by Chris Tookey
“You will ride on my horse, behind me,” said Osprey, pulling on a cloak to cover his upper torso, “and you, Wenda, must follow. On this uncertain ground, I would prefer us to take our time, but under the circumstances we must gallop. Remember to keep an eye open for suspiciously large boulders. They may be trolls.”
As they galloped across the moors, Wyrd looked around him. If he hadn’t have been so terrified, he might have admired the undulating hills, the purple heather, the melodious tinkle of winding brooks that ran down to the northern sea.
But he was unable to appreciate any of these beauties. When he heard the flutter of wings over his head, he looked up for vampires and harpies but saw only large birds with the most luxuriant red, gold and purple plumage.
“Are they dangerous?” he shouted into Osprey’s ear.
The magician shook his head but carried on galloping.
“They’re phoenixes!” he yelled. “Not dangerous in themselves, but they live off the insects they find in bear droppings. Wherever you find a phoenix, you’re likely to find bears.”
Scarcely had these words come from Osprey’s mouth than a bear appeared from behind the rocks in front of them. The huge, brown creature snarled at the horse galloping towards it and reared on its hind legs, so that it was at least nine foot tall.
“You see? This way!” pointed Osprey, veering to his right and jumping a brook. Far beneath them in a valley could be seen a red-tiled roof, of a kind that Wyrd had never seen before. It looked incongruously like something that his mother had described to him once. Could it be a Roman villa? But what was a Roman villa doing here, when the Roman legions had been halted more than a hundred miles to the east?
“There!” Osprey pointed to the building below them, glancing over his shoulder with concern at the setting sun. “The Villa Honoria!”
From far behind them came cackling and crowing, as though from a hundred hags.
“Harpies!” cried Wenda, who had turned towards the noise. “Dozens of them!”
“Ride!” cried Osprey. “Ride for your life!”
As the horse and pony careered down the hillside, Wyrd could hear the harpies draw ever closer – not only their cackling and crowing, but also the beat of their heavy wings. He turned and saw that the frontmost harpy – like some huge albatross, but with the head of a wild, shrieking, hideous hag – was hovering just above Wenda and was diving in to pluck her from her pony’s back. Its talons began to extend from its feathers, and Wyrd saw to his horror that the claws were more than a foot long, enough to tear Wenda’s head from her body. He fumbled in his pocket and brought out the only thing he had that might be of any use.
He put a stone in his sling and slung it as hard as he could at the birdlike creature. It hit the harpy full in the forehead, right between the eyes, and it tumbled out of the sky with an unearthly screech.
In a trice, the other harpies abandoned their pursuit and flew down to peck their leader to pieces. Wyrd turned away as one of them buried its head into the leading harpy’s chest and pulled out its still beating heart.
“Yuk!” he said.
“Thanks,” yelled Wenda.
“Well done!” yelled Osprey. “How did you know?”
“How did I know what?” asked Wyrd, breathlessly.
“That’s their weakness!” yelled Osprey. “They’re terrific predators, but they enjoy eating each other even more than they like feeding off anything else!”
“Thanks for telling me!” said Wyrd ironically.
“Don’t mention it!”
They reached the gates of Honoria’s villa just as the sun disappeared below the horizon. Any fear of vampires was dispelled by the number of crosses and wreaths of garlic that covered the walls and gates of the villa. The gates were held open by a couple of dwarves and then closed with a reassuring clang that confirmed they were made of iron.
“Phew!” said Wyrd, dismounting from Osprey’s horse and feeling the soreness on his inner thighs that came of gripping the horse bareback. “That was close!”
“Close?” said Osprey. “I don’t know what you’re complaining about. The things I was really afraid of were the vampires. And the were-spiders.”
Wenda dismounted and came across to give Wyrd a hug and a kiss on the cheek.
“What was that for?” he asked.
“You just saved my life,” said Wenda. “Or didn’t you notice?”
