Ruler of the Realm

by Herbie Brennan

  ‘Can’t you get a close-up?’ Fogarty asked. ‘Zoom the lens or whatever it is you do here?’

  Madame Cardui shook her head again. ‘We don’t actually have a spy eye in the desert – there’s so much sulphur venting that any moisture turns to acid. The eyes are moist, of course, so it eats through their spell coating in a matter of hours. Simply isn’t worth installing them. And for what, usually? A few wandering Trinians? No, the eye you’re looking through is on the eastern gate of Yammeth City. It’s normally turned on the city itself: there are a few spell factories in that quarter we like to keep an eye on, forgive the bad pun. But one of them blew up last week – some sort of industrial accident involving sprites, I believe. In any case, the energy discharge turned the eye around. No damage, just turned it so it was looking out across the desert. What with everything that’s been going on, we didn’t get round to sending an agent to correct it. Then earlier today, a monitor noticed this –’

  ‘Noticed what?’ Fogarty asked.

  ‘Just keep watching where my – there, see the dust is clearing. Watch there. There’s a break in the ridge. When you see it, look through it.’

  Fogarty watched. The dust plume did seem to be thinning a little, but he still couldn’t see the break in the ridge. And then suddenly he could. For scarcely more than a second he was glimpsing what seemed to be a plain covered in black dots. The trouble was, you couldn’t work out the perspective. You didn’t know if you were looking at ants or armoured cars.

  ‘Did you see that?’ Madame Cardui asked.

  ‘Think so. Not sure.’

  ‘What do you think it is?

  Fogarty shrugged. ‘I don’t know. What do you think it is?’

  ‘I think it’s Beleth,’ Madame Cardui said.

  Eighty

  ‘Beleth?’ Fogarty echoed. ‘The King of Hell?’

  ‘Well, technically his title is Prince of Darkness, deeah, but yes, that Beleth.’

  Fogarty shook his head, frowning. ‘The Hell portals are closed.’

  ‘There may be new ones. Blue says the demons have been planning an invasion.’

  ‘How does Blue know what the demons are planning?’ Fogarty asked.

  Madame Cardui stared at him, then shook her head impatiently. ‘I’m sorry, deeah. I forgot you were with the Forest Faerie when Blue came round. Blue was kidnapped by the demons using Henry as their agent.’

  ‘Good God!’ Fogarty exclaimed. He did a double take. ‘Using Henry?’

  ‘They implanted him. We’ve just had it removed. I’ll tell you the whole story when we have more time,’ Madame Cardui promised. ‘Just now, the important thing is Blue has information about a possible demon invasion. I’m worried this might be it. If Beleth’s troops join up with the Faeries of the Night, we’re finished.’

  ‘I take your point,’ Fogarty said. He leaned forward to peer into the crystal ball again. ‘But are you sure those dots are demons?’

  ‘No, of course not. That’s why I’ve sent Pyrgus to find out.’

  ‘You sent Pyrgus?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Fogarty blinked. ‘Bit dangerous if you happen to be right.’

  ‘He was close and I can trust him. This is no time for niceties – we’re at war and I need to know what we’re facing. Besides, Nymphalis is with him: next to Kitterick I don’t know anyone who could protect him better.’

  Fogarty tore his eyes away from the scene in the globe. ‘Does Blue know?’

  Madame Cardui withdrew her hands and the globe sank back down into the recess in her desk. ‘About Pyrgus? Yes, she was with me when I sent him.’

  ‘Where is Blue anyway? Shouldn’t the Queen be running her own war?’

  ‘She certainly agrees with you on that,’ Madame Cardui said. ‘She was in the Situation Room until she came close to collapse. I finally bullied her into taking a rest – she’s still recovering from the effects of demon poisoning. But I expect she’ll be back before long.’

  ‘But she knows about these demons, does she?’ Fogarty waved his hand towards the globe.

  ‘Assuming they really are the demons,’ Madame Cardui sighed, ‘and not a figment of an old woman’s imagination. No, she doesn’t and I don’t plan to worry her until we know for sure.’

  ‘Maybe we –’ Fogarty began, but was interrupted by a thunderous knocking at the door.

  ‘Oh, dear, what now?’ Madame Cardui sighed. She walked across and thumbed the security lock.

