by Anne Forbes
For my Father
Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Prologue
1. Panic Attack
2. Hobgoblins
3. Powerprobe
4. Storms in the North
5. Glenmorven
6. Malfior’s Mischief
7. The Ghosts of Morven Castle
8. The Cri’achan
9. Magic Circles
10. Jelly Beans
11. Confrontation
12. Trouble Spots
13. Jennifer’s Glen
14. The Secret Passage
15. Ambush
16. Networking
17. Hughie’s Cottage
18. Old Friends Meet
19. Hunting Giants
20. Stag at Bay
21. Night Flight
22. Lord Rothlan
23. Firestar Strikes Back
24. Trapped
25. Court Appearance
26. Arthur to the Rescue
27. Inside Morven
28. Prince Kalman Returns
29. Kalman’s Tale
30. The Spider Icon
31. The Press Pack
32. The Valley of the Giants
33. Exodus
34. Desperate Measures
35. Going, Going, Gone
36. Aftermath
37. The MacArthurs
38. Jelly Bean Giants
Author’s Note
Lady Merial
Copyright
Prologue
It wasn’t actually a very impressive satellite, as satellites go. Silver, shiny, vaguely round and covered with a variety of antennae that did absolutely nothing to improve its appearance, it circled the earth emitting a regular, high-pitched bleep that would have driven you crazy had you been close enough to hear it.
The bleep, however, was music to the ears of the NASA engineers at Cape Canaveral who had just launched the satellite into orbit. Crowded round the flickering banks of monitors, they breathed sighs of relief as they heard it and when the initial outburst of cheering had died down, relaxed thankfully as they tracked its path across the black reaches of space. Powerprobe, for so they had christened it, was behaving just as it should.
“Well done, Mr Easterman,” the magician said seriously, his eyes taking in the smiling, triumphant face of the young man who stood by his side. Nevertheless, he frowned slightly, for given his hip appearance, he still found it hard to believe that Chuck Easterman was a scientist at all. Young, fit and tall, with hair that stood up in gelled spikes, he looked more like a pop star than anything else. Powerprobe, however, had been his idea and his reputation as the latest whiz-kid on the block was well deserved.
Chuck, for his part, looked at the professor standing at his elbow with deep respect. So much so, that had you told him, there and then, that the man was actually a magician, he’d quite frankly have thought you as nutty as a fruit cake. The word called up visions of richly robed, elderly men who wore pointed hats and wielded magic wands and, to be fair, there was little sign of anything remotely magical about the dull, soberly suited gentleman beside him. Besides which, NASA might “do” rockets, space stations, moon landings and the like but it most certainly didn’t “do” magic in any shape or form. Nevertheless, fantastic as it might sound, magic was very much in the air — and powerful magic at that.
As it happened, many months were to pass before Chuck, totally flabbergasted, learned that he’d had a magician on his team. And not any old magician either, but the mighty Lord Jezail of Ashgar: a magician of great power; a magician who was quite determined that Powerprobe shouldn’t fail; a magician who, all along, had had his own dangerous agenda …
At the time, however, as Powerprobe was bleeping its way happily across the heavens, Chuck only felt a deep sense of gratitude towards the man who’d done so much to help him. “Thank you, Professor Jezail,” he answered, revelling in the knowledge that despite the problems they’d had, Powerprobe was actually in orbit. “If it hadn’t been for your input,” he admitted candidly, “I doubt if Powerprobe would have got off the ground at all.”
“A pleasure, dear boy,” the magician smiled. “It’s been a project well worth working on and, if Powerprobe’s lasers behave as they ought, then we should be making some dramatic discoveries quite soon.”
“Well done, Professor,” one of the engineers interrupted, shaking his hand, “and congratulations, Chuck! You’ve both done a great job!”
“Thanks, Jim.” Chuck grinned and, as the engineer gave the thumbs up sign, he turned to bend over a computer to check the stream of data that was coming in. “Lasers still responding, Pat?” he asked the technician who was monitoring the satellite’s progress. Pat Venner looked up from the screen and grinned reassuringly. Chuck was his flatmate and he knew only too well how worried he’d been.
