Scilly Seasons

by Chris Tookey

  “Now that,” Wyrd said to himself, “is what I call a spider in the bath.”

  The Empress had already given birth to over twenty of the creatures. Each was the size of a man’s hand, scurrying about the bath. They seemed to be blind, for they kept bumping into each other, and they took no notice of Wyrd. The Empress, however, stirred as Wyrd came in and bared her fangs at him. Wyrd noticed that strands of the web near the door were attached to her eight legs, enabling her to feel the advent of any intruder.

  She emitted a spectral cry, and immediately the spiders to whom she had given birth began to follow the silken threads linking their mother to the door. Wyrd could see that they were literally gnashing their teeth. He was in no doubt that they were already hungry and that, if he didn’t do something quickly, he would be their first meal.

  Shaking, Wyrd ran back to the door, went outside into the corridor and slammed it shut. He was still breathing heavily when Sir Ector ran up, with Osprey hobbling not too far behind.

  “She’s in the bath,” said Wyrd, “but she’s already giving birth.”

  “What should we do?” Sir Ector asked Wyrd. “Send her down the plughole?”

  “Not really practical,” said Wyrd. “She’s too big, and there’s already too many of them. Soon she’ll have finished and she’ll be able to smash down this door and set them all free.”

  “There’s only one thing to be done,” said Osprey. “And that’s to take a leaf out of Prince Artorus’s book. We must wipe them out.”

  “That will be three species in two days,” said Wyrd.

  “Spare me your concern for the environment,” said Osprey. “This time it’s justified. These werespiders will eat their way through Atlantis, then Lyonesse and who knows where else.”

  “Is there anything you can do?” asked Wyrd. “I mean, you are a wizard.”

  “My powers are not yet fully restored,” said Osprey. “I’m still in pain. I can barely hold what’s left of this staff.”

  “What if I hold it for you?” suggested Wyrd.

  “Perhaps,” said Osprey, “but it’s imperative we get the prince and Morgana out of here first. Sir Ector, can you help them get out of the villa? Uther and I will need to do this on our own.”

  “Absolutely,” said Sir Ector, who looked mightily relieved that his job was not to take on the Empress and several hundred newborn werespiders.

  “I’m afraid this is going to involve going back in there,” Osprey told Wyrd, indicating the baths.

  “I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” said Wyrd. “They’re going to be waiting for me.”

  “They won’t expect you to be carrying a firebrand,” said Osprey, muttering a spell that caused the top end of his staff to catch fire.

  “Can’t we just set fire to the door?”

  “No,” said Osprey. “If there were scores of spiders when you were in there a minute ago, there will be hundreds of them by now. If we burn down the door, dozens will be able to escape, and you’ve already seen how fast they can breed, and in what numbers. Our only chance is to send them all up in flames.”

  “Okay, so I go in there brandishing a torch, and then what?”

  “Spider webs are immensely strong, but they’re also flammable, especially the ones they use for sensing movement. Light the fibres leading to the Empress’s legs, or as many of them as you can, and then get the hell out before they bite you.”

  “Amen to that,” muttered Wyrd.

  No sooner had Wyrd opened the door than one of the spiders landed on his back. It sank its fangs into the back of his neck before Wyrd could use his left hand to brush it off. Once it hit the floor, he stamped on it until it was a mass of green pulp. This action, together with the wizard’s broken staff he was waving in his right hand, caused the spiders surrounding him to scuttle a few yards away. That gave Wyrd time to locate a couple of the sensory threads leading to the Empress’s legs. He lit them and watched as tiny flames slid down towards the enormous werespider in the bath.

  The Empress let out a screech as the flames caught the hairs on two of her legs and began to race up towards her body. She continued to give birth, but now she was in agony, rolling about and screaming as the flames began to consume her body. She started to char, and now some of the spiderlings tumbling out of her body were on fire. Finally, with one last, terrifying screech, the Empress was dead.

