Firestar

by Anne Forbes

  “Mum’s peeved,” Shona giggled, “because she hasn’t been able to show them any Highland hospitality.”

  “It’s not just that,” her mother said. “When Jamie Robertson’s there, the estate is always open to everyone in the glen and seeing the gates shut …” she frowned, “is unfriendly to say the least.”

  “Just face it, Mum. They’re not interested in us at all,” Shona said with a grin. “They’re all fitness freaks from what I’ve seen of them. If they’re not jogging round the glen, they’re climbing Morven.”

  “Morven?” asked Clara.

  “Morven,” Shona explained, “is our mountain. It’s the first thing I see in the morning when I wake up and the last thing I see at night. I love Morven.”

  “I think you’ll find it rather interesting,” Lewis said, turning in his seat to look at them, “I know I did.” Neil missed the knowing smile that crossed his face but Clara didn’t. What, she wondered suspiciously, was so special about Morven?

  Clarissa’s engine grumbled a bit as she reached the top of a rise and turned into the narrow road that led into the wilds of Glenmorven. Lying between the comfortable sweep of high mountains, it was a beautiful glen, Neil thought. He could understand why Shona loved it so much. A brown stream ran along a valley floor that was dappled in sunlight. “There it is,” Shona said, pointing upwards, “the big, high mountain with the steep sides and round top. That’s Morven! Isn’t it fantastic?”

  Neil lifted his eyes to the hills and gasped. It was incredible but not in the sense she meant. The steep, narrow sides of the towering mountain and its gently rounded summit certainly made it stand out against the other sprawling peaks in the area but it wasn’t this that made Neil and Clara look at one another in amazement. Shona, seeing the look of complete surprise on their faces, was pleased at the impact the first sight of Morven had made on them. Lewis, too, grinned as both Neil and Clara looked at him questioningly.

  “Thought you’d find it interesting,” he said blandly.

  They did. Before they’d left Edinburgh, Lewis had phoned them and asked them to wear their firestones. Now they knew why — for the minute Morven had appeared before them they’d felt their firestones turn suddenly heavy round their necks and a sense of magic tingle through them. Neil’s face lit up. Morven, it would seem, wasn’t just any old mountain. Morven was, very definitely, a magic mountain. Clara smiled and they looked at one another in excitement. All of a sudden this holiday was turning into something else!

  It was later in the day, when Mr Ferguson was taking Clarissa back to old Hughie that Shona suggested that they all go with him.

  Hughie’s cottage was further down the glen, set in a hollow surrounded by trees. It looked a secret place, its tiny windows almost covered by brown thread-like strands of creeper that covered the cottage. Green buds were pushing up here and there, however, with the promise of spring.

  “It doesn’t look much just now,” Shona said as they pushed open the garden gate, “but in summer the whole cottage is covered in greenery.”

  Banks of snowdrops, crocuses and daffodils swept between the trees towards the side of the house while the back, Shona told them, gave onto the lower slopes of the mountain itself. The front door had a tiny porch and a brass knocker. Hughie, however, had heard the car and opened the door as they walked up the path.

  He was quite a short man and looked, thought Clara, like a benevolent gnome. Lewis shook his hand, wondering what the MacLeans would make of Hughie. The cottage certainly seemed to have a magic of its own and, from the penetrating look that Hughie had given him on his first visit with Shona, he’d sensed that the small, bright-eyed man had somehow felt the magic in him. Mind you, he thought, he had been wearing the magic ring that Prince Casimir had given him. Not only that, he’d also had a firestone round his neck; a gift from the MacArthurs. And since Hughie’s cottage was at the foot of Morven, he reasoned that perhaps it wasn’t all that surprising that Hughie recognized magic when he met it.

  The cottage was plainly furnished but the kitchen was a comfortable, homely room that ran the length of the back of the house and was obviously his living quarters. It was long and low with a beamed ceiling, loads of armchairs and settees, a vast kitchen table and an enormous open fireplace where huge logs crackled and spat. A delicious smell permeated the room for Hughie had been baking.

  “You’re just in time for tea,” he said with a smile, indicating the tray of little cakes, fresh from the oven.

