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  “Why Harpy wanting ye?” the father asked.

  That question, again.

  “I don’t know. I don’t know. I didn’t know yesterday and I don’t know today. I don’t know.” Elaine plopped down on a log. It rolled, so she popped straight back up.

  “Not knowing then,” quipped Harlin, surprising himself. He would usually be finding ways to absent himself by now.

  The father strode over to Elaine causing Drevel to emit a low warning growl.

  “Be calmly,” he said, holding out his hand for her to shake. “Not giving ye up. Not liking Harpy. Be liking ye. And me boy liking ye. His horse liking ye.” He glared at Harlin. “Not knowing ‘bout him though.”

  “Oh, he’s fun when you get to know him,” Elaine said, with a flippancy born of nervousness. “Ask him to sing.”

  Harlin responded with a semi-serious scowl.

  “We be getting back to village,” interjected Gwyneth. “Harlin taking Elaine tother place. Ye be, right?”

  As Harlin had been asking himself the same question, he reacted like a doe cornered by a lion. He squelched off into the forest as fast as he could, given his painful limp. Absolutely everyone else, horse included, followed in slow procession. Feeling uncomfortably exposed and more than a little surprised that he hadn’t been summarily abandoned, Harlin called out, “Where ye all going?” rather more loudly than he had meant to.

  “Our village be this way,” the father pointed out.

  His son jogged up to Harlin, leading Evening at a trot. “Ye want get on him?” the boy asked.

  “Er. No. Be fine,” replied Harlin, stunned that anyone would still want to be kind to him.

  “I be Clipper,” the boy told him. “Me name’s really Edvar, but I like Clipper.”

  Harlin was wondering what to say in response, when Grey Squirrel, perched on a branch above him, dropped a well-aimed nut straight on his head and scarpered back into the trees. The recipient availed himself of an arrow and endeavoured to spy his target.

  Elaine whipped the arrow out of his hand. “It’s a squirrel, twassock,” she told him, her turn of phrase being the only legacy she had received from her mother.

  “What?” asked a confused Harlin.

  Elaine was saved by a ripping fart.

  “That was Drevel, I swear,” she told him, disappearing into foliage.

  Chapter 6

  Footsteps clattered across a marble floor, the strong stride belying the nervousness being experienced by the owner. Sworder was not alone in his hatred of the temple, with its nightmare wall hangings and blood smeared altar, but his terror was kept for the occupant of the first floor. He climbed the steps to the Queen’s quarters, making a fair to middling job of faking poise until he managed to trip over his dangling sword and stagger into a wall.

  Inside the opulent quarters, the occupant was oblivious to the ordeal of her chief soldier, being rather more engaged in contemplating the long awaited return of Elaine to the realm. The rapping of knuckles against the door was followed by the shuffling entrance of Sworder. He stood in the centre of the room, adjusting his sword and quivering, waiting for the Queen to address him.

  Like most of her entourage, he rarely looked at her hideous face for fear of a reaction crossing his features and instigating a terrible retribution. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of a hooded cape of red velvet, edged in black fur. As she adjusted her body in a golden chair, he saw a gnarled hand, like a bird’s claw, briefly grip the armrest before slipping back inside the cavernous sleeve of the cloak.

  “Sit. Please,” she croaked.

  Sworder dropped into the chair opposite, catching his backside on the armrest.

  “Did you find her?”

  It was the very question he most dreaded.

  “Not yet, Majesty. Very soon. All villages be warned. Once begin burning ‘em, they giving her up. Ye having her soon. Tomorrow. Today. Going back to Elders today.”

  Sworder stopped wittering when he ran out of breath.

  “So, the villages have Elders now?” muttered the Queen, intrigued. “Interesting. Who?”

  “Not getting name…” began Sworder, before glancing up and witnessing an expression that struck ice into his soul. “Er, hearing Evan, Asher, er Horris, no Horret and er…”

  The Harpy suddenly became very interested indeed. It was a name that she hadn’t heard for many years. “Asher? You said Asher? Was he with a fat, red haired woman, short?”

  “Aye. Be so.”

  She leaned back in her chair and delivered a revolting chuckle.

  Ah, Melith. It’s been a long time.