  A florid-faced General Creerful was standing with his hand raised to knock again. He ignored Madame Cardui completely.

  ‘Gatekeeper, Lord Hairstreak’s at the palace gates. He demands to see Queen Blue.’

  Eighty-one

  The heat hit him like a wall. Then came the smell. ‘Whooo!’ Pyrgus exclaimed, and began to cough helplessly as some acrid fume caught in the back of his throat. Nymph, who was hard on his heels, began to cough too. Only Woodfordi, bringing up the rear, seemed unaffected.

  Pyrgus looked around, still coughing. This was his first visit to the Eastern Desert and, if he had anything to do with it, it would be his last. He’d heard about this area, but nothing prepared him for the reality. A barren, rocky pavement stretched as far as the eye could see, broken at intervals by plumes of smoke and dust. A criss-cross of cracks glowed dull red from the lava flows beneath, casting a peculiar glow across the entire scene. Not a hundred yards from where they landed, he could see a softly bubbling mud lake.

  Woodfordi handed him a flask. ‘Try this, sir, begging your pardon, sir. And the lady too.’

  ‘What is it?’ Pyrgus asked between coughs.

  ‘Little something for the throat. Army issue. They tell you it lines the passages and prevents permanent damage. Don’t know about that, sir, but it does help.’

  Pyrgus took a brief swallow and handed the flask to Nymph. The liquid was viscous and tasted foul, but his coughing eased at once. He turned to lock the flyer – no sense in taking unnecessary chances – then said, ‘North-east, wasn’t it?’ He glanced up at the sky.

  Woodfordi smiled slightly. ‘’Fraid I don’t remember, sir. Part of the training.’

  Nymph confirmed, ‘Yes, north-east.’

  ‘I’ll lead the way,’ said Pyrgus and strode off.

  It proved heavy going, even on the flat, and after half an hour he began to wonder about Madame Cardui’s estimate of their timing. The trouble was the fumes. Although Woodfordi’s liquid stopped the coughing, there was no way of avoiding noxious gases getting into your lungs. He’d read somewhere that if you stayed a little too long in this wasteland you started to hallucinate. (And if you stayed a lot too long, you died.) But even before that happened, the desert sapped your strength.

  The irritating thing was that neither Nymph nor the little soldier Woodfordi seemed to be as badly affected as he was, so he had to push himself to the limit to keep up the stupid pace he’d set. The two of them walked after him easily. They even had breath for a chatty conversation.

  ‘How did you get to be a CC?’ Nymph asked.

  ‘Born to it, I think, Miss,’ Woodfordi told her. ‘Parents found me chatting to my nan when I was a kid. Only trouble was the old girl died before I was born. Well, they didn’t know what to do with that, did they? Simple people, my folks – Dad worked on an ordle farm, Light rest him. So they sent me off to a special school: I think they were a bit scared, to tell the truth.’

  ‘Was this some sort of training school?’

  ‘Not really, Miss. But one of the teachers realised what I was and raised enough funds to get me a year in the Psychic’s Academy – you know, the one off Flannelmaker’s Square. That’s where the military found me. Only way a titch like me could get into the army. My wife says I need to stand on a box to kiss her anywhere above the knee. So you couldn’t imagine me in combat, could you?’

  ‘Can you still talk to dead people?’ Nymph asked curiously; and Pyrgus’s ears pricked up, even though he was pretending not to listen.

  ‘
Heavens no, Miss. Army knocked that out of me. No use to them, see? Troops would waste their time chatting to their fallen comrades. They trained me to contact the Military Guide instead – some sort of angel, I think he is, although you’d never believe it when you hear him swear – and he showed me how to do the messages. Receiving was easy, right from the start, but sending’s a bit tricky until you get the hang of it.’

  ‘Can you send a message to anybody?’

  Woodfordi shook his head. ‘Oh, no, Miss – only another channel. We make up a sort of network, you might say. When the Painted Lady called you before, she was talking in the ear of a mate of mine called Weiskei.’

  Pyrgus stopped dead. They had entered a boulder-strewn area and he was certain there was something moving behind a rock.

  ‘Quiet!’ he hissed.

  Nymph responded at once and unslung her bow. Pyrgus pointed silently to the rock and she began to circle behind it. As much for a diversion as anything else, Pyrgus said, ‘Better take cover, Mr Woodfordi.’

