The fading fire of a dream

It would seem could blaze anew

In the hearts of beaten men.

Prophets again spoke words true

Of a son of the dragon

Who would gladden and inspire

And rouse the people from sleep,

No longer sheep. Filled with ire

They sharpened sword axe and spear,

For ’twas clear the hour had come

Of the once and future king.

Bards would sing and beat the drum,

Pluck the harp and trumpet sound,

Declare found the anointed,

The one who would wear the crown,

Bringing down disappointed

The servant of the false king.

They would bring the captive lord

Before his throne. ’Hail Owain!

For ’tis plain steel’s in thy sword

My warriors thou didst route:

Without doubt you are the One

Whom God has blessed. Noble heir

Of Arthur’s chair, thou hast won!’

Thus Mortimer bent the knee

That all might see foe made friend.

Bolingbroke quaked, and fear felt:

This friendship spelt his near end.

Unless…Was hope to be found

In one who clowned with Sir John?

Could Hal a soldier become

And find wisdom yet, newborn?

Mortimer, Lord Percy too,

Henry knew, could spell his doom.

If with the Welsh they joined arms,

With what charms could England bloom?

So Shrewsbury, it was to be

Where Destiny played His part.

Hal met Hotspur, won the day,

And thus the play found its heart.

Not Cymru’s bards, but Avon’s:

The ravens, alas, are black,

And bleak the outcome for Wales,

Though the tales will e’er come back

To keep the fire of a dream

Alive. A gleam of maybe

Of a once and future king

Still we sing, yearn: to be free.

Commentary:

A slice of history… In the 13th century, Welsh independence came to an end, with the conquests of Edward I of England. Over a century later, in 1399, Henry Bolingbroke became King of England, overthrowing Richard II, and reigning as Henry IV. Bolingbroke’s claim to the throne was tenuous; and many of the English and Welsh lords regarded him, with some justification, as a usurper. In 1400, Owain Glyndŵr, a Welsh lord, a descendant of several Welsh royal dynasties, and a supporter of Richard II, quarrelled with a Bolingbroke loyalist, his neighbour Baron Grey of Ruthin. Glyndŵr’s grievances were ignored by the English parliament, and led him into open revolt, declaring himself the true Prince of Wales. The revolt spread quickly, and Welsh bards viewed him as heir to the legacy of King Arthur (the Once and Future King of prophecy) and the pre-Conquest princes of Wales.

Early Welsh successes included the Battle of Pilleth in mid-Wales in 1402, at which the English lord Edward Mortimer, one of the most powerful of the English barons, was captured. Mortimer changed allegiance, and entered into an alliance with Glyndŵr, as did Lord Percy, the Earl of Northumberland, the most powerful northern English Lord. The three allies agreed to divide England and Wales between them (the so-called Tripartite Alliance): Percy would rule in the North, Mortimer in the South, and Glyndŵr in Wales and the Welsh Marches. The political situation was grim for Henry IV. However, his son Prince Hal (the future Henry V), despite having spent his younger years as an impressionable and dissolute wastrel under the influence of Sir John Falstaff, turned out to be an excellent field commander. He defeated and killed Henry Hotspur (the son of Lord Percy) at the Battle of Shrewsbury in 1405, preventing the three opposing armies from joining up, and turning the tide against the rebellion.

Despite having lost his English allies, and having seen with the support he’d garnered from the French also coming to naught, Glyndŵr continued the rebellion for more than a decade, establishing a Welsh parliament, and making plans for the first Welsh university: but eventually the English crown regained control of Wales. An outlaw and a fugitive, Glyndŵr refused the offer of a royal pardon after the rebellion had finally collapsed. His date of death and exact burial place remained unknown: like Arthur before him, Owain Glyndŵr became a figure of legend. Yet the dream of Welsh independence he had rekindled never entirely died. Welsh nationhood, and the survival of Welsh culture and language to the present time, owes more to him than perhaps any other individual.

As for ‘the Bard of Avon’: William Shakespeare gives Glyndŵr a small role in his Henry IV: Part One. Together with Richard II, Henry IV: Part Two and Henry V, these history plays tell (from the English perspective, almost two centuries later) the story of the events leading up to and in consequence of Henry Bolingbrook’s usurpation of the English throne.

Chapter 1

The towering horse chestnut trees on either side of the approach to Selsey Tower (the grandly-named home for nearly a century to successive bishops of the mid-Wales Diocese of Pengwen) were only just beginning to come into flower, Father Georgios Anagnosides observed, as he sauntered down the driveway towards where his conspicuous canary yellow Citroen 2CV was parked. Their flowering was running perhaps two weeks behind their counterparts in Exeter. It was a chilly afternoon in the second week of May, and the young priest could barely feel the enfeebled rays of the subdued sun on his face.

Standing by the driver’s door of his car, he looked back towards the unprepossessing red brick mansion that doubled as bishop’s residence and diocesan office; and smiling with about as much conviction as he could muster, he waved at the balding middle-aged figure in purple cassock and cincture standing on the doorstep. The man who had just offered him a lifeline, and a living, on the Anglo-Welsh border. He watched as Bishop Mervyn Mortlake turned around, and re-entered the building. Only once his prune-faced inquisitor had finally disappeared from sight, did Georgios draw the packet of cigarettes from the inside pocket of his jacket. He’d been trying to give them up for the past two years: but today was not a day on which he was likely to make any headway with that ambition. Already, he was beginning to wonder if he had made the right decision.

***

‘Anagnosides. That’s rather a curious surname, if I might say so. Greek, I presume?’

‘Yes, Bishop. My grandparents came over to Britain, when my father was in his teens, during the Greek Civil War, back in 1947. We still have family in Cephalonia.’

Bishop Mervyn nodded sagely. ‘I see. Anagnosis as in “agnostic”? An ironic name for a priest.’

Georgios smiled. ‘Not quite. Anagnosis actually means “recognition” or “reading”, with particular reference to a public reading of scripture, in a church or synagogue. It can also carry the sense of “knowing again” or “owning.” To read something, again and again, is to know something more deeply, to own it, to allow it to become part of you. Rather like the Lectio Divina method of studying scripture, meditating and praying. The very opposite of agnosticism, in point of fact.’

‘Well - my grasp of Greek is a little rusty,’ replied the bishop, frowning. ‘But you should know, I suppose, given your ancestry.’ Georgios suspected that the man interviewing him was not someone who liked to be contradicted.

‘So,’ continued the bishop, glancing down at the file lying open across his desk, ‘a First in history from St Ignatius Oxford, then a doctorate. The offer of a fellowship follows, the start of what might have been a glittering academic career. But instead you turn it down, and elect to train for the priesthood at Westcott, exchanging Oxford for Cambridge. Always a poor move, in my opinion, swapping the elder for the younger institution. I stayed in Oxford, and trained at St Stephen’s House. Why the change in direction? Not the universities - I mean the change in vocation.’

‘The death of my mother in a traffic accident had a lot to do with it.’

‘Ah, you found God in the midst of your grief?’

Georgios shook his head, conscious he was contradicting the prickly bishop for a second time. ‘No - I lost my faith. But I decided to give God a second chance. I went to Westcott House to study theology in the full expectation of having my doubts confirmed. If God could demonstrate his existence to me, to my satisfaction, then I’d resolve to serve him. If not - we’d go our separate ways. God won.’

Bishop Mervyn snorted. ‘Extraordinary. I’m surprised, with that attitude, any Warden of Ordinands would have supported your application. If you’d been in my Diocese - frankly, I certainly wouldn’t have accepted you for training.’

Silence. The bishop looked across his desk sternly, as if expecting - daring - Georgios to respond. But the young priest remained still, and met the bishop’s gaze impassively. Georgios sensed that the future course of the interview - and its ultimate outcome - was now hanging by a thread. He also knew that there must be no third contradiction of the bishop for the duration of their time together. But nevertheless, he stayed calm.

A full minute passed, with the steely-eyed bishop regarding him severely, fingering his pectoral cross all the while. Then, the purple-clad prelate lowered his gaze, seemingly returning to regard the documents laid before him. Georgios thought he saw the ghost of a smile fleeting across his face, before the lugubrious mask reformed.

‘Hmm. An excellent report from Westcott, and an even more glowing one from your training incumbent. A challenging parish, that one, in Leicester. I served in the Diocese of Leicester myself, once upon a time, you know. Very multicultural. Lots of Poles, Irish - and, of course, Asians in abundance now, thanks to Idi Amin. Somalis too, over the last decade. Thirty percent of the city’s now non-White. Twice that percentage, actually, in the parish where you were placed. Well you’ll find Templeton very different, I’m afraid. But perhaps a country ministry will provide a welcome opportunity for you. It’ll be better than your past year’s experience, for certain. I understand you’ve not been enjoying your time as a university chaplain, yes?’

‘Correct, Bishop. Regrettably, I don’t think I’ve turned out to be suitable for my current appointment.’

‘That’s an understatement. I believe you’ve been asked to leave at the end of this academic year. Not - I’ve been assured - because of any scandals. You wouldn’t be sitting in front of me now if that had been the case. No, there’s simply been an acknowledgment all round that you’re something of a square peg in a round hole there.’

‘Precisely.’ And if you could see how appalling the attitudes are of these entitled upper-middle-class students that still make up far too large a percentage of the intake at Exeter, with their faux ‘Cool Britannia’ affectations, you’d feel like a square peg too. In some ways, it’s even worse there than it was in Oxford and Cambridge. What did the Church have to say, at the dawn of the new Millennium, to such as these? Far better for it to be engaged in radical social action in the challenging and changing suburbs of a city such as Leicester. At least I felt purposeful as a curate in Leicester. Would I feel the same way about mid-Wales, I wonder?

