by Morris, Dave
Caelestis paced up and down impatiently. ‘Can we go now?’
Altor had started watching the puppet show just to teach Caelestis a lesson, but now he was getting genuinely interested. ‘This play features the Saviour of the True Faith,’ he said. ‘Don’t you think that’s a remarkable thing in a heathen land like Krarth? It is surely a sign.’
Caelestis flung up his hands. ‘A sign? It is a sideshow for children!’ He was about to say more, but the crowd of people watching the play turned and glared at him.
On the tiny stage, the world was no longer submerged but there was still water falling from the sky in torrents. When the Saviour saw this state of affairs he flew up and placed a bung in the clouds to keep the world from flooding again. Thin silk ribbons hung behind the stage, showing that barely a trickle now escaped into the world—seasonal showers that the Saviour in his wisdom had allowed for.
After the Saviour had returned to heaven, five noblemen appeared in the void above the sky. Each puppet was cut from different coloured card to show the noblemen’s bright cloaks.
Altor furrowed his brow. It seemed to remind him of something. A dream. But, like many dreams, the details were vague.
The five coloured puppets stooped over the bung. Apparently they intended to drown the world once more, but for all their efforts they could not move it. They attached a cord to the bung and lowered it. Next they called with whistling cries to earthly agents who appeared at the bottom of the stage and began to tug at the cord. The crowd gave gasps of horror as the bung began to move.
At this point a lacquered mannikin representing the folk hero of the play made his entrance, putting the agents to flight. He was a wandering minstrel who, according to the words the puppeteer put into his mouth, was seeking a fabled sword with which he could put paid to the five evil noblemen. The minstrel swept back and forth across the stage, but each time he was on the point of finding the sword, the audience warned him with loud cries that the agents were about to pull out the bung. Invariably he rushed back to the cord in time to prevent this, but while he did so an agent would hide the sword again.
Eventually one of the noblemen in the sky, the blue-cloaked one, sent two men garbed like wolves down to the world. They fell upon the minstrel and killed him while he slept.
Altor and Caelestis were both rooted to the spot with keen interest by now, but though they waited there was no more. The crowd began to disperse, some dropping coins into a tray in front of the booth. Seemingly the show was over.
Altor turned to Caelestis. ‘It’s the story of the harpist. The one who gave me the pommel stone. It must be.’
Caelestis cast a quick nervous glance over his shoulder. ‘We’d better talk to the puppeteer. But hurry...’
The puppeteer had now emerged from the booth. She was an old woman who greeted them with a slightly bemused smile.
Altor hesitated, uncertain what to say. ‘Er... that puppet show. It was very interesting.’
Caelestis stepped in impatiently. ‘We were reminded of a legend we once heard.’
The old woman nodded as she laid the tiny mannikins carefully in their box. ‘It’s a story I picked up somewhere in my travels about Krarth.’
‘And is that all?’ said Altor. ‘Or is there more?’
‘Maybe there’ll be more to it. Come and see the next show at dusk.’
She folded the booth into a haversack almost as big as she was. Altor helped her get it onto her back and watched her hobble away down the street. ‘A curious old lady...’ he remarked thoughtfully.
Caelestis was more interested in a commotion from the other end of the street. Four heavily-armed militia men were approaching with determined strides, led by the landlord of the inn. Caelestis tugged at his friend’s sleeve. ‘It really is time we were going.’
He took a step towards the other end of the street, but two other militia men happened at that moment to turn the corner.
Altor looked from one group to the other, then glared at Caelestis. ‘What is this?’
The militia men quickened their pace. The crowd parted in alarm as they drew their swords. ‘Stop right there!’ bellowed the sergeant in charge. ‘You’re under arrest.’
Seven:
Augustus of Vantery
Altor glared furiously at his friend. ‘You said you’d done no thieving!’
‘Not while in Dourhaven, I said. Regrettably the captain of the vessel that picked us up must have noticed the money I, um, borrowed off him.’
There was a militia patrol on either side of them. Six swords bristled in the icy air. ‘You going to come quietly?’ said the sergeant, as if he hoped they wouldn’t.
