by Alan Skinner
Calamity barked a warning. Crimson wheeled round to see the dogs speeding towards her. She had never seen an animal brought to savagery. It shocked her to see the intent in their eyes. There was no sign of cruelty or malice, just terrible purpose.
She swallowed hard and tightened her grip on the rocks in her hands; their weight and rough hardness shook her as she prepared to throw them. Her own strength and anger would be part of those missiles, as much a part of them as the stone itself. She would be responsible for the harm those rocks would cause – harm to other creatures.
Her heart, as much as her mind, couldn’t do that. She dropped her hands to her sides. She took a small step forward and faced the dogs.
‘Stop!’
It was a plea more than a command. She shouted it as loud as she could. She spoke it to the dogs, not at them. They broke stride but kept coming.
‘No!’ Crimson yelled.
Perhaps they were confused; they had been trained to chase and were used to quarry that ran from them, which this one did not. Perhaps they had been so thoroughly trained to obey that they responded to the command. Perhaps they were just amused and curious at the temerity of the lone figure facing them. Whatever the reason, it didn’t matter to Crimson. All that mattered to her was that the hounds had stopped.
Crimson’s tears began to flow. She felt corrupted and tainted. Worse, she felt that something corrupt had come into the Land and she had become its accomplice.
‘Please. Go home.’
The spoorhounds searched for their own answers. They sniffed the air, they sniffed the ground and they sniffed each other. They paced back and forth; they looked towards Crimson and they looked in the direction of the far campsite. Wherever they found it, their answer suddenly became clear.
The largest of the hounds raised its muzzle to the air and bayed: it was a long, harsh howl like the blast of a trumpet. Before the sound had drifted from the trees, the four hounds charged.
≈
Edith and Hazlitt heard the baying of the spoorhound as they cantered towards camp. Edith smiled to herself.
‘The little darlings. It sounds like they’re having such a good time,’ she murmured.
≈
Crimson watched in horror and disbelief as the hounds came at them. Instinctively, she drew back her arm and threw the first rock. The throw was wild and the rock flew to the left, missing all four but making the hound on the far left swerve away. Crimson was luckier with her second throw: one of the hounds yelped in pain as the rock hit it squarely on the nose. Blood ran down its fangs and jaws as the hound staggered in circles.
Crimson’s third rock missed its mark but, by good fortune, it struck the injured dog between its ears as it struggled to stay on its feet. Without a sound, the dog dropped to the ground and lay still.
There was no time for another rock. The hound that had swerved was coming at Crimson from her left; the one that had issued the baying answer to her plea was coming straight towards her. The last was headed, running straight as an arrow, for Calamity.
Crimson whirled and grabbed the branch. She turned back to the hound leaping towards her, thrusting the branch forward. The end hit the hound in the throat. The animal twisted and flipped in mid-air, coming down heavily on the stone below it. Crimson could hear it wheezing as it writhed, trying to regain its feet.
Crimson spun to face the hound on her left. She had hold of the branch like a bat and brought it round as she turned. The hound had misjudged its leap on to the rock and was sliding sideways, its claws scratching the rock as it tried to get on to the boulder. The momentum of Crimson’s turn added force to her blow. The branch hit the hound hard on the side of the jaw. Its head jerked back and the dog flopped to the base of the rock pile.
The fourth hound sprang towards Calamity on powerful hind legs. All Calamity could see was its slavering jaws and long, deadly fangs coming straight for her head. As the hound came down, Calamity ducked. She slipped and rolled on to her back just as the hound landed on the boulder, straddling the puppy. Calamity saw the broad underside of the hound above her nose. ‘This is no time for niceties,’ she said to herself.
Calamity’s fangs were not as long or as fearsome as the spoorhound’s, but they were just as sharp. She bit hard. The hound screamed and bucked, blood pouring from its wound, and spun in circles before slithering to the ground. It staggered into the trees, yelping in pain as it retreated.
The largest spoorhound was on its feet again snarling ferociously as it slowly came towards Crimson. She was horrified by the terrible intent she could see in its eyes. She adjusted her grip on the branch.
