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  The dog used his nose to point at three empty spaces.

  “Where they be?” asked Harlin, concern growing.

  Drevel tugged on his sleeve and scampered outside. Struggling to his feet, Harlin limped out, carrying his bow, arrows and sword. Drevel, nostrils glued to the ground, caught the fugitives’ scent and took off, sporting a little pile of mud on his nose.

  “Wonderly. Slow down,” Harlin moaned, limping after the animal as fast as his ruined body would allow. “Elaine, be killing ye, when I catch ye.”

  * * *

  Elaine stumbled through shadow laden forest. She bitterly regretted having decided to follow Myrrdinus and Gwyneth, particularly since she had lost sight of them. Standing still and straining to listen, all she could hear was the rustle of wind in the trees and the nocturnal scratchings of animal life. Giving up on stealth, she softly called their names, over and over, rising in volume, but received only silence in return. With a flood of panic, she realised that she was totally alone and lost.

  Chapter 7

  A wooden leg stamped a rough divot into thick mud. Bert, never one to bury his emotions, stomped and limped in a livid temper. Ever since he had awoken to the absence of the younger generation, he had given full vent to his fury, ostensibly to hide his gathering fears. The wounded Asher perched on a log and watched his old friend pace, stoically accepting the unpalatable. Clipper and his father remained inside their run down cabin, listening through the many cracks, but not intervening.

  “Knowed. I knowed. Not trust that boy,” Bert ranted, his anger currently veering in the direction of Harlin. “Not trust him since he… Not trust him. How ye just sitting there?”

  “Not knowing where they goed or when,” Asher pointed out, shuffling to relieve the pressure on fresh wounds. “Never catch ‘em, neither of us. Drevel goed too.”

  “Not rightly they going. Childlins got silly brains. Not able think for themselves none. Who be taking care of ‘em?” Bert stomped so hard that a sharp pain shot through the stump of his missing leg.

  “Not yer fault,” Asher reminded him, knowing it would do no good. Bert had had many years practice at blaming himself for the sins of others.

  “No, be Morden’s fault,” Bert snapped, surprising his friend. He hadn’t spoken of Morden in a very long time.

  “Be died twenty year, Bert. Time to let him go.”

  Bert slumped down next to Asher, massaging the stump.

  “We all losed lot, back then…” Asher continued, with a sigh. “I miss him too. And Gawain. Been goodly times.”

  Bert smiled. “Remember ye and Melith. Ye not wanting be with her. Ye run everywhere to lose her.”

  “Not able run fastly nough,” Asher laughed, but her loss loomed large in his heart and the humour soon turned back to sorrow.

  “Getting her back. Me life on it,” Bert told him, vehemently. He clamped a hand on Asher’s shoulder. “Maybes Myrrdinus rightly. Maybes time again to look for Key. And Elaine here. What of that?”

  “And Harlin?” Asher asked. “Melith always believe his time coming again.”

  Bert looked away from his friend’s gaze. “He been magiker, like his mother. He choosed betray… everybone.”

  “Maybes, just maybes, he change?” Asher ventured.

  In the depths of memory, pushed far back in painful darkness, Bert caught a glimpse of a room, its shelves stacked full of bottles and potions. On the floor, burned beyond recognition by a smoking green liquid, lay the man who had been as a brother. Through tears, Bert had stared at a boy, lurking in a darkened corner of the room - a boy he had loved. Down through the years the voice of Gawain, Harlin’s father, had echoed the horror of the scene: “Morden. No. Oh, please no.”

  Bert shook off the memory and looked Asher full in the eyes. “No. Not change,” he said, almost sadly. “Magiker not changing for no-bone.”

  * * *

  Shivering with cold and fear, Elaine crept through a forest filled with strange and terrifying shadow monsters. In the darkness and loneliness, every sense was magnified beyond endurance. A log transformed into a render, twitching in the night. A distant howl, the snap of a twig, the beating of her own heart became a cacophony in her ears, blocking rational thought.

  A sudden rustle in the undergrowth was one terror too many and she began to run. Stumbling over a tree root, she tumbled headlong down an incline, spinning over and over, arms and legs flailing. Landing at the bottom of the hill, she lay on her back, stunned, peering up through tree branches at pale moonlight. Scraped and torn, she fought self pity with an aggressive will, reminding herself of the lesson that childhood had taught her: tears will never save you.