  * * *

  Myrrdinus peered through foliage, scouting the village for any of the Harpy’s soldiers. Gwyneth blasted straight past him, shrieking, “Dad! Dad!” Drevel pounded after her, a barking cacophony. Myrrdinus sighed and glanced back at Harlin, who simply shrugged.

  Inside his cottage, Asher was taking a quiet nap at the insistence of Melith, when the door crashed open with a terrific bang, almost braining Bert. Gwyneth hurtled past him like a whirlwind, throwing herself at her bandaged father. Cringing from the pain, Asher embraced his wailing daughter, crooning, “Be fine, fine, little girl.” His pain threshold was put under even more pressure when Melith joined the family group hug. Drevel’s wet tongue, however, was one step too far.

  Asher was drawing breath to protest when the door thundered open again, courtesy of Myrrdinus, nearly taking out Bert for the second time. The door swung back and forth on its screaming hinges whilst a grumbling Bert moved a few feet to the left. Myrrdinus threw himself into the group hug, causing the straining Asher to yell, “Mind me bruises. Off, lot of ye.”

  Bert watched them with arms crossed, his belligerence belying internal misery.

  “What matter with ye?” Myrrdinus asked, catching a glimpse of him.

  “Bert, for hundred time, be nought could do to help me,” Asher told him, weary of his best friend’s self-flagellation.

  Bert just sniffed.

  Ignorant of the unfolding family reunion, Harlin and Elaine were perched on a log in the nearby forest. Harlin had refused to enter the village, but had no idea where to go instead. Elaine had set herself on the log, waiting for him to pluck up the courage to meet his people again. Silence had extended to an excruciating ten minutes, when a nut bounced off Harlin’s forehead with a mild ‘pop’. An amused Elaine spotted Grey Squirrel sitting on a branch, leaning on one tiny arm; a study in nonchalance. He had been entertaining himself along their entire route by intermittently lobbing nuts at Harlin.

  “Not funny now,” moaned Harlin, rubbing the offending spot.

  “Why are we here?” Elaine asked, patience wearing thin.

  “Not stopping ye going in village,” Harlin responded, petulantly. Another nut bounced off his nose. “I have a bow, wretch,” he shouted into the trees.

  Excited squirrel chatter, followed by a high pitched raspberry, was the antagonistic response. Harlin cringed, rubbing his ruined leg.

  “This is stupid,” Elaine argued. “You’re cold and in pain. Why not get warm and have some food? Then we’ll move on, if we have to.”

  “Village not want me here.” Harlin’s words were laden with sorrow and guilt.

  Elaine jumped to her feet and loomed over him. “And you know that for a fact, how?”

  “Betrayed them all, ten year ago,” was Harlin’s succinct explanation.

  “When you were what? Twelve?”

  “Eighteen. Not boy,” snapped Harlin, insulted.

  “You behave like one,” Elaine retorted, wondering why she felt the need to intervene in his world. I should be concentrating on trying to get home. “Has it ever occurred to you that things might have changed? Give them a chance. Sounds like you owe them that.”

  Harlin looked away, anger fading into remorse as he muttered, “He never be able forgive me.”

  “Who?” Elaine asked.

  A nut flew out of a tree trunk and smacked into t
he back of Harlin’s head. He slowly rose from the log. “That be it,” was his ominous statement.

  Inside the cottage, Asher and Melith had extracted a reluctant promise from Gwyneth and Myrrdinus to hide, should the soldiers return. It suddenly occurred to the older couple that they had no idea as to the whereabouts of Elaine.

  “Oh, she here,” their daughter told them. “Be with Mag… Harlin.” Gwyneth had decided to no longer use the nickname, congratulating herself on being magnanimous.

  Bert’s reaction was far from charitable. He smashed his fist down on the table and splintered the wood.

  “Not mending that,” Myrrdinus muttered, pushing his luck.

  “Harlin be here? In village?” a surprised Melith asked, ignoring the men.

  “In forest,” Gwyneth told her. “Not coming in.”

  Bert snorted. “Course not. Never show his face…”

  A knock at the door interrupted his derision. As it was already swinging on its hinges, Elaine peeped around the edge. “Melith?”

