The Faerie King Trilogy: A Humorous Fantasy: The Faerie King Trilogy, #4

THE FAERIE KING TRILOGY

Kevin Partner

The Faerie King Trilogy: A Humorous Fantasy

Copyright ©2019 Kevin Partner

All rights reserved

The characters, organisations, and events portrayed in this book are fictitious (obvs). Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, are coincidental and not intended by the author. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or otherwise, without written permission from the author.

First Edition, First Impression

Published by Trantor Press

www.kevpartner.co.uk

For Peta

and Terry Pratchett

Note: this book contains footnotes. When you see a number, tap it to see the (hilarious) note, then tap again to go back.

Hey little human, what do you see?

Three ugly goblins hang from a tree.

Hey little human, what will you do?

Tonight when the Faerie King comes for you?

Myths and Magic

Four Billion Years Ago

In his defence, it was his first day in a new job.

Creative Creationist Solutions Unlimited had won a surprise contract to redevelop a rather misbegotten corner of multidimensional space-time. The pre-existing universes had been swept away and the new brown space site had been made ready for development, but there simply weren’t enough qualified deities to go around.

And so it was that Ericacious Mudd, on attachment from the Youth Obscuration Bureau and, by all accounts, two tentacles short of a fry-up, found himself assigned to the least promising reality of the most hopeless dimension. Because, in circumstances like this, it was all appendages on deck. Mythology doesn’t write itself, after all.

So it was that the newly ennobled Lord Eric, probationary member of the celestial pantheon, surveyed his new domain and smiled. Yes, this would do nicely. Raw materials, gamma radiation within tolerable limits and plenty of space. Tick, tick, tick. Location, location, location.

Well, he thought, there’s no space-time like the here-present. With a flourish, Eric raised his hand and swept it from right to left, causing eddies in space-time and, after a moment that might have lasted a billion years, a dusty, multi-armed spiral coalesced and began to rotate. The centre of the dust cloud bulged and sputtered and, lo, there was light and its often underrated sibling, heat.

With god-like care, Eric stuck a finger into the orbiting dust cloud and gave it a twiddle. He then watched, with delight, as clumps of rock turned into asteroids which then collided to form protoplanets of molten magma. Leaving them to cool down a bit, Eric had fun playing around with the gas giants (especially the one he’d made entirely out of helium which was hilarious) before returning to the inner planets and his particular favourite, the greeny-blue one, fourth out from the adolescent sun. Yes, this one would be perfect.

And then he was gliding over the rocky surface of the blue planet, luxuriating in the feel of wind on his beak and dirt in his suckers. He would give this world a name, and he would call it … Mud. Perfect.

Eric knelt beside the sea and scooped up a handful of algae. He peered into the protoplasm and sighed. At this rate, it would be billions of years before Mud became the garden he desired. He looked over his shoulder and, after scanning the heavens and finding them empty of YOB Assessors, he turned back to the green water in his curled-up tentacle and gibbered a word of command he’d seen scrawled on the walls of the siphon cubicles back in the office.

Instantly, the water began to bubble and foam as evolution received a shot of adrenaline and skipped forward several million generations. Eric dropped the seething mass into the sea and deflated to watch with interest. Within god-seconds, he spotted fins breaking the ocean surface before, an instant later, a slimy fish heaved itself onto the virgin mud.

If he were honest with himself, Eric would confess that he napped for a bit at this point, construction being pretty exhausting even for gods. He was woken from his Sabathical nap by a sharp pain in his mantle and a squelchy sound as he slapped a celestial tentacle against it. He looked up just in time to see a gaggle of hairy arses disappear into the treeline.

Not again! Eric cried. He was angry at the impunity of the humanoids and their universal default position of attacking anything they didn’t understand. Oh yes, he’d read about them in the Planetary Health & Safety Manual. He was furious with himself for falling asleep at the crucial moment. If only he’d been awake a few seconds ago, he could have stopped the hairless apes before they’d climbed down from the trees. And he’d been having such interesting dreams about elves and dwarfs, goblins, trolls and other non-tentacled monstrocities. Such very interesting dreams, they almost seemed real.

Well, it was too late now. Eric raised himself, pausing only to vaporise the forest containing the humans, or at least most of them. He leapt into the firmament, thinking about how he was going to explain this and hoping he’d get a decent plot to have another go.

He didn’t look back. If he had, he might have spotted the other planet, there but not there, out of the corner of his eye. A malevolent twin overlapping his creation like a Venn Diagram. And where they intersected, zig-zags of energy broke through their crusts and demons danced in the rainbow lightning. Where once there had been Mud, now there was the Tworld.

Because, for gods, even dreams have power.

21 years ago.

A hand swept across the circular hole in the stone’s centre, and the chamber was flooded with light. Red eyes squinted as they peered through the portal and out onto the Brightworld beyond. Grey, blue and brown. And so many shades of green.

As their senses adjusted, the two figures could see the backs of two standing stones, looking out upon rolling hills. Although, right now, they were standing in a rock-hewn chamber in the heart of the palace, on the other side of the portal was a grassy landscape with, on the horizon, the pink foreshadowing of the rising sun. Nothing moved except for a flock of starlings sweeping across the downs. All was quiet.

It is time, said one of the figures.

The other looked up, her white face flushed by the light of dawn. I’m afraid, my Lord.

With good reason. The Brightworld is entirely strange to you and full of dangers. I have been there, lived there. There was a pause, followed by a sigh. But the fact remains that you alone, of our people, can cross into that world so you, alone, must brave it. Now, do as I command. Begin by finding your father and explaining our agreement. He will help you.

I hope so, she replied, shaking her head slightly and pulling up the collar of her fur coat.

The man smiled. Oh, he’ll help you. Now, remember to talk to no-one unless absolutely necessary. You have provisions - do not touch the food without your father’s guidance. You must acclimatise yourself to that cold, bright, world. Now, go.