“It was just a lucky shot,” said Wyrd modestly.
“You know something?” said Wenda, quizzically. “All those years ago, when Merlin said you had the makings of a mythic hero, I didn’t know what he was on about. But I’m starting to see what he meant.”
“I’m no hero,” said Wyrd. “In fact, virtually this whole journey I’ve been scared stiff.”
“There’s nothing wrong with being scared,” said Wenda. “Even Osprey hasn’t been his usual confident self. And I’ve had butterflies in my stomach since we left Castle Otto. Which reminds me, I’m desperate for a pee.”
14
The Villa Honoria
In which Wyrd encounters Roman high society
The three travellers were directed to the latrines, which were the most luxurious that Wyrd had ever seen. Two stone buildings had been erected to house them, and Wenda was shown to the more ornate of the two, covered in gorgeous wall-paintings of birds, flowers and architectural ruins in the Roman tradition.
“Wow!” said Wenda as she emerged. “Sorry that took so long, but it was like sitting on a throne. There’s an amazing view of the coast and all the boats passing.”
Wyrd’s mouth fell open in amazement as a dwarf ushered them past an outer courtyard.
“The outdoor pool,” he said in a nasal voice. “Made of the finest Carrara marble.”
“Coo!” said Wyrd, kneeling to dip a finger in the water. “It’s warm!”
“Roman-style heating,” intoned the dwarf, who had evidently performed this guided tour many times previously. “Nothing but the best for the Empress Honoria.”
They passed into an inner courtyard, with columns on either side, leading through a garden full of exotic blooms and plants of the most outlandish shape.
“These, as you can see,” continued the dwarf, “are the garden cloisters, leading to the indoor swimming pool and, to our right, the main reception area. To the left is the Empress’s private suite. Above and around you are the ten bedrooms, all of course with en-suite bathrooms. One of the Empress’s flunkies will show you to your bedchambers after your audience with the Empress.”
The dwarf bowed and walked back to the gates.
“What of our horses?” asked Osprey.
“They are, even now, being fed and watered in the stables next to the main gates,” said the dwarf. “Will you be requiring them overnight?”
“No, thank you,” said Wyrd hurriedly.
“We are here for several days,” said Osprey.
“Very good, sir,” said the dwarf with another subservient bow. “We shall look after them until your return.”
For the first time, Wyrd realised with a sickening lurch in his stomach that, dangerous though the travel to the Empress’s villa had been, the journey back might prove even more deadly.
“I’ve just been thinking about Castle Otto,” he said to Osprey. “Do you think there might be a safer way back?”
Osprey paused to consider.
“I doubt it,” he replied.
“There are crosses and garlic wreaths everywhere,” observed Wyrd. “There must be a lot of vampires to keep out.”
“I daresay,” replied Osprey. “But there’s time enough to worry about things like that. We should be safe as long as we’re here. I would advise you for now to concentrate on not annoying the Empress. I hear she can be quite, ah, temperamental.”
As if on cue, the sound of an imperious f
emale voice could be heard echoing down a corridor leading from the Empress’s quarters.
“What do you mean, no lobster?” said the voice. “We always have lobster when we have guests!”
“But the boats have come back empty-handed. There’s crabs, sea bream, sea bass, red mullet and swordfish—”
“But no lobster!” cried the voice. “Ah well, I suppose it will just have to do. I hope you haven’t forgotten to kill the fatted calf.”
“No, milady. I slit its throat myself.”
“Be off with you, then,” ordered the voice, “and work your magic in the kitchen.”
An old, humpbacked witch, who looked not unlike how Mrs Scraggs might look in about a thousand years, scowled at the visitors as she passed them.
Close behind came a gorgeous apparition in the richest, most colourful silks that Wyrd had ever seen. Her strong, dark features contrasted with the feminine pallor of her skin. The elegant way that she seemed to drift rather than walk, and the length and paleness of her neck as it emerged from her perfect, uncovered, snowy white shoulders adorned around the bodice with white feathers, reminded Wyrd of the swans he had seen long ago in a Dumnonian stream.