“Fine! Fully operational!” he replied.
Chuck’s heart lifted at the certainty in Pat’s voice. Despite everything, the lasers were working! “I can’t believe it’s all going so smoothly,” he said, his voice mirroring his relief. “I’ve just been telling Professor Jezail, here, that at one stage, I thought Powerprobe would never make it!”
Pat looked round at the two men, his eyes glinting with amusement. “It’s been some project,” he allowed, “and sorting out the lasers the way you did, Professor! Well … everybody reckons you must have waved a magic wand or something!”
Lord Jezail’s eyebrows lifted as he smiled in genuine amusement. “Perhaps I did,” he answered.
“It must have been something like that,” Chuck nodded, not knowing just how close he was to the truth, “for, quite frankly, I could only follow your reasoning so far before I got totally bogged down.” He frowned, shaking his head. “You know, I really haven’t a clue how you managed to sort that computer program out at all. At one stage I was quite convinced that the software had a virus in it.”
The professor looked at him shrewdly, a slight frown in his eyes. Chuck was obviously a lot brighter than he’d reckoned and the fact that he’d even suspected a virus was a tribute to his intelligence; for there was, indeed, a virus in Powerprobe. He knew, because he’d put it there himself!
A computer scientist would probably have said that the virus lodged so carefully in Powerprobe’s software was possessed of artificial intelligence. Nothing so complicated, however, had crossed the magician’s mind. To him, it was a hex, pure and simple — a hex with a mind of its own that would do his bidding. Sly, nasty and malevolent, it was a mirror image of the magician himself. He called it Malfior and it knew its master.
Like all viruses, Malfior hid itself, unnoticed and unseen, in its new home and, content to follow the magician’s instructions, waited patiently until it was time to go into action — which was probably why it wasn’t immediately apparent that there was anything at all wrong with Powerprobe.
So, at the beginning of its mission everything went well. His task completed, Lord Jezail departed and as Chuck and the team of NASA experts settled to the complex task of satellite monitoring and data gathering, it wasn’t long before the work became almost routine. Indeed, Powerprobe had been bleeping its way blamelessly round the world for about six weeks with quite satisfactory results when its lasers picked up on a mind-boggling source of power.
This was what Malfior had been waiting for. It could only be Firestar. This was it! It obeyed its instructions to the letter and, even as the laser locked on, Malfior slid down its beam to lodge itself, unnoticed and unseen, in its new home.
Powerprobe’s reaction was immediate. As the laser hit the strange power source, its computers went berserk as things went monumentally pear-shaped. Everyone knew it the moment an ear-splitting shriek shattered the silence of the busy
control room.
It wasn’t the noise, however, that caused Pat Venner to push his chair back violently from the bank of monitors. With a cry of terror, he scrambled to his feet and, backing away, pointed a quivering finger at his screen, his voice incoherent and his face, chalk-white with shock.
“What’s that?” he croaked wildly. “What the devil’s that?”
1. Panic Attack
Arthur, the great dragon, sat up suddenly on his enormous heap of treasure. Living in the depths of Arthur’s Seat, the huge hill that dominates the Edinburgh skyline, he had always felt completely safe. The MacArthurs, the magic people who lived in the hill, looked after him well and, indeed, he was very fond of them; especially Archie who was, at that moment, perched beside him in the crook of his arm.
“What is it, Arthur?” Archie looked up as Arthur shifted uncertainly, his claws scrunching gold and jewels underfoot as he sensed danger. The dragon turned his great head to look at him worriedly. He sniffed the air and blew a cloud of smoke down his long nose. “Archie,” he said, “something’s wrong. I feel strange …”
Archie got to his feet and, slipping down the side of the pile of treasure, looked round the cavern suspiciously. He knew that something must be happening, for dragons are sensitive creatures and rarely make mistakes. It was then that the force struck. It came out of nowhere and hit him hard. Archie gasped in pain, doubled up and fell to the ground, unconscious.