She nodded and stepped forward to the stone portal, climbing into the hole then turning to face him.

My Lord Humunculus, am I to go into this world unarmed?

With the speed of a striking spider, the one called Humunculus pushed her so that she fell out of the hole and onto the dewy grass on the other side.

Astria sat up and looked back at the stone that, on this side, was circular in shape, just in time to see a silver dagger fly through the hole and land in the grass beside her.

Do not fail.

The words echoed around the stone circle as Astria retrieved the weapon, stowed it in the fur bag over her shoulder, and headed out of the stone circle, down the slope and towards the sunrise.

Chapter 1

Bill Strike raised himself onto his elbows and ran his fingers over his forehead. Eyebrows intact, if a little warm. He felt down his smoking tunic and sighed with relief at confirmation that the crown jewels were still there, though somewhat bruised. The fireball had thrown him backwards and dissipated almost instantly, leaving a curiously quiet forest, the only sounds being the chuckling of the woodpeckers. Smartarses.

Son!

Gods, of course his father was here.

The face of Blackjack Strike appeared above him, and he was hauled to his feet. Blackjack scanned him from top to bottom and patted out a couple of smoking spots on his jacket.

Are you okay, boy?

Bill rubbed his eyes again and nodded.

I think so, he pointed across the clearing. The pile collapsed just as I was checking for leaks.

And how many times have I told you to take care when the heat’s up? What would your mother say if you got hurt?

Blackjack led his son over to the foot of an oak and sat him down beside his pack. Now, you have something to eat and drink while I patch it up.

Bill watched as his father strode confidently over to the smouldering charcoal pile and examined the fracture. What would his mother say, indeed? But, as she’d disappeared when he was a baby and hadn’t been seen since, he couldn’t ask her. Blackjack took a spade and stirred the bucket beside the mound before shaking his head and stomping off through the woods to where a thin wisp of smoke could be seen between the coppices.

A few swigs of scumpy and a bite of pasty had revived Bill somewhat by the time his father returned, carrying his own bucket which he set down beside the pile. Blackjack used the spade to stir the mixture and, clearly satisfied, shovelled enough into the hole to plug it.

Your muck was too wet, he said, before sitting on a root next to Bill.

Sorry, dad.

Blackjack shook his head slightly as he looked over his son, before brushing the front of Bill’s jacket. You’ve got a face like a badger’s arse and that coat’s prob’ly ruined. Bloody hell, lad, how are we ever goin’ to make a burner out of you?

Sorry, dad.

Blackjack Strike sighed, took a swig of Bill’s cider and leant back against the trunk of the tree next to his son.

You know, there’s been a Strike in these woods for as long as there’s been trees here. You see that tree over there? he said, pointing at a stubby trunk from which masses of whip-like branches grew. That were first cut by your great great grandfather Vinegar Strike and it’s been harvested by every Strike since. Soon enough, it’ll be your turn.

Don’t talk like that, Dad, Bill said.

Turning to him, Blackjack looked into his son’s eyes. I just want you to pick up the trade so’s I can pass it on without ‘aving to fret about you blowing yourself up. Your head’s in the clouds, boy when you need to keep your eyes on the ground.

They sat quietly as the sounds of the wood returned.

Mind you, continued Blackjack after some time, "it’s Master Vokes who I blame. You spend too much time with him. Learning."

Bill couldn’t help noticing that his father gave that last word the sort of intonation typically used by priests warning of the dangers of education. ¹

I like learning, dad. There’s no harm in it.

Blackjack shrugged. There’s no point, neither. Not for a collier’s son. You need to know how to build a clamp right, how to fix it and how to plug it.

Bill’s father paused for a moment. And how to care for it without gettin’ blown apart.

Silence fell between them as they sat, one of them emitting wisps of smoke in the cool evening air.

Bill peered sidelong at his father who was staring into the heart of the woods. Blackjack Strike had drawn his knees up and was resting his chin on his hands looking for all the world like a wise old ape contemplating the nature of reality. And bananas.

Blackjack’s face was as dark as his name; a deep black that had been carried from father to son through generations of Strikes. It was as if charcoal flowed through their veins. Bill looked down at his hands; they were black alright but beneath the encrusted charcoal dust he knew that his skin was lighter than the froth on a beer. And not just any froth on any old bitter; when it came to beer comparisons, Bill Strike was a whiter shade of pale.

Presumably, in this at least, he took after his mysterious mother. Aside from his skin colour, build, demeanour and general awkwardness around burning wood, Bill was his father’s son. Both had bright blue eyes and a mop of dark hair on their heads, but whereas Blackjack’s thatch merged naturally with his dark skin, Bill looked like an anaemic matchstick.

Blackjack raised himself with a grunt and picked up his bucket. You tend to your clamp and, once it’s settled, come and find me. The nights are starting to draw in, and I want to be in my own bed tonight.

Bill nodded automatically, but his mind was elsewhere. He got up and brushed the cold ash from his jacket. Yes, he was safe in these woods, although he couldn’t necessarily say the same for his eyebrows.

Bill shook his head and ambled over to the kiln. He spotted the new mud added by his father and looked for a very long branch to prod it with. Satisfied that it was dry and secure, he went back to his pack and sat down beside it.

The forest settled into its former watchfulness although it now possessed just a hint of nervous tension, as if it wasn’t quite sure what might happen next. Despite this, birds began dutifully chattering and singing - though from a distance - and a gentle breeze stirred the stiffening autumn leaves as Bill thought.

It was now so quiet that he could hear his father tending his pile some way away but, while Bill’s ears felt as though they were smothered by the unchanging eiderdown of eternity, his mind was in the middle of a pillow fight. There was something very wrong with his father’s behaviour. His protectiveness had become close to an obsession. In fact, come to think of it, he’d been acting pretty strangely for weeks now. It was almost as if he was waiting for something he dreaded.