Georgios had allowed himself to become distracted. What was the bishop saying now?

‘Well, fortunately for you, we’re almost as desperate to find someone for the Templeton group as you are desperate to find somewhere else to go after your minor debacle in Devonshire. The parishes have been vacant for over six months now, and my attempts to find someone from within the Diocese to take them on have been utterly unsuccessful. We’ve advertised twice in the Church Times. You are the only interested applicant, it seems. You’ve read the parish group profile, I take it? You’re fully aware of the nature of the previous Vicar’s untimely death?’

Georgios nodded. ‘Yes, I am.’

‘Good. They’ve had a torrid time of it lately. Morrington and Llanfihangel Gilfach were a separate incumbency until April last year. The Revd Huw Davies-Jones had been their Rector since 1990. A most unsuitable appointment, made by my predecessor, I’m afraid. He was one of those dreadful evangelicals, without the least bit of proper priestly formation. He trained at Oakhill Theological College - so what do you expect? Not a clue about Gregorian chant - but give him a guitar - hmm... Unfortunately, he didn’t stick to his guitar. He had an affair with his daughter’s piano teacher. Resigned his living in August 1999. He’s a taxi driver somewhere in the West Midlands now, I hear. I couldn’t find a replacement for him, so after consulting with the Senior Staff I suspended the parishes, then amalgamated them with Templeton next door. Edgar Dyson had been there since 1987. Well-liked, solid pastoral work, nothing too extreme in terms of churchmanship. He was a safe pair of hands.’ The bishop sighed. ‘Emphasis, alas, on the was.’

‘I’ve read the news reports following the inquest,’ said Georgios. ‘There seems little doubt, then, that he took his own life?’

‘No doubt whatsoever. As clear a case of suicide as you could ask for. What remains completely unclear is why he did it. There were no indications of anxiety or depression beforehand. Professionally, he was doing a good job with the new parish grouping. His personal life was untroubled. His poor wife was the one who found his body - alongside some young boys, I gather. Poor things.’ The bishop paused, reflective for a moment. Then, shaking his head, he continued. ‘Anyway, it’s been a major headache for me. The Rural Dean has tried his best to keep the show on the road - you’ll meet him, of course, soon enough, should you accept the appointment. Then there’s the curate - Benedict Wishart - I take it you’d have no problem working alongside someone who’s - err - in a relationship?’

Should you accept the appointment…

Trying to conceal his excitement at this tacit admission that the post was practically his, Georgios asked: ‘Relationship, Bishop? Could you clarify that for me, please?’

‘Hmm.’ Bishop Mervyn Mortlake pursed his lips, and placed his hands together, as if in an attitude of prayer. ‘Fr Wishart is a homosexual. He has entered into a personal relationship with another man. They live together in the Old Rectory in Morrington. Not the one that Davies-Jones was living in - that’s been sold off by the Parsonage Board now. No - they’re living in the old Victorian Rectory. Rather fine, as I recall. Anyway, Fr Wishart assures me that he is celibate. Unlike in England - where they’re tying themselves in all sorts of knots - here in Wales the bishops have a little more discretion about appointments in these circumstances. Anyway, he’s only an unpaid curate - not a stipendiary incumbent - so one can afford to be a little more accommodating. It’s up to you what use you make of him of course, but you’ll probably be grateful for the extra help.’

‘Are the parishes aware of his circumstances? And if so, are they accepting?’

‘Well, there’s been some difficulty,’ said the bishop, evasively. ‘But nothing you shouldn’t be able to handle. Any problems, speak to the Rural Dean or, if absolutely necessary, the Archdeacon.’

And not you, you mean, thought Georgios. Typical.

‘Which reminds me,’ continued the bishop. ‘You appear to be an unmarried man. Is there anyone - significant - in your life, at present?’

Only the bloody Church could get away with such an unsubtle prurient line of questioning these days. He’s not really interested in whether or not I’m married. He just wants to know if I’m gay.

Sadly, my fiancée and I split up last month,’ responded Georgios. ‘She wasn’t sure, in the end, that she could see herself married to a clergyman. We both agreed that it was for the best. So no - I’m single.’ The priest had sensed the strong sense of relief emanating from Bishop Mervyn the moment he had said the word fiancée.

‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said the bishop, insincerely. He glanced at his watch. ‘Well, I have another meeting shortly. When can you start?’

‘So you’re offering me the position?’ asked Georgios, cautiously.

‘Of course!’ declared the Bishop of Pengwen imperiously. ‘Should have thought that was obvious. Do you accept?’

***

Naturally, he’d said yes. He’d had several unsuccessful interviews elsewhere. This was as good an offer as he was likely to get. It brought him nearer to home, and his beloved grandmother: sprightly though she was for her age, Georgios was acutely aware that at 92 she was in the final autumnal years of her life. The mid-Wales countryside was gloriously beautiful, and he wouldn’t miss Exeter one bit. As for Caroline - it would be good to put a bit of distance between them. Life was too short for regrets. Time to move on.

Georgios took a final drag of his cigarette, and almost threw it out of the window: but given he was still within the grounds of Selsey Tower, thought better of it. Instead, he stubbed it out beneath his left foot, and turned the key in the ignition with his right hand. Momentarily he considered whether he should travel back to Exeter via Templeton, but then dismissed the idea. He’d already paid a brief visit to the place that morning (making sure his coat was buttoned up to hide his clerical collar), but calling in for a second time on the same day was asking for trouble: he knew he had to keep his appointment strictly under wraps for a few weeks yet. Besides, it would mean adding perhaps three quarters of an hour to an already three hours long journey, and he had tickets to a Monteverdi concert that evening that he didn’t want to miss.

Tickets, he thought: only one would be needed, now that Caroline was no longer in his life. Ah well. Let’s go home.

***

Bishop Mervyn Mortlake stood at the window of his study, once again fingering his pectoral cross contemplatively, as he watched the yellow 2CV drive off. As soon as it had driven out of the gates, he walked across the room to a side table, upon which there was a whiskey decanter and a telephone. He lifted the jewelled silver cross on its silver chain over his head, and put it down on the table. He poured himself a large glass of whisky, then picked up the telephone receiver from its cradle, and dialled a number, muttering something under his breath as he did so. A few seconds later, a voice from the other end answered:

‘Hello?’

‘It’s Bishop Mervyn here. Your new Vicar has just left my office. I had to make a show of it - as if he really was being interviewed - I didn’t want to make it look too obvious. But he’s just what we need. He’s inexperienced, knows nothing about our ways. He won’t get in the way, like Dyson did.’ He took a sip from his whisky, then chuckled. ‘So spread the word, my friend - I’m sure you’ll all find the appointment most satisfactory.’

It was Timmy Weston’s turn to knock on the door. He didn’t want to - but Sam insisted. When your best friend is three inches taller, twenty pounds heavier and dressed in a pirate costume that includes a sword that looks suspiciously realistic, it’s best not to argue. And Timmy didn’t want to appear churlish. After all, this might well be the last time he and his three friends went trick-or-treating. They were in Year 6: Sam had already turned eleven, and Elliot and Timmy weren’t far behind. By this time next year, they would be in Templeton High School - and, in all likelihood, dismissing these Halloween japes as beneath them. Why dress up as zombies, vampires, cut-throats and mummies when you could sit at home, play D&D, stuff yourself with as much pizza, coke and popcorn as you liked, and top it off by watching some violent slasher-horror than you’d persuaded your older brother to get for you from the DVD bargain basement bin at Dicky Jenkins, the town’s one and only supermarket? Well - that was the hope - though only Peter Pugh had a brother old enough to pull this stunt; and, unfortunately, Sean Pugh was currently rather more interested in pursuing girls that acceding to the artful demands, however carefully presented, of his younger brother and his nerdy friends.

But for now, it was cold, foggy and damp, and the four friends were standing at the bottom of the drive of Templeton Vicarage.

In the old black-and-white films, with their rather quaint takes on ‘horror’ that Timmy had actually seen, vicarages occasionally featured, alongside Gothic cathedrals in their gargoyled splendour, mist-enshrouded churchyards watched over by gravely-hooting owls, and draughty country churches filled with the sight of guttering candles and the sound of forbidding organ-tones. Set against all those tropes of ecclesiastical terror, Templeton Vicarage was disappointing, to say the least. An architect with a penchant for neoClassicism would perhaps have dismissed it as a hideous monstrosity: but to Timmy there was nothing the least bit monstrous about it - if only! He wouldn’t even have called it ugly. It was just - boring. A fair bit bigger, admittedly, than the pokey council estate house he shared with his mother and two sisters - but otherwise, remarkably similar. He decided to make one last attempt to get out of knocking at this particular residence.

‘I was the one who banged on Vicar Ed’s door last year,’ complained Timmy. ‘Why does it have to be me again?’

‘Cos it’s your turn,’ said Sam. ‘This is the eighth one we’ve done tonight. The rest of us have knocked on two doors each - you’ve only done one. Don’t matter if you knocked it last year. It’s your turn now. Besides,’ he smirked, ‘You like Vicar Ed, don’t you? You’re one of his choir boys, ain’t you?’ He started laughing, and Elliot and Peter joined in.

Timmy’s face flushed, and started to resemble the large pumpkin glowing on the Vicarage doorstep. Quite an accomplishment, considering the skin lightening cream he’d applied to his face to make his vampire costume look more convincing.

‘Piss off!’