Arthur gave a roar of alarm as he, too, felt the powerful shock of a mighty attack. Dragons, however, have their own magic and Arthur fought back strongly. Such was its ferocity, however, that his body writhed in a dreadful spasm that sent his treasure flying everywhere. Its power shook him to the core and, with awful certainty, he realized that, strong though he was, the attack might overcome him. He was appalled. Nothing like this had ever happened to him before. His head dropped and his wings fluttered weakly as he found himself sprawled helplessly amid the heaped piles of glittering gold.
As his wonderful eyes lost their focus and his strength ebbed within him, he desperately concentrated the last of his magic on the firestones, the most special of all the jewels in his treasure. Firestones have an enchantment of their own and they responded to his call in a rippling wave that swept them up through the great pile of treasure, covering him in seconds in a layered armour of gleaming, amber brilliance.
As the comforting warmth of the firestones’ magic started to seep through him, Arthur felt his strength return. Dizzy with relief, he opened his eyes, flexed his wings and prepared to do battle. Just as he was bracing himself, however, the force withdrew. He looked round the cavern in amazement. There was nothing! It had gone, just as suddenly as it had come.
“Archie,” the dragon looked at the slight figure that lay doubled up on the floor, “Archie! Are you all right?”
Archie sat up slowly and looked round in dazed bewilderment. “What,” he said, fearfully, “was that?”
“I don’t know,” Arthur replied, sliding down towards him, shedding firestones everywhere, “but whatever it was, its magic was the most powerful I’ve ever felt. I thought I was going to die!”
“Me, too,” Archie said, white-faced and shaken. He pulled his sheepskin jacket straight and rose unsteadily to his feet. “I still feel a bit wobbly round the knees.”
“Here, put this round you,” Arthur advised, hooking a necklace of firestones from his treasure with his claws. “It’ll make you feel better.”
Archie looped the necklace over his head and immediately regained some of his colour. “I hope the others are all right,” he said, looking at Arthur anxiously. “I mean, it might not just be us that it attacked …”
The dragon nodded. “Get on my back, quickly. We’d better go to the Great Hall and see what’s happened! I hope the MacArthur is all right.”
Arthur positively galloped along the tunnels that led to the Great Hall, worried that the MacArthurs might have been struck down too. When they reached the hall, the dragon came to an abrupt halt and stared at a scene of total confusion. Little groups of MacArthurs clustered here and there, still looking round nervously in case the unseen enemy struck again. Even the magic carpets seemed affected by the strange force for they were flying around haphazardly in the dim heights of the cavern, totally disorientated.
“Thank goodness you’re both all right!” the MacArthur, himself, spotted them and strode across. “I was about to send Jaikie along to see how you were!”
“What happened, MacArthur?” Archie asked, as he slipped off Arthur’s back. His eyes shone with relief as he saw Hamish and Jaikie, still looking pale and nervous from their ordeal, coming towards him.
“Wasn’t that awful?” Jaikie muttered, hugging him briefly. “I hope to goodness it doesn’t happen again!”
“We were really worried about you,” Hamish said, his face grave and shocked. “But what was it?”
“You’d better come and pay your respects to Prince Casimir,” the MacArthur interrupted, ushering Archie forward. “He arrived just before all this happened.”
They followed him to a dais where several throne-like chairs were grouped in a half circle. Prince Casimir, resplendent in a cloak of dark blue velvet, was looking into a glowing, crystal ball that rested on a carved ebony stand. He straightened as they approached and although he managed to smile a welcome, his thoughts at that moment were elsewhere. Uppermost in his mind was the fate of his son, Prince Kalman. Had he survived?
Archie gave a sigh of relief as he saw Prince Casimir. He was one of the Lords of the North and a magician of considerable power. Arthur, blowing a cloud of smoke down his long nostrils, knelt before the grey-haired, elderly figure and bent his great head. “Welcome, Prince Casimir,” he said, “at this dangerous time.”