  They sat round the old wooden table and although the orange juice was fresh and the cakes delicious, it was the view from the long, low stretch of the kitchen windows that took their breath away. Hughie’s back garden had no wall and his land merged with the slopes of Morven itself. Neil and Clara barely heard the conversation between Hughie and Ian Ferguson, so absorbed were they in the view. Clara peered upwards at the mountain; towering high and mysterious over the charming little cottage that nestled snuggly in its gentle hollow. Her eyes sparkled. The cottage, like the mountain, was magic. She was sure of that. Her eyes met those of Neil and Lewis and she knew they felt the same. There was magic here.

  6. Malfior’s Mischief

  Prince Kalman stopped at the head of the glen and surveyed it critically. It was a bleak, inhospitable place, he thought disdainfully as he picked his way along a deer path that ran along the side of its barren mountain slopes. Well named, too, he thought sourly — Hell’s Glen, the home of the Cri’achan; the stone giants of the north. He shrugged. As far as he was concerned, they were more than welcome to it.

  Although the glen was isolated and there was no one to see him, he had nevertheless been wary. The strange attack on the witches’ palace had made him careful and since then he had trusted no one; which was why he had merged with a fine stag earlier that morning. The beast was uneasy, though. Although he controlled its mind and its movements, he had immediately sensed that it was fearful and unwilling to enter the glen. It was only when he rounded a jutting spur of rock, however, that he realized why — for walking with great lumbering steps beside the dark stream that ran along the bottom of the valley, were two stone giants. The stag froze in its tracks as a dreadful fear gripped it.

  Kalman held the stag firmly in check as it started to panic whilst staring at the massive, rocky figures in utter disbelief, quite unable to believe his eyes. In the world of magic, this was absolutely unheard of! For as long as he could emember, the stone giants had been forbidden to move out of the mountains. It didn’t matter that the glen was uninhabited; the spell that Firestar held over them kept them firmly imprisoned. Even he, with the power of the Sultan’s Crown behind him, had only half managed to release his friend, Cri’achan Mòr, the King of the Stone Giants, from the mountainside the previous year when he’d asked him to chase Neil and Clara. He frowned as he thought of the two children. Had they not been riding flying horses at the time, they’d never have escaped.

  But now this! Stone giants walking through Hell’s Glen! It just wasn’t possible! For the hundredth time since the assault on the Snow Queen’s palace, he wondered what on earth was going on in the world of magic. He had hoped that Cri’achan Mòr would be able to tell him and, he thought agitatedly, with stone giants wandering the glen, it certainly looked as though he might.

  “Are you sure it’s Prince Kalman inside the beast?” Cri’achan Mòr demanded.

  Lord Jezail winced at the roaring growl that was the giant’s voice. He nodded, turning the eye of the crystal to watch the stag as it picked its way unwillingly into the glen. “I’ve been tracking him for some time,” he said, hiding his irritation. “It’s Kalman all right — and I think he’s just seen your giants,” he remarked with a sour smile.

  “Ha!” roared the King of the Giants loudly, waving a massive arm, “that will have given him something to think about!” His rocky face twisted in an evil grin. “Just wait till he arrives! The first of the Lords of the North to feel my fury! I’m going to enjoy this!”

 
The magician turned to the other occupant of the rocky chamber and raised his eyebrows. He knew perfectly well that his aide, Count Vassili, didn’t approve of this, his latest venture, but surely he could see that despite the drastic start, when they’d all been struck down by the force of the satellite hitting Firestar, that it was now starting to pay dividends? A secret smile curved his thin lips. So far, Malfior had exceeded all his expectations and, by releasing the giants from the spell that had held them captive for centuries, he had shown the Cri’achan the awesome strength of his new power.

  Count Vassili saw his smile and although his face remained impassive, his thoughts were in turmoil. Lord Jezail, he knew, had great powers but the very thought of his interfering with Firestar had frightened the wits out of him. Indeed, when the force had hit him, the thought had crossed his mind that his master had managed to kill off the entire world of magic at a single stroke. Nevertheless, he had to admit, he seemed to have somehow pulled it off. Malfior was in place and it looked as though Lord Jezail would succeed in his plan to evict the Lords of the North and rule the world of magic from their glorious halls in Morven. He smiled a trifle ruefully, for, of the two, he’d far rather have the Lords of the North in power than his somewhat bizarre and eccentric master!