  Wyrd took a step back towards the door. He sensed suddenly that the living spiderlings were about to rush him. He lit as many bits of hanging web as he could, ran back through the door and slammed it.

  “The Empress is dead. But I think,” he told Osprey, panting, “this could be a really good moment to leave.”

  “Right,” said Osprey. “Set fire to everything you can, but leave the door intact. That should hold them for a while.”

  Wyrd obeyed the magician as they ran – or, in Osprey’s case, hobbled – towards the front door of the Villa Honoria. Outside, they joined Prince Artorus and Sir Ector, who had managed to find four horses. Morgana was sitting upright on the ground, gazing at the conflagration behind Wyrd and Osprey.

  “What have you done to my home?” she asked, accusingly.

  “I’m sorry, my lady,” said Wyrd, “but we’re having to burn it down.”

  “But my mother,” said Morgana. “She may still be in there.”

  “Your mother is dead,” said Osprey. “She can do you no harm.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Morgana.

  “I mean that Uther has killed her,” said Osprey. “He saw her die with his own eyes.”

  “You murdered my mother?” asked Morgana, her eyes wide with shock.

  “She was no longer your mother, as you knew her,” said Osprey. “She was the foulest of werespiders. She would have given birth to creatures that would have destroyed the whole of Atlantis.”

  “But that wasn’t her fault!” cried Morgana. “She was under a curse!”

  “But I did not have the power to lift that curse,” said Osprey. “The most we could hope to do was contain its effects.”

  “Look out!” cried Wyrd, as a flaming werespider scuttled out of the fire towards them, but it died before it could reach them. Wyrd was shocked at how quickly the spiderling had grown to full size.

  “Are you all right, Uther?” asked Sir Ector.

  “I’m a bit woozy, actually,” said Wyrd. “I think I got one of those little spiders down my back. I’m pretty sure I shook it off, but…”

  “Uther,” ordered Osprey, “stand still!”

  He used his damaged staff tentatively to lift up the back of Wyrd’s shirt and slowly revealed a rapidly growing werespider clinging to Wyrd’s spine and gorging itself upon his flesh. The wizard muttered an incomprehensible spell, and the end of his staff burst into flame and burned the spider to a cinder. It slid down Wyrd’s back and lay twitching for a moment.

  “You may feel groggy for a while,” Osprey told Wyrd. “They generally poison their victims enough to paralyse them, but I don’t think that that one had grown quite big enough to kill you.”

  “Thanks,” said Wyrd. He could feel his muscles freezing up, but at the same time he could feel himself sweating.

  “You haven’t any more of those about your person, have you?” asked Prince Artorus, nervously.

  “I don’t think so,” said Wyrd sardonically, “but I appreciate your concern.”

  Wyrd remembered his manners and turned to Morgana.

  “But how are you, my lady?”

  “You murdered my mother,” said Morgana, staring implacably back at him. “She was under a curse.”

  “So, who cursed her?” asked Wyrd.

  “The dragon lady,” said Morgana.

  “Who?” asked Osprey sharply.

  “The dragon lady,” said Morgana. “She was tall and beautiful, very thin. Red-haired.
And she wore a cloak with a dragon clasp.”

  “A clasp in the shape of a dragon?” said Wyrd. “Were its wings open or tight against its sides?”

  “Open.”

  “And what was the dragon made of?” asked Wyrd, with mounting dread.

  “Diamonds, I think,” said Morgana, “except that in the middle of the back of its head was…”

  “A ruby,” said Wyrd.

  “How did you know that?” asked Osprey.

  But before Wyrd could answer, he was remembering the last time he had seen the dragon lady. At the memory of what she had done to his father in his Dumnonian village, Wyrd felt sick. Before anyone could reach him, he fell to the ground, unconscious.

  27

  The Royal Tournament

  In which Artorus is a hero; Wyrd, not so much

  When Wyrd regained consciousness, he discovered Wenda standing over him and sponging his brow. He smiled up at her.

  “Wenda,” he whispered. “Are you real?”

