Scilly Seasons

by Chris Tookey

  Buzzard took to spending more and more time in his room, from which foul smells belched. Wenda occasionally took him his meals there and saw for herself the laboratory of bubbling potions and poisons he had assembled. She knew better than to ask Buzzard what he was doing. Wizards do not like to be questioned too closely, if at all. But she could see that the old wizard was troubled.

  “I was sorry to hear about your business,” she said politely.

  “What business?”

  “Your business,” repeated Wenda. “Taking you away from the castle like that.”

  “Oh yes,” said Buzzard, licking his lips nervously.

  “Was it a very long journey?” Wenda asked, solicitously.

  “Yes, exceedingly arduous.”

  Wenda noticed that Buzzard was sweating, even though the room was not warm.

  “I am sorry,” he continued, “but I really cannot speak about it. I have too much to do. Far too much.”

  “Of course.”

  Wenda’s eyes alighted on the bottle that the wizard was holding, with its label towards her. RATWORT, it said. Inside was the same liquid, with the same writhing plant inside it, that she had seen Osprey refuse when Morgana had offered it to him. What was Buzzard intending to do with it?

  When Buzzard saw her looking at the bottle, he hurriedly turned the label away from her.

  Wenda was sorry when Wyrd started to spend more and more time on his studies. She was not sure why his attitude had changed towards her. Perhaps it was guilt about events at the Villa Honoria. Or it was anger about their altercation in the palace yard. Or it could just be that his burden of work left him, like Buzzard, little time for casual conversation. He always seemed to be in lessons with Osprey, or practising the martial arts, or studying the many books of potions that Osprey made his pupils memorise.

  It was one such book that Wenda found Wyrd perusing in the school library. It was not the kind of library you might find nowadays, for this was long before the invention of printing. The books were all hand-written and most of the shelves contained rolls of papyrus, or parchment.

  “Wyrd,” said Wenda. “Oh sorry, it’s Uther now, isn’t it?”

  Wyrd looked up with the first smile he had given her since the Villa Honoria.

  “You can call me Wyrd if you like,” he said. “Though I’m getting used to Uther. It sounds a bit more grown-up. I like to sound grown-up, even if I’m not. Well, not completely.”

  Wenda looked at him hard.

  “Is that some kind of apology?” she asked.

  “It could be,” said Wyrd.

  “It’s not much of an apology,” said Wenda, “but I suppose it will do.”

  “Good,” said Wyrd.

  “Have you got to read everything in here?” asked Wenda, looking around the library, wonderingly.

  “Not absolutely everything,” said Wyrd, with a grin. “But an awful lot of it.”

  “I was thinking,” said Wenda.

  “That’s good,” said Wyrd.

  “Ha ha,” said Wenda. “Do you know anything about ratwort?”

  “Ragwort?” said Wyrd.

  “No, ratwort.”

  “Is that some kind of herb?” asked Wyrd. “If so, that’s more your area than mine.”

  “I think it’s a plant that wizards use. Dark wizards. Or witches. The lovely Morgana had some, but I don’t think Osprey approved.”

  “Hmm. Let me see,” said Wyrd, reaching for a book of potions that lay nearby.

  He thumbed through the pages until he reached R.

  “Ratwort,” he said. “A plant found only on the extreme east coast of Atlantis. It is principally of use when applied in the service of mind control and may be employed to suborn the unwilling into acts of extreme violence or even murder.”

  “That’s dreadful,” said Wenda.

  “Yeah,” replied Wyrd, with a grin. “I hope Mrs Scraggs isn’t planning to use any on me.”

  “Not Mrs Scraggs,” said Wenda. “Buzzard.”

  “I wouldn’t worry,” said Wyrd. “Buzzard is always experimenting with potions.”

  “But he’s just come back from this business of his,” said Wenda. “He seems different, somehow, and he didn’t want me to see what he was doing.”

  “That doesn’t necessarily mean he’s up to anything evil or anything.”