  “You were right to complain to me,” Lord Jezail was saying to Cri’achan Mòr. “The Lords of the North were always an idle lot and, quite frankly, they haven’t done a proper job for centuries.”

  “They’ve really let things slide,” agreed the giant.

  Lord Jezail nodded understandingly. “There are many others in the world of magic who feel the same as you do, Cri’achan Mòr,” he said, in a voice of deep respect, “the trolls, the efrites, the goblins, the people of the trees and the stones.”

  “All we want are things to be as they used to be,” said the giant, emboldened by such praise. His voice deepened at the thought of times past when giants had walked the mountains and the people of the trees in the green wood had been worshipped. “We want to feel the old excitement again when humans feared us and made us offerings and sacrifices.”

  “And you will, Cri’achan Mòr,” Lord Jezail spoke dramatically. “One day soon, you will stand at my right hand in the Halls of Morven. Together we will rule!” His black eyes met those of Count Vassili sharply and recalling his part in such affairs of state, Vassili bowed in agreement. He knew quite well that once Morven was taken, his master would reverse the spell and send the giants back to their prison in Hell’s Glen. The very thought was ludicrous. Giants! In the elegant halls of Morven! No way!

  “Prince Kalman,” the giant growled, glancing at the crystal. “Look, he’s demerged from the stag. He’s going to hex himself inside the mountain.”

  “So he is,” Lord Jezail muttered. “Well, well! This ought to be interesting!” He glanced quickly at Vassily and as Cri’achan Mòr turned to enter his Great Hall to receive the prince, he stepped into his back, merging with him without the giant being aware of it.

  Demerging quietly from the stag, Prince Kalman calmed it gently and murmured the words of a hex that would keep it safe from the giants and ready for him should he have to leave the mountain in a hurry. As well might be the case, he thought, suddenly sombre; for the stone giants were no friends of the Lords of the North and only tolerated him because he had been cast out of Morven.

  His gaze, therefore, was frowning, thoughtful and decidedly worried as he turned to the barren slope beside him and, lifting his hands, muttered the words of a hex that transported him instantly into the caverns inside the mountain, the home of Cri’achan Mòr, King of the Stone Giants.

  There were caverns and caverns, thought Kalman, and this one bore little resemblance to either the elegance of the witches’ ice palace or the rich grandeur of the MacArthurs’ halls under Arthur’s Seat. By any standards it was pretty basic; giants being a fairly primitive lot. Massive pillars cut from the mountain held aloft a cavern of roughly-cut walls and ceilings that boasted no decoration whatsoever. Its floor was covered in dust and the scatter of boulders in odd corners said little for their housekeeping. As for the giants themselves, he eyed them critically, for they talked in growling roars and, one way or another, were pretty uncouth.

  Cri’achan Mòr sat at one end of the hall on an immense throne hewn out of the side of the mountain itself and looked up as the prince materialized in the middle of his court. A huge giant stepped forward as Kalman appeared and recognizing him immediately, announced him in growling tones.

  “Prince Kalman Meriden of Ardray.”

  Cri’achan Mòr beckoned him forward and the other giants started to talk excitedly amongst themselves as they turned to view their unexpected visitor.

  “Cri’achan Mòr!” Prince Kalman moved towards him and bowed low, trying not to wince at the growling, grunting roar of the giants’ voices.

  “And what brings you to Hell’s Glen, Prince Kalman?” asked the giant.

  No words of welcome, noted the prince, his senses alert — and not an altogether friendly tone of voice, either.

  The other giants in the cavern now moved towards him and despite himself, he found their behaviour unnerving although he knew that the great boulders they were rolling towards him were their equivalent of chairs. As they perched round him, their great legs the size of tree trunks and their eyeless faces gazing at him intently, he took a rather deeper breath than normal before starting his tale. He told them of the attack on himself and the witches and ended by asking if they, themselves, had gone through the same dreadful experience.