Reaching into his pack, Bill pulled out his half eaten pasty and chewed on it. There was no doubt about it, a mouthful of tendon and gristle did wonders for settling the mind. Bill felt he had little to fear in a world where an artisan baker like Richard Sole ("We put R Sole in every pie") could make a technically honest living.

He forced the last mouthful down, leant back, shut his eyes and let the sounds of birds, leaves and the tick-ticking of the charcoal clamp soothe the voice of uncertainty echoing in the back of his mind.

¹ In general, the major religions, and their agents, supported and encouraged education provided that it supported the Status Quo. Thin Lizzy, on the other hand, was considered beyond the pale.

Chapter 2

Nomenclature Vokes was, by any measure, an odd man. Despite the obvious dangers, he cultivated a reputation for magic and was particularly well known for his ability to control fire. Fortunately for him, this gift was seen as useful by the local nobility - the Moredits - who held that his ability to function as a one-man artillery unit outweighed any piffling religious reasons to have him suspended upside down beneath a bridge. There was also the fact that, if the rumours were to be believed, he could incinerate any platoon sent to apprehend him.

It was dark by the time Bill arrived at Vokes’ cottage, having seen his father safely home. He’d left Blackjack staring into the fire sipping on a tankard of stocky, the black beer he favoured. Unusually, Blackjack had spurned the offer of a pint in the Cock and Bull, and Bill had used the opportunity to call in on Vokes on his way into town. The old man had almost jumped out of his beard when he opened the door and had only calmed down when he realised it was Bill who was standing on his doorstep. It was another puzzle to add to the compendium. After all, who else would be visiting Vokes after dark? It was almost as if the old man was living in fear.

Bill now watched as Vokes rummaged amongst the scrolls in the section of his library labelled Mappes. He was presently standing, one-legged, on a milking stool and straining to reach to the farthest depths of the highest shelf where, by laws that have yet to be explained by even the most esteemed of Physik professors, everything useful ends up.

Got it! he said.

Vokes stepped back, forgetting that he was standing on a stool, and his left leg, the one that had nothing but a foot and a half’s air beneath it, slid sideways taking the old man with it.

Bill leapt out of his chair and caught the wizard as he fell backwards. Momentum being what it is, Bill ended up pinned beneath the wizard desperately trying to keep his mouth shut as his face disappeared into a mass of greasy locks.

I’m so sorry, Vokes said as he struggled to disentangle himself. Be a good lad and pass me my staff, will you?

Bill wiped his face and sprang to his feet. He took the wizard’s ancient staff from its place by the fireside and held it down to Vokes as he lay on the floor.

Oh, just drop it, if you don’t mind, Vokes said.

Puzzled, Bill laid the stick beside the old man who grabbed it and hauled himself to his feet.

Did you find the map? asked Bill, opting to go with the flow.

What?

Bill suppressed a sigh. Vokes was a genius, but he was also forgetful, especially if distracted. The map you were looking for, of the nine realms.

Vokes looked around, spotted the scroll in his hand and looked surprised. Oh yes, of course. Something to do with your mother, I believe.

He took the scroll over to a table already full of papers and simply rolled it out on top of them so that it covered almost the entire surface, the objects beneath suggesting an entirely false topography.

Now then, where are we? Ah! Vokes stabbed his finger onto a small cross around a third of the way from the scroll’s left-hand edge.

Bill leant in and squinted. Upton Moredit. If that’s where the town is then this clump of trees represents Clancy’s Wood, and so Dingly Dell must be near its northern boundary.

The wizard watched closely, perching his spectacles on the end of his nose and squinting at the tiny legends on the map. Indeed, although you mustn’t take the map too literally. Recording the less, shall we say, valuable areas was entrusted to the Agents of Estate, and many of their measurements were taken from the roof of a speeding coach. Broadly speaking, however, the proportions and relative positions don’t stray too far from the actuality.

Bill stood up and surveyed the full extent of the map. Not for the first time in his life, he felt utterly insignificant although not, on this occasion, because of his occupation. And is the whole area ruled by the Varmans?

The wizard shook his head. The Varman Empire is the largest in this part of the world, and this map shows only its north-westernmost corner, but there are independent kingdoms on its periphery. However, your mother couldn’t possibly have come from any of them, she was far too educated. I knew her, you see - she used to come and visit me when she was married to your father.

You knew my mother? squeaked Bill, who’d just swallowed a mouthful of hot tea. Why haven’t you ever told me? You’ve been teaching me for years!

Nomenclature Vokes took the cup of tea out of the shaking hands of his pupil and gestured to a pair of armchairs in front of an unlit fire. With a snap of his fingers, flames sprung into life.

Perhaps we had better sit down. I believe it’s time.

Bill settled into the chair, relieved that his legs no longer had to support him.

I must begin by telling you that I don’t know where your mother went or, indeed, the land she came from, at least nothing definite, Vokes said, handing Bill a tumbler of brandy before sinking back into his chair and sipping at his drink. He cultivated his reputation by wearing red and orange clothes and was now wrapping his deep scarlet cloak around his knees.

She was certainly clever. I’m glad to see, incidentally, that you have inherited her wit rather than your father’s.

My father’s no fool, said Bill, not appreciating the malevolent glint in the wizard’s eye as he talked about Blackjack, he knows more about his business than any man alive.

I meant no offence. Within the borders of his own world, your father’s knowledge is, indeed, peerless. Your mother, however, was of a different breed. She was a creature of the wider world. Indeed, it’s hard to see what she saw in your father at all, Vokes said.

Or, indeed, any ordinary man, he added as Bill opened his mouth to object.

There was silence for a moment as the old man and the boy thought. It was Bill who broke it. What can you tell me about her? All I know is that she was called Astria, and she was beautiful.

