by Anne Forbes
Prince Casimir’s relief at seeing his son safe and well was momentary as he took in, not only the shabbiness of his attire, but also the drawn, haggard lines of strain that marked his face. What on earth, he wondered anxiously, had Kalman been up to, to get himself into such a state?
The prince, seeing at a glance that his father was fit and well, turned his attention to Lewis. Who was this boy to have such magic power? It was only when his eyes dropped to the ring of intertwining gold snakes on Lewis’s finger that realization dawned and its significance hit him like a blow. His father must have given him the ring!
The prince gave Lewis the oddest of looks. Disbelief and sheer fury vied for expression as his eyes flew from his father to the black-haired boy that stood at his side. If looks could kill, thought Clara tensely, Lewis would be very dead — for the feeling of antagonism that shot between them was almost palpable.
Kalman’s jealous, thought Neil, appreciating for the first time the amount of power that Casimir had given Lewis. His magic ring had far more power in it than any firestone.
Casimir, too, sensed his son’s jealousy and eyed him warily. “Lewis tells me that you have something very important to tell me, Kalman,” he said evenly.
Kalman clenched his hands and tried to control his feelings, amazed at the wave of hatred that he felt for Lewis. Until that moment he hadn’t realized just how much his father meant to him — and the knowledge that he thought enough of a human boy to give him a ring of power, was devastating. “I’m glad you’re here, milord,” he said, bowing abruptly to his father. “There’s a lot I have to tell you and I’m afraid it’s all bad news.”
“Perhaps you should sit down, Prince Casimir,” Hughie said hurriedly, trying to break the tension. He drew an armchair forward for the prince and there, in the humble surroundings of Hughie’s kitchen, they listened to Kalman’s tale of the giants’ cavern under the mountains in Hell’s Glen and of Malfior, the malevolent power that lurked within Firestar.
“It spoke to me,” Kalman said, pacing the floor, “and laughed because it thought it had me trapped. Its hold on the giants is strong for the evil, yellow light that shone from the face of Cri’achan Mòr was that of a ferocious, grasping intelligence. Luckily, I’d seen two of the stone giants in the glen before I went into the mountain and, well, it had crossed my mind that maybe the Cri’achan wouldn’t be quite as friendly as they’d been in the past. I cast a spell that would return me to the body of the stag should I be attacked and it’s just as well that I did. The moment Malfior attacked me, I vanished, but in that crucial few seconds he managed to strip me of most of my magic power.”
Casimir looked at him in amazement and gave a murmur of dismay. This was totally unexpected and much worse than anything he’d ever envisaged. If the prince’s magic power had been taken from him that easily then it could certainly happen to the rest of the Lords of Morven.
“Travelling in the body of the stag was slow but fortunately I met up with two musicians who had a van. They drove me most of the way to Morven.”
Neil and Clara looked at one another and knew immediately who he meant, for the Jelly Beans had made the headlines in all the newspapers. Neil made a mental note to read the interviews more closely as he was quite sure that there hadn’t been any mention of a stag.
“This evening,” the prince continued, “I arrived here and was able to renew my power from Firestar.” He paused, looking at his father grimly. “Malfior will know this and he will know that I am here. Now, he’ll be waiting for you to try to find him and will bury himself even deeper inside Firestar. He’ll also call the giants to attack the mountain.”
“They won’t be able to get in,” Casimir assured him. “The Lords of the North have put a protective shield round Morven.”
“That’s something,” Kalman acknowledged, “but what’s even more important is that you find a way to get rid of Malfior. The machine must surely be able to give you some indication of its existence?”
Prince Casimir looked serious. “I rather think I know what it is,” he said grimly. “Rumbletop told me that after the first attack, a strange icon appeared on the control screen. He said it looks like a dancing spider.”
“It could be a virus!” Neil said, sitting up straight.
“It sounds as though it might be,” Kalman said, glancing at Neil fleetingly. “A spider, spreading an invisible web within Firestar.”
Casimir looked worried. “Perhaps I should have done something about it,” he admitted, wringing his hands together. “I can’t understand why I didn’t,” he frowned. “Rumbletop’s been afraid to touch it in case it brought on another attack and as it didn’t seem to affect the machine … he … well, he decided to leave it alone.”