  Melith hurtled around Bert and yanked the door open. Beaming at Elaine, she flung her arms around the young woman in an overwhelming bear hug, repeating, “There she be,” with each squeeze.

  Asher and the others peered behind the couple, to witness Harlin holding a livid Grey Squirrel by his brush, upside down. Elaine noticed their expressions and glanced back over her shoulder.

  “Let him go now, Harlin…Harlin…Harlin.”

  A reluctant Harlin finally released his grip, dropping Grey Squirrel on his skull. The tiny animal shook his furry head and commenced pummelling his antagonist’s bad leg with a fury.

  Harlin peered down at him. “Really? Making me kick ye?”

  Grey Squirrel delivered a squeaky raspberry and bounced away.

  “Come in, boy,” said Melith, releasing her grip on Elaine. “Be rightly.”

  Harlin vacillated on the doorstep, a maelstrom of emotions flying across his ruined features. Once Elaine had moved inside, he had gained a clear view of the room’s occupants and knew that a certain man was amongst their number; a man who would never wish to see his face again.

  Bert turned his back to the doorway, limped over to the farthest corner of the small room and slowly lowered himself onto a stool. His eyes never once met Harlin’s.

  When the awkward silence threatened to lengthen, Asher came to a decision. “Been longly time, Harlin,” he told him, holding out his hand. “Welcome home.”

  Harlin grasped the offered olive branch and finally stepped over the threshold, just as a flying nut bounced off the back of his head. Delirious squirrel chatter filled the air.

  * * *

  Firelight peeped through the shutters of Melith’s cottage, casting flickering shadows onto the face of a young villager. He was trying to remain hidden whilst simultaneously spying through the gap, straining to catch a glimpse of the infamous Magiker.

  The incredibly uncomfortable Harlin was currently perched on a bench next to Elaine. They were squeezed around the cracked table with Asher, Melith, Myrrdinus and Gwyneth, all endeavouring to eat quietly. Drevel had no such qualms and his slavering slurps filled the silence. Surrounding the table, crammed into every crevice, was a myriad of curious villagers, come to stare at Harlin. A knock at the door didn’t relieve the tension as it heralded the latest in a never ending line of callers.

  Moaning loudly, Bert flung open the door. As expected, he came face to face with yet another villager, the teenage peeping tom lurking behind him. “Oh, come calling?” grumbled the old man. “Ye and whole village.”

  “He be there, Bert? Magiker?” asked the villager, craning his neck to peer around the human doorstop.

  “Not calling him that no more,” warbled a youthful voice.

  Harlin recognised it as coming from the boy with the horse. Clipper and his father had left the trekking party to head to their own village, hours before, but, for some reason, here they were. As his father tied Evening to a pole, Clipper scuttled under Bert’s arm and squeezed himself between Harlin and Elaine, beaming up at both. The two waiting villagers took the opportunity to shuffle past a distracted Bert and join their compatriots in gawking at the traitor.

  Melith took one look at Clipper and his father and miraculously conjured up more stew for eager consumption. Between dripping mouthfuls, Clipper spluttered his joyful story, ignoring parental orders to wait until he had finished.

  “Telled our village, ‘bout ye and Evening. Telled tothers not be using Magiker no more. New name now. Ye saying to him on road.” Clipper, face covered with stew, peered at Elaine, wide-eyed with innocence.

  “Did I?” she said, straining to recall renaming Harlin. “What did I call him?”

  “Twassock!” Clipper announced.

  Elaine did something she had never done before: she guffawed.

  * * *

  Grey Squirrel lay on his back on the thatched roof of Melith’s cottage, staring up at the stars and listening to a far more relaxed Harlin weave stories of his youth.

  At some point in the unfolding evening, the young man’s horrific appearance and terrible reputation had softened to a study of the passage of years and the benefit of the doubt, with only Bert seemingly remaining unmoved. The latest story involved a child Myrrdinus being fed a creepy crawly meal by his, then, unscathed and untarnished friend.

  “So Myrrdinus, thinking be for eating, put it in mouth,” continued Harlin to a chorus of disgusted laughter. “Chew. Squelch. Swallow. Sayed to me, I think be mart slimy.”

  A queasy Grey Squirrel slapped a paw over his mouth and retched.

  Inside, Elaine glared at Harlin whilst a mightily impressed Clipper announced, “Sickly!”