  Dragging herself to her feet, she suddenly spied the turret of the castle, protruding above the trees. Recognising the place where she literally first ran into Myrrdinus, Elaine remembered the handsome young god and his rotund suitor. To her surprise, her heart filled with emotion. She had spent so many years nursing dry eyes that feelings of affection seemed peculiar to her.

  I barely know these people.

  She increased her pace, straining to leave thoughts of companionship behind. Before she understood what she was doing, she found herself heading in the direct of the castle. With each successive step, her logical, scientific self justified her current trajectory. The castle was the most likely place to receive answers to her questions. She was curious as to how this Harpy knew of her. Gwyneth’s superstitious reference to a Firestone seemed to point towards the Queen having a grasp of technology that was considered magic by her people. Perhaps, by some miracle, she would have the knowledge to return Elaine to her own time. Besides, Melith was a prisoner and giving herself up for her new friend was the noble thing to do.

  Despite the exercise, her body still shook. Nights in the damp forest had done nothing for the health of a woman more used to the warmth of laboratories than the wild countryside. When the castle wall appeared through thinning trees, Elaine’s confident pace began to slow. Although conviction wavered in the face of the unknown, her feet kept moving. Soon she would be in sight of a sentry and there would be no turning back.

  * * *

  A large, wet leaf shifted carefully to one side, revealing the rotund face of Gwyneth. Trailing behind that unerringly instinctive navigator was Myrrdinus, sulking.

  “How ye know where ye going?” he whispered. “Not seeing nought in here. Could be miles…”

  Gwyneth grabbed the front of Myrrdinus’s tunic and yanked him down into the mud.

  “Not doing no rolling with ye,” he snapped, slapping away her hand.

  Gwyneth pointed. “Temple. Through there.”

  “Oh” was all Myrrdinus said, but he had caught a glimpse of her face and realised that his words had stung.

  Ignoring their proximity, he peered over her shoulder at a stone edifice, supported by carved snake pillars and covered in arterial red ivy. A huge snake statue stood atop, fangs and tongue protruding from wide open jaws. Myrrdinus shuddered. The temple was not a place anyone wanted to be, unless one of the debauched and warped Priesthood of Magikers.

  “Get in through west side,” Gwyneth observed, her instincts ever sharp. “More shadow.”

  “I know,” growled Myrrdinus, annoyed at having his thunder stolen. Everyone knew that Gwyneth was the greater strategist of the two, a source of embarrassment for the young warrior. “I not fool. Ye stay…”

  Gwyneth, who rarely paid much attention to anything he said, was already moving from shadow to shadow. For a bulky woman, she could be quite fleet of foot when she desired. An irritated Myrrdinus tiptoed in her footsteps which, considering his size, made him look ridiculous. He caught up with her just short of the western entrance, delivering aggressive hand signals to express his disquiet. Gwyneth’s response was to point at her backside.

  Both held their breath and peered through a handy crack in the doorjamb, jostling each other for the vantage point. Fortune appeared to be smiling on the young comrades, for the door had b
een left ajar and the temple altar room was empty. Recognising that they must seize the moment, Myrrdinus and Gwyneth both made for the door, grasping the handle and proceeding to jam themselves in the doorway, side by side. Gwyneth emerged the victor by popping inside, like a cork from a bottle. She staggered, slipped on the bloodstained marble floor, slid, flapped frantically and landed on her ample backside with a flesh-muffled thud.

  Myrrdinus was stifling a snort of amusement when the sound of footsteps heralded the turning of a door knob. He was still desperately scanning the room for shelter when Gwyneth grabbed his arm, propelling him across the floor and slamming him into the wall behind a hanging curtain. Unfortunately, the fabric only concealed a tiny alcove consisting of one shelf which, in turn, sported a bloodstained goblet with a rat’s tail dangling over the rim.

  Priests began filing into the altar room, oblivious to the drama taking place behind the curtain. Myrrdinus and Gwyneth were scrambling to lever themselves onto a shelf, barely a metre wide. Myrrdinus finally came to rest with his back pressed against the wall, teetering on the edge, one hand holding the revolting goblet and Gwyneth cradled in the other arm. If their situation hadn’t been so precarious, she might have been gratified.