‘Sir Caelestis and the Duke of Cornumbria, indeed!’ scoffed the landlord. ‘I suspect you are no more than two common wastrels.’
Caelestis caught Altor’s eye and shrugged. ‘A little white lie, that’s all, just to make sure we got the best possible service.’
‘Save your excuses till later. If there is a later.’
Caelestis nodded. He pretended to adjust his cloak-clasp while his eyes darted around in search of an escape route. Nearby was the mouth of a narrow alley which might or might not lead to the seafront. ‘Now,’ he said.
Altor’s sword leapt from its scabbard with a menacing razor-edged chime. He stuck his head forward and gave a deep growl. The first reaction of the militia men was to take a step backwards. ‘Hey!’ cried the sergeant nervously.
Caelestis moved close to the landlord, caught the back of his belt in a twisting grip, and sent him spinning off-balance towards the nearest militia man. The two collided and went sprawling.
The other men fell into fighting stance. Ignoring them, Caelestis and Altor dived off down the alley. The sergeant stared in confusion for a second, then lunged in pursuit with a cry of ‘Get them!’
All six militia men stepped forward at once, only to trip over one another in the entrance to the alleyway. Caelestis looked back with a grin as he ran. ‘They’ll never catch us now,’ he said.
‘I’m afraid they will,’ said Altor.
Across a heap of refuse just in front of them rose a sheer wall without doors or windows. It was a dead end.
They turned. The militia men had picked themselves up and were charging along the alley towards them. Caelestis gave a grim sigh and drew his sword. ‘At least this is a good place to make a stand. It’s too narrow for them all to come at us at once.’
Altor shook his head. ‘We can’t draw swords against the militia. They’re just doing their job.’
‘All very well for you to say! Do you know what they do to thieves in Dourhaven?’
‘No.’
‘Neither do I, and I’d rather not find out.’
‘Fortunately you won’t have to, my friends,’ announced a tall man in violet ermine-trimmed robes who stepped out of the shadows close by. Caelestis was so startled that he almost ran the man through with his sword as he turned.
‘Greetings. I am Augustus, a wizard of Vantery.’ The stranger put up one hand and gently moved Caelestis’s sword-tip away from his face.
The first militia man came rushing up. Altor slammed his left fist into the man’s stomach and followed that up with a solid right hook. The man sank to the ground without a fuss.
‘I’m afraid we don’t have much time to chat right now,’ said Caelestis, turning in time to put his sword against the militia sergeant’s throat. The sergeant skidded to a halt, panting, and glowered at him.
The man Altor had felled gave a groan and started to grope his way to the wall. ‘Please go away,’ Altor said politely. ‘We really don’t want to have to hurt you.’
‘My friend’s just speaking for himself,’ said Caelestis, putting a quite convincing tone of relish into his voice as he stared back at the sergeant along the length of the sword. ‘Myself, I don’t care who I hurt.’
‘You haven’t got a chance!’ sneered the sergeant. ‘Half the guards in Dourhaven will be here in a couple of minutes. The t
wo of you’ll be strung up on the harbour wall for the crabs to feed on.’
‘Well,’ said Altor, ‘you wanted to know what they do with thieves. And there’s your answer.’
Caelestis nodded queasily. He had enjoyed several crab suppers over the last few days and didn’t like to think what those crabs might have fed on.
Behind them, Augustus gave a discreet cough. Caelestis glanced over his shoulder to see that he had unrolled a carpet beside the heap of rubbish at the end of the alley.
‘What are you selling?’ said Caelestis. ‘Because whatever it is, we don’t have time to buy it.’
‘Selling?’ Augustus winced. ‘My dear young sir, I am no tradesman. Did I not mention that I am a wizard of some accomplishment? Still, there will be time for full introductions later. Please step onto the rug.’
‘Rug?’ said Altor, looking back to see if he could believe his ears.