What? Oh, yes. Astria, that was her name. The old man’s face fell as if his mind were wandering in regretful memories.

As for beauty, I couldn’t really say. She would certainly have seemed exotic to those who haven’t travelled widely. Her skin, like yours, was pale and flawless, and she possessed a clear, fragile, voice that belied an inner power I could perceive, even if others couldn’t.

Bill leant forward, catching the wizard’s glance. The old man’s eyes were wet. Where did she come from?

Vokes looked into the fire. I can’t say, for sure. Somewhere west of here, I think. She never said. Your father said she appeared out of the darkness one night and enchanted him. In a good way, at least so it seemed.

Was she some sort of witch then? asked Bill, beginning to feel lost in a sea of confusion and revelation.

What? A witch? No, of course not. The very thought!

Bill slumped back in his chair, surprised again by the emotional force of the old man’s answer. Every question seemed to touch a nerve.

Vokes sighed.

Not a witch, he said, his voice regaining its regular, wheezy, character, but perhaps there was a little of the faerie about her. Perhaps.

The old man turned to the fire, but his eyes remained fixed on the boy’s face.

Faerie? Are you serious? Bill said, trying hard to keep a lid on the maelstrom in his mind. There’s no such place! They’re called fairy stories for a reason, you know. Because they’re just stories.

Have it your own way, but remember that there are fairy stories, and then there are Faerie Stories, the wizard said, somehow emphasising the capital letters. After all, is Faerie any more ridiculous than an old man who can shoot fireballs from the palms of his hands.

As a purely defensive measure, Bill’s mind decided to stop canoeing upriver and to get out of the water entirely.

Okay, so when did you last see her? he asked, parking the matter of the magical realm for another time.

The wizard sighed. On the day she left your father. He had no idea at that point, she’d said she was walking into town for supplies but, instead, she came here. She told me that she could no longer stay, although she wouldn’t explain why. She seemed to be in a hurry, and she was nervous about something. I offered her my protection, but she claimed that even I couldn’t help her. Odd.

He shook his head as if pondering an age-old puzzle that still gnawed at him.

And then what? prompted Bill as his patience began to wear thin.

What? Oh yes. Then she left.

Just as Bill was about to erupt in frustration, the old man continued.

She asked me to watch out for you. She said she knew your father would take care of your corporeal needs, but she wanted you to be educated, as she was. She knew then, you see, that you were a bright child. So, once you were old enough, I spoke to your father - I didn’t mention your mother’s request, you understand, she’d asked me to keep it secret. Blackjack was a bit resistant but, in the end, he saw the value of what I was offering. And, I must say, you’ve proven a most able student, my boy. Quite your mother’s son.

Didn’t you ask her where she was going?

Vokes shrugged. Of course I did, but she wouldn’t tell me even though I begged to be allowed to help her. She knew her mind and no-one could persuade her otherwise once she was set upon a course.

Bill sighed. And you’ve got no theories of your own? No idea at all?

I have theories, said Vokes, but that’s all they are and, like your mother, I am strong-willed enough to keep my own counsel until I have some evidence, if that ever happens.

The old man raised himself stiffly out of the chair, grabbed a poker from beside the fire and prodded at the coals.

You know, you could help me in my researches. I’m too old to go travelling, but you’d make an adequate substitute.

Me? said Bill, astonished.

The wizard turned towards him, a hungry gleam in his eye. And why not? You have wit enough to do my bidding, to ask the right questions and go to the right places. Or do you see your entire life being lived in the coppice woods?

Truth to tell, Bill had indeed feared that the only exposure he’d get to the wider world would be the occasional trading trip to one of the larger nearby towns, perhaps even going as far as the provincial capital, Montesham, once or twice during his lifetime. The thought of travelling beyond the borders of his direct knowledge excited him. It also frightened him and fear, right now, was winning hands-down.

I don’t think I could leave dad, he said, putting his glass down and heading to where his coat sat.

A pity. Perhaps you’re not quite as like your mother as I thought. For all her faults she never lacked courage, Vokes said, bristling.

He paused, his shoulders dropped, and he looked into Bill’s eyes. All I ask is that you think about it. You’ve learned enough of the wider world to know that there is much to see beyond the borders of these woods and, in finding your mother, you might do a greater service than simply having your questions answered. Troubling times are approaching, and she might be important.

The old man heaved himself out of his chair, waving away Bill’s questions, and walked to the front door, his hand resting on the bolt. No more tonight. I am tired and have much still to do. Come and see me soon, preferably during daylight, you quite startled me on the door.

What were you frightened of? Bill asked as he stepped across the threshold and looked back at Vokes and the merry warmth of the cottage hallway behind him.

The wizard’s expression hardened.

Frightened? Me? What in these woods could possibly scare me? he said and shut the door, leaving Bill standing in the darkness.

What indeed? thought Bill as he headed along the familiar pathway back home.

A curious face looked out from the other world - a curious, impatient face with anger management issues. Refined eyebrows creased together and a mouth that generally wore a sarcastic smile now bordered on the verge of a snarl. How long was he expected to wait? It had been 20 years since he sent his messenger forth and still he was trapped on this side when there was so much of interest on the other.

Tea, sir? rasped a voice from the darkness behind him.

The face at the round window inclined his head slightly, without taking his gaze from the tempting world over there. Not now, Bently, can’t you see I’m occupied?

There was a gentle cough. If I may be so bold, master, but you’ve been standing there for some time. You appear to have an arachnid nesting in your hat, and I fear we may have to lift you out of your boots when you tire of watching.

You are brave, I’ll give you that. I will reward your boldness by not killing you, for the moment.

An audible nod could be heard from the shadows. Thank you, master. Would you anticipate requiring refreshment?

With a flick of his wrist, the spider, or at least its long-discarded skin, was ejected. Not just yet, Bently. I’ll watch a while longer.