  “That’s disgusting,” remarked Elaine.

  “Eated worse things since,” Myrrdinus announced. “Gwyneth’s fish balls.”

  But Harlin was intent on Elaine. “Be always talking like that? Feeling badly for yer husband,” he said, intending his remark as a joke and as a way of probing her marital status.

  “Why would I want one of those?” was her truthful, if lonely, response.

  Gwyneth couldn’t help but glance at Myrrdinus. His gaze stayed resolutely forward.

  “Oh, some not so badly,” commented Melith.

  “Thank ye, sweetling,” returned Asher.

  Elaine spoke, but Harlin noticed that her eyes didn’t alight on anyone, as though she were talking to herself.

  “My parents hated each other, and me. When I was a kid, they took turns at who could ignore me the longest. As I got older, I took bets on who’d kill the other first. Turns out it was dad.”

  Everyone laughed, assuming the deadpan delivery to be her way of being humorous. Harlin was watching more closely, trying to decide whether she was joking or making a terrible revelation. When she caught sight of his gaze, a nervous Elaine faked a grin, but the recipient remained unconvinced.

  “So, you’re safe from me, Twassock,” she joked.

  “Goodly,” said Harlin.

  Asher was smothering a knowing smile when tapping caught his attention. Grey Squirrel was hanging over the roof, frantically banging a nut against the cottage door in code sequence.

  “What?” asked Elaine, seeing a sudden look of horror sweep Melith’s features.

  “Four taps,” counted Asher. “She here. Herself.”

  “The Queen?” asked Harlin, although he already knew the answer from the villagers’ reactions.

  “Not showing herself in years,” said a stunned Bert, rounding on Harlin. “And come straightway here? She follow ye? Sense yer magik?”

  “Not be magiking for ten year!” shouted Harlin. “Need ye believe me.”

  “Why?” Bert hollered back.

  “Not time for this,” Asher pointed out, stepping between them. “Run, all ye.”

  The room emptied as everyone scrambled out the back door. Clipper waved to Harlin as his father swiftly picked him up and carried him out.

  Asher grasped Harlin’s shoulde
r. “Go. Take Elaine and hide, far away. Queen may be able to magik where ye be.”

  “Where ye going?” Bert asked. He already had a suspicion that Asher intended to stay behind. He was right.

  “Bert, ye all need time,” Asher explained, willing his friend to understand. “She finding village empty, she be using magik to hunt ye down. Be trying keep her busy longly time.” He turned to Melith. “Ye go…”

  “No,” stated his wife, brooking no argument. “Always be together. Ye promised.”

  In the long gaze that followed, both recalled the horrors of the past, the joy of their many years together and a promise made, long ago.

  “So be,” relented Asher, cupping his wife’s face in his hands. His gaze switched back to Bert. “Not promised ye. Out. Childlins be in yer care now.”

  Bert hesitated, reluctant to leave his friends. Glancing over at Myrrdinus and Gwyneth, he came to a decision. Nodding to Asher, he announced, “We leaving.”

  Gwyneth was having none of it and parked her ample backside in a chair. “Not going…”

  Myrrdinus didn’t bother to argue because he knew he could never win. He simply picked her up, slung her over his shoulder and carried her out, whilst she yelled in his left ear, “Let me go!”

  Villagers streamed into the forest, fleeing for their lives. Clipper’s father heaved the boy onto Evening and led the horse into the forest at a trot. A limping Bert was overtaken by Myrrdinus, still carrying a struggling Gwyneth. “Bert, faster,” he cried, as the faint sound of carriage wheels floated on the air.

  Still inside the cottage, Elaine was grilling her friends, ignoring the increasingly nervous Drevel, tugging on her sleeve.

  “What about you?” she asked Melith.

  “We following later,” Asher told her.

  “You’re lying,” Elaine snapped. Never having experienced any parental love, she couldn’t quite understand her own reaction to their possible loss.

  Melith suddenly flung her arms around Harlin, reminding him of the life he forfeited, long ago. “Get Elaine away,” she whispered, directly into his ear. “Not come back.” Melith dropped her embrace and shoved him towards the door. “Go, childlin. Always knowed ye be goodly child. Always.”