He was the only one of the four boys to attend church. He’d actually been thinking about quitting the choir for some time. Nothing to do with anything untoward on the part of Vicar Ed, as Sam was hinting at. He was okay - even if he tried a bit too hard to ‘get with it’ - as he would say. Far too many ‘embarrassing Dad jokes’ - not that Timmy had much idea of what a non-embarrassing Dad, or any kind of father, would actually be like. The only really creepy guy in church was Ernie Hutton - there was something really odd about him, and the way he sat in the choir stalls, wearing his creased, perpetually-lopsided surplice, with a dreamy, faraway expression on his face throughout the service. He used to wander around the town late at night - owl-watching, he would say. Peeping-Ernie, more like. No - the reason Timmy wanted to leave was the fact that choir-practice was held on a Tuesday, at 5 o’clock. This suited the choirmaster and organist, Mr Meeks, perfectly. It did not suit Timmy. Not now that Byker Grove was back on television. It was intolerable.

‘So - you going to do it, shithead? Or what?’ asked Elliot. He tried to look threatening, but without much success. That was Elliot Halliday all over - always talking tough, swearing liberally, trying to show himself as capable and as devil-may-care as Sam Wentworth - yet somehow, always failing. Take his zombie costume, for instance. He had tried to make it as gruesome in appearance as possible: ripped shirt and jeans, fake blood aplenty, carefully-applied makeup suggestive of scarring and rotting flesh. Yet he’d spent most of their evening out thus far complaining about his broken-down trainers, that he’d deliberately wrecked for the occasion, only to find them ridiculously impractical to wear, especially in the rain. That was Elliot in a nutshell.

It was nothing like as absurd as Peter’s. Poor Peter’s choices were always very poor. Last year he had decided to dress up as a ghost - but put the eye-holes in the wrong place, meaning that the back of him was insufficiently covered up, whilst his feet kept tripping up over the dangling front side of the sheet. It never seemed to occur to him to make a new pair of eye-holes. This year’s selection had been worse still. He’d wound himself meticulously in reams and reams of toilet paper, carefully tied together around his ankles, abdomen and forearms. Three minutes of contact with even the light on-off mizzly rain that evening had been sufficient to reduce his costume to an unwearable mulch. He’d discarded it in stages, until only a single sodden sash was left around his waist. It wasn’t just that he was the youngest of them, by a good six months. No, there was something not quite there about Peter. God knows how he was going to survive High School.

‘Course I am,’ scowled Timmy. ‘Just saying - that’s all. Right - here goes.’ He marched straight up to the door. The beckoning pumpkin gave assurance to Halloween callers that they would be welcome. That wasn’t the case everywhere, of course. Many of the older folk in Templeton would complain bitterly about these ‘unwanted American customs’ creeping in. The kind of women who would never kit out their younger children in new clothes if ready-made hand-me-downs were available from older siblings. And the same kind of men who objected to buying their wives a Valentines card - or flowers for the mantelpiece, come to that. Mean-spirited, penny-pinching. There were plenty of that sort in Templeton.

Some of the very worst were the religious types, of course. Especially with Halloween. ‘Revelling in the works of the Devil, that is!’ they would cry. Vicar Ed would have none of it.

‘There’s no point getting worked up about kids-play,’ he had said in a sermon earlier that year about Beltane, and the revelries of the May. ‘Leaping at every shadow - that’s superstitious nonsense in itself. Templeton is not Summerisle, and we have no fear of Wicker Men here - only foolish minds, and limited imaginations.’

Timmy had asked Sam afterwards what a Wicker Man was. ‘A cool horror film,’ was his reply.

Regardless of the disapproval of his parishioners, on every Halloween Vicar Ed would be waiting behind the front door, with a bucket full of sweets. Sometimes his wife Sarah would be there too, chiding him about the perils of rotting teeth, and gorged stomachs. ‘One handful is quite enough!’ she would say sternly, whilst her husband would chuckle, shaking his head, looking for all the world like a misplaced Santa - dressed from head to toe in black, not scarlet, with a bushy beard that was tinged with only the slightest hint of white.

‘Nonsense, woman,’ he would bellow. ‘There’s plenty more where they came from.’ And then he would start asking the children after the health of their parents, and what their brothers or sisters were up to, and did they have anything else planned for the half-term holiday, and had Great-aunt Mabel had her hip operation yet. Whoever rang the doorbell would get the fiercest interrogation, of course: that was the real reason why Timmy had wanted to avoid the embarrassment of being in pole position for the over-enthusiastic cleric. And always he would end by saying: ‘All Saint’s Day, tomorrow. Our patronal festival. There’s a service in the evening. Hope to see you there. Happy Halloween!’ Except this year, Halloween was on a Saturday, so All Saints would be on a Sunday - and would be celebrated, with extra ceremony, on the Sunday morning. Timmy knew this because the past week’s choir practice had been especially long. Mr Meeks had been trying out a new, and rather difficult anthem, with results that could not, in all charity, be described as anything other than ‘mixed’. Timmy was dreading the next day. At least his friends would not be there to witness another disastrous patronal festival - the third since Timmy had joined the choir.

Curious. There was no answer at the front door. Timmy reached up and rang the doorbell again. Still, nothing.

‘Why don’t they answer?’ asked Peter.

‘Perhaps they’re hiding,’ said Elliot. ‘Pretending they’re not at home.’

‘Then why are all the lights on?’ reasoned Timmy. ‘Anyway, Vicar Ed wouldn’t do that. He likes Halloween - even if most of the Church people don’t.’

Elliot shrugged his shoulders. ‘Whatever. Fuck it. They’re not answering, so it’s got to be a trick.’ He turned to their leader. ‘You got the eggs and flour, Sam?’ He pointed at the backpack flung over the eldest boy’s shoulder.

‘No,’ declared Sam firmly. ‘Timmy’s right. This ain’t like the Vicar. And even if he’s out, what about his wife? Anyway, their car’s still here. Look!’

Without warning, a piercing scream filled the air. The boys froze momentarily in alarm, then looked at one another in turn, wide-eyed. Sam’s right hand instinctively went to the hilt of his sword, and half drew it from its sheath.

‘What the f-?’ cried Elliot; but before he could finish, a second scream rang out, even louder than the first. It was clear now where the shrieks were coming from. Across the road, from the Vicarage, was All Saint’s Church. But even against the backdrop of the now steadily-increasing patter of raindrops, the boys could tell that those harrowing sounds had come not from the Church, from the graveyard that surrounded it.

‘Come on!’ shouted Sam. ‘We gotta help whoever’s in trouble.’ Without even looking to see if the others were following, he charged across the road, drawing his cutlass as he did so. Impetuous, foolhardy, yes - but utterly fearless too - that was Sam Wentworth. That was why he was Timmy’s best friend. Why he - he gulped as the thought entered his head, unbidden - why he loved him. Though Sam would laugh at him, and call him a poofter if he had ever said as much, in so many words. Where Sam led, Timmy would always follow. He hurried across the road, trying to catch up to the older boy. Elliot followed just behind, cursing as he did so, limping along in his ill-considered footwear. Bringing up the rear, only following out of fear of being left alone, came Peter.

By the time Timmy caught up with Sam, he was standing by the notice board advertising the next day’s patronal festival service. The boy had sheathed his sword - for despite appearances, it really was just a bit of plastic, and of little practical use in an emergency. Instead he had fished a torch out of his backpack, and was shining it first down the church path, then across to the right where the garden of remembrance filled with cremated remains lay; then finally to the left, scanning the oldest part of the graveyard, filled with leaning lichen-encrusted graves with barely-decipherable lettering, overgrown with weeds, and tangled thickets of ivy, brambles, and unkempt shrubbery. Also scattered around this part of the graveyard were a number of gnarled old trees; elders and oaks, rowans and hawthorns, an enormous and venerable yew tree. And then there was the great horse chestnut tree, which only a few weeks ago Timmy and his friends had been foraging beneath, searching for the best conkers for their schoolyard contests.

Under the spreading chestnut tree

I sold you and you sold me

There lie they, and here lie we

Under the spreading chestnut tree

It wasn’t anything that might have been lying in the decaying litter of autumn leaves beneath the chestnut tree that was held now in the shaky spotlight of Sam Wentworth’s torch; nor was it the figure of the sobbing woman standing nearby. The boys stood and looked, in disbelief, at the nightmarish sight before them. This was no video nasty, though Timmy. This was real.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the last bit of Peter’s mummy outfit finally come adrift, and fall to the ground. He fancied - though he was probably imagining it - that he could hear the soft sound of the trickle of urine as poor Peter Pugh pissed his pants. He could certainly hear the voice of Elliot whispering, under his breath: ‘No, fuck - no, fuck - no…’ repeating that same pointless phrase, over and over again. And then Timothy Weston felt the strong, strangely father-like - or what he imagined a father would feel like - grip of his wisest of friends; resting his right arm across his shoulder, reassuringly, whilst with his outstretched left arm, now no longer trembling, he held his torch steady. The focus of its light remained firmly fixed upon that which was hanging by a thick rope from one of the outspread arms of that chestnut tree.

There, suspended from one of the thickest and firmest boughs, no doubt specially selected for this task, was the lifeless body of the Revd Edgar Dyson, Vicar of Templeton with Morrington with Llanfihangel Gilfach.

‘Border folk are strange creatures, you know, Father. But perhaps you’ve already worked that out for yourself.’

Father Georgios Anagnosides smiled politely, but said nothing. He still wasn’t quite sure about his new curate, Father Benedict. Something, he sensed, was veiled behind the other’s genial, jocund exterior. He glanced around the sumptuously-decorated parlour, with its tasteful William Morris-style wallpaper, Pre-Raphaelite prints on the walls, plush armchairs and colourful rugs, Queen Anne drop leaf table with intricately-carved legs, and the gentle ticking of what - surely! - wasn’t a Thomas Tompion longcase clock.

‘Pardon me, but is that a Thomas– ?’