“My dears!” said the apparition. “How charming of you to come all this way to visit little me in my tragically impecunious and miserable exile! And you must be Osprey.”
“It is we who are honoured, Empress,” observed Osprey, with a stiff half-bow, as he kissed her outstretched hand.
“I would not know about that,” sighed the Empress. “I have had to reprimand Patchit, as you heard, for an insufficiency of lobster.”
“I’m not sure if I like lobster, anyway,” said Wenda.
“And who might you be, my dear?” inquired the Empress Honoria flatly, fastening her less than fascinated gaze upon the girl who had spoken. Wyrd guessed that the Empress Honoria had learned that most of the world’s power lay with men and that women were therefore hardly worth cultivating.
“This is Wenda. She is my herbologist,” explained Osprey.
“Whatever next?” asked the Empress, arching one perfectly plucked eyebrow and sniffing delicately at Wenda as though the serving girl had just pulled out a halibut and waved it in front of her. “How extraordinary. A female herbologist. I take it you are female?”
Wenda blushed as she felt the Empress studying her in her travelling clothes. Never before had the kitchen maid felt so grubby, smelly and unfeminine.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And how old are you?”
“Sixteen, if you please, ma’am.”
“One year younger than my daughter,” said the Empress. “I thought you must be, there or thereabouts. A young, female herbologist! Well, well, well!”
She sighed and shook her head, as if to wonder what the world was coming to. Her eyes drifted and she looked at Wyrd.
“And what of you, young man?”
“I’m Uther.”
“Sir Uther?”
“Not really,” the boy admitted. “Just Uther.”
“He is my scribe,” said Osprey.
“Well, Mr Osprey, you certainly like to surround yourself with young people.”
“It’s difficult to find scribes nowadays,” said Osprey apologetically. “The young men all wish to become knights; they regard writing as of little importance and…”
“Yes, yes, yes,” said the Empress, flapping away such mundane inconveniences as of little concern to someone of her exalted status. “Come into the library.”
Wyrd gasped at the number of volumes around them. Most were on vellum, others on parchment. Some were books, with their titles picked out in gold leaf.
“Do you wish us to start work right away?” inquired Osprey.
“Time enough for that tomorrow,” replied the Empress Honoria. “I expect you will wish to wash and change after your tiring journey. Did it take you long?”
“Not long,” said Osprey, “though we did encounter… a few inconveniences. We lost one of our ponies to a sea serpent, and with it several of my most treasured books.”
“Well, we have plenty of rare volumes here,” said the Empress, “mostly from Rome. Ah, Rome! You must look through my library and see if you would care to borrow anything.”
“Perhaps I might borrow this,” said Osprey. “The Life of Theodosius. It seems to have been written by my brother.”
“Buzzard?” asked Wyrd, surprised.
“Merlin,” said Osprey.
“He writes books?” asked Wyrd.
“Of a salacious and politically suspect nature,” said Osprey.
“Take it,” said the Empress. “Merlin gave it me himself, but I never got round to reading it.”
“I see he inscribed it to you personally,” said Osprey. “Thank you, Empress.”
Honoria waved away his expression of thanks as though he were a troublesome mosquito and turned to his young assistant.
“So, you journeyed here safely?” asked the Empress.
“More or less,” said Wyrd. “We lost a pony to a sea monster. And we hid from a couple of slave-ships.”
“They pass by all the time. They are the scourge of the seas,” said Honoria, with a long-suffering sigh. “When I first arrived, it was possible to sail in and out of our little harbour here whenever one liked. Now it is possible to venture out only if one’s crew is armed to the teeth. It really is lamentable, the extent to which King Otto has allowed law and order to decline.”
“He refuses to allow the slave-traders to land on Atlantean territory,” observed Osprey.
