Furnaces of Forge (The Land's Tale)

by Alan Skinner

  ≈

  ‘This cheese is quite good, really,’ said Kevin, swallowing his last piece. ‘I’ll have to get some when I’m back in Mint.’

  ‘I’m glad you thought to bring something to eat,’ said Crimson, taking another hunk of bread. ‘I didn’t even think about it.’

  ‘Too busy thinking about everything else, that’s why,’ said Kevin. ‘That’s what us Factotums are best at: thinking about all the things everyone else takes for granted or forgets about because their minds are on bigger things. But without the smaller things, the bigger things can’t happen. Brian taught me that.’

  ‘You couldn’t have had a better teacher. He’s a very special Factotum.’

  Kevin carefully brushed the crumbs from his shirt, then lay back and looked at the evening sky. ‘When Brian was teaching me all the things I had to do to be Mint’s Factotum, I couldn’t help but think how similar they were to a lot of things that I used to do for Amelia. Things I like doing. But even though I liked them, I didn’t enjoy doing them when I did them for her.’

  Kevin stared into the darkening sky. Softly, he said, ‘I don’t want them to take me back to The Place, Crimson. I never thought about it when I was there, but it would be horrible never to have any joy in doing what you want to do.’

  ‘That would be horrible,’ Crimson agreed quietly.

  ‘Muddles seem to enjoy everything they do,’ he added.

  ‘Being a Muddle seems so simple to me,’ said Crimson. ‘You’re born something but that’s not who you are. Muddles do whatever they choose to do while enjoying what they are. Slight is a magician, he’s also the finest watchmaker in the Land. Grunge is a musician but he likes figuring things out and could be a teacher. Reach is a ballerina but she’s good at fixing things. Whenever there’s a problem with the bus, Reach fixes it.’

  ‘What about you, Crimson. What else are you good at?’

  For a long moment, Crimson didn’t answer. Then she said, ‘I don’t know, Kevin. I’ve wondered about that myself. Just being a Muddle, I suppose.’

  ‘That would be enough for anyone, I’d imagine,’ said the Beadle.

  ‘Kevin, I think I know what Hazlitt and Edith are planning,’ Crimson said. ‘Remember what Amelia wrote in her journal, that the first Myrmidots who came to the Land were defeated by the High Mountains? It wasn’t the High Mountains. It was what was in the High Mountains. It was the blue fire.’

  Kevin waited for Crimson to go on. She shook her head sadly.

  ‘Amelia thought the fire stone was the Guardian. I said she was wrong. I thought the blue ice was the Guardian because it protected us from the blue fire. We were both right. The blue fire and the blue ice together are the Guardians. The blue fire protects the Land from those who do not belong; it changes them, making them feel despair. And that makes them unhappy with themselves and with others – that’s what Amelia said happened to the first Myrmidots who tried to come here. The blue ice is the balance to the power of the blue fire. It protects those of us who are here from the fire.

  ‘But in the Land, without the balance of the ice, the fire will infect the people near it. I think that’s what Hazlitt and Edith want. They wanted the blue fire in the Land so that it would corrupt the Myrmidots. Maybe they aren’t sure what will happen after that. Perhaps the Myrmidots will turn against the Muddles, and then the Beadles. Or perhaps, like the first Myrmidots to come here, they will give up in despair and return to The Place.’

  ‘I think they will want the Myrmidots to bring the Beadles back with them,’ said Kevin. ‘They don’t think the Beadles are fit to run their own lives.’

  ‘They use their oath of protection as an excuse to keep you in your place,’ Crimson said.

  ‘Brian told me it sounded like the Beadles were slaves and I was angry with him. But maybe in some ways he was right,’ said Kevin. He thought a moment. ‘But how will Hazlitt and Edith make the Myrmidots turn against the Muddles?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Crimson admitted. ‘They clearly hate us, though. They’ll find a way.’

  ‘How can you change it?’ Kevin asked. ‘Hazlitt and Edith said that, without you, what’s been done cannot be changed – which means that you can change it.’

  ‘I wish I knew,’ Crimson sighed. ‘Without the blue ice, I don’t know how to find a balance to the blue fire.’

  ‘You’ll work it out, Crimson,’ said Kevin confidently. ‘You frighten Hazlitt and Edith. They know something about you. That’s why they set the hounds on you.’