Benedict followed the gaze of the younger priest, and chucked. ‘I’m afraid so,’ he said. ‘I have a Tompion for a grandfather. It once belonged to Sarah Churchill, the Duchess of Marlborough. Well, allegedly. Insuring it is something of a nightmare, and it doesn’t even keep particularly good time: but it’s almost three hundred years old, so I suppose it can be forgiven. I’m impressed - you have a good eye for antiques.’

‘Not especially - but my father was a watchmaker.’ Georgios thought about the furnishing in his own, 1970s-build vicarage, that he had moved into ten days before, and grimaced. His priest-colleague was clearly someone of substantial private means. Perhaps that explained why he had resigned his inner-city living ten years previously, whilst still in his mid-forties, and retired to the countryside, keeping his hand in by covering parochial vacancies along the Anglo-Welsh border. Though he’d heard other rumours too, about Father Benedict Wishart: but he didn’t want to dwell on that…

‘So your partner - what was his name - Oliver? He’s not at home at the moment?’

‘No, he generally comes home every other weekend. It’s a busy life, working at the Bar. Another two, maybe three years, then he’ll retire. Sadly, he won’t be back for your induction service this coming Sunday. He knows the Chancellor of the Diocese quite well: they were in Chambers together, once upon a time. He’s an atheist, bless him. He always says I’m more than devout enough for the two of us. But you must come round for dinner next time he’s here.’ The elegant, smartly-dressed priest paused, then said:

‘Do you have any particular views on the supernatural, Father?’

There had been a distinct change in his tone of voice, and - Georgios noted - a slight tremble in his hand, as he lowered his teacup, and leaned forward, with the gravest of looks upon his suddenly-furrowed brow.

‘Please, call me Georgios. That’s a rather surprising question to ask of a fellow priest - but I assume you’re not looking for some conventional theological answer, Benedict. What exactly were you thinking of?’

Benedict drew a red silk handkerchief from the lapel pocket of his jacket, and wiped his forehead. In just a matter of seconds his visage had utterly changed, and his flushed face was glistening with sweat. The aura of comfortable condescending affability that had surrounded him since opening the door to his visitor half an hour before had vanished.

‘Well, if we are to be friends, as well as colleagues, then you must call me Benny. I hope we shall be friends - and that we can trust each other.’

‘Of course, Benny. What’s troubling you?’

‘As I said earlier, people who live on the border are the strangest of people. In the ten years we’ve been here, I’ve found them to be tight-lipped, and inclined to keep their own counsel. The warring may have ceased six hundred years ago now, but people in these parts are still disinclined to take sides. Neither Welsh, nor English. Perpetually suspicious of those who come “from off”. You understand what I’m saying?’

‘I think so.’

These are lands where much blood has been spilt; places of the hinterland, where there’s been so much violence and anger. It seeps into the very ground. The hills and the valleys have long memories of the treacheries and cruelties of the past. They don’t rest easily. As for the people: they cling to the old ways. There were other gods, other forces at work, here on the Marches, back in the days of old. Before the missionaries and the monks came, proclaiming the One God, here they worshipped the many. And - if the truth be told - there are plenty who still do.’

‘There’s nothing new or surprising about that. Folk religious beliefs have rubbed shoulders with the more dogmatic assertions of orthodoxy for a long time.’

Benedict shook his head vigorously. ‘No, Father - Georgios. I mean more than folk religion. This isn’t just a case of popular syncretism, or quaint traditions, handed down from yesteryear. I’m talking about something much older, and much darker. Something that is implacably hostile to the Faith. Something that is deeply diabolical - right to its very core. They worshipped many gods - but the chieftain of their pantheon was always the same. He goes by many names. Do you know the legend of Darkwoode?’

‘Darkwoode– ?’

‘The churches along the border - on both sides - have you not noticed the predominant dedication?’

‘Well, there seem to be quite a few dedicated to St Michael. Is that what you mean?’

‘Yes. And on the Welsh side - and even here and there on the English side - you’ll see that quite a few of the villages are named “Llanfihangel” - the llan (or place) of angels. As in St Michael and All Angels. Curious, don’t you think, all these churches dedicated to the dragon-slayer? Here on the Welsh border, of all places.’

Georgios grinned. ‘He’s not the only dragon-slayer. My own namesake, of course, was slaying reptilian leviathans long before the English adopted him as their patron saint, ousting poor old St Edward the Confessor for someone more suitably martial.’

‘Then perhaps you’re coming amongst us, here and now, is a sign. You’re young - thirty-one, yes? But perhaps you have the vigour and the courage that I lack. I’m tired, and I’ve witnessed too much. Believe me, Georgios, you will be tested if you stay here - and you will need all your wits about you. The servants of the Darkwoode are not to be trifled with.’

‘I’m sorry, Benny, you still haven’t explained. What is the Darkwoode?’

‘Oh, you won’t find it marked on an OS map. But it’s real enough. The ancient woodlands along the Marches have mostly gone now - just a few copses, a handful of spinneys, here and there, remain. You know those puzzles - what do they call them - dot-to-dot puzzles, yes?’ Georgios nodded. ‘Well, join up the churches dedicated to St Michael, just like a dot-to-dot…’

Benedict moved his forefinger through the air, forming a circle as he did so. ‘You’ll find that they enclose the forests of old. They’re markers for the boundaries - the borders of the Darkwoode. The place where the last dragon was driven, it’s said. Waiting for the End of Time. As long as the churches remain, the dragon remains trapped. They stand as shields - as wards - against Evil Incarnate. But if ’ere disaster befalls even one of the churches - the dragon will escape through the gap.’ The older priest sat back, and sighed.

‘That is the legend of the Darkwoode.’

Note: My apologies for those wanting more - but it’s just the beginning of a new story! The supernatural is largely off-stage as yet - only time will tell if (and how) it becomes more prominent…

Something or someone had been eating Bob's watermelons. Figuring it was more likely someone, or two someones in particular, he stood over a pile of gnawed rinds and spat out seeds and cursed.

'It'll be them Phitzer boys, I spect.' He grumbled to himself, scratching his sweating scalp under his white straw hat.

Now, Bob would never begrudge a child a melon on a hot summer day, but it were manners to ask. And hadn't he told them 'xactly that the time afore, and the time afore that?

'Please and thank you don't cost nothin'.'

It was time to learn them boys a lesson, and Bob knew 'xactly how. He found an old zinc tub in the barn and picked up his hammer, and then he went and sat behind a blackberry bramble to wait. When those Phitzer boys came back to help their selfs to his melons again, Bob would bang the tub and holler, and scare the be-jiggers out of them!

Only they didn't. The day grew longer. And the sun burned hotter. And Bob dozed off. Waking up when the cool of the evening had raised goose-bumps on his bare arms. He waited a half hour more, before he gave up and went back to the house for a bite of supper and a sip of whiskey, telling himself he'd try again later.

The moon was high and bright when Bob crept back to the blackberry bramble. And dress him up and call him Loretta if the pile of gnawed melon rinds weren't higher! Somebody had gone and beat him to it. Somebody who didn't wear no shoes, if'n the footprints in the dust-dry red soil between the rows weren't figments of his 'magination.

That was when he heard it - The soft sweet pickin's of a guitar. Only it didn't sound right. It was too tinny. The kind of twang steel strings might make on a hollow tin. But that weren't possible.

Only one person in all the world ever played a biscuit tin flat-top.

Bob's voice caught at the back of his throat. 'Stumpy?'

'Ain't nobody else,' came the Pan-handle drawl.

'But you're... '

'Dead,' said the ghost of Stanley "Stumpy" Hollers. 'I spect so.'

'Is there really a heaven?' Asked Bob. 'What's it like?'

'There ain't no doors,' said Stumpy. 'No windows, neither. It's all just sunbeams and rainbows. And don't nobody wear shoes. See?'

Stanley wriggled his toes.

Bob hitched his bib-n-braces and scratched his stubbled chin. 'So, your crazy ol' Granny had the right of it?'

'No,' said Stanley sadly, shaking his head and spitting out a watermelon seed he'd been working away at with his tongue. 'But ain't it pretty to think so?'

Marjorie Flowers had never married. Nor had there ever been a significant other in her life. Nor did she have any children. Insular and abrasive; unloved, even by her parents, Marjorie had lived all eighty-seven years of her miserable existence in the same house where she had been born. And miserable is the word that best described Marjorie, who had always been as shrivelled and bitter as a preserved lemon.

A long retired librarian, no other profession better suited her, Marjorie had chosen instead to fill her life (such as it was), and every room of her dormer windowed and thatch roofed cottage with carnivorous plants. They sat in pots on sunlit window ledges. They hung in baskets, at varying heights, from the ceiling's exposed beams. They stood on shelves and occasional tables, as a singular prized specimen, or grouped together according to genus. What it was about them, precisely, that had attracted Marjorie to her obsession she could not define, other than her admiration for their self-contained independence.

It pleased Marjorie to think she could die at any moment and the plants would carry on regardless. An unsuspecting fly, or a sporadic moth, was sufficient to sustain them. The pride of her collection was a Chilean Nightwing. Native to the high desert plateaus of the Andes, the Nightwing was believed to be extinct in the wild. Its three broad and flat glaucous leaves, each tipped with a needle sharp spine, remained tight closed through the day, only opening as the sun was setting to reveal a large flower with three petals of a deep dull crimson, with the texture of velvet,

As the night sky darkened, the flower would detach itself, and with its petals spinning like the blades of a helicopter, would rise into the air and fly out through the dormer window Marjorie always opened as the growing gloom of dusk descended. Unique in its method of harvesting the required nutrition necessary for its survival, the Nightwing would seek out some large mammal and, attaching itself to the neck, would absorb the animal's blood through the pores of the skin while simultaneously exuding a toxic anticoagulant, with fatal consequences.