Very well, master.

The servant creaked away backwards.

But it pays to be prepared, so inform my torturers that I may require their services should I find my time has been wasted.

A dark chuckle.

Oh, very good sir. Very good indeed.

Chapter 3

Chortley Hatchit Colin Fitzmichael watched as the man was brought in. He didn’t normally attend his father’s court, but this promised to be fun, so he’d taken his position to the side of the dais. Unfortunately his sister Aggrapella was also here, sitting next to their father in the heir’s position. She was officially there to receive training in how justice is dispensed to prepare for the day when she would be making the judgements. In truth, Chortley knew, she was there because she was a twisted bastard who liked to see fear and pain in others. It ran in the family.

The man had been brought to stand before his father. He had obviously once been a man of means, at least by the standards of the natives, but a few weeks in the care of his father’s dungeon keepers had left him grubby and filthy clothes hung from his emaciated body. Chortley smiled, perfectly aware that a normal person would feel pity for the wretch. But then, empathy requires a soul and Chortley was pretty certain he didn’t possess one.

Habeus Smithson of Montesham, intoned the Clerk of the Court, you are brought here to receive the just judgement of your Lord and Master, his High Excellency the Count Walter Fitzmichael. Do you understand?

The man swayed a little and Chortley wondered whether he was simply exhausted or out of his wits. Not the latter, he hoped, as that would rob him of some of the enjoyment.

Do you understand, Smithson? the clerk barked, his reedy voice bouncing off the stone walls and disappearing among the carved pillars that formed a colonnade down the middle of the hall.

Smithson nodded and mumbled something that the clerk took to be an affirmative. His gaze returned to the charge sheet.

You are accused of laying hands on a member of the noble class and causing injury unto him. You are also accused of spreading falsehoods regarding the honour and propriety of that gentleman thus unjustifiably endangering his reputation. How do you plead to these charges?

The prisoner raised his head, and Chortley could see, for the first time, that one of Smithson’s eyes was so swollen it was hard to tell if there was an eyeball in there or not.

I am guilty of the first charge, Smithson murmured, his words whistling through the gaps in his teeth, but I will not accept the second. I spoke no falsehood.

There was an intake of breath from the watching crowd. Most had turned up simply for the spectacle of watching someone else receiving Varman justice and it seemed they were in for a treat. Rare indeed was the prisoner who survived torture with the wit and resolve to defy his lord in public.

Master Smithson.

The court fell silent as Count Walter Fitzmichael spoke, his deep but restrained voice commanding instant attention. You accept the charge of attacking one of your betters. That alone would be enough to guarantee a most unpleasant death. However, I am prepared to consider clemency if you confess to the second charge also.

Chortley could have sworn he saw a tear run down Smithson’s face. I’m sorry, my lord, but I can’t tell a lie. Lord de Grey dishonoured my daughter, and I sought nothing more than the customary recompense, for her sake and that of her child.

Do not disrespect the name of a lord, peasant! hissed Aggrapella. Your task is to serve your betters, not assault them.

Fitzmichael raised his hand. My daughter is correct, though she should know when to hold her tongue.

Chortley barely suppressed a snigger as his sister’s face reddened and she fell back into her chair.

I will give you one more chance, said Fitzmichael, turning back to his prisoner. He signalled to a waiting guard and a door opened. Two terrified women, one grey and middle-aged, the other heavily pregnant, entered the room, each escorted by a man in mail. Tears streamed down their faces as they saw Smithson and recognised the sort of condition he was in.

The prisoner reflexively jumped forward, as if he could embrace them, but his guards were ready and simply hauled on the chain around his neck, pulling him up short.

Mildred, Beth! he cried, his face white with shock and fear.

Good, Fitzmichael said, and the room fell silent again, you have spared us the tedium of formally identifying these women to the court. They are your wife, Mildred, and your daughter Izabeth. Now, it would be entirely just for me to charge each of them alongside you as abetters in the crime you have admitted but, were you to publicly withdraw your accusation of Lord de Grey, I may consider leniency for them.

Smithson was shaking, his face wet and his mouth open in shock and terror. The very embodiment of a broken man, thought a delighted Chortley.

The clerk of the court prodded him with his ceremonial stick. Well, man? Answer His Lordship.

Habeus Smithson, silversmith, respected pillar of his community and head of the local jeweller’s guild, nodded slowly.

I withdraw, my lord. He looked up in utter defeat at the man who held their lives in his hands.

Fitzmichael grunted an assent and turned to his daughter. And what would be your judgement, daughter and future countess of this shire?

Aggrapella seemed surprised to be asked, and a smile of wicked delight spread across her face. Father, the prisoner is condemned by his own words - he struck a member of the noble class and did so without any mitigating cause. He should suffer to be hanged, drawn and quartered in a public place.

Smithson was beyond reacting now, he stood there as if he was dead already.

As for the wife, she shall hang beside her husband for abetting him, spat Aggrapella as the court erupted in noise. And his whore of a daughter shall be taken to the gates of the city and stoned. That will make an end of this.

Smithson let out a spine-chilling wail and struggled against his chains.

Count Fitzmichael raised his hand, and there was instant silence, aside from the sound of the Smithson family weeping.

Daughter, I commend you on your enthusiasm for justice, he said, but, no - it shall not be so.

This caught Chortley by surprise, and he was momentarily torn between his delight at his sister’s embarrassment, and disappointment at missing a grisly execution. Say what you like about his father (and people tended to say murdering ruthless bastard, at least in the privacy of their own thoughts) he was anything but predictable.

Habeus Smithson, you shall pay the following price. You will be taken from this place to the dungeons below, and your left leg shall be severed above the knee. If you survive, you will pay a tax of 75% of all earnings to my exchequer until a fine of one thousand marks has been raised. After that, you will pay 25% of earnings in addition to any other taxes for the rest of your life. For her crime of assisting and sheltering you, your wife shall hold you down as your leg is removed.