  ‘They seem to know more about us than we do.’ The sadness in Crimson’s voice brought the conversation to an end. And so they waited in silence while the night settled into darkness. At long last Crimson rose to her feet.

  ‘Time to go.’

  ‘I wish it was darker,’ Kevin said, getting up.

  Crimson wished so, too. She looked up. The moon’s blue glow had deepened and become more intense. The light it cast meant that the flat grassland would offer little cover.

  She was about to move from the ridge when Kevin tugged her coat and pulled her back to the ground.

  ‘Look!’ he said. Hazlitt and Edith, like pale, blue ghosts, rode from the camp. Trotting behind them came Chaos and Spite.

  Crimson lay flat, watching. ‘They’re headed towards Forge,’ she said. ‘They’ll get there before us. Whatever they’re planning, I hope we’re not too late.’

  They waited until the riders and the spoorhounds were swallowed by the night, then Crimson and Kevin set off for Forge.

  ≈

  Clash and Spite had headed directly south. They were strong, muscular dogs, bred for hunting. They had exceptionally keen noses and remarkable stamina. The only living things they feared were Hazlitt and Edith.

  After an hour, they still could not find a trace of Crimson or Kevin’s scent. Had the two runaways come that way, the hounds would have found them. With the river on his left, Clash instinctively changed direction. He turned abruptly to the west and ran head on into the last rays of the sun.

  The plain seemed endless. Stride after stride, the two spoorhounds sped through the grass. They kept their noses low to the land and their eyes swept from side to side, seeking their prey. They were constant in their purpose, even when the light of the sun was replaced by the strange blue glow of the moon and their pace slowed.

  The hounds came to the stream that had started life in the narrow ravine near the camp. It was wider than it had been when young, but also less boisterous. The water no longer splashed and tumbled; here it was calm and peaceful.

  Clash stopped at the edge and sniffed. There was still no trace of their quarry. With Spite right behind him, the hound ran alongside the stream. After a short distance, the stream turned in a long, gentle curve towards the sea in the west.

  After two or three kilometres, Clash and Spite crossed the stream and headed north, back towards the camp. Several kilometres away, Crimson and Kevin were heading straight towards them.

  ≈

  Flyte’s leg ached and she could feel Aunt Mag’s stitches pull against her ribs. Not once, though, did she lessen her pace. She loped across the Land in long, rhythmic strides. Kilometre after kilometre she ran, all her senses alert for the faintest sign of Crimson.

  Flyte heard a whisper of wings and then the weightless touch of Quick’s claws on her head.

  ‘Two dogs, really big, a few minutes’ run to the north. They act like they’re looking for something. They just crossed a stream. I’ll fly ahead of them. Maybe they’re looking for Crimson,’ sang Quick. Then she took off into the air and was gone.

  Flyte quickened her speed. If the dogs were searching for Crimson and Kevin, she had to find her friends before the hounds did.

  ≈

  Tiny points of sparkling blue light danced on the water as the stream rolled through the plain. It kept them company as they walked. Crimson knew that further ahead the stream changed direction. When it did, they would cross and continue on the course they had set.
The point where they would go their separate ways couldn’t be too far ahead.

  ‘We’ve been lucky so far,’ thought Crimson. Perhaps they would continue to be lucky. Maybe the hounds wouldn’t come to this side of the stream to search for them.

  To her right, a dark shape glided through the grass. Not one dark shape, she realised, but two, side by side. The hounds. They were heading in the direction from which Kevin and Crimson had just come, about two hundred paces away. Crimson put her hand on Kevin’s arm and held a finger to her lips. The wind was in their favour. What little there was blew from the west and wouldn’t carry their scent to the dogs. They were too close to risk dropping on to the ground, but perhaps they were far enough away so that the hounds couldn’t see them in the dark blue light. They stood holding their breath, hoping the dogs would continue on their path and miss them completely.

  The dark shapes were opposite them. Crimson almost didn’t dare to look in case even the turn of her head alerted them to their presence. The shapes went on by, running straight as an arrow. Crimson risked a glance over her shoulder.