  ‘Sir!’ Woodfordi acknowledged briskly.

  Then Pyrgus abruptly realised Nymph might be moving into danger and started to run towards the rock, reaching for his trusted Halek knife.

  And then suddenly, incredibly, they were surrounded.

  Eighty-two

  Blue woke with a start. For just the barest moment she didn’t know where she was, then saw she was in her Imperial Quarters, in a comfortable chair where she must have fallen asleep. How long ago? Minutes? Hours?

  She felt better. Various pains had drained from her body, leaving only a residue of stiffness, and her mind was a great deal clearer. She started to push herself out of the chair when the memory flooded back. The war. She’d be needed in the Situation Room.

  Then as the knocking came again she realised what had wakened her. ‘Come!’ she called and her voice pattern released the spell securities.

  It was Gatekeeper Fogarty, along with Madame Cynthia and –

  ‘What’s he doing here?’ Blue demanded. Her heart was pounding suddenly. For a mad moment she thought he might be a prisoner of war.

  ‘My deeah,’ said Madame Cynthia cautiously. ‘Your uncle has something to say to you.’

  Lord Hairstreak was already striding forward, arrogant as always, dressed in his favoured black. ‘Your Majesty –’ he began formally.

  What in Hael was he doing here? No guards. No uniform. He might have been on a social visit.

  ‘I’m here to offer an immediate truce,’ he said.

  Blue stared at him, certain she’d misheard. Nobody would offer a truce so soon. It had to be a trick.

  ‘Why?’ she asked him simply.

  Hairstreak’s face remained unreadable. ‘Because,’ he said, ‘if we do not cease fighting at once, the Realm is doomed.’

  Eighty-three

  Pyrgus slid his knife slowly back into its sheath. From the corner of his eye, he could see Nymph carefully setting her bow and arrows on the ground. Then she stood up and raised both hands to show they were empty. A little to his right, Woodfordi had ignored the order to take cover and was standing with his empty hands exposed as well.

  ‘We come in peace,’ said Pyrgus, feeling stupid.

  There were maybe twenty-five nomadic Trinians in plain sight and Light alone knows how many more still hidden in the rocks. They were wearing only loincloths on account of the heat and all three Trinian types were represented. Violets predominated as you’d expect in a hostile environment, but there was a goodly scattering of orange and even one or two green. None of them was armed. They didn’t need to be – all three breeds were toxic. A Trinian bite was almost always fatal and even a venom spit – which travelled several yards – could incapacitate you for months. Pyrgus noted with relief that the leader – you could tell he was a leader from the feathers – was orange.

  ‘Ayre ning?’ the leader asked solemnly. His face was striped with white and purple paint.

  Pyrgus looked at him blankly. Trinians – even nomadic Trinians – were supposed to speak Faerie Standard and perhaps this one did, but his accent was so thick it might as well have been the click-speech of High Halek.

  Nymph said, ‘North-east, Plainsman,’ and pointed. Plainsman was an honorific, roughly equivalent to saying sir.

  ‘Ou eek our yolader?’ asked the Trinian chief.

  ‘Yes,’ Nymph told him promptly. She gestured. ‘Pyrgus.’ Then, pointing to the third member of their party, added, ‘Woodfordi.’

  The Trinian struck himself forcibly on the chest. ‘Nagel!’ he said explosively and coughed.

  It was clearly introduction time. ‘We come in peace,’ Pyrgus said again, rather feebly.

  One of the greens pushed forward, accompanied by the strangest little animal Pyrgus had ever seen. It was short and squat, hairless and wrinkled, much like its master. The Trinian launched into what sounded like a stream of invective, the content of which Pyrgus couldn’t even guess at. It had a galvanising effect on the rest of the tribe, who advanced muttering, and on the leader, who began to wave his arms about.

  ‘What’s going on?’ he asked Nymph helplessly.

  Nymph smiled a little. ‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘He just wants to marry me.’

  For an instant Pyrgus thought he’d misheard. ‘He wants to what?’

  ‘He wants to marry me,’ Nymph repeated. ‘He says he’ll give you forty placks.’

  ‘He can’t –’ Pyrgus began, then asked, ‘What’s a plack?’

  ‘That little creature he has with him. He makes them. He’s the tribe’s witch doctor.’ Nymph’s smile broadened. ‘It’s a terribly good price for a wife. I think I’m flattered.’