“And you imagine that stops them?” replied the Empress with a humourless laugh. “Barely a year goes past without some piratical raid, or one of my defenceless workers being abducted. And the scoundrels are gaining in confidence. Only last month I lost three lizard-men, a serving wench and one of my most trusted elves.”
“Do you think we are safe?” inquired Wyrd, anxiously.
“Safe. Safe…” The Empress Honoria mused on the word for a few moments, before coming to a discomforting conclusion. “No. Of course we are not safe. But there is little point in dwelling on danger. Too depressing. Let my servants escort you to your rooms.”
***
Wyrd’s bed chamber was the most opulent he had ever seen – though he guessed correctly that Osprey’s would be more luxurious, and the Empress’s suite an even more flamboyant example of Roman opulence.
A crisply laundered toga had been laid out for him on his bed, and he was about to put it on when there was a knock on his door.
“Wait a moment!” he called.
Evidently the door muffled his words, for it swung open immediately, to reveal a girl of about Wyrd’s own age. She was dressed entirely in black and slouched against the doorframe. Her kohl-and-mascara-blackened eyes ran up and down Wyrd appraisingly.
“Hi,” she said.
“Hi,” said Wyrd.
“Fancy a dreamweaver?”
“What’s a dreamweaver?”
“One of these.”
From behind her back she produced a long tube of some papyrus-like material, into which had been stuffed a concoction of herbs and grasses.
“What do you do with it?” asked Wyrd.
“I’ll give you three guesses.”
Wyrd tried to imagine.
“Do you eat it?”
“No.”
“Stick it in your ear?”
“No.”
“Um, I give up.”
“You set fire to it,” said the girl.
“Isn’t that dangerous?”
“Not really. It burns very slowly. And then you put one end of it in your mouth.”
“WHAT?”
“Not the lighted end, obviously.”
“And what’s the point?” asked Wyrd.
“See for yourself,” replied the girl.
Wyrd wasn’t keen to obey but was unsure of the etiquette surrounding such an occasion.
“If you don’t mind my asking,” he said, “who are you?”
“You don’t know?” asked the girl.
“Sorry.”
“Well, that’s just typical,” replied the girl, coming across to his bed and sitting down. “You’ve met my mother, presumably.”
“Would that be the Empress Honoria?”
“It would,” said the girl. “You’ve very nervous, aren’t you?”
“Me, nervous? No, not really,” said Wyrd, leaning nonchalantly against a pillar.
It unexpectedly tilted, dislodging a highly decorated urn which fell on the marble floor and smashed.
“Oh! Sorry!” stammered Wyrd.
“Don’t worry about it,” said the girl. “Mother didn’t like that urn anyway. That’s why it’s in a guest bedroom.”
“But wasn’t it valuable?”
“Well, no one has money to buy anything out here, so nothing is of any real value,” said the girl. “Who are you, anyway?”
“Oh, I’m Uther,” said Wyrd, sticking out his right hand for her to shake it.
The girl studied it with feline amusement.
“And what exactly am I meant to do with your hand?” she asked.
“Er, shake it?” suggested Wyrd.
“Can I stroke it?” asked the girl, playfully. “You look as if you need to be calmed down. Here. Try this.”
She laid herself down on Wyrd’s bed and lit one end of her papyrus tube. How she lit it was a mystery to Wyrd. One moment, it was just… well, there. The next, it was alight and smouldering. Was she a magician? She patted the bed beside her, for Wyrd to sit, or lie, beside her.
As reluctantly as a Dumnonian child first encountering Thrugg the dentist, he sat on the edge of the bed and angled himself round to see her face. She took three long puffs on the ‘dreamweaver’, and then breathed out smoke. She offered the tube to Wyrd.
“Here,” she said. “It’ll relax you. Good for the appetite, too. I always have one before dinner.”
“I’m not sure if I should,” murmured Wyrd.