  One of the hounds had stopped. It lifted its nose into the air. It looked to its left, and then to its right – straight at Crimson and Kevin. From its upturned muzzle came a long, loud howl. Its companion stopped in its tracks. It looked round, too. The second hound raised its head and two howls sounded as one.

  ‘Run!’ yelled Crimson.

  Kevin and Crimson sprinted as hard as they could. Crimson knew it was useless. In a few seconds, the dogs would be on them. She stopped and faced them. ‘Go, Kevin!’ she yelled again.

  Kevin ran back to her. ‘I’m not leaving you,’ he said. Together, they faced the approaching hounds.

  They were a terrifying sight. The night made them appear larger and their eyes glinted ominously in the eerie blue light. They had halved the distance between them already when a small black shadow flew across the head of the leading hound. Clash yelped in fury as Quick swept past, raking the spoorhound’s nose. The swift’s little claws were useless against the dogs, but she wasn’t trying to fight the hounds: she was trying to distract them.

  With astonishing speed, Quick flew close to the hounds’ heads, round their throats and under their legs. She kept up an incessant singing and Crimson almost laughed to hear the tiny bird taunting and insulting the angry beasts. Quick tormented them like a persistent, buzzing gnat.

  The hounds slowed, then stopped. They twisted and leapt, snapping at Quick as she darted between them. Crimson’s heart was in her mouth as she watched the swift fly right up to those terrible jaws, then bank and turn, leaving the jaws to bite the air. Just one bite, thought Crimson, would crush the life from the bird.

  ‘We have to help her, Kevin!’ she cried. ‘She can’t keep this up for much longer!’

  Kevin reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small, sharp peeling knife. ‘I took it from the kitchen. It’s not much, but it’s the only one that fit in my pocket.’ Without another word, the portly little Beadle charged at the hounds.

  Spite spotted Kevin running straight at him. The dog forgot the annoying bird and sprang towards the Beadle. Clash saw Spite run towards Kevin and Crimson. He snapped one final time at Quick, then joined the attack.

  A high, challenging howl rang across the plain. The hounds wheeled away from Kevin and Crimson. For an instant they crouched and went still, staring into the darkness. Then, as one, they leapt – straight towards the fangs of the wolf.

  Flyte’s leap took her past the hounds. As she soared over their heads, her teeth ripped across Clash’s face and eye. Before either hound could turn, Flyte had twisted in mid-air and launched herself on Spite’s back. Her teeth sank into the dog’s neck. She felt Spite stumble and fall, but she kept her jaws firmly clamped and stood astride the writhing dog, her powerful fangs sinking deeper and deeper into his neck.

  It was fear that drove Flyte’s fury. She had heard the baying of the hounds and Quick’s taunting song, but she was too far away. She knew what the dogs would do to Crimson and dread such as she had never felt before had gripped Flyte. No matter the cost, she could not let that happen.

  Clash hit her side on. The impact carried the wolf away from Spite, and she and Clash rolled across the grass, locked in a savage fight. Crimson had never heard such a terrifying noise as wolf and hound snarled and tore at each other.

  Spite managed to get to his feet, his neck covered in blood. Crimson watched, amazed and horrified, as he steadied himself. He staggered forward, then his front legs buckled and he fell. The hound raised himself on all fours again, shook his head, and launched himself at Flyte.

  Flyte had Clash on his side, pinned by her forelegs, her teeth on his throat, when Spite lunged at her flank. She was knocked off her feet, but her teeth stayed firmly clamped on Clash. Spite reared unsteadily back for another try, leaving her underside exposed. Flyte’s hind leg lashed out, raking the length of Spite’s belly. The spoorhound screamed. He flopped to the ground, blood staining his fur. He tried to stand, crying. Again, he tried. He made it to his feet, took one step, then his legs gave way and he fell to the ground once more. Four times he tried to rise and each time his legs refused to support him. Crimson felt her stomach churn. She couldn’t comprehend what drove Spite to try, and she couldn’t bear the thought of the pain he was suffering.

  Spite tried again. Kevin dropped his knife and threw himself on the spoorhound. He locked his arms round the dog’s neck and pressed him to the ground with his body. Spite twisted his neck and snapped vainly at Kevin, but the Beadle kept his arms wrapped fast round his neck.