A deep growl to her left made her look round. The hound she had hit on the jaw was coiled, ready to leap from the boulder below her. Before she could turn to face it, a pair of powerful forelegs hit Crimson in the chest. The force knocked her from her feet and she threw her left arm in front of her face to protect herself as the hound went for her throat. Crimson’s thick fire coat saved her. Jaws that should have snapped her bone and teeth that should have shredded the flesh from her arm were dulled by the tough fabric. Even so, Crimson cried out in pain as the jaws sawed through her sleeve. She grabbed the hound by the throat with her right hand but it held fast to her arm.
Calamity heard Crimson’s scream and launched herself on to the back of the attacking hound. She bit the dog’s neck and shoulders; she raked its head and back with her claws, but the spoorhound kept its hold on Crimson.
The largest of the hounds walked slowly and deliberately up to the boulder. Though it stood on the rock below Crimson, its head was level with hers, and it stretched its neck so that its jaws came within a few centimetres of Crimson’s face. The spoorhound snapped at Crimson, missing her face by a hair’s breath. It was deliberately tormenting the helpless Muddle.
Crimson knew she had lost.
‘Calamity!’ she cried. ‘Go! Run Calamity, please! Go!’
But Calamity was the fire-station dog. Crimson was the fire officer, and what was the point of being a fire-station dog in a fire station without a fire officer? Besides, Crimson was Calamity’s friend. She and Crimson would leave together.
The largest spoorhound had tormented its victim long enough. Its eyes never leaving Crimson, it drew its rear legs under it and leapt.
A grey blur flashed over Crimson, hitting the hound in the chest, and the two shapes crashed to the ground below. Crimson couldn’t see what was happening as she continued to wrestle with the other hound, but she heard the awful sound of dogs fighting. Then Crimson gasped in pain. The hound had chewed through her coat sleeve and she felt its teeth break the skin on her arm. She twisted in pain, trying desperately to wrench her arm free. Calamity was biting and the hound’s neck and back were covered with blood, but it wouldn’t let go and Crimson felt its teeth sink deeper into her arm.
She winced as something stabbed her in the kidneys. She let go of the hound’s throat and reached into her pocket. Her hand closed on one of the rocks she had collected. She pulled it from her pocket, closed her eyes and struck the hound as hard as she could.
The animal collapsed on top of her. Crimson felt its jaws go slack and she prised her arm free. She was too weak to push the dog off her and she lay pinned beneath it, tears streaming down her face. A second later she felt Calamity’s tongue licking her tears and she opened her eyes. She raised her right hand to pet her friend and realised she was still clutching the rock. Crimson let it roll away. As she scratched behind the puppy’s ear, she whispered, ‘Thank you, Calamity.’
There was a sharp yelp and the sound of dogs fighting ceased and the woods went quiet. Crimson heaved the hound off her and got to her feet. Below her, yellow eyes glowing in the gathering dark, a large black and white wolf walked over to her. The wolf stopped and sat at the bottom of the pyramid of rocks.
‘Hello, Crimson,’ she growled. ‘Hi, Calamity.’
Crimson managed a weak smile. ‘Hello, Flyte. How did you find us?’ She sat on a rock and
listened to Flyte’s low, rumbling bark.
‘I heard the dog baying. I’d never heard anything like it before but it didn’t sound good. So I thought I’d best come and have a look,’ the wolf explained.
‘I’m glad you did’ said Crimson.
‘I’ve never fought any animal before. I hope I never have to do it again,’ said the wolf. ‘I was relieved when the hound gave up and ran off. I didn’t want to hurt him . . . too much.’ There was sadness in her eyes. ‘I’m glad you’re OK, Crimson. And I know I’d do the same again. But I feel ashamed, too.’
Crimson understood how she felt. She held out her arm to Flyte, and the wolf rubbed her muzzle against Crimson’s hand, and then rested her head in Crimson’s lap.
Crimson stared into the night. ‘Something’s come into the Land, Flyte. Something wrong. I have to find out what. I have to make it right again. And we have to get Kevin away from those two people.’
A whining sound of pain came from behind them. The hound that Crimson had hit with the rock limped from the boulder where it had lain. It stopped and looked at the Muddles. No one spoke. The hound looked around, searching.