The militia man in front of him saw his chance. He dived forward and tackled Altor around the legs, toppling him back across the carpet. Altor lashed out with a hammering punch to the top of his assailant’s head, but the angle was awkward and he could not loosen the man’s grip.
‘Now then!’ cried Caelestis in alarm. ‘Stay back or I’ll run the sergeant through.’
The sergeant only gave a dour laugh. ‘This posturing popinjay’s all talk, lads. Get him!’
They came forward in a rush. Caelestis backed away hastily, sweeping his sword to and fro in an attempt to keep them at bay.
He almost tripped over Altor, who was still wrestling with the militia man who had tackled him. Augustus smiled brightly. ‘All aboard, then? Surge et subvole, o stragulum!’
The edges of the carpet fluttered as if in a sudden breeze. A moment later it shot vertically up into the air.
Caelestis, taken unawares, fell to his knees beside Altor and the militia man. Seeing an opening, he rammed the pommel of his sword against the man’s jaw. Dazed, the man let go of Altor and slid off the carpet. They watched him plunge to a soft if mucky landing in the pile of refuse directly below.
The sergeant and his men shrank away, quickly becoming tiny mannikins smaller than the puppets in the ‘Paper World’ show. Caelestis laughed as they shook their fists, their angry cries only half-heard snatches on the wind.
As the carpet swept out over the harbour, Altor got uneasily to his feet. He was not fond of heights. After one quick glance at the small ships cutting white furrows across the grey expanse of the sea, he turned to Augustus. ‘It seems we must thank you.’
‘Don’t be so grudging, Altor,’ cried Caelestis. He was in high spirits, thrilled by their narrow escape from the militia as well as the excitement of the flight.
Augustus did not look round. He faced out to sea with one hand held in front of him in a dramatic wizardly gesture. The other hand gripped a white amulet at his throat as he spoke words of command to the carpet.
They had risen to a thousand metres and the fishing boats surrounding the harbour were just tiny specks. The wind was bitingly cold, but Altor and Caelestis were too astonished by their sudden rescue to notice it. The only question was: who was Augustus, and why had he rescued them?
‘The journey to Wyrd would have taken days,’ he said. ‘Now you’ll reach your destination in a matter of hours.’
‘That’s all very well, and we’re grateful,’ said Altor. ‘But I think you still owe us an explanation.’
‘Velocitas!’ shouted Augustus exultantly. The carpet picked up speed, the wind whipping his robes out behind him. Altor and Caelestis had to crouch down to keep from being swept off.
A white blaze of light appeared along the horizon to the north—the reflection from the pack ice covering the Rymchaeld Sea. Looking back to the west, they could barely make out the thin grey line of the coast. Now they could see huge icebergs dotting the sea below.
Altor opened his mouth to speak again, but Augustus shook his head. ‘Save your questions for later,’ he roared over the shriek of the wind. ‘Once we are at my sanctum I will explain everything.’
He touched the white amulet and said, ‘Domum versus.’ The carpet veered sharply to the east.
Caelestis frowned. ‘I thought we were bound for Wyrd?’
He had to repeat the question before Augustus deigned to reply. ‘Please be quiet,’ he said sharply. ‘If you keep pestering me then I may lose control of the carpet.’
His angry response took them aback. Before he had been doing his best to be charming, but now a savage smile played about his thin lips. Staring fervently into the distance, he said, ‘If you must know, there are some supplies that I need to collect from my sanctum. Then I will take you to Wyrd.’
Altor and Caelestis looked at each other and nodded, then edged along the carpet towards Augustus. Altor drew his sword. ‘We’d prefer if you stopped the carpet right now and discussed this,’ he said.
Augustus whirled, eyes flashing. He raised his arms threateningly as they moved closer. ‘You would be foolish to oppose me, under the circumstances. Suppose I refuse to do as you say. Will you kill me? You would hang here under the roof of heaven until the cold turned you to blocks of ice!’
They hesitated. They knew he was right and, seeing this, Augustus laughed at them. The carpet lurched as if by his whim. Altor and Caelestis had to drop to their knees and grab hold to save themselves from falling off.
Augustus turned his back on them disdainfully. Time passed and they watched the frozen seascape rush past far below. At last, hearing Augustus mutter something under his breath, they looked ahead to see a massive rime-encrusted pinnacle of rock which projected up from the fused blocks of pack ice. Atop the pinnacle, its white spires dazzling in the thin sunlight, stood a castle.
The carpet began to spiral down. As they got nearer, the brilliant reflection from the castle walls grew until it was almost blinding.
‘So, enough of this foolery,’ said Augustus. ‘The time has come for me to explain matters to you. I serve Magus Uru—‘
‘Magus Uru?’ said Caelestis. ‘But he was killed weeks ago in Kalugen’s Keep. We saw him crushed by the frost giant, Skrymir.’
‘Not that upstart! I mean the True Magus Uru, who has attained godhead as the comet White Light. That jewelled pommel stone you bear is rightfully his, and now you must give it to me. If you refuse...’
He glanced significantly over the side of the carpet.
Eight:
On the Ice
‘Forget it,’ said Altor.
Augustus smiled thinly. He let the hand he had extended to receive the pommel stone fall back to his side. ‘Very well. Frankly I expected that might be your answer, but I’ll have it anyway. Now we will land at my sanctum yonder, where my minions will perform interesting experiments upon you while I rejoice in my celestial lord’s acquisition of the pommel stone. Descende.’
The carpet descended gracefully through the icy air until it hovered beside the highest parapet of the white tower.
Augustus clapped his hands. Four squat creatures with faces like toads tumbled hastily out onto the battlements and leaped across to the carpet. They carried long barbed prods of white metal which they held levelled at the two young heroes.
‘Your last chance,’ said Augustus. He was no longer smiling. ‘Hand over the pommel stone of your own free will or I shall command my minions to take it by force of arms.’
The creatures grinned widely—showing that they, unlike toads, had long sharp fangs.
Altor took the stone from his pocket. The sunlight made it gleam with a thousand pinpricks of colour. Augustus watched it with a look of smouldering triumph.
‘I could toss it down,’ said Altor. ‘It would be lost forever in the snow.’
Augustus sneered. ‘I’d find it soon enough with my magic, I assure you. Come, why throw away your lives? Once I have the pommel stone you’ll be of no further interest. You’d be free to go.’
‘Sure,’ said Altor. ‘Still, what choice have we got?’ He glance
d back at Caelestis and winked.
‘No choice at all,’ said Augustus. He held out his hands greedily.
Altor moved in a blur of sudden action. Stepping forward, he held out the stone towards Augustus, then tossed it back over his shoulder and snatched for the white amulet that hung at the wizard’s neck. The thin chain snapped easily.
‘Stragulum,’ said Altor, ‘consurge ad astra!’
The carpet shot straight up. Altor and Caelestis both leaped for the parapet, Caelestis snatching the pommel stone out of mid air as he did.
Caelestis landed, rolled, and came to his feet. Altor had misjudged the jump but managed to grab hold of the parapet. He dangled for a second. His fingers started to slip on the icy stone. With a burst of effort he heaved himself over onto the battlements and let out a gasp of relief.
A cry of panic drew their attention upwards, where the carpet was rapidly dwindling into the sky. Augustus stared down imploringly, no longer the arrogant arch-wizard but now just a frightened man. ‘No! Call the carpet back. Please!’
Altor shook his head. ‘You admire White Light so much? Go and join him among the stars.’
One of the toad-like minions attempted a panic-stricken jump for the battlements, missed, and fell to a grisly end on the hard rocks and ice. The others accompanied their master on his final flight into the limitless reaches of space. Altor and Caelestis watched until the carpet was a speck lost in the haze of blue infinity.
‘That was neatly done,’ said Caelestis. ‘Where did you learn to fly a carpet, may I ask?’
Altor laughed out of sheer relief. ‘I’m glad I paid a bit of attention to my language lessons back at the monastery.’
He looked at the white amulet in his hand and was about to throw it over the parapet, but Caelestis stopped him. ‘No, let me have it.’