Archie bowed low. “Prince Casimir,” he said. Then, throwing formality to the winds, a rush of words tumbled out of him. “Thank goodness you’re here. Can you tell us what happened?” He took a deep breath. “Milord,” his voice was anguished. “It nearly killed Arthur … and he’s a dragon!”
Prince Casimir smiled gravely at the great dragon. “You would probably have survived, Arthur,” he said. “Dragons are pretty well invincible! But I’m glad to see you both unhurt.”
The MacArthur looked enquiringly from Casimir to the crystal. “Er … has Prince Kalman contacted you to say he’s all right?” he asked tentatively, for he knew that father and son were not on speaking terms.
Casimir shook his head. “I’ve tried to find him,” he admitted, “but he’s hiding himself from the sight of the crystal.”
The MacArthur put a comforting hand on his arm. “I wouldn’t worry too much,” he said. “We’ve all survived so there’s every reason to suppose that Prince Kalman, too, is alive and well.”
Prince Casimir smiled wearily. “That gives me hope,” he admitted, sighing deeply as he passed his hand over a crystal that suddenly glowed to life.
Prince Kalman had, indeed, survived. High above the mountains in the ice palaces of the snow witches, he eased himself upright and thankfully drew breath, wondering what on earth had hit him. Never before had he experienced such a devastating attack. He glanced at the chaos around him. It had been such a carefree scene only a few minutes earlier for the witches had been preening themselves before him, teasing him and asking his advice.
Cassandra had started it. “I think,” she’d said archly, “that we ought to change the colour of our robes. I’m fed up with this ivory and white stuff!” She paraded around with the angular strut of a model, the flounced petticoats of her dress swirling gracefully.
“What about pink?” Matilda asked hopefully, one eye rather nervously on the queen who didn’t seem the least bit enthusiastic at their proposed changes.
“Come off it, Matilda,” another said sourly, “we’re snow witches, remember, not flower fairies!”
“It’s the earth witches that are the luckiest,” sniffed Henrietta. “They get to wear black … and black is so elegan
t …”
“Just think yourself lucky you’re not a wind witch, Matilda,” Horatia pointed out mischievously, “for they have the worst deal of all. Grey! Yuck!”
“What colour would you like us to wear, Prince Kalman?” Cassandra asked, looking slyly at the queen out of the corner of her eyes.
The prince looked amused. “I think you look very well as you are,” he said idly. “If I wanted you to change anything, I think it would be your eyes. The brown stones that you wear protrude far too much. I think flat pieces of jet would look much better. It would match your hair, too,” he added dryly. “If, that is,” he glanced at the queen, “her majesty agrees with me.”
It was as he smiled at the queen that the attack occurred. “Aaaaaaah,” he gasped suddenly, sinking to his knees in pain. All around him he heard screams and cries from the witches as they, too, doubled up in agony and sank to the floor.
Now, he looked round at the moaning figures of the witches as they struggled to their feet. Samantha, Queen of the Snow Witches, pulled herself onto her throne and lay back exhausted.
“What … what happened, Prince Kalman?” she whispered hoarsely, her long black hair a soaking mess of half-frozen slush. “Who did this to us? I thought I was going to lose my life …” She looked at him appealingly for he was, after all, one of the Lords of the North. His appearance, however, did nothing to inspire her with confidence; instead, it struck cold fear in her heart. Never, she thought, had she seen the prince so shaken and she watched in dismay as he straightened himself with an effort.
“I wish I knew, Samantha,” he said grimly, shaking particles of wet ice from his fair hair, “but whoever did this has tremendous power.” He looked stern and thoughtful as he made his way shakily to one of the high-backed chairs, carved from the glittering ice of the snow palace. A variety of possibilities crossed his mind only to be rejected immediately. His eyes looked worried as he shook his head. “I don’t know who would do this to us,” he admitted.
His father, he knew, would probably know what was going on and for a few seconds he thought of lifting the hex that hid him from the world of magic. It was a momentary weakness, however, for his anger at the loss of the Sultan’s crown still burned within him. No, he thought grimly, there was no way he was going to ask his father!