“A mistake,” Kalman pointed out icily.
“Will you come into the mountain and help us?” Casimir asked, rising to his feet. Kalman took a step backwards. “You have Alasdair Rothlan in the mountain,” he answered. “He’s more than capable of tracking down Malfior. You don’t need me!”
“Kalman!” Casimir pleaded.
It was to no avail. Prince Kalman had delivered his message and muttering the words of a spell, he hexed himself out of Hughie’s kitchen.
30. The Spider Icon
“So you see,” Prince Casimir said grimly, as he finished relating Kalman’s story of Malfior and the giants, “we must get rid of this … this Malfior. If what Cri’achan Mòr said is the truth, then it’s hidden inside Firestar.”
“But is it the truth?” queried Lord Alarid, sitting back in his chair and waving a hand casually. “I mean … the whole story sounds totally fantastic!”
“Prince Kalman must be mistaken,” Lord Alban frowned, shaking his head. “We know, indeed, that the giants have risen but how could any evil thing grow within Firestar without its knowledge?”
“Quite impossible!” Lord Dorian declared. “I don’t believe a word of it! Firestar would sense it immediately!” At this, there was a murmur of agreement from the other lords. Prince Kalman’s tale, they decided, eyeing one another understandingly, was no more than a faery story.
Lord Alarid voiced the general opinion. “How can you think that we’d ever believe such a tale, Casimir?” he said, his voice rising slightly. “We sit here, relaxed and happy, and you come along, deliberately, it seems, trying to spoil our pleasure! It has been a worrying time for all of us — but now that the force that attacked us has been destroyed, we have nothing to worry about. Like you,” he declared forcefully, “we feel Firestar’s relief within us.”
“But surely it would be in Malfior’s interest to have us think that?” the MacArthur pointed out, looking to Lord Rothlan for assistance, wondering if their thoughts had been working along the same lines. Amgarad flapped his wings and even Arthur looked interested.
Lord Rothlan eyed Lord Alarid grimly, his brain working swiftly. He believed Kalman’s tale implicitly and, like the MacArthur, could see the cunning of Malfior at work. It had obviously succeeded in lulling the lords into a false sense of security. “The MacArthur’s right,” he said. “Don’t you realize, Lord Alarid, that Kalman’s story is the truth. He’s not telling lies! Not making anything up! What happened to him was real. This … this Malfior is a threat and Firestar is in danger.”
“You are quite mistaken, Alasdair,” Lord Alarid began, “we all know that … that …” He didn’t finish the sentence, however, but halted stumbling in the middle of it, as a strong wave of surprise and anger swept over him.
Firestar had, at last, woken to its danger and was taking a hand in matters. It had no hesitation in making its feelings felt, either, for it instantly washed away their comfortable feeling of false security, leaving them worried, anxious and more than a little afraid. Nevertheless, there was also a reassuring sense of grim determination. Firestar had put itself on a war footing. It was going to fight the enemy.
In no doubt, now, of the gravity of the situation, the Lords of the North looked at one ano
ther in fear and amazement. How could this have happened?
“I apologize, Prince Casimir,” Lord Alarid said, still looking slightly stunned at the turn of events. “I should never have doubted you. Please forgive me … I don’t know what I was thinking of …”
“You’re not to blame, Lord Alarid,” Lord Rothlan interrupted swiftly. “Malfior was influencing your thoughts — all our thoughts, if it comes to that!”
The MacArthur nodded in agreement.
“Looking back on things,” Lord Rothlan continued, “I can see now that Malfior’s been fooling us as well as Firestar.” He met Lord Alarid’s thoughtful gaze. “Why didn’t you listen to Prince Casimir when he told you how important it was to stop the Cri’achan?” he demanded.
“I … I … well, it didn’t seem important at the time …” Lord Alarid’s voice trailed off.
“Exactly,” Lord Rothlan said. “It didn’t seem important.”
