain seared through his shoulder. He would not be able to swim for long. The splash behind him gave him the encouragement he needed, and he swam with a jerking, one armed breaststroke, looking desperately for the nearest piece of dry land. But the shore looked an impossible distance in his present condition.
Ahead of him, a piece of wood was floating on the surface. Maybe, if he could get on it, he could paddle it. He knew this was a desperate idea, but he had no choice. He felt exhausted and he could see his swimming action was already making his shoulder bleed profusely, joining with the blood from the wound in his neck and leaving a bloody trail on the lake's surface. Liam swam for his life, though he had no real hope of saving it.
*
In the cold dark of the lake, the smell of blood reached Lord Pike's sensitive nose. Somewhere something was wounded. Somewhere there was an easy snack. Lord Pike flicked his tail.
*
Liam could hear a splashing behind him. He risked a glance backwards. To his relief, he saw Charlock was not a natural swimmer an
d was using some form of doggy paddle to catch him. Maybe he would be able to out-swim Charlock after all.
He reached the piece of wood and scrambled onto it. Then, lying on his stomach, he began kicking with his feet, making for the nearest bank.
The wounds in his shoulder and neck throbbed with pain as he paddled furiously. He glanced back at Charlock. To his horror, he saw the creature was now gaining on him. Liam tried to paddle faster, but it was no use. Charlock had almost reached him. Too exhausted to do much more, Liam turned to face the assassin. Charlock, knife between his teeth, already had a hand on the craft. As he reached out to grab the boy's feet, Liam began kicking at the assassin's hands. When that didn't work, Liam kicked him in the face, bloodying the creature's nose and knocking Charlock's precious knife from his mouth.
The assassin screamed in rage as the weapon disappeared beneath the water. He let go of Liam's vessel and scrabbled desperately for the beloved knife. With a yell of triumph, he pulled it from the water and held it aloft, glaring malevolently at Liam.
Behind Charlock, silently rose the black, cavernous mouth of Lord Pike, with its rows of sharp, backwards pointing teeth. In one practised movement, they closed round the assassin with the precision born from years of hunting, and took him down into the deep water to consume him.
Liam stared in dazed shock as the wave caused by the pike rocked his little craft violently. When the motion subsided, Liam searched the water for signs of the great fish and of Charlock. After all, Charlock had recovered his knife before the pike took him. He wouldn't put it past the assassin to kill the fish from the inside.
He sat and watched as the evening sky grew darker. But nothing moved. Eventually, Liam decided he didn't want to spend the night on the lake and began paddling slowly to the shore. He reached land, his energy almost spent, staggered up the bank to the palace wall and collapsed.
*
“SHHH!” Liam heard someone hiss. “You'll wake him with that racket!”
Liam's eyes flickered open.
“See? I told you, you idiot!”
Liam was looking at a ceiling. He was warm and, except for aches at his throat and shoulder, reasonably comfortable. He risked a look down. He was in bed. Probably safe then.
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