Climbing the cottage stairs one early evening, the toe of Marjorie's slipper caught on the frayed carpet, causing her to lose her balance, and falling backwards, tumble awkwardly, breaking her hip. Immobilised by excruciating pain, she lay at the foot of the stairs, all too conscious of the approaching hour, when the Nightwing's vampiric flower would emerge, and the fact that the dormer window was still firmly closed.

The Untold Story of Texas Bob Laredo and Stumpy Hollers

Stanley Hollows was a child of the Great Depression. Raised by his maternal grandmother, in the dust bowl of the Texas Pan-Handle, in a one room shack that had a dirt floor, no door, and no glass in the windows.

When Stanley asked his Granny why they didn't live in a nice house like other folks, she told him, 'There ain't no doors in heaven.'

A growing boy can't grow right if he doesn't get the nutrition he needs. The best his Granny could coax out of the parched soil was dandelions. Dandelion tea for breakfast. Dandelion leaves for lunch. Dandelion soup for supper. And if Stanley was ever hungry between meals, there were always more dandelions.

His short legs were an object of ridicule, and it wasn't long before everyone started calling Stanley "Stumpy".

Granny was as thrifty with her affection as she was with her purse, and as crazy as a two dollar watch. But she was all Stanley had. When she couldn't, or wouldn't, buy Stanley a guitar for his birthday, he made his own from a biscuit tin and other bits and pieces found in a junkyard.

The guitar didn't sound right, any more than Stanley looked right, but he could sing. Lord, could that boy sing! He sang in church every Sunday at the Southern United Baptist House of Christ the Redeemer. And had the voice of an angel.

Folks said the Hollows were so poor, even Stanley's hand-me-downs had been somebody else's, and he never owned a pair of shoes in his life.

When Stanley asked his Granny why he didn't have shoes to wear to church, she said, 'There ain't no shoes in heaven. The bless-ed don't need them. They walk around on clouds.'

But then it didn't matter, because when Stanley was singing, people weren't looking at his feet. He sang Peace In The Valley, and May The Circle Be Unbroken, and his heartfelt Were You There (When They Crucified My Lord) caused every soul in the congregation to tremble...

Tremble.

Tremble.

At the age of twelve, Stanley won a talent show at the county fair. First prize was a spot on Hank Holsom's Holy Hour, on a Christian radio station broadcasting out of Abilene, TX.

When his Granny wouldn't pay for a bus ticket, Stanley walked all the way with no shoes, praising the name of Jesus in song, and dreaming of being a star.

"There's a better home a-waiting. In the sky, Lord, in the sky."

The show's host, Hank Holsom, promised Stanley regular appearances. But that never happened.

One night, thinking there must be something better than a crazy old woman and dandelion soup, Stanley wrapped all his worldly possessions in a hand-me-down blue and white polka-dotted handkerchief, picked up his biscuit tin guitar, and ran away from home to join a traveling carnival.

Through the week, Stanley sat in a tent as "The Wild Man Of Borneo", and people paid their two cents to throw peanuts and popcorn at him.

Every morning he knocked on the door of the carnival owner's trailer to ask when he was going to get a chance to sing.

'Soon, Stanley,' was always the answer. 'Real soon.'

In the town of Broderick, Stanley jumped freight and joined the seven piece band at a burlesque theater. Where he started drinking. And fell in love with a tall, blonde exotic dancer by the name of Busty Valentine, whose real name was Misty Pearl. But Stanley was a violent drunk, and Busty left him for a trombone player.

Carrying his biscuit tin guitar, and a broken heart, Stanley drifted from Texas on the east coast, to California on the west coast, and back again. He played in beer joints, and at roadside cafes for the price of a hot meal. He'd bought his first pair of shoes, but they hurt his feet, so he tied the laces together and slung them over a shoulder.

Back in the Lone Star State, he rolled into Laredo like a tumbleweed. And it was there Stanley met Texas Bob.

Texas Bob was a classically trained guitarist, who couldn't find any work for his "fancy pickins".

His real name Moisie Aaron Liebowitz. And he'd been a high school quarterback before dropping out to play at Dance Halls and such.

They sold Bob's 48 Studebaker Champion for the money to make a record at Sun Studio in Memphis Tennessee. The car had cost $1500. They sold it for $300.

'That's cause it were yellow,' said Stumpy.

'What's wrong with yellow?'

'Real men don't drive yellow cars.'

'That's horse-shit,' said Bob, 'n you know it.'

They toured with Johnny Cash, Elvis Presley, and Carl Perkins. On the road, Stumpy developed a drug habit, washing everything down with bottle after bottle of straight bourbon.

They set up as song writers in Nashville Tennessee. When they couldn't get anyone to sing their songs, Texas Bob said to Stumpy, 'Why don't you do it?'

The record went to number one on the country charts, with titles like My Ex-wife Came Back (And Burnt My House Down), and A Dog Called Tiddles (He Squats When He Piddles).

They won a Country Music Award, and then a Grammy, for best original song. They performed at the Grand Ole Opry, and toured to sold out performances all over America.

Stumpy spent $2,000 on a pair of crafted, tooled spanish leather cowboy boots. Only to get drunk one night, and wake up in an alley the next morning to find his boots had been stolen.

'Why don't I have shoes for church, Granny?'

'There ain't no shoes in heaven, child.'

They never had another hit song.

They started fighting.

Texas Bob left to buy a watermelon farm in Dripping Springs, 23 miles west of Austin, in the Texas Hill Country.

Back in Nashville, Stumpy recorded an album of duets with Tammy Wynette. But the album was never released after Stumpy was caught trying to cross the Mexican border with his pockets stuffed full of cocaine.

His defense attorney argued the drugs were for personal use, but the Judge wasn't buying it, and sentenced Stumpy to twelve years in the State Penitentiary, with the chance of parole after six.

Released from jail, Stumpy found a job sweeping floors at a bar called The Whistle Stop Ribs N Wings. In the early hours of the morning, after everyone had staggered home, he would sit on stage and sing to an empty room.

Then, one night, he had the none too bright idea of stealing from the cash register. He "borrowed" the bar owner's pick-up truck, a bottle of Jack Daniels, and drunk at the wheel, he was killed in a head on collision with a school bus.

Texas Bob came to Stumpy's funeral. It was just Bob, the Preacher, Stumpy's coffin, and the rain. He was buried with no shoes on.

You don't need shoes when you're walking on clouds.

Texas Bob went back to his watermelon farm.

So ends the true, if tragic, tale of Texas Bob Laredo and Stumpy Hollers.

Part 1 of The Wizard Of Whyr

No one in the village thought her odd or peculiar at first. Scrubbed clean of the muck and filth of the forest, the child was thought to be uncommonly fair. But fey she was. And fey she proved to be.

The child could recall no memory of having a mother or father, nor any kind of family at all, before the crofter had come across her, wandering lost and alone.

She had fallen from the sky, she said, and so they called her Raindrop.

By some dark magic, her thoughts became realities. The child need only imagine herself biting into a soft ripe peach and the fruit would appear in her hand. She thought her narrow cot with its coarse woollen blanket cold and uncomfortable, and slept that night in a proper bed, under a thick quilt of goose-down. The small dank cottage of the crofter who had taken her in became a spacious house, two stories high with a thatched and gabled roof, and filled with sunlight streaming through leaded-glass windows. There were servants to bathe and dress and cook for her. And instead of an old cart, there was a fine and handsome carriage, drawn by a team of four white horses in jingling harness.

When the crofter worried how he was going to pay the servants and feed and keep the horses with only the few coppers in his purse, she changed them for gold. A grove of alder trees became an apple orchard. Grape vines covered what had been a bare and barren hill-side. Fields of barley and corn ready for the harvesting appeared where before there was nothing but marsh and bog. And the crofter himself awoke one morning to find his bald pate crowned with thick black curls, and his mouth full of strong white teeth in place of those that were once yellow and rotten. His crooked stoop was gone, and his bones no longer ached, nor did his joints creak. His eyes and ears were as sharp as they had been in his youth.

She cured the sick and healed the lame, the old and infirm, those whose minds were afflicted with the moon madness. Livestock grew fat in fertile green pastures. Geese and chickens lay eggs with double yolks. There was wheat enough to grind until heavy sacks of flour were stacked to the mill's rafters. No one in the village need go hungry, nor fear the cruel bite of winter when their larders were empty.

Such a change in fortune could never be kept a secret for long, and as word of the witching child spread, so with it gathered the crows - wicked souls who sought to use her gift for their own profit; but she would suffer no such evil to prosper, and the cruel and the corrupt simply vanished, never to be seen again. Only then did the people of the village begin to wonder what the child might do next. And even though the girl had never harmed any of the villagers, they were country folke, and it was in their nature to fear what they could not explain.

Nor could the child explain her mysterious powers, or where she, or they, had come from.

She was an angel, some said. A blessing from the heavens.

Others believed her to be faerie. A wood-nymph.

But nymphs did not fall from the sky. They were of the earth. Bound to the old and sacred places by bonds they could not break.

A witch.

A miracle.

A puzzle.

Rumour and gossip brought an old man to the village. His robe and cloak were of no particular colour, but shifted with the light from brown to green to blue, like the feathered wings of a kingfisher. He walked with the aid of a tall staff, and told any villager he met that he wished only to ask the child if she might soothe his bunions.

The inn-keeper's goodly wife said to soak his feet in vinegar while he waited, and brought him a jug of it, along with a basin and a towel.

You're too kind, said the old man.

Pish-posh, replied the inn-keeper's wife. Brown vinegar for bunions, my old mother used to say, and white for blisters.

A boy was sent to fetch the crofter - who appeared with the child some short time later.

Raindrop looked at the old man curiously.

I know you, she said. You are the wizard... Aldhyrwoode.