“You’re right, Alasdair,” Prince Casimir added, sitting up. “It must have been Malfior all along! And looking back on things, I’m sure it frightened the hobgoblins into doing nothing about the spider icon as well. And I,” his hand slapped the arm of his chair in anger, “I let myself be influenced by them!”
“Don’t blame yourself, Casimir,” Lord Dorian interrupted. “We were all affected.”
Prince Casimir suddenly looked less sure of himself. “There is something else I haven’t mentioned,” he said, looking at Lord Rothlan hesitantly. “Kalman also told me to ask you, Alasdair, to rid us of Malfior.”
“Me?” Lord Rothlan looked at him in complete surprise.
Casimir smiled wryly. “I know that you have always been rivals in the past … enemies, even,” he added, “but Kalman has never doubted your competence.”
The Lords of the North looked at one another with raised eyebrows at this remark. “I think we would all agree with the prince on that,” Lord Alarid smiled, “and … and …” he paused as a sudden, strong tide of feeling washed over them all in a wave of strength and goodwill. “Firestar …,” he echoed everyone’s thoughts, “Firestar seems to be telling us that he knows of Malfior and is seeking him out.” His eyes shone with sudden relief. “Firestar is with us!”
Motivated by the sudden feeling of elation they sat up, their eyes turning to the crystal.
“Perhaps we could have a look at what the giants are doing?” the MacArthur suggested, rising to his feet. “You never know, they might well be re-forming …”
It was then that Lord Rothlan stood up and bowing low, took his leave of them. Let the others take care of the giants and the glen, he thought, making for the stairs that led down to the vast hall where the machine was housed. His smile as he descended was somewhat rueful. Trust Kalman to land me with the job, he thought ruefully. Nevertheless, he acknowledged that it was a wise choice for none of the other lords would have had a clue how to go about it. It was up to him to access the mysterious icon that Malfior had left behind on the machine.
Rumbletop turned as he approached, looking apprehensive.
“Milord, what news of the giants?” he asked anxiously.
“They’re still being held behind the protective shield, Rumbletop,” Rothlan replied. “Now, let me have a look at this spider icon of yours. We’ve got to get rid of it!”
The hobgoblins looked at one another worriedly. “We were afraid to touch it,” Rumblegudgeon admitted, looking more than slightly ashamed.
Rothlan didn’t bother to explain. “It’s a virus,” he said shortly, “and it’s inside Firestar. We have to get rid of it before the giants get to the mountain.” And with that, he slid into the chair and, looking at the monitor, clicked on the spider.
The screen promptly turned green and started to roll off reams of numbers and letters that went on and on until they realized that they were being sidetracked.
“Let me try,” muttered Rumbletop, “I know something that might work. Come on, Firestar,” he muttered desperately as he tapped away at the keyboard. “Do your stuff! The giants are in the glen, for goodness sake!” He scanned the screen anxiously and pressed his lips together in frustration as nothing at all happened. Although the great machine continued to work smoothly with only an occasional hiss of displeasure as he frantically tried to alter its settings, they made no progress whatsoever in accessing Malfior.
“If only Firestar would realize that the satellite had left something behind,” Rumblegudgeon muttered despairingly, his tendrils growing longer by the minute.
“I think it does, Rumblegudgeon,” Lord Rothlan said, scanning the screen. “It’s trying to help us. It just doesn’t know how.”
“Nothing! Nothing at all! Just all these numbers and stuff,” Rumbletop looked despairingly at Rumblegudgeon and the other hobgoblins that crowded the hall.
“Lord Rothlan,” Prince Casimir called from the staircase, “Lord Alarid would like to speak to you.”
Hearing the urgency in his tone, Lord Rothlan looked at Rumblegudgeon. “Keep trying,” he instructed, as he got to his feet. “Do anything you can to get rid of the spider.”
“What’s happened?” Rothlan asked as he climbed the stairs to the Great Hall.
“It’s the ghosts from the castle.” Casimir said. “They say that Powerprobe has come to life. Chuck’s on his computer again!”