Fitzmichael now pointed at the pregnant Beth. As for your daughter, she shall forfeit her freedom and will be taken into a noble household to work. Her child, having Varman blood, will be educated and found a place from which to rise out of the shame of its family. That is my judgement. Take them away. The court is now concluded.

Watching the group as they shuffled away, Chortley marvelled at the fact that they were almost happy that Smithson would lose a leg and his daughter her child. Life was everything, it seemed. The great hall emptied quickly as the bystanders sought to get out of range of the Fitzmichael family as fast as possible, just in case they decided to vent their venom on anyone else.

Chortley tagged along with his father and sister, listening to them argue. As they reached the privacy of his chambers, Fitzmichael Senior pushed the door to and turned on Aggrapella. Never question my judgements, daughter, especially where we might be overheard.

But you humiliated me, twice! she whined. And why were you so lenient?

To his surprise, Chortley’s father turned to him. Why do you think I made that judgement, boy?

Chortley didn’t like being called boy, but this was an Opportunity, so he swallowed his anger, thought for a moment and spoke.

It could be one of two reasons. You might think that Smithson was innocent, since we all know that De Grey is a malicious piece of shit quite capable of refusing to pay the traditional price for dishonouring a serf.

Fitzmichael nodded. Or?

Hesitating momentarily, Chortley decided to gamble. Or you reckoned that a master silversmith is worth more alive than dead. Cutting off his leg was a brutal enough punishment to remind peasants that touching one of us has serious consequences. And killing the girl was never an option.

At this point, he glanced into the poisonous stare of his sister. Her child has Varman blood, so it must be protected, that is our creed.

Well done, Fitzmichael said and Chortley reflected that these might have been the first words of praise his father had ever uttered to him. In fact, you are right on both counts. Smithson was right to feel aggrieved at De Grey breaking the code, but wrong to strike him, even in self-defence.

But I don’t understand why a piffling thousand marks is better than setting an example no-one will ever forget! Aggrapella said.

Tell me, how do we maintain order? asked Fitzmichael.

Aggrapella shrugged. Force of arms, obviously.

Indeed, said Fitzmichael, and armies cost money. That ‘piffling’ thousand marks will pay the wages of a hundred warriors for a year, and it’s a piffling thousand we don’t have to find from elsewhere. Now then, I hope you have learned some wisdom today. At some point, you will be making these judgements and our domain could stand or fall through them.

Yes, father. I hope that point is many years in the future. Aggrapella gave a brief curtsy and left, looking for all the world like a modest and dutiful daughter, although Chortley suspected his father was as aware of the disguise as he was.

Fitzmichael turned to his son. Find De Grey and communicate my displeasure to him in whatever way seems fit, short of permanent injury. Inform him that if I ever hear of such a case again, I will remove his means and motivation for being a nuisance. Do you understand me?

Chortley nodded with enthusiasm. I do, father. I won’t let you down.

For a moment, Walter Fitzmichael’s face darkened. See that you don’t, he said before dismissing the boy.

He sighed. After all, it wasn’t Chortley’s fault who his mother was. When he’d met her, Fitzmichael had believed her to have flown in from the Darkworld like some fairy princess born at the sunrise of creation. It was the first time he’d experienced love, and, he was certain, it would be the last. His own father had been incandescent at the idea of them marrying, and so they were lovers and Chortley was the result.

He’d been only a week old when she'd disappeared, leaving Walter Fitzmichael heartbroken and, soon enough, in need of a true heir. Aggrapella’s mother was the loveless choice made for him, her only redeeming feature being that she didn’t live long enough to really get on his nerves.

But Chortley remained as a constant reminder of that past and, occasionally, it prompted him to make decisions that were not truly befitting a tyrant. Curse the woman, wherever she now was. She’d better hope he never saw her again.

Chapter 4

Bill was a young man of nineteen years so, naturally, for the past several of those years, girls had leapfrogged wooden swords, pig bladders and charcoal to take pride of place in his ponderings during the many hours alone in the forest. He regarded those younger than him as nuisances, women older than him as obstacles and girls of around his own age as a mysterious combination of promise and blind terror.

The lads who worked in the town or on the local farms had the advantage of seeing girls often enough to get used to talking to them the right way. Malleable and Ductile Johnson, sons of the local blacksmith were each as thick as a shark sandwich, but years of physical labour had moulded their bodies into shapes local girls, for some reason, found irresistible.

By contrast, Bill only ever communicated with girls when in town on errands. An exception was the landlord’s daughter at the Cock and Bull who was the only female of Bill’s age allowed to serve in the pub. A good looking and articulate young woman, Enid Bull would make an effective wife for some young lad lucky enough to be stone deaf. Enid was capable of verbally eviscerating any male cheeky enough to give her lip, and Bill had no desire to stray into her cross-hairs. He stayed out of her way and kept his equipment intact.

If anything, Blackjack Strike was even more inhibited around women than his son and Bill had wondered more than once whether the Strike line might have died out if his mother hadn’t, 20 years ago, wandered into his father’s firelight.

A preoccupied Bill tramped along the familiar paths of the forest as night fell, his imagination painting an image of an elfin princess bathed in an amber glow. It was almost as if he could see it in front of him. And then he smelled it. Burning.

With a surge of adrenalin, Bill snapped into full awareness. There, off to his left, was an unmistakable flickering between the trees. It was a fair way away which meant it was pretty big and that, in the middle of a wood, could only mean it was out of control. And yet, it had been a misty day and the autumn forest was hardly a tinderbox.