And I know you, said the wizard. You are the Dragon's Pearl.

The Dragon I speak of, said Aldhywoode, is the Emperor of Qin Xa. And Raindrop is his daughter.

The crofter couldn't hide his disbelief. Does she look Qin to you?

The Emperor of Qin Xa is not of the Qin, Aldhyrwoode told him, but of a far more ancient race. The child looks like any other human girl, but perhaps you cannot see her as clearly as I do.

I found her in the forest, said the crofter, almost petulantly, and the forest is a long way from the Jade Temple.

It is, agreed the wizard, but not for a flying machine.

The crofter looked lost. Eh?

Aldhyrwoode lit his pipe. Order us a pint of the inn-keeper's best, he said. And something for the girl.

Raindrop had been listening the whole time. Tell me more about my father, she said. Why don't I remember him? Do I have a mother?

And how did the child know you? Added the crofter, returning with two foaming mugs of ale and a glass of cold butter-milk. When she doesn't know her own name. Her real name. Or anything of her past.

So many questions, sighed Aldhyrwoode. You had better get another round in. It's a long story.

Your father's name is Ataam, he told the child. And yours is Eav. Your home is a palace built on the side of a high mountain, that rises above still more mountains, and these mountains are said to be the highest in the world. The Qin call these mountains The Stairs To The Eternal Throne. And your father, The Dragon Emperor, is believed to be the Sky God come to earth. Your powers come from your mother, but I cannot tell you her name, or where she is. That is something you must ask your father.

When can I see him? She asked.

Soon, said Aldhyrwoode. He is already on his way here.

And what of me? Asked the crofter. I love the child like she was mine own. What if I don't want to hand her over?

Would you really be so selfish? Said Aldhyrwoode. Or so foolish? Eav does not belong here. She does not belong to you. Or to this village.

Others might not agree.

Then you must convince them. You are a good man. They are good folke. And none of you can say you have been poorly rewarded for your kindness. Must I tell you right from wrong?

The crofter looked at the girl and shook his head. No. But it might be wise if...

The wizard touched a fingertip to his nose If Eav was to vanish as mysteriously as she appeared.

Why don't I? Asked Eav. I could think myself home.

Then you would be there, said Aldhyrwoode, and your father would be here.

Oh. Right. So I should wait? Why do you smell of vinegar?

Aldhyrwoode had forgotten all about his soaking feet under the table. He pulled them out of the basin and wiped them dry with the towel.

Eav laughed and said, You don't really have bunions, do you?

I really do, said Aldhyrwoode. And the inn-keeper's wife was right. They don't ache at all now!

Where does Raindrop - Eav - know you from? The crofter asked. Have you met before? Is her memory returning?

It is her blessing and her curse to know everything and everyone, said Aldhyrwoode. It was Eav who created the world with her thoughts. She is Mother Earth. And we are all her children. And - Aldhyrwoode held up a hand - before you say she is still only a child herself, Eav is older than time. The child you see is not who she really is.

Then why does she not remember? Said the crofter. Making the world is not something you would forget.

Oh, I don't know, said Aldhyrwoode. I'm always forgetting where I left my keys, or my spectacles, or my hat...

This is no time to jest!

Who's joking? I don't see anything funny about it.

Tell me about the flying machines, said Eav.

Yes, said the crofter. What are they?

The flying machines, said Aldhyrwoode, are machines that fly. What else would they be?

If you had told me such machines existed before I knew Rai - Eav - I would have thought you too far in your cups, said the crofter, but now...

And why not? Asked the wizard. Birds fly. All that is needed is enough power to lift an object off the ground and keep it in the air. The De-Xian discovered a way to create such power by harnessing the energy of the stars.

The De-Xian?

Are Eav's people, said Aldhyrwoode. De means new in Qin, and Xian means star. So they are literally the new star people.

So, what are you saying? That Eav fell out of one of these flying machines? And survived?

Fell, said Aldhyrwoode. Or was pushed.

Pushed?

Or perhaps the machine crashed. I cannot say until I have looked in the forest. Or it may be that Eav was never in a flying machine at all. That she thought herself here - for some reason. And cannot remember because she wished to forget.

Why would I do that? Asked Eav.

Indeed, said Aldhyrwoode. Why?

So, I could remember if I wanted to?

I think so. Yes.

But I don't want to?

Aldhyrwoode nodded. It would appear that way.

The door of the inn creaked open and a red cloaked and hooded figure stepped inside. Hands with long claw-nailed fingers pushed the hood back, revealing a strikingly beautiful woman the colour of ebony with high cheekbones and emerald-green eyes. Master? How much longer? The De-Xian are here.

Ah! Aldhyrwoode clapped his hands together. Thank you, Shadow.

To Eav he said, Your ride is here.

The girl only had eyes for the woman. Or, to be more precise, the soft-furred black ears that twitched so beguilingly. Are those... ?

Shadow was my cat, Aldhyrwoode explained, but cats are not practical companions.

Reaching across the table, he closed the crofter's slack-jawed mouth.

A pair of Skraaal guards were posted outside the inn's door. They bowed to Eav and called her, Mother.

The Skraaal are descended from the De-Xian, Aldhyrwoode told the crofter.

Where is the ship? He asked Shadow.

There is a clearing in the forest, she said, not far from the man's house.

Eav held Shadow's hand, and the cat-woman purred.

A few steps behind them, the crofter was fascinated by the swish-swishing tip of Shadow's black tail, where it poked out from under the hem of her cloak.

Aldhyrwoode nudged him with an elbow and said, Eyes on the path.

The trees were giant Redwoods, tall and straight, with hardly any undergrowth, and a full moon made the trail easy to see. More Skraaal guards joined them as they neared the wide shallow bowl of the clearing. The crofter had regained his senses somewhat, and looked from the tall green skinned lizard-men to the fair-haired child.

Is that how the girl really looks? He asked Aldhyrwoode.

Her scales are smaller and closer together, answered the wizard, and more silver than green.

Like a fish?

Not exactly. More like a serpent.

A snake? Said the crofter.

Uhm... Not exactly.

What hovered silently above the ground of the clearing was a long slender tube of some dull dark grey metal. There were no obvious windows, but a circle of soft blue light from an open door illuminated a ramp. Around the De-Xian airship, a score or more of Qin warriors in gold armour stood ready.

Why so many soldiers? The crofter asked. Are you expecting trouble from the village?

Not the village, no, said Aldhyrwoode grimly, searching the night sky above the treetops.

Who then?

Eav's mother.

The crofter looked even more perplexed than usual. All this for one woman?

Aldhyrwoode shook his head. No. Not a woman. Eav's mother is... something other.

The crofter clutched at the the sleeve of Aldhyrwoode's robe. What are you not telling me?

The wizard shook him off impatiently. No more questions. Say your goodbyes and let us get the child safely onboard.

But surely her mother would never harm her!

Pushing past the now panicked crofter, Aldhyrwoode said, We cannot be certain of that. Females are often unpredictable.

And he urged Eav and Shadow to, Hurry.

They were nearly at the ramp when Eav's father strode out to meet them. Like his daughter, he had assumed human form, and wore long flowing robes of black on black embroidered silk that accentuated the paleness of his complexion, and his hair and eyes shone silver.

Just as Eav let go of Shadow's hand to run to her father, there was a terrible piercing shriek, and the sound of air rushing over enormous wings. And a great beast was silhouetted against the moon as it rushed towards them. Skraaal archers loosed crossbow bolts to try to fend it off, while the Qin warriors closed protectively around The Dragon Emperor and his daughter.

Go! Aldhyrwoode urged them. Quickly!

Shadow hissed, baring sharply pointed teeth.

The crofter stood frozen to the spot. Is that... ? It can't be!

Oh, yes it can! Said Aldhyrwoode. Run, you fool!

All was chaos.

The great golden dragon roared.

The Emperor lifted Eav in his arms and all but threw her up the ramp, into the airship.

The Qin warriors did not follow, but formed a shield with their bodies, prepared to die defending their Sky God.

And with them stood the wizard, Aldhyrwoode.

He pointed his staff and a streak of ear-splitting lightning burst skyward, only to be engulfed in dragon-flame.

Again came the terrible piercing shriek.

Still the wizard stood defiant.

Again the great golden dragon came sweeping spiralling down out of the night sky.

And again that sky was lit by bolts of crackling searing lightning from Aldhywoode's staff.

The De-Xian airship accelerated away, a streak of grey in a vacuum of white noise.

The piercing cry echoed one last time.

And then the great golden dragon -

The two princes, Aldhyn of Rhealmyrr and his cousin Alejandro, the younger brother of Rafael and second son of Rhowyn, Duke of Navarre, had climbed to the top of Castellayne’s tallest tower to discuss how to “borrow” their grandmother’s flying carpet.

How do we know if it still works? Asked Alejandro.

Aldhyn shrugged. We don’t... And we never will if we can’t think of some way to get into Aldhyrwoode’s rooms without being seen. The carpet will be guarded by more than locked doors.

Sorcery?

Wizards are famous for it.

Then there’s the raven, said Alejandro, Ovidieu.

And Shadow. Don’t forget Shadow.

That cat gives me the creeps. It’s older than Grandfather! How is it not dead yet?

Aldhyn didn’t know. The wizard’s familiar could talk, but no one, as far as he knew, had ever thought to ask it.

We could stuff him into a sack, said Alejandro, and throw him in the moat.

Which one? Asked Aldhyn. Shadow? Ovidieu? Or the wizard?

Alejandro thought the plan might work for all three.