  ‘But he can’t marry you!’ Pyrgus protested. ‘I won’t have it!’

  ‘You’d better tell him,’ Nymph said blandly. ‘Just speak slowly and pronounce your words carefully.’

  ‘You can’t marry –’ Pyrgus shouted at the witch doctor, then aside to Nymph, ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Innatus, I think.’

  ‘Now listen, Innatus,’ Pyrgus began again. ‘There’s absolutely no way I’m going to let you –’

  ‘Best not to threaten,’ Nymph put in quietly. ‘He carries a lot of weight.’

  But Pyrgus was already losing it, ‘– marry this girl, and if you so much as lay one of your ugly little fingers –’ he drew his Halek blade again to a chorus of ‘Oooh’s and wide grins from the surrounding Trinians, ‘– on a single hair of her –’

  Nagel’s voice cut across him, talking not to Pyrgus, but Innatus.

  ‘Oh, how sweet,’ said Nymph. ‘He wants to marry me as well.’

  ‘Is he out of his –?’

  Woodfordi touched Pyrgus’s elbow. ‘Beg pardon, sir, but I’d suggest you give her to the chief. Army policy in situations like this. Always give the girl to the most important man in the tribe. Witch doctor’s a big noise, OK, but the orange one with feathers and stripes is definitely the Chief.’

  ‘Are you out of your –?’

  Woodfordi backed off, hands raised. ‘Just telling you the army way, sir.’

  Nymph said, ‘Forty placks, seven bales of ordle and a full service contract.’

  ‘What in the name of Light are you talking about?’ Pyrgus exploded.

  ‘That’s what Nagel’s offering,’ Nymph said. ‘You can tell he’s an orange Trinian, can’t you? A full service contract! A Violet would just kill you.’

  Pyrgus’s panic-stricken gaze jumped from one Trinian to the other. ‘You can’t marry this girl!’ he shouted desperately. ‘Neither of you! Because … because …’ He looked around for inspiration. This whole thing was insane. ‘Because she’s engaged to marry me!’ he screamed at last.

  ‘Oooh!’ exclaimed Nymph, and moved over to stand beside Pyrgus, her chest pushed proudly forward. She was grinning broadly.

  Pyrgus still had the Halek blade in his hand, but to his astonishment, the crisis defused at once. Innatus turned and walked away, the funny little p
lack creature at his heels. Nagel simply shrugged, as if the matter was of no importance. He murmured something to Nymph, who said, ‘Yes.’

  ‘What’s he saying? What’s he saying?’ Pyrgus demanded.

  ‘He says we can’t go north-east,’ Nymph told him.

  Pyrgus bristled again. ‘Who does he think’s going to stop us? A pack of lunatic dwarves who want to marry everything in sight? You just tell him –’

  ‘He’s not trying to stop us, Pyrgus,’ Nymph told him patiently. ‘We can’t go north-east because there’s a magma flow blocking our way.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Pyrgus, deflated. He had a feeling he’d made a complete fool of himself and not just about travelling north-east. As leader of the little party, events seemed to have slipped away from him entirely. ‘What are we going to do?’ he asked Nymph.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Nymph said cheerfully. ‘He’s offered to show us a way round.’

  Travelling with the Trinians proved very different to travelling alone, and Pyrgus quickly found that in this territory the shortest distance between two points was not always a straight line. The dwarves constantly skirted areas that looked perfectly safe to him. Conversely, on two memorable occasions, they led the way through mud and lava pools he would never have dared to tackle on his own.

  They were right about the magma flow as well. Before cutting temporarily southwards, he caught a glimpse of it in the distance, a simmering, crimson river that absolutely defied passage by anyone.

  At one point in their eccentric progress, Woodfordi, who seemed to understand the Trinians almost as easily as Nymph, whispered in Pyrgus’s ear, ‘There’s talk of enemies ahead, sir.’

  ‘What sort of enemies?’ Pyrgus whispered back.

  ‘Search me, sir – I just caught a snatch of conversation.’

  ‘Keep your ears open,’ Pyrgus ordered. ‘And report back anything you hear.’

  But it turned out there was no need. Only moments later Nymph appeared at his elbow. ‘Nagel says we must proceed with caution – there are enemies ahead.’