Without thinking further, Bill Strike left his cart and sprinted into the darkness, using the distant light from the fire to guide him. Somehow, perhaps through an instinctive woodcraft baked into his very bones, he didn’t fall into or trip over anything and, within minutes, he realised where he was heading. The cottage of Nomenclature Vokes, fire wizard, was ablaze.

Bill burst onto the lane that ran past the cottage and stood, panting, as he took in the sight. If Vokes was in there then Bill was already too late - the thatched roof was falling apart, and flames licked out of the smashed windows on the ground floor.

He had just the wits to head for the well rather than straight for the door, so it was with a full bucket of water that he arrived at the entrance to the cottage. He threw the water at the door, but all that achieved was a hissing steam to go with the heat and crackling of the fire. Bill stood back to decide how to get in then headed for the door, grabbed the knob and instantly threw his hand back in agony. Stepping backwards, he was just in time to watch as, with a sound like a thousand cows giving birth, the roof collapsed.

It was the sun that woke Bill, that and the tangy smell of smouldering wood. He’d fallen into a deep sleep of exhaustion beneath the shelter of the well roof as the rain doused the flames. Bill rubbed his eyes, winced at the pain in his singed right hand and then, as he sat with his back against the well on this most meteorologically perfect of mornings, he remembered everything.

Hauling himself up, he stumbled over to the wreckage. The walls were more or less intact, but everything organic had perished. The door was now little more than a charred plank of wood hanging from its hinges which fell apart as Bill pulled on it. The inside was barely recognisable; blackened beams had crashed onto walls and pivoted into the rooms, flattening anything they landed on.

And then Bill saw the legs, sticking out of the fireplace from where, he imagined, their owner had either caused the fire or tried to escape it. The shoes were smoking black oblongs, and Bill’s eyes were drawn unwillingly up the fleshless leg bones to find an upper body marked only by a ring of ash. He knelt beside the body and gently lifted a still-warm foot. Beneath was a scrap of red cloth. Nomenclature Vokes, it seemed, had been a victim of his own magic.

The rest of the morning was spent digging a grave for the wizard in the garden of his cottage. It had taken some time to find a spade and much longer to dig into the chalky soil a pit deep enough to keep the scant remains safe from scavengers but, in the end, it was done.

Bill approached the bones and looked around for something to carry them in. He spotted a copper coal scuttle that had, miraculously, escaped the worst of the blaze with little more than a coating of soot which he brushed off with his filthy sleeve. A piece of paper fell out and floated gently to the ground. Frightened this survivor of the inferno might perish in the watery ash of the wreckage, Bill stuck out his hand and caught it. The pain flared again, and he swapped it carefully to his left hand. As a final surprise, it was cold to the touch.

He sat on his haunches to examine what, it turned out, was a small scroll. As he carefully unwound it, he read the first line, written in Vokes’ unmistakable hand: "As you have found this, I must be dead."

Feeling that he needed some fresh air, Bill took the scroll outside into the bright sunlight, stood in the garden with its carpet of brown, red and gold autumn leaves and read.

As you have found this, I must be dead. I have been conducting some dangerous experiments, and it seems that they have failed. Please ensure that this letter and the coal scuttle in which it was placed, finds its way to William Strike, son of Blackjack Strike the collier. His hand alone will activate the rest of this message. Should my belated gratitude not be sufficient inducement to see this letter safely delivered, please be advised that it contains a rather unpleasant fever curse that will be cast unless William Strike touches the device shown below.

Beneath this text was a sigil in the shape of a stylised flame. With trepidation, Bill prodded at the symbol with his finger and watched as the wizard’s untidy scrawl filled the rest of the scroll.

William, I regret that I must ask you to take on the task I now assign you. The vessel that contained this letter, a seemingly ordinary copper coal scuttle is, in fact, an object of great power and importance. It must be delivered safely to the person addressed below as soon as you can possibly manage it: it would be a catastrophe should the scuttle fall into the wrong hands. I cannot express how important this is, William - get the scuttle and this letter to its new guardian within the week. Every second matters. You have a long journey ahead, and you might have some unsettling experiences along the way, but I have faith that you are up to the job and will do your mother proud.

Deliver the scuttle to Mother Hemlock, Hemlock’s Farm, Upper Bottom in the county of Fitzmichael. And under no circumstances allow anyone else to know about or handle it.Most especially it must never be disclosed to an agent of the crown or county.

I am sorry to have to place this burden on you, but it has been your appointed task for some time, I just wish I could have explained in person. There is a small cache of coins buried beneath the loose stone in the parlour, it should be sufficient for your purposes. Yours hopefully, Nomenclature Vokes, MICRWiz 1st Class

Bill Strike went back into the wreckage and dug out the unprepossessing copper scuttle before scrambling his way through to the parlour. He was familiar enough with the layout to know where the loose slab was, but it was buried beneath the wreckage of an oak table, and it took some time and a lot of effort to dig it out. When he reached the blackened stone, he couldn’t lift it. Then the image of the wizard’s staff acting as a lever popped into his head, and he scanned the devastation. He could see the remains of the living room hearth from the parlour but, of course, the fire was hottest there, and the staff would have been the first thing to be consumed. Sighing, he climbed back out of the ruins of the house, grabbed a hatchet from its place on the block outside and found a straight ash tree. A pity to cut it down and then discard it, he thought, but he needed what was beneath the stone.

Ten minutes later, he was sitting in the autumn sun, counting the coins he’d found in the hidden leather pouch. Ten marks - hardly generous, thought Bill, but it should pay for accommodation and food along the way, if the prices in the Cock & Bull were any guide. He then read and re-read the letter until every word was ingrained in his memory. He sat down in the dry grass beside the well and looked out on the scene of destruction. This place that he’d known since childhood was now a steaming ruin and the future that had seemed so mundane just a week ago was now uncertain and terrifying. Was this the reason for his father’s odd behaviour lately? Had he known what Vokes had asked him to do?