  Crimson fell to her knees beside them. She heard Kevin talking to the dog. Relief went through her as she realised he wasn’t trying to choke Spite; he was trying to stop him.

  She reached out. Spite’s eyes glared at her and he tried to bite, but Crimson avoided his jaws. She laid her hand on his flank and rested it there. She met the hound’s eyes. Kevin was still speaking gently to him. Behind her, she could hear Flyte and Clash fighting, but for a few seconds she held Spite’s gaze. He stopped struggling and lay still, then slowly closed his eyes.

  Crimson got to her feet and turned to Flyte and Clash. They were on their feet and she could see they were both hurt and exhausted. They faced each other, circling slowly, waiting for an opening to attack. Crimson walked between them. Without a word, she turned her back on Clash, knelt in front of Flyte and threw her arms round the wolf’s neck. She hugged her friend as tightly as she dared.

  ‘Thank you, Flyte,’ she whispered. She stroked Flyte’s neck and head. ‘Thank you.’

  She stood and faced Clash. The hound crouched slightly but didn’t back away. Crimson took a step closer and kneeled in front of him.

  ‘That’s enough, Clash. Please,’ she said gently. ‘I don’t want to see you hurt any more but I can’t let you hurt my friend. No more, Clash. Please.’

  For a moment, Clash regarded Crimson with a curious expression. Then he walked past her to where Kevin still held Spite. Clash stood over Kevin and looked at the Beadle. Then he lay down next to Spite.

  Crimson slid her legs out from under her and sat on the grass. Flyte came and sat next to her. Quick swooped down and landed in her lap. She laid a hand on Flyte’s head and held out the other one to Quick. The swift hopped on to her fingers.

  ‘Thank you, Quick,’ said Crimson. ‘That was an incredibly brave thing to do. I owe you my life.’

  ‘That’s a strange thing to say. Muddles owe each other their lives every day. But you’re welcome, Crimson. I’m glad you’re not hurt.’

  ‘So am I,’ Crimson admitted. ‘How are you, Flyte? Let me have a look at you.’

  ‘A few scratches. I was lucky,’ Flyte rumbled.

  ‘We all were,’ said Crimson. She looked over at Spite. ‘Except for Spite. We’d better take a look.’

  Kevin had let go of Spite’s neck. The sleeve of his shirt was covered with blood. He sat next to the spoorhound, stroking his fur.
The dog’s breath wheezed in his throat and the rise and fall of his ribs was barely noticeable. Blood, dark purple in the blue midnight light, pooled around him.

  As they gathered the injured spoorhound, Kevin spoke. ‘I’ve been terrified of Spite from the first time Hazlitt and Edith took me. And when Flyte was fighting, I just wanted her to hurt him. I wanted her to punish him for coming after us, for making me scared, for everything Hazlitt and Edith had done. For everything Amelia had done. But I couldn’t stand seeing him so hurt and yet trying so hard to get up. He wouldn’t stop trying. He just wanted to do what they had trained him to do. Like me when I attacked Brian in the cave. Except Spite had less choice than I did. And he’s braver than I am.’

  Flyte looked down at Spite. ‘I’m sorry it came to this,’ she growled. She turned and looked at Clash. Clash lifted his head from his paws and stared at her. ‘I would do it again if I had to, but I hope I never have to, ever again,’ she growled at him.

  Clash held Flyte’s eyes for a second, and then laid his head back down on his front paws.

  ‘I know he doesn’t understand what I’m saying,’ growled Flyte. ‘But maybe he understands what I mean.’

  Crimson knelt by Clash. Slowly, she reached out to touch him. ‘May I?’ she asked. The huge spoorhound lay still while Crimson checked his injuries. ‘Maybe he does, Flyte. I think Clash has had enough, too. He’ll be OK.’

  Spite’s body twitched. The hound opened his eyes and stared, just for a moment, out into the night. Then he turned his head to look at Kevin, let out a gentle whimper, and died.

  Flyte hung her head. ‘Whatever other harm Hazlitt and Edith have done that we have to undo, this one can never be undone,’ she said sadly.

  For a long time, Crimson looked at Spite’s body. She mourned for the hound. He had never been given a chance to be anything except what Hazlitt and Edith had wanted him to be, as if he had no other purpose simply because he was born a spoorhound.