  “No? Don’t you think he’s been strange since he came back?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t see much of him. I spend most of my time in lessons with Osprey. Lucky me!”

  “Oh well,” said Wenda, shrugging. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe it’s nothing.”

  But it was something. And events were soon to prove Wenda’s anxieties well founded.

  ***

  Wenda was one of the few serving wenches allowed to enter the wizards’ tower at the south-western corner of the castle, so she was usually the one who had to take old Buzzard a bottle of mead whenever his supply gave out.

  It was on one such occasion, very late at night, that she knocked on his door with a tray. She heard voices through the door. One was undoubtedly Buzzard’s. The other was gruff, guttural and monosyllabic.

  “Ah,” said Buzzard, as he opened the door.

  “Mrs Scraggs said you wanted some more mead,” said Wenda.

  “Ah,” said Buzzard. “Yes. But dammit, that was an hour ago.”

  “I’m sorry. We’re rather short-handed in the kitchen tonight. Some of us are off sick.”

  “Ah,” said Buzzard.

  “You aren’t going down with anything, are you, sir? You don’t look well.”

  “I am perfectly well, thank you!”

  Buzzard certainly didn’t look it. He was white-faced and, at the same time, pouring with sweat. And his voice sounded unnaturally harsh.

  “May I come in?” asked Wenda.

  “No,” said Buzzard sharply. “You may not.”

  He took the tray from her at the door.

  “Is anything wrong, sir?” inquired Wenda.

  “Certainly not,” said Buzzard. “Don’t be impertinent. Leave me alone!”

  And he shut the door in her face. Wenda should have gone straight back to the kitchen, but curiosity got the better of her. Most of all, she wanted to know who else was in Buzzard’s room. She thought she had heard the other voice before but wasn’t quite sure where.

  It wasn’t a human voice. It was deeper than that, more brutish.

  While she was still trying to remember where she had heard the voice before, the door to Buzzard’s room opened. And there, inclining his head slightly so that he did not hit his head on the top of the doorframe, was Mogbut. The chief of the Palace Guard.

  Mogbut was red-eyed, as though he had been weeping. He carried a huge club, with long, lethal spikes in it.

  The old wizard’s voice came from behind him.

  “So, Mogbut, you know what you must do.”

  Mogbut’s deep, guttural voice sounded strained and extraordinary as he tried to imitate Buzzard’s tone of voice.

  “I know what I must do,” intoned Mogbut.

  “You must act now,” said Buzzard.

  “I must act now,” agreed Mogbut.

  “Kill him.”

  “Kill him.”

  “Before he kills us.”

  “Before he kills us.”

  Wenda’s mind worked quickly. The old wizard was obviously exerting mind control over Mogbut, not that Mogbut had much of a mind to control.

  Wenda could come up with only one explanation. Buzzard was about to use Mogbut to assassinate the King. It made sense. No one but Mogbut had leave to enter King Otto’s bedchamber at night. Whenever Wenda went there, it was always with Mogbut in attendance. He never said much – just signalled that she was to come with him – and such was his size and physica
l threat that Mogbut commanded instant obedience and a kind of hopeless trust.

  How was Wenda to reach the King before the treacherous Mogbut did? She watched the bugbear recede into the darkness at the northern end of the corridor and realised that the only way was to use the alternative, more direct route to the King’s bedroom and run faster than she had ever run before.

  Wenda was gasping for breath at the entrance to the royal apartments in the north-eastern corner of the castle, when she realised something was wrong. If Mogbut had been going to the royal apartments, she would now be able to hear his hoof steps. The idea of a bugbear on tiptoe was ridiculous. He wasn’t coming in this direction at all.

  That left only one alternative. Mogbut must have been heading for the north-western part of the castle. But no one slept there at night except for knights and, of course…

  19

  Things That Go Bump In The Night

  In which Wyrd is attacked in his own bed

  Wyrd never was quite sure what woke him. Probably it was the heaviness of the bugbear’s tread on the stone staircase. In all events, he was wide awake when he saw the huge club come crashing down towards his head and was just able to roll away in time.