As temperamental as any Don, the always ardent Alejandro had acquired the habit peculiar among the people of Navarre of waving his hands around when he was speaking. Emphatically underlining every third or fourth word with a wagging finger, or a clenched fist, a chopping motion, or holding both palms open to the sky as if beseeching the fates. Aldhyn had learned to keep a safe distance from his too easily excitable older cousin, and waited until Alejandro was clutching the edge of the stone step they were sharing before leaning in to kiss him on the lips.

Alejandro looked surprised. What was that for?

Do I need a reason?

It’s not like you to be so... impulsive.

That wasn’t exactly true. Aldhyn could be cautious, and sensible, but he was also Robin’s grandson, with the same taste for adventure. Flying to the fortress city of Jal Naghrahar on Queen Saavi’s magic rug had been his idea.

One game of Dragonmhyrr, he said, rolling his eyes, and suddenly I’m the boring one!

The game almost lasted a week! Alejandro exclaimed. And I’ll never get those hours of my life back!

Aldhyn laughed. Oh, poor cousin! Think of all the pretty maids you might have tumbled!

That’s it!

What’s it?

We lure the old fox out of his den with a bit of skirt!

Aldhyn shook his head. I’ve never seen Aldhyrwoode look twice at a girl.

A boy then.

Or a boy.

Not even you?

Certainly not me!

Or me, said Alejandro. Why do you think that is?

Aldhyn shrugged. He’s old. Any wood in the alder shrivelled a long time ago.

How sad, Alejandro said. To love and to be loved by so many, and yet...

To never have that someone special, said Aldhyn. Am I your someone?

Alejandro winked. You’re one of them.

Clothed in dark colours and armed with talismans against the wizard’s magic, the two princes crept silently into Aldhyrwoode’s chambers. Aldhyn knew them like the back of his own hand, but in the pitch black of midnight he was suddenly lost. His foot caught the leg of a chair and it scraped on the flagstoned floor.

The wall sconces suddenly flared. Blindingly bright.

Why not just ask? Said Aldhywoode, regarding them from the arched doorway of his atelier. It would have saved you going to all this bother.

You... You knew. Said Aldhyn. And then wondered why he should be surprised.

There are no secrets in Castellayne, said Aldhyrwoode.

He scratched Shadow under the chin where the cat sat, smugly perched, on his shoulder.

Or anywhere else, Alejandro muttered.

Come back tomorrow, said the wizard. Both of you. The rug will be ready and waiting.

Aldhyn looked doubtful. Just like that? No lectures? No warnings? No promises to be careful?

Don’t take sweets from strangers, said Aldhyrwoode. Try not to get into too much trouble. And come back in one piece. Alive if you can. But, no. No lectures. All young men should have at least one great adventure in their lives.

Queen Saavi insisted on sending her personal guard with them. Bannock son of Bowden, grandson of Balon O’Byrne, was only some few years older than the two princes, and was yet to have his own “great adventure”.

King Robin and Aldhyn’s mother, Princess Marisanne, were there with Aldhyrwoode to see them off. The stairs to the top of the wizard’s tower were too many for Saavi, but they could see her waving from an open window as they circled the royal keep.

Aldhyn had learned how to control the magic carpet with his mind. He thought about the window and his grandmother and the rug hovered just below the ledge.

Come with us, he said, and held his hand out to her.

Saavi shook her head. Oh, no. I couldn’t. You go. I’ll stay here with my slippers and my comfortable chair.

A whirl around the castle then? To The Greenwoode and back?

No, no. Really. It’s sweet of you to think of me. But I really can’t.

Aldhyn could see how much his grandmother wished she could. Just one last time.

All right, he said. When we return. To The Greenwoode and back. It’s a promise.

He and Alejandro both kissed her goodbye.

Sir Bannock kissed the back of her hand, ever gallant. Perhaps I should stay? Your Majesty might need me.

No, she won’t. Said Saavi. And she shooed him away saying, Go. Take care of my grandsons. If I know Alejandro, he’ll need you more.

Jal Naghrahar was a lapis lazuli gem set against a golden backdrop of rugged sandstone cliffs and surrounded by emerald jungle. After a week in which they’d almost been trampled by a herd of elephants, swore to never eat the food again, ate the food again, were kicked or bitten or spat on by camels, chased a monkey that had light-fingered Aldhyn’s purse of coins through a crowded bazaar of hawkers and beggars only to lose it, and themselves, in the twisting turning alleyways of the old city, had rescued Alejandro from an enormous eunuch whose only purpose in life was to guard the Maharajah’s hareem, were kicked and bitten and spat on by the women of the hareem when they tried to drag Alejandro away from them, and were stalked by a tygre of the most fearful symmetry, Bannock decided he’d had enough excitement, and the two princes agreed with him.

Alejandro was the first to notice. So large and brightly coloured were the sunflower yellow pennants of Rhealmyrr that normally streamed from their tall poles high above Castellayne’s towers, that they were ominously conspicuous by their absence.

Something’s wrong, he said.

Someone must have died, said Aldhyn, who could think of no other reason for the flags of the kingdom to have been taken down.

Not Grandfather, said the sharp eyed Alejandro, recognizing the figure of King Robin waiting for them to land on top of the wizard’s tower with Aldhyrwoode beside him. See? My father, too. And my brother. Your mother’s there, Aldhyn. And mine.

And Her Majesty? Asked Sir Bannock.

No, but... She wouldn’t be. The stairs.

I’m sure Grandmother’s perfectly fine, said Aldhyn.

One of her ladies in waiting had found Queen Saavi sitting, sleeping she thought, in her chair by the fireside. A slipper had fallen off, and when the girl had tried to put it back on, Saavi hadn’t stirred.

Felix Ulveus, exiled from Greyshale, set sail for parts unknown. But then brown-skinned children from the New Worlde began appearing in the slave markets of Qin Xa.

The young Petroan, Xanis of Synax, marched into the forests of Darkelyn to hunt the Horned Men. He and his phalan of eight hundred vanished without a trace.

Bjern Bearskinner lived to see a (great) grandson on the throne of Rhealmhyrr, though the circumstances of Aldhyn's conception were never forgotten.

Bjern and Harald Hard-arse were thought to have perished during a voyage to the snow bear glaciers after their longship became trapped in the ice.

Queen Freya of Greyshale was succeeded by her sister Freida's oldest of seven sons. His name was Harald.

Sir Roger of Delthemhyrr, Robin's boyhood friend, passed away peacefully in his sleep a week before his one hundredth birthday. A father, grandfather, great grandfather, and great great grandfather.

The years saw Prince Aldhyn seated on the throne of Rhealmyrr, and Rhowyn's oldest son, Rafael, wear the crown of thorns of Navarre. With his brother Alejandro as his Marshall.

The roads between Castellayne and Kaldiz were seldom empty with all the comings and goings. There were fetes, and feasts, and tourneys.

But with each passing season, Robin became more and more withdrawn. And Aldhyrwoode began to worry.

Robin and Aldhyrwoode walked into the enchanted glade together.

There was no sign of the nymph, Annaed.

Or the giant woodsman who guarded the sacred pool.

It was a hot day, and the long walk had tired Robin. He sat with his back against the trunk of a flowering hawthorn, the sweat on his brow cooling in the welcome shade.

I’ll just close my eyes for a moment, he thought to himself. Just for a moment.

Awaking some time later, he couldn’t help thinking his boots had shrunk.

They definitely looked smaller.

And not just his boots, but the feet inside them!

Wake up! He told himself. You’re dreaming!

He shook his head to clear it.

The hand he used to wipe the sleep from his eyes looked different somehow.

He held it up in front of his face. Then the other.

They were a child’s hands!

What illusion is this? He wondered aloud.

He crouched beside the sacred pool, about to splash water on his face in the hope of banishing this strange, fevered, dream and...

He saw his reflection gazing back at him.

It was a child’s face!

My sweet Robin Redbreast, said a voice he knew instantly.

It was the maiden.

Annaed! Robin exclaimed.

Did I startle you? I’m sorry.

No, said Robin. Yes. We were playing, weren’t we? I don’t remember falling asleep, but I... Where is the old man? Asked Robin, looking around the glade. He was here. I’m sure he was. He had a long white beard and... He walked with a staff but... I don’t see him now.

The greybeard will visit us again, said Annaed. Do not fret.

She stood before him. The most beautiful vision he had ever seen. Her long flaxen hair woven with wildflowers. A chain of tiny white daisies graced one slender wrist. Twists of green ivy were tied around her ankles. Her skin was pale, and smooth, and as perfect as the finest porcelain from far Cathay. A land the prince had only heard of. Though he couldn’t think where. Or from whom. Her lips were a rosebud. Her blue eyes sparkled like starlight.

For sooth, he said. Tell me blithe spirit, are you real or faerie?

The maiden smiled. I am as real as you are, she said.

I had a dream, said Robin. My father died and I was the king. I married a princess from a far away land... There was a great battle...

The maiden silenced him with a kiss and stroked his hair.

Come and lay with me, she said. The clover is sweet and the bees will not trouble us.

There was the rustle of fallen leaves and the giant woodsman came out of the forest.

Hello! He called. The young master has returned to us, I see. Look who else I found!

He was holding a green leather halter. A butternut-grey pony trotted along behind. The pony saw Robin and whinnied, tossing its shaggy head.

And what of the wizard Aldhyrwoode?

You might ask for him at The Drowned Duck.

The End

Felix Ulveus had grown up in two worlds. Neither of which suited him. His white skin burned too easily under the unrelenting sun of Navarre, and the light reflecting off every hard, flat surface of the stone citadel of Kaldiz hurt his palest of pale blue eyes.

On Greyshale, the grandson of Bjern Bearskinner had needed to prove himself again and again. Blacking the eyes and bloodying the noses of other boys. There, at least, his size had helped. It was easy for Felix to be stronger, faster, better at everything the raiders respected. But even in his grandfather's hall he'd been an object of fear and superstition.