  The sudden silence that fell as he finished, spoke volumes. He kept his face impassive, however, as he looked round the hall enquiringly. The Cri’achan looked at one another and then at him and said nothing. Kalman didn’t often feel fear but as the silence lengthened, the hair on the back of his neck rose as it dawned upon him that, whatever had happened, his friends, the Cri’achan, were friends no more.

  “Have you not been to Morven, Prince Kalman?” asked Cri’achan Mòr.

  Kalman frowned angrily. “You know perfectly well that I am banned from the mountain,” he said haughtily.

  Inside Cri’achan Mòr, Lord Jezail picked up on this interesting piece of information. So Prince Kalman had fallen out with the Lords of the North, had he? Even better! That made him vulnerable and alone.

  “Then you will not have heard of the attack on Firestar?”

  Kalman paled and his head jerked in shock. So that was what had happened. It hadn’t been a hex at all. It had been an attack on Firestar! Things were worse than he’d thought. Much worse.

  “Firestar,” he repeated, “then … then you must have felt the attack, too?”

  “We did,” Cri’achan Mòr acknowledged, “but that is over now. For us, at least!” he added with a dreadful smile. The horrible roar of noise that greeted this remark was, the prince realized, the giants’ version of laughter.

  “Who attacked Firestar?” he persevered. “Do you know?”

  “Oh yes, we know,” Cri’achan Mòr laughed aloud and the giants again joined in. “We know,” he leered slyly and his voice lowered, “but nobody else does.”

  “Won’t you tell me?”

  “Shall I tell him, then?” Cri’achan Mòr asked, looking round at the assembled giants. “Shall I tell Prince Kalman?”

  Kalman caught the inflection on his name and clenching his fists, prepared for the worst.

  The giants gave a growling roar of triumph. The King of the Cri’achan leant forward triumphantly but it was Lord Jezail who spoke through him. “Listen carefully, Prince Kalman,” he said in the ugly rumbling roar of the giants, “I now have a friend in Morven. A friend that is more powerful than Firestar and hidden from it. Its name is Malfior and one day it will be all powerful. It has already given the giants their freedom and the strength to rise from the mountains. And as it grows stronger, so will I.”

  “Really?” Kalman spoke politely but allowed a distinct trace of disbelief to colour
his voice. “And how did this happen?”

  “It came from the sky and attacked Firestar. It has hidden itself inside it and is gradually eating its heart out. Quietly, bit by bit, so that Firestar will never suspect that it is there until it is too late. Firestar is already weak, for it was Malfior that released the giants from its spell. Believe me, Prince Kalman … Malfior will triumph.”

  Kalman turned white. He knew perfectly well that if Firestar were replaced by this evil entity, Malfior, the world of magic would suffer horribly. “You’re talking nonsense,” he said abruptly, “this is a faery story you’re telling me, Cri’achan Mòr!”

  Cri’achan Mòr shook his head. “My words are true,” Jezail said so forcefully that Kalman believed him. “Malfior talks to me and tells me everything that’s going on. Believe me when I say that Firestar’s days in Morven are numbered.”

  Cri’achan Mòr’s face changed to one of fury. Deprived of speech, he realized that Jezail must have merged with him when his back was turned and there was a distinct pause as he struggled desperately to control the conversation. With a huge effort, he pushed Jezail out of his mind, his stony face grimacing horribly as he did so — after all, this was supposed to be his moment of triumph, his show of power … and Jezail had totally ruined it.

  “Malfior,” he grated furiously, “wishes us to live with him in Morven. The Court of the Lords of the North will be ours and we will rule Scotland and walk its mountains as we did in ancient times. The Cri’achan are rising, Prince Kalman, and we will take Morven!”

  The prince frowned but, although he noticed the difference in speech and tone of voice, it was the sense of the words that registered.

  “Why are you telling me all this?” he asked sharply.

  The ensuing silence told him all that he wanted to know and seeing a piercing yellow light suddenly shine from the stone face, he felt the power of Jezail’s magic even as the spell he had cast, hexed him out of the mountain and back into the body of the great stag that he had left only minutes previously.