  “Yes,” she said, “and you are a complete bastard.”

  “What do you mean?” he asked.

  “Going off like that,” she said, “with Mrs Scraggs’ witchen knife. You promised to give it back.”

  “Sorry,” said Wyrd weakly, “but it did save our lives.”

  “Oh well,” said Wenda, “I suppose I’ll have to forgive you, but I’m not sure Mrs Scraggs will. She says you’ve blunted it, and she’s had to waste one of her best sharpening spells on it.”

  “You’ve given it back to her?”

  Wenda nodded.

  “Would you send her my apologies?” asked Wyrd. “I’d thank her myself, but I’m not feeling one hundred per cent.”

  “I’m not surprised,” said Wenda. “You’ve been unconscious for a week.”

  “By the gods!” Wyrd exclaimed. “Now I remember! I was bitten by a werespider!”

  “You were,” agreed Wenda. “Several times.”

  “Does that mean…” said Wyrd hesitantly, “that I’m going to change into one?”

  “No,” said Wenda. “They’re not like werewolves. The only way a human can be turned into a werespider is to be cursed. You have to be cursed by a mage, as well.”

  “Is a mage a kind of wizard?”

  “A very special kind of wizard. A sort of senior wizard.”

  “That’s senior to Osprey, or Buzzard, or Merlin?”

  “Apparently so,” said Wenda.

  “How come you’re such an expert?”

  “I asked Mrs Scraggs,” said Wenda. “She knows a lot about this kind of thing. She used to be a witch, you know.”

  “I know,” said Wyrd. “I still wouldn’t care to tangle with her on a dark night.”

  “So, maybe you should apologise in person for the knife.”

  “Maybe I should,” smiled Wyrd.

  “And perhaps I should apologise to you,” said Wenda.

  “You? What for?” asked Wyrd.

  “I haven’t been completely straight with you,” said Wenda, “about my visits to the King.”

  “Oh, them!” said Wyrd, blushing. “It was none of my business. I’m sorry I ever brought them up.”

  “It’s my fault,” said Wenda. “But I didn’t know if I could trust you with the truth. And the King swore me to secrecy.”

  “You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to,” said Wyrd.

  “No, I want to,” said Wenda. “You see, my name isn’t really Wenda. Or rather it is, but that was just my pet name. When I was very young, I couldn’t pronounce my real name, and it came out as Wenda.”

  “And your real name is?”

  “It’s Guinevere.”

  Wyrd shrugged. The name meant nothing to him.

  “I think I prefer Wenda,” he said.

  “Keep calling me Wenda. You must never call me Guinevere. If the Queen ever heard it she would have me executed at once.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s one of King Otto’s favourite names.”

  “And she would guess that you’re his mistress?”

  “No,” said Wenda. “She would guess that I’m his daughter.”

  “Daughter?” asked Wyrd. “You mean she doesn’t know?”

  “No,” said Wenda. “Nor did my father until fairly recently.”

  “How come?” asked Wyrd.

  “My mother tried to keep it from him that he was my father.”

  “Why?”

  “She knew that such a revelation would result in my death, and hers.”

  “At the hand of the King?”

  “No. At the hand of the Queen.”

  “So, when did he find out?” asked Wyrd.

  “He guessed the truth when I went off to fight the sea serpents. I was bleeding from the neck, and he saw I had blue blood.”

  “And realised you were of the Atlantean royal line?”

  “Yes,” said Wenda. “And then he claimed to spot a family resemblance.”

  “So, that’s why you visited him in his chamber,” said Wyrd.

  “It was all perfectly innocent,” said Wenda. “The King just wanted to know me better. But in secret.”

  “I can see why the Queen might want you out of the way,” said Wyrd. “But is she really that ruthless?”

  “She did have my mother poisoned,” said Wenda.

  “Wow,” said Wyrd. “And the King knows this?”

  “Yes,” said Wenda.

  “But surely Queen Elinor and Osprey have been having an affair for years,” said Wyrd.