He looked again at the address. He’d heard of Fitzmichael County but only had a vague notion of where it might be - and that notion suggested it was a long way away. Idly, he turned the scroll over and watched, as if it had read his mind, as a black line emerged and began to trace the outline of a map with its origin in the bottom left corner where he sat now. Fitzmichael covered the top right corner and its capital city, Montesham, was marked in the centre of that corner. To its south-east, a small cross was labelled Upper Bottom.

Bill glanced at the scale which was now drawing itself at the bottom of the scroll. He picked up a scrap of window frame and made a basic ruler by scratching the scale into it, and then tried various routes between where he was now and Upper Bottom to find the shortest. 150 miles, by his reckoning, so if he was to do it in a week that would be a little over 20 miles a day. This didn’t sound too bad to Bill, used as he was to being on his feet all day, but he rather suspected it would prove tougher than it seemed.

Bill lowered the map and glanced around the plot where the ruins of the cottage and its garden sat. Trees surrounded it on all sides with a narrow strip of, perhaps, 20 feet keeping the little compound separate from the forest as a whole. He could imagine unfriendly eyes gazing from the darkness between the trunks and suddenly felt exposed and in danger. Panic rose in his stomach as he realised that there was no safe option. He could stay here and wait for the danger to come to him or he could take the scuttle and make a run for it. There was only one choice, and Bill hated it.

With conviction he didn’t feel, Bill folded the map, tucked it into his coat pocket and headed for the path into the forest. He didn’t turn back, didn’t look again at the pile of bricks and blackened timber that had once been Vokes’s home, didn’t dare to see if anyone was watching. That life, that security, that past was over.

Humunculus The Great, king and overlord of the Darkworld, swept across the floor of the dungeon, pacing back and forth, shaking his head. His patience had long since expired, and the sobbing of the woman strapped to a blood-stained wooden chair was getting on his nerves.

Snip. The woman screamed.

Please, stop! she begged but Humunculus merely nodded to the hulking form of the torturer and the scissors descended again. Snip. Scream.

That is unpleasant? asked the king with feigned innocence as he glided across to the woman and ran his finger along her shredded hair line.

Tears ran down her face. A pretty face - or at least it would be pretty if it weren’t so moist and if its complexion were a little less rosy. Oh, how he hated crying. But then, it was a price he was willing to pay. Up to a point.

Please leave my hair alone, she sobbed. Indeed, it had been a pity, her locks had been the envy of many. So white they almost glowed as they lay, ringlet upon ringlet, on the dark, slimy, dungeon floor.

The king shrugged. Of course, I’d be delighted to. However, that will require that you answer my questions. Are you ready to be co-operative?

With an effort, the woman nodded.

Good, the king’s smile lit up the dim dungeon, causing a tangible drop in tension amongst the torturers as well as Bently, who was hovering by the door with a tray on which stood a steaming drink.

The king stepped towards the woman and lifted her face.

You and I had an agreement 21 years ago. In return for the release of your traitorous father from this very dungeon, you were to travel into the Bright, where you would trick a member of that realm into impregnating you with child. That child, being partly of their kind and partly of ours could, according to your sainted father, guide me through the barrier between worlds. That child has yet to appear and yet you returned to tell me that the plan would play out. Where is the child?

The woman shook her head, showering the floor with hair. I can’t say.

Can’t say or won’t say? snarled the king, the thin veneer of bonhomie shattered in an instant.

I did as instructed. I seduced the man of power in those parts and gave him a child. I was very careful to set in train the events that would lead to your release. As far as I know, the boy is now a man; a man with a compelling desire to seek you out. I’m sure he will be here soon.

The man came close again and looked directly into the woman’s grey eyes. You’re hiding something from me. Very well, he said, then turned to the torturer and nodded, let’s see just how short we can cut your hair.

The woman screamed.

Chapter 5

The romantic enthusiasm for the adventurer’s life that had tempered Bill’s naked fear wore off within a half dozen miles. His boots, which did such a good job when tramping around the forest, became like ankle chains after walking on them solidly for an hour. ¹ He regretted not asking his father’s advice as, although no adventurer, Blackjack had at least travelled to the nearby towns and could have told him he’d need better shoes. On balance, however, he’d decided it was too risky to tell his father what he was doing because Blackjack would have tried to stop him. Or, worse, insisted on coming along. Bill was quite nervous enough about the whole expedition without having to worry about his father. No, the note he’d left at The Cock & Bull, written using large letters and short words, would do. He’d said that Vokes had sent him on an errand (which was true) but had also intimated that it involved only a trip to a local town. He hoped to be back within a couple of weeks which would be practically before his father would even notice his extended absence, in all likelihood.

The Hanged Man was the least unwelcoming of the pubs in the small town of Flipperty-Gibbet and it was here that Bill bought a room overlooking the market square. Sadly, this gave him the perfect view of the gibbet after which the town was, allegedly, named. When not in active use, the gibbet was decorated with an effigy of the witch Flipperty who had famously survived being hanged in the dim and distant past. Bill didn’t consider himself to be a particularly cynical person, but that sounded like complete bollocks invented by an enterprising mayor of the town to give it something to attract tourists. Whatever its provenance, the gibbet, with its stylised and rather amateurishly put together effigy was pretty unpleasant, and Bill was glad that it would soon disappear into the deepening dusk. Although he’d know it was still there. He pulled the shutters closed and went to sit in the welcoming light of the little fire.

It was odd, given that he’d recently witnessed an inferno destroying the house, precious library and body of somebody he’d known all his life, that the fireplace drew him towards it as if inviting an embrace. Perhaps that was what came of being a charcoal burner, fire was as natural a part of his daily life as water was to a boatman, and just as treacherous.

So, there he sat, in the glow of the hearth, with his pack on his knees. He fished out the copper scuttle, examined it and found it unchanged from the last