  Gergan entered the altar room and shivered. He was not bothered by the array of magical icons, the bloodstained floors, walls and altar, or the bowls of foul smelling liquid that burped gases. These were perfectly natural occurrences to the High Priest of Magikers. He shivered because he was cold.

  “Be mart chilly in here,” he commented, pulling the hood of his overly embroidered robe around his ears.

  “I lighting fires, as usually,” droned a monotone voice, in response. “Leaved door ajar for smell.”

  Gergan sighed and turned to the tiny, bent over, bald priest whose follicle insufficiency necessitated the use of a large, scraggy hat made of an unrecognisable type of moth-eaten fur. “Elmin, telling ye again. Take off yer hat ‘fore setting fires.”

  Elmin lifted his fur covering to sample the temperature and shivered. As a consequence, he began stoking up the ring of fires surrounding the altar.

  “Still ripely,” Gergan commented, sniffing the air.

  “Not able doing everything” Elmin grumbled. “Washing robes, feeding animals, doing potions.”

  “Queen coming,” Gergan pointed out.

  Hardly needing further motivation, Elmin commenced mopping the blood from the walls and floor whilst gazing longingly at the assembling circle of priests. Long ago, the wizened little misfit had been assigned menial duties. It was his lot in life to clean up after the magic, rather than enjoy the glory of his Queen’s talent. He knew better than to question her wisdom and slopped in silence.

  A particularly stubborn stain made Elmin drop to his knees and attack it by hand. He was furiously scrubbing away when his hand bumped up against a foot, encased in fur and leather. Raising his gaze a few inches brought him to the level of gnarled fingertips, blood dripping from beneath black nails and splashing on his newly pristine floor. The sight of it was enough to make the little man bob up and down in obeisance.

  “Stop that,” the Queen croaked, stepping on his hand. “You’re making me feel sick.”

  “Ow,” whimpered the victim. “Aye, Majesty.”

  Elmin shuffled into shadow, grateful to avoid having to peer up at the horror.

  “Gergan,” she continued, “ready?”

  “Be so, Majesty,” he replied.

  The entire ring of priests bowed as one and inserted cloths into their ear canals.

  “Begin,” she said, taking her place beside the altar, in the centre of the circle.

  Only Gwyneth and Myrrdinus heard her.

  “Begin!” she shrieked, making her entire priesthood jump and almost causing Myrrdinus to slip from his precarious perch.

  Listening to the voices and the hammering of their own hearts, Myrrdinus and Gwyneth balanced on the ledge and tried to breathe without sounding like a dragon with emphysema. When the muttering began, a chill swept down both spines. The priests had launched into some kind of nefarious incantation; however, when the song rose above it, Myrrdinus found himself drawn to the astonishing beauty of a lone voice.

  The Queen had paid the price for her conjuring in bodily deterioration and spiritual ruin, but evil also has its attractions. The same sin that racked her body had also produced a melodious, angelic voice, but only when she sang. As the haunting anthem lifted, the rate of her bodily deterioration was temporarily halted. The song could not reverse the damage, but it could slow it down.

  Devoid of the makeshift audio protection utilised by the priests, Myrrdinus and Gwyneth received the full impact of the siren song. Fortunately for Gwyneth, the song didn’t affect her, but Myrrdinus was clearly falling under its spell. Staring into his rapidly glazing eyes, she lightly slapped his face, trying to rouse him without making any noticeable noise. It didn’t work. Myrrdinus would soon lose his grip on both her and the alcove and topple, headfirst, into the room. Needing to break the spell, and because she was incorrigible, Gwyneth placed one hand over Myrrdinus’s mouth and gripped his nether regions with the other.

  His eyes grew very wide and began to water, but his senses and balance returned. Pushing her hand away from his mouth, Myrrdinus gripped her other wrist with annoyance, but the movement made him sway, precariously. Pressing back against the wall, he decided to defer punishment until they were out of danger and alone. Knowing Gwyneth’s propensity to stalk him, he wouldn’t have to wait too long.