‘They’ve gone,’ Crimson said to it. ‘The other one came to a few minutes ago and went.’ The creature looked blankly at her, and then crept away, tail between its legs.
‘He didn’t understand you,’ said Calamity.
‘I know,’ said Crimson.
Flyte stood. She leaned forward on her forelegs and stretched, her body arcing in a graceful curve.
‘For now, we’d better get back to Home,’ she barked. ‘And you can tell me how all this started. And what we’re going to do about it.’
‘We?’ asked Crimson.
‘I have a feeling you’re going to need help, whatever’s happening,’ Flyte replied.
‘More than just me?’ said Calamity. ‘Must be bad.’
Flyte’s laugh was the sound of distant summer thunder. ‘From the way Crimson said you saw off that dog, you’re probably more than enough.’
‘What did you do to it, Calamity?’ Crimson asked. ‘It ran out of here making quite a racket.’
‘Men,’ sniffed Calamity. ‘They all have the same weaknesses. So I bit them.’
It was a long walk to Home. Their only light was the pale, cold blue of the moon.
Chapter 8
Three Journeys
Touch couldn’t hide a sense of relief when the sun rose, its usual yellow self, the next morning. He ate his breakfast, said goodbye to his parents and headed towards the furnace chamber. Achillia had made it quite clear that, for the next week at least, she expected Touch and Cres to check all gauges, valves and pumps that controlled the power fed to the factories.
As he walked through Forge, Touch spotted old Wilhelm. The engineer was walking ahead of his horse, Sprocket, who pulled a small cart loaded with odd-looking appliances and machines.
Wilhelm spent all his time trying to work out why other engineers’ inventions didn’t work. ‘I’m too old now to invent my own,’ he would explain when asked. ‘New ideas are for the young. Experience and patience are the best old engineers like me can offer. Maybe they can help me figure out why something doesn’t work.’ So he collected ideas others had discarded and tried to make them do what the inventor had intended. Though he sometimes managed to make the invention come alive, he rarely succeeded in getting it to do what it was supposed to do.
Those that never worked, Wilhelm took to a large warehouse. Over time it had become more a museum than a storage facility. Each failed idea was put on display, with a small card that explained its purpose and how it failed to live up to it.
‘If the idea was good enough to act on, then it’s still a good idea,’ Wilhelm would say. ‘It isn’t the idea that’s failed; it’s what we made of it. Maybe one day, another engineer will come along and spot what we did wrong.’
Touch came alongside Wilhelm just as they came to the street. A tram was approaching and Wilhelm, who knew Sprocket was far too old to play chicken with a tram, stopped and waited for it to pass.
‘Morning, Touch,’ said the old engineer. ‘Fine dinner last night, wasn’t it?’
‘Very fine,’ Touch replied courteously. ‘Sprocket looks healthy. He pulls that cart as if it were empty.’
‘Well, he’s getting old, though. In horse years, he’s older than I am. He’s developed a touch of arthritis and he won’t be rushed. Like me, I suppose,’ said Wilhelm. ‘Won’t be rushed at all.’
As the tram approached the crossing, the driver rang his bell. Sprocket shied and whinnied at the sharp, bright sound. He backed away from the tram and reared. Wilhelm stared in surprise. Touch rushed forward and caught Sprocket’s bridle.
‘Easy, Sprocket. Easy, boy,’ cooed Touch. He felt his feet leave the ground as Sprocket threw back his head.
The old engineer came over to him. ‘Now Sprocket, that’s not like you!’ His voice was firm but affectionate. It was well known that Wilhelm was very fond of Sprocket. In fact, another engineer, Frederick, had once sarcastically suggested that if Wilhelm had had a son, he would have wanted it to be just like Sprocket, to which Wilhelm had replied, ‘Better a horse than an ass’, which made all the Myrmidots laugh, for everyone knew that Frederick’s son had repeated Tinker School.
Sprocket calmed at the sound of Wilhelm’s voice and his gentle touch. Within a minute he was his usual docile self, standing patiently by the crossing.