Lord Rothlan emerged from the staircase with Prince Casimir in his wake and striding hurriedly through the hall, joined the group that clustered anxiously round the crystal. Lord Alarid glanced at him. “I don’t know if it’s good news or not, Alasdair,” he said, “but Rory tells me that Chuck’s on his computer and he thinks he’s in touch with the satellite.”
“I wonder if Firestar had a hand in that,” Rothlan muttered, trying to calm his racing mind as he rapidly calculated the possibilities. “What do you think, Casimir? I have the impression that Firestar’s trying to help us despite Malfior putting blocks in the way.”
Fired with sudden hope, he returned to the machine but although he worked on it all night, neither he nor the hobgoblins managed to get any nearer to finding Malfior.
Dawn found him exhausted and dispirited — and the news that the giants had re-formed sent his spirits plummeting further. Fear gripped him as he was forced to face the horrifying reality that perhaps he wouldn’t be able to destroy Malfior; that perhaps it was too clever for him; that perhaps the giants would succeed … and claim Morven as their own.
31. The Press Pack
Aberdeen, a busy city at the best of times, became a hundred times busier overnight as reporters from across the globe descended upon it in droves. The fantastic stone giants that were appearing all over Scotland had become international news and the roads and glens of the Grampian Mountains were soon full of reporters and camera crews anxious to catch a glimpse of the stone monsters. They weren’t disappointed, either, for the giants, who seemed to become taller and stronger with each day that passed, were springing up all over the Highlands. Television commentators had a field day as they discussed everything from the reasons for their sudden appearance to their inevitable collapse into landslides. Neither did it take them long to work out that they were all heading eastwards and making for the area around Morven.
“The press people are camping out in the fields near Hughie’s cottage,” Shona said worriedly as another satellite van rattled past their gates. “Dad’s shut the gates so that they don’t come and bother us.”
Inevitably, of course, a team of broadcasters did turn up at Glenmorven House, for news of the Sinclairs’ midnight flight from Glen Garchory was common knowledge in the area and the reporters were adept at sifting through local gossip for a story. Hearing the doorbell ring, Ian Ferguson shrugged. “Maybe if I tell them what I know they might go away,” he said, looking at his wife hopefully.
The cameras were on him as he answered the door and soon he was telling them about their midnight visitors. “The Sinclairs’ farm is in the next glen,” he explained, looking into the camera. �
��The weather was stormy. A bit like it is today, actually,” he said, looking up the glen where black clouds were gathering.
Kate Cameron who was interviewing him, followed his glance and shivered suddenly. “And what made them realize that there were giants in the area?”
“Apparently, there was a sudden, tremendous noise,” Ian said. “It woke them up and when they looked out of the window, they saw the giants heaving themselves off the sides of the mountains.” He tailed off as an eerie growling noise roared through Glenmorven. “That’s the noise he described,” Ian continued, looking suddenly apprehensive. “The noise the giants make when they’re talking. It looks as though there must be more of them around.”
So strange and fearsome was the sound, that James, the cameraman, turned quite white and the world heard Kate’s terrified intake of breath as they all turned to look up the glen.
“We think the giants might be close by,” she said into the microphone in a voice that was half-scared and half-excited. What a scoop, she thought, to be around when the giants were actually forming. “We’ll leave this interview for the present and go further up the glen so that we can have a better view of what’s happening. We think the giants are coming!”
She looked speculatively at the four children who had been standing quietly to one side as the interview had started. Odd, she thought. They don’t look the least bit scared. I wonder why?
“Aren’t you scared?” she queried laughingly, holding out the microphone to a pretty, red-haired girl who was clutching a kitten. Great shot, she thought. Just what the viewers want to see. Children and animals always went down well.
Shona shot a cautious glance at Neil and didn’t quite know what to say. “I think we’re more excited than scared,” she said.
Kate’s eyes flickered. She hadn’t been a reporter for years not to sense that there was a story in the children. The parents seemed genuine enough but she’d bet her bottom dollar that the kids knew a lot more than they were letting on and, as they moved off, she gave Shona a friendly but shrewd look that told her exactly what she was thinking. The noise grew in volume as they all hurried into the garden. Ian Ferguson, after a quick glance up and down the glen, breathed a sigh of relief.