Only among the wardens of the north did his albinism not single him out as being odd or peculiar. And it was during those too infrequent visits to The Greenwoode with his father that he'd felt his most at ease.

He could have been happy at Castellayne. King Robin had shared with him a secret glade. And the nymph Annaed had gifted him his first kiss.

Only with a leaf, she'd whispered to him, can I talk of the forest.

He had thrown all that away the afternoon he'd chanced to find Princess Marisanne alone in the stables. She was older by some six years, but he was already taller and stronger and, oblivious to her suffering, he'd slaked his urgent, adolescent lust between her trembling thighs. His hand clamped around her throat to choke off her screams.

He'd left without explanation. Fearing King Robin's wrath. Riding north towards Wyrm Crag, then west as far as Willow Rush on the Peat river, north again through the Mountains Of Ghorme, and across the wastelands into Darkelyn. At first he'd thought to wait until he could make his way east, to the coast, where there were Norren settlements in the hills around Byrne Slough. From there he could take ship back to Greyshale. His mother Freya was queen there. No one knew where his grandfather was. The Bearskinner hadn't returned from one last voyage to the New Worlde, and all believed him lost at his sea.

Would his mother grant him sanctuary at the risk of souring the friendship with Rhealmyrr and King Robin?

A man should make his own way, he'd decided. Fight his own battles.

In time, when he was ready, he would sweep through Navarre with fire and sword. And without its strongest ally...

Crush Rhealmyrr under his heel.

To the horned men of Darkelyn he was a god.

On the eve of the summer solstice they brought him a virgin girl.

He gave them her strangled corpse in return.

Among the savage horsemen of the plains tribes he was The Frost Giant.

Such was his strength he could squeeze a man's skull with the fingers of one hand until the ears bled and the bulging eyeballs burst out of their sockets.

In Petros he was an abomination who crucified.children.

He slaughtered and pillaged at will.

No cub now, Felix Ulveus was a snow bear full grown.

_

Duke Rhowyn of Navarre stood with his head bowed, crowned in rose coloured light where the morning sun was refracting through a stained glass window set high in the chapel's frescoed wall. Don Matteo had been laid to rest alongside Rhowyn's beloved Alejandro. Sebastian and Isolde lay, together for eternity, in the transept's matching twin opposite. Waiting near the altar was the newly appointed Marshall, Don Eduardo Des Montoya.

Don Eduardo was the brother of Rhowyn's wife, Lady Caitlyn Louisa. The bond of friendship had been slow to take root between the two men, but the years had seen it grow, season by season, until their respect for one another was buttressed by true affection.

Your Grace?

Rhowyn turned. Yes, I know. It's time. You have a long ride ahead of you.

The Petroans would be expecting Navarre's forces to join theirs five days hence, beyond the Fern river. From there the two armies would skirt the foothills of the Mountains Of Ghorme and advance together into the flat grasslands of the plains.

Without the support of Navarre horse the Petroan heavy infantry could be separated and surrounded by the plains tribes on their sturdy ponies and decimated by arrows, weakening the squared shield walls until they collapsed, and their long spears were next to useless.

I'm tempted to come with you, said Rhowyn. Felix has gone unpunished for too long. But you understand why I can't, don't you? Matteo's son played with mine own boys when they were children. That we might meet in battle would be...

Eduardo nodded to show that he understood.

Rhowyn's two sons were staying at Kaldiz for the same reason.

Does he know, do you think? Eduardo asked Rhowyn.

That my sister gave birth to his bastard child? I doubt it. Nor does he deserve to know. I'm just thankful the boy wasn't tainted with the albino's evil seed.

Felix Ulveus avoided the Al Den Gir warriors with their stench of sour mare's milk as much as was possible, preferring to pass his orders on through the horned men he'd chosen to lead the raiding parties that brought back slaves from settlements all along the border of Petros to be sold on the auction blocks of Qin Xa. A pretty boy could bring a small fortune in the east. The few who survived castration and the long sea voyage were prized by the Qin as exotic bed warmers. There was less demand for girls and women, so the Gir usually kept them as saddle wives and future breeders.

Human sacrifices were custom among the plains tribes. Young females in their moon blood would be buried up to their necks and left to die of thirst or exposure, thus ensuring the fertility of mares and women alike.

The boys of a rival tribe who were unlucky enough to be taken captive were pinned to tree trunks by arrows through their hands and feet, while still alive, so any pregnant women would give their husbands sons.

The Snow Bear didn't encourage it, but nor had he tried to put an end to it. He doubted he could. And besides, it served his purpose well enough. His enemies feared him. How was that not a good thing?

King Robin walked with the wizard Aldhyrwoode in the walled garden at Castellayne where the hundreds of white rose-bushes planted all around the pink granite memorial to Robin's mother were in full bloom. The wizard's hair and beard were silver, and he'd begun to lean more and more on his staff, but his back was still straight and a young man's eyes looked out from under caterpillar brows.

He liked to say he was still a spring lamb, though few lambs could number their years at three and fully five score.

At eight and three score, Robin had more grandchildren than grey hairs in his beard, and the face beneath it was as smooth and flush cheeked as his youngest grandson's. A youth of six and ten, Prince Aldhyn was so much like Robin in so many ways that people often remarked on it. Something the boy's mother, Princess Marisanne, was thankful for.

This trouble with Felix, Aldhyrwoode said to Robin. I think you should stay well clear of it. Rhowyn has the right idea.

Rhowyn has Eduardo to lead his army, said Robin. Who is there here but me?

Why not send Sir Wulfram?

Because the captain of the castle guard needs to be here, to guard the castle.

From what? An invasion of field mice? There hasn't been any unrest in the kingdom since the uprising of the clans. And Roger's son Sir Rufus holds the north. Even Felix's mother Queen Freya wants no part of it.

For all his faults, said Robin, Felix is still her son. She would save him if she could. I promised to return him to her, alive. The only way I can keep that promise is if I'm there.

And what if something happens to you? Asked Aldhyrwoode.

Then, said Robin, Marisanne will be queen until Aldhyn comes of age.

Not Rhowyn?

It was Rhowyn who suggested it. He says he can't be both a duke and a king. He's happy in Navarre. His son Rafael will follow after him. The Dons have agreed to it.

Felix is Matteo's son, said Aldhywoode. He has as much right to claim the thorned crown as Rafael.

True, said Robin. But who in their right mind would nominate him?

The wizard wasn't so sure. Stranger things had happened. It would be better, he thought to himself, if Felix Ulveus could somehow be removed as an option altogether.

That very same day a raven flew westward from the wizard's tower.

Felix Ulveus watched the Gir scouts ride into camp.

Well?

The most senior of his horned men bowed and said, Bronze heads. Too many to count. The scouts say there are steel heads with them. Many horses.

An alliance then, Felix said, talking to himself more than he was to the men around him. Between Petros and Navarre. They mean to crush me. But I'm no beetle to be so easily ground under foot. Tell the Gir to string their bows. We will ride to meet the steel heads. The Petroans are only foot soldiers. They might as well be tortoises.

The horned man frowned. We fight?

We sting them, said Felix. We kill a few and then we fly away. Like hornets. They'll try to catch us on their heavy horses. We sting them again. And then again. And all the time we'll be drawing the steel heads further away from the bronze heads.

The horned man nodded. It was how the plains tribes fought. Hit and run. Wear the enemy out. The Gir on their small ponies wouldn't stand a chance against the knights of Navarre in close combat. But an arrow from a Gir bow could pierce armour plate before the steel heads could even free their swords.

He turned to explain it to the others...

Big horse is slow horse.

From his place on the far right of the first rank, Xanis of Petros looked out on a wall of grass taller than he was. His men stood ready, their shields locked together and their iron blade tipped spears pointed toward the enemy. Or where they thought the enemy would come from, at least. It was impossible to see. Stretching away on his left were three other phalans, two hundred men wide and four deep. On his right were four more. There were as many spears as there were blades of grass.

Don Eduardo repeated his orders. There would be no reckless pursuit. No mad dashes forward. No matter how many times the enemy rode close enough to fire a volley of arrows and then gallop away. The lines of heavy cavalry would advance at a walk, not engaging, but pressing the Gir back. Turning them. Forcing them closer and closer to the ranks of Petroans and their forest of spears.

Only when the wild tribesmen were held firm against the anvil of Petros would Navarre's hammer fall.

The Snow Bear saw the trap closing. Calling back the few hundred Gir and less than a score of horned men who were left, he turned north and rode for the Darkelyn forest. Only to see the sunflower yellow pennants of Rhealmyrr cutting off his retreat.

Roaring defiance, he sawed at his horse's reins and turned to spur it in the only direction that was still clear. The shoreline and the endless blue sea.

That was when he saw the longship.

Its oars churning the water white.

Not slowing as it headed straight for the narrow strip of stony beach.

Keel scraping.

Helmed warriors leaping over the sides.

Waving their arms.

Calling his name.

Long, low, and windowless, the interior of the feasting hall on Greyshale was a puzzle of shadows on even the brightest of summer days. What it was. What it shouldn't have been. What it had never been, for as far back as Felix Ulveus could remember, was empty. No torches flickered. The fire in the large, round hearth in the centre of the hall was naught but ash and embers. The gloom was almost impenetrable.

Hello! He called. Mother?

A voice came out of the shadows. She's not here, boy.

Anger flared. Felix turned. I'm not your...

The back of a hand as large as an oar-blade slammed into the side of his face. It loosened teeth and almost dislocated his jaw. He laughed and shook it off. You'll have to do better than...

The huge, hulking shadow shambled closer.

Felix's palest of pale blue eyes widened. But you're...

Dead? Asked Bjern Bearskinner. You'll wish I was.