  In the altar room, the ceremony concluded on a high note that would have shattered glass, had there been any available. Gergan produced a fat, squirming snake and thrust it down on the altar, spearing the hapless animal with a huge, gem incrusted knife. All squirming ended at the identical moment that blood ceased to drip from the Harpy’s fingernails.

  “Be working, Majesty,” exclaimed a mightily relieved Gergan. “Ye be healing. I fetch goblet.”

  Unfortunately, Myrrdinus was currently holding that very goblet. Moving it into the hand grasping Gwyneth, his now free fingers twitched on the scabbard of his sword. Gwyneth’s fingers covered his, while her eyes followed the goblet’s dangling rat’s tail.

  Gergan’s footsteps halted directly in front of the wall hanging, just as the Queen croaked, “Not now. I must rest.”

  Concealed in the alcove, the shaking couple heard the shuffling of priests and the closing of doors, all of which seemed to take forever. Finally, silence descended.

  Myrrdinus’s feet were the first things to appear, lowering into view below the hanging. He peeped around the fraying edge and let out a huge sigh; the room was indeed empty. Gwyneth managed to exercise a far less graceful dismount from the shelf. She landed in a heap and yanked on the wall hanging, which ripped under the intolerable strain. Both froze as the torn hanging swung back and forth, creaking their presence into the silence.

  When it finally stopped, Myrrdinus turned to glare at a sheepish Gwyneth, stepped in blood splatter and skated across the marble floor, only remaining upright by grabbing the altar. His manoeuvre brought him face to face with the severed head of the sacrificed snake. Its fangs and tongue protruded from open jaws in a grotesque parody of the statue atop the temple. Fearing that the victim could be Melith, Myrrdinus shot bolt upright and swivelled, blocking Gwyneth’s view of the atrocity.

  “Must be going,” he insisted, grasping the little woman’s hand and yanking her in the direction of the farthest door.

  “We come look for mam,” Gwyneth reminded him, confused.

  “She not here. We look in nother room,” whispered Myrrdinus. “Be staying behind me.”

  He carefully opened the far door an inch or so and peered through the gap. A set of stone steps led upward in a spiral. Peering back at his little companion, he nodded his head, indicating that they were going up. Gwyneth swallowed and gripped the back of his tunic. Myrrdinus glanced at her, but, for once, didn’t object.

  Climbing to
the first floor of the temple, they arrived at a wooden door and stared at one another. Holding a silent conversation in mime and gesture, they debated as to whether to try the door knob. Emanating from inside the mystery room was a croaking groan and a cough, along with the swish of a robe on the floor.

  When he had set out on this expedition, a part of Myrrdinus had been hoping that the Queen would be asleep and vulnerable to a sword thrust. He wasn’t proud of his plan to commit murder – he was an honourable man – but this woman was utterly evil. Where the Queen was concerned, his adoptive mother, Melith, wouldn’t have given ethics a second thought. But then, Melith had her reasons. As his thoughts rested on Melith, they inevitably returned to the spectre of the sacrificed snake. His anger roared into life.

  As he drew his sword, Gwyneth grabbed hold of it, horrified that he could be so reckless.

  “Let go,” Myrrdinus mouthed, no sound emerging. “Be cutting yeself.”

  “No. Please,” Gwyneth mimed in return. “Be killed. Get me killed. Not while she hold Firestone. Please.”

  Coming to his senses at the mention of the infamous Firestone, Myrrdinus jammed the sword back in its scabbard.

  “Look for mam. Or Key. Both. Tother rooms,” Gwyneth continued, pointing up the spiral staircase. “Up there. Look first, ‘fore get me killed.”

  Myrrdinus glared at her, as though every challenge in his life was her fault, and resumed climbing.

  * * *

  Elaine had no idea how long she had been stumbling through the forest, heading towards her showdown with the Queen, but she finally found herself peering at the castle. Staring up at the turret and battlements, she couldn’t spot a sentry in the darkness. Taking a deep breath, she stepped out into full view of the castle and jumped straight back into hiding. Her annoyed mind gave her a stern talking to.

  I’m not a coward, nor a stranger to danger and violence. Melith risked her life to protect me. I’m simply returning the favour as a matter of honour; not to mention heading towards the only person likely to be able to send me home.