  Mogbut let out a roar of exasperation. His club hit the floor with such force that it became stuck in a crack, and it took him a moment or two to pull it out.

  Wyrd backed into the corner of the room furthest from Mogbut. Wyrd had never felt so frail, so defenceless – at least since the bugbears had invaded his village. This was like his worst nightmares. The boy flattened himself against the wall and crouched as if he was hoping there was some way to burrow his way out. But there could be no escape. In two huge strides, Mogbut positioned his huge frame in the doorway, blocking Wyrd’s only means of escape.

  Wyrd thought quickly. The other two ways out of the room were both open but equally impossible. One looked over the sea. If he were to jump out of there, he would be dashed to pieces on the rocks beneath. The other window watched over a one-hundred-foot drop to the courtyard.

  Mogbut advanced slowly on the boy, swinging his club to perfect his rhythm. He raised the club one last time, in order to crash it down on the boy’s defenceless head, when suddenly there appeared through the courtyard window a huge, golden beak – and from it a scorching flame that blinded Mogbut.

  Mogbut brought the club down on empty air, for somehow the boy had managed to dodge out of his way again. The blinded bugbear roared in agony as a huge claw sank into the flesh of his shoulder. It pulled him towards the courtyard window, lifted him into the air and hurled him down the terrifying drop below.

  Wyrd craned his neck to watch, then winced as Mogbut hit the cobbled courtyard. A pool of green bugbear blood began to spread from the monster’s head.

  Wenda arrived, out of breath, just in time to see the bugbear pulled out of the window and the gigantic, golden gryphon fly off, leaving only a faint whiff of sulphur.

  “Was that really Mogbut?” asked Wyrd, shaking his head as though he had just awoken from a nightmare.

  “Yes,” said Wenda.

  “He attacked me.”

  “I know.”

  “But Small killed him first.”

  “I think we may have to think of another name for him,” said Wenda. “Small doesn’t seem entirely appropriate.”

  “Did you see? Small just appeared and disappeared, out of nowhere. As though he was magic.”

  “He must have known you needed help.”

  “But how? And why did Mogbut want to kill me?” asked Wyrd. “Did I do something to offend him? I mean, how do you offend a bugbear? Do you think he blamed me in some way for the death of his son?”

  “No,” said Wenda. “It wasn’t Mogbut who wanted to kill you. It was Buzzard.”

  “Buzzard?”

  “I told you. He hasn’t been the same since he went away,” said Wenda. “I think he used ratwort to take over Mogbut’s mind.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Wyrd. “What has old Buzzard got against me? I thought he liked me.”

  “I’m not sure,” said Wenda hesitantly. “I think it might have something to do with someone he met, or something that happened, when he was away. You’ve always known there were people who wanted to kill you.”

  “When I was younger, yes,” said Wyrd. “But Merlin told me I’d be safe as long as I stayed inside the castle.”

  “And he has kept you safe.”

  “Not just now. That was Small who saved me!”

  “But how did Small know you were in danger?”

  “You think Merlin told him?” asked Wyrd.

  Wenda considered.

  “I don’t know if Merlin told him,” she said slowly, “but do you remember on that first night we met, Merlin cast what he called a safety spell?”

  “Yes.”

  “I think we may just have seen it at work.”

  “Ah,” said Wyrd.

  Wyrd pondered. Perhaps Merlin really had arranged matters so that Small might become Wyrd’s protector. But how could Merlin have known that Wyrd would discover Small and adopt him? Wyrd shook his head. Too many ideas were crowding into his mind at once. And where did Buzzard fit in with all this?

  “I can’t believe that Buzzard suddenly wants to kill me,” he said.

  “Well, think back,” said Wenda. “Has he just found out anything new about you?”

  Wyrd thought for a moment. An idea came to him.

  “When I was in Buzzard’s study, that time I thought the King was about to have me executed, Mrs Scraggs did come out with the story of how I was found. You know, how Merlin brought me here.”