  “Yes,” said Wenda. “And the King knows that too.”

  “So, why doesn’t the King stand up to her?”

  “I asked him that, and he just laughed. Said I wouldn’t understand.”

  “And I thought I had problems,” said Wyrd. “It sounds as if you’re in mortal danger. Why don’t you just leave?”

  “This is the only home I’ve known,” said Wenda. “Besides, what chance of survival would I have on my own?”

  “You might not have to be on your own,” said Wyrd. “We could run away together.”

  “You old-fashioned romantic,” said Wenda. “Don’t be so foolish. You’re still delirious from all that spider venom.”

  “No, I’m not!” said Wyrd, rising from the bed but grimacing as he felt the weakness in his legs.

  “Look, you’re in no state to do anything but rest,” she said.

  “Sorry,” mumbled Wyrd.

  “Do you want to know what you’ve missed while you’ve been unconscious?” asked Wenda.

  “Yes, please.”

  “Well, you remember you burned down the Villa Honoria, right?”

  Wyrd nodded.

  “And murdered the Empress Honoria?”

  “She wasn’t really the Empress anymore,” objected Wyrd. “She was this huge werespider.”

  He shivered at the memory of her final, spine-tingling scream.

  “Yes, well,” continued Wenda, “Princess Morgana says you murdered her, and Prince Artorus blames you for over-reacting.”

  “Over-reacting?” said Wyrd. “Most of the time he was hiding under a table!”

  “That’s not what Artorus says. He’s making out that he was the hero.”

  “What?”

  “I know,” said Wenda, shrugging. “I’m not sure if anyone believes him, but anyway… that’s the official line. And Osprey and Sir Ector are too canny to come right out and call our beloved prince a liar.”

  “Great,” said Wyrd, sardonically. “So, what’s the official line on me?”

  “That you were a bit rash and headstrong, but Artorus stepped in to save the day.”

  “I might have known,” said Wyrd.

  “You might,” said Wenda. “Oh, and you�
�ve missed the wedding.”

  “What wedding?”

  “The one between Artorus and Morgana. It wasn’t a big wedding, with visiting kings or anything like that. They seemed keen to get on with it as soon as possible. But there’s going to be a tournament.”

  “What kind of tournament?”

  “You know, with jousting and all that, to celebrate the royal nuptials and allow Artorus to show off in front of his bride. He’ll win everything, of course.”

  “Aren’t you being a bit cynical?” asked Wyrd, with a grin.

  “I’m only telling the truth,” replied Wenda. “I wouldn’t want to be the knight who succeeds in beating Artorus in single combat.”

  “I would,” said Wyrd with feeling.

  “You’d better get back into training, then,” said Wenda. “The tournament’s in three days.”

  ***

  The next morning, Wyrd felt well enough to go to the stables and choose a horse for the tournament.

  “The prince has taken all the best ones,” said Alaric the centaur, who was the castle’s most expert blacksmith. “All we’ve got left in the stables is this nag.”

  He indicated Callisto, the dapple-grey mare on which Wyrd had escaped the werewolves.

  “Oh, she’ll do fine,” said Wyrd, with relief. “Callisto and I have survived werewolves together. A tournament won’t hold any horrors for her.”

  Callisto muzzled his chest, and he gave her an affectionate pat.

  “Will it, girl?” he asked.

  By way of response, Callisto let out a reassuring neigh.

  “Will that be all, sir?” asked Alaric, stamping his hooves with impatience. “I’ve got a lot of shoeing to do before the tourney.”

  “There is one thing you could do for me, if you have time, that is. You know the way the Princess Morgana rides, with those strips of leather and metal hoops dangling off the sides of her saddle?”

  “The hoops she puts her feet in? Yes, sir.”

  “Could you make the same for me?”

  “I could, sir, but…” Alaric broke off, embarrassed.

  “What’s the matter?” asked Wyrd.

  “Won’t people laugh at you?”

  “Why should they?”

  “Well, sir, it ain’t riding the Roman way, is it?”