‘I’ve never seen him do that before,’ said Wilhelm. ‘He’s heard that bell a thousand times before and it’s never bothered him. Must be his arthritis. Think I’ll let him rest for a few days.’
‘I hope he’ll be OK,’ said Touch. ‘Well, I’d best be off. See you around.’ And he scooted across the road.
‘Goodbye, Touch. Thanks for your help,’ Wilhelm called after him.
Within a few minutes, Touch was at the door to the furnace room. Before he had grasped the handle he could feel the heat radiating from the door. As he opened it gingerly, warm air rushed out to meet him – warm, but not too hot. Touch paused, took a deep breath and stepped inside.
The room was an eerie blue that made the light thick and heavy. Without realising it, Touch held his breath, but as his eyes adjusted to the colour he could see nothing amiss. He saw the needles on the gauges, pointing just where they should; he heard the gurgle of the steam in the pipes and the quiet hiss of the valves. Everything was normal. He let out his breath and filled his lungs, relieved to find that the air had its familiar stale taste.
Touch chided himself for his foolishness. As he walked around the room his elation returned. He and Cres had really done it. They had tamed the cinerite and its power was now at the command of the engineers of Myrmidia.
He wondered what was keeping Cres. He looked at his watch and saw that she was already fifteen minutes late. Well, there was no point waiting; he picked up a chart from its hook on the wall and started recording the readings on the gauges.
‘Creepy, isn’t it?’
Touch jumped, dropping his pencil. He bent to pick it up, and then looked at Cres standing in the doorway. Her eyes were darting around the chamber.
‘I rather like it,’ said Touch casually. ‘It grows on you, actually. You’re late.’
Cres walked hesitantly into the room.
‘Sorry, Puff went missing and I had to help find her,’ Cres explained. Puff was a small, excitable dog that belonged to Cres’s younger sister, Bess. Cres didn’t like Puff but she did like her sister and when Bess had come to her crying, she had offered to help find the dog. ‘We looked everywhere. I mean, how hard can it be to find a small white dog with a shaved body, a pom-pom for a tail and what looks like a lace pillow stuck round its neck?’
‘Did you find her?’ asked Touch.
‘Eventually. She was hiding behind the sofa. Puff’s a pushover for a treat but nothing could make her come out. Bess is always claiming that Puff has a delicate disposition. Personally, I think she’s just a wi
mp,’ Cres declared.
Cres’s eyes were getting used to the blue light but her skin tingled as if someone was standing behind her, waiting. ‘Let’s get on with it. It’s definitely creepy in here,’ she said.
‘Who’s the wimp?’ Touch teased. ‘Everything looks fine here. Let’s hurry and finish up and then we can go to the Vault.’
Cres nodded. The sooner she was somewhere else, the better.
≈
Calamity and Flyte watched Crimson slide down the long brass pole of the fire station. She winced as her left arm touched the pole. The spoorhound’s teeth had not gone deep but the wound was still painful and tender. Nonetheless, she landed lightly on her feet and joined her friends.
It had taken them until after midnight to walk back to Home. After Crimson had cleaned and dressed the wound on her arm, they went to their beds, leaving it until morning to decide what to do next. Now morning had come and Crimson had arrived at a decision. And Calamity wasn’t going to be happy.
‘Calamity, I’m taking Flyte with me and going to look for Kevin,’ Crimson told the puppy.
‘OK. Can I have breakfast before we go?’ yelped Calamity.
‘I’m sorry, but you can’t come with us now. I have something else I need you to do,’ Crimson said gently.
Calamity turned away from Crimson, her head in the air. ‘If you go, I go. You need someone to look after you. I’m not arguing,’ she sniffed.
Crimson knelt next to her friend. ‘Calamity, I don’t know what’s going on but I do know that it has something to do with me. Those two yesterday said as much. I have to find out what it is. ‘Reach is Town Leader this week. Will you to tell her what’s happened and where I’ve gone so she can let the others know? Ask her to have someone go to Beadleburg to tell them what’s happened to Kevin. And someone has to go to Forge to talk to the Myrmidots. Somehow, they’re part of this. Please, Calamity.’