  “That must be it!” said Wenda. “Old Buzzard suddenly realised who you were, and while we were away at the Villa Honoria he flew off to receive orders on what to do about it.”

  “That could make sense,” agreed Wyrd.

  “But orders from whom?” said Wenda.

  “How should I know?” asked Wyrd. But he thought back to the mysterious figure who had seemed in command of the bugbears when they had invaded his village.

  “And ever since he came back, Buzzard’s been trying out all these potions in his room. And tonight he used one on Mogbut and sent him to kill you.”

  “That’s possible,” said Wyrd. “But it still doesn’t explain why someone out there wants to kill me.”

  “There was something Buzzard said… as Mogbut was coming out of his room. Something about having to kill you before you killed them.”

  “But why should I want to kill them?” said Wyrd. “I don’t! It doesn’t make any sense!”

  “I don’t know,” said Wenda. “Maybe I got that part wrong. At that point, I thought they were talking about King Otto.”

  So intent were the two of them that they never noticed the bird of prey circling high above the knights’ courtyard, looking down on the smashed corpse of Mogbut. The buzzard made a tiny shriek of exasperation, wheeled away and flew off towards the north-east.

  Few made any connection between the disappearance of Buzzard and the death of Mogbut. The general view was that Mogbut must have been overcome with grief at having to execute his own son and decided to take his own life.

  King Otto had Mogbut buried with full military honours, and – in the mysterious absence of Buzzard – Osprey was promoted to Acting Headmaster. But Wyrd never slept quite as soundly again.

  20

  The Werewolf Hunt

  In which Wyrd learns about Werewolves

  Wyrd knew that, sooner or later, he would have to venture once more outside the castle gates. But he was uncomfortably aware that someone or something out there wanted to kill him. And he was pretty sure that now, thanks to Buzzard, they knew where he was.

  Inside Castle Otto, he had been able to survive for years under Merlin’s safety spell. But he wasn’t convi
nced that the wizard’s promise of protection would last forever, and he was absolutely certain that it did not extend beyond the castle walls.

  Many times, Wyrd would stand on the battlements of the castle and gaze down on the little he could see of Atlantis. Away in the distance lay the enormous Forest of Leafmould and the lands that lay beyond. Wyrd wondered what they were like and if he would ever visit them.

  “Why are you so scared to go out?” Prince Artorus jeered at him one day. It wasn’t the first time he had accused Wyrd of being a coward.

  “I’m not scared,” said Wyrd. “I just don’t want to. Besides, I’m not cut out to be a knight. I’m only a scribe.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” said Prince Artorus as if he’d heard this all before (as he had). “I thought Merlin told Mrs Scraggs you had the makings of a mythic hero!”

  “How do you know that?” asked Wyrd.

  “Everyone knows it,” said Artorus.

  For once, the prince seemed to be telling the truth. Mrs Scraggs had clearly been talking about Merlin’s visit to her kitchen, all those years ago. Wyrd noticed that often nowadays, whenever he passed a number of knights and Artorus was among them, an ironic chant went up: “Hero! Hero! Hero!”

  On one occasion, Osprey almost seemed ready to join in the barracking.

  “Prince Artorus does have a point, you know,” said Osprey, with a thin, sarcastic smile. “If you really wish to become a mythic hero, you are going to have to leave the castle again.”

  Wyrd was still not sure that he wanted to be a hero, especially when he compared himself with Prince Artorus. There was no doubt that the prince not only wished to be a hero but looked like one. He was blond, handsome, broad-shouldered, a prince and well above six foot. As the most handsome and well-born of all the knights, he was the natural heir to the adventurous, if ill-fated, Sir Tancred.

  Wyrd was not that much shorter than Artorus, but he was slighter of frame, and he had never completely lost the clumsiness of his youth. The prince could better him in any fight. Artorus was a superior horseman, a faster runner and the kind of square-jawed hunk that any normal woman would go for. Wenda dismissed Artorus as vain, stupid and far too full of himself, but then Wenda was